#if i did that then there would be some...

[lokh]

sketchies..... wanted to practice drawing various snakes

[felassan]

Jason Schreier for Bloomberg reports: 'Inside the ‘Dragon Age’ Debacle That Gutted EA’s BioWare Studio'

The latest game in BioWare’s fantasy role-playing series went through ten years of development turmoil. The failure of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, released in October, led EA to gut BioWare

[note: article is below cut after these tweets]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: What went wrong with Dragon Age: The Veilguard? Why was the writing so tonally inconsistent? Why did it feel so shallow? Why were there so few choices? Really, after ten years of turbulence, it was a miracle that anything came out at all. This is the story [link]:" [source]

Jason Schreier: "The fatal flaw for Dragon Age: The Veilguard wasn't just that it pivoted from single-player to multiplayer and back again. It was that after the second pivot, the team was forced to keep going rather than hit the reset button and take the time to create a new plan." [source]

Jason Schreier re: this old tweet from Casey Hudson: "Fun fact: when I first reported at Kotaku in 2018 that Dragon Age 4 was rebooted to become a live-service game, BioWare studio head Casey Hudson wrote this on Twitter. But it was not entirely truthful. In reality, the game was being designed around cooperative multiplayer, replayable missions, etc" [source] Casey Hudson's old tweet from 2018: "Reading lots of feedback regarding Dragon Age, and I think you'll be relieved to see what the team is working on. Story & character focused. Too early to talk details, but when we talk about "live" it just means designing a game for continued storytelling after the main story."

Rest of post/article under cut due to length.

(bold in the text below is mine for emphasis)

"In early November, on the eve of the crucial holiday shopping season, staffers at the video-game studio BioWare were feeling optimistic. After an excruciating development cycle, they had finally released their latest game, Dragon Age: The Veilguard, and the early reception was largely positive. The role-playing game was topping sales charts on Steam, and solid, if not spectacular, reviews were rolling in. But in the weeks that followed, the early buzz cooled as players delved deeper into the fantasy world, and some BioWare employees grew anxious. For months, everyone at the subsidiary of the video-game publisher Electronic Arts Inc. had been under intense pressure. The studio’s previous two games, Mass Effect: Andromeda and Anthem, had flopped, and there were rumors that if Dragon Age underperformed, BioWare might become another of EA’s many casualties. Not long after Christmas, the bad news surfaced. EA announced in January that the new Dragon Age had only reached 1.5 million players, missing the company’s expectations by 50%. The holiday performance of another recently released title, EA Sports FC 2025, was also subpar, compounding the problem."

"As a result of the struggling titles, EA Chief Executive Officer Andrew Wilson explained, the company would be significantly lowering its sales forecast for the fiscal year ahead. EA’s share price promptly plunged 18%. “Dragon Age had a high-quality launch and was well-reviewed by critics and those who played,” Wilson later said on an earnings call. “However, it did not resonate with a broad enough audience in this highly competitive market.” Days after the sales revision, EA laid off a chunk of BioWare’s staff at the studio’s headquarters in Edmonton, Canada, and permanently transferred many of the remaining workers to other divisions. For the storied, 30-year-old game maker, it was a stunning fall that left many fans wondering how things had gone so haywire — and what might come next for the stricken studio. According to interviews with nearly two dozen people who worked on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, there were several reasons behind its failure, including marketing misfires, poor word of mouth and a 10-year gap since the previous title. Above all, sources point to the rebooting of the product from a single-player game to a multiplayer one — and then back again — a switcheroo that muddled development and inflated the title’s budget, they say, ultimately setting the stage for EA’s potentially unrealistic sales expectations. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment."

"The union between BioWare and EA started off with lofty aspirations. In 2007, EA executives announced they were acquiring BioWare and another gaming studio in a deal worth $860 million. The goal was to diversify their slate of games, which was heavy in sports titles, like Madden NFL, and light in the kind of adventure and role-playing games that BioWare was known for. Initially, it looked like a smart move thanks to a string of big hits. In 2014, BioWare released Dragon Age: Inquisition, the third installment in a popular action series dropping players in a semi-open world full of magic, elves and fire-spewing dragons. The fantasy title went on to win the much-coveted Game of the Year Award and sell 12 million copies, according to its executive producer Mark Darrah — a major validation of EA’s diversification strategy. Before long, Darrah and Mike Laidlaw, the creative director, began kicking around ideas for the next Dragon Age installment — code name: Joplin — aiming for a game that would be smaller in scope. But before much could get done, BioWare shifted the studio’s focus to more pressing titles coming down the pike. In 2017, BioWare released Mass Effect: Andromeda, the fourth installment in a big-budget action series set in space. Unlike its critically successful predecessors, the game received mediocre reviews and was widely mocked by fans. A few months after the disappointing release, the head of BioWare stepped down and was soon replaced by Microsoft Inc.’s Casey Hudson, an alumni of BioWare’s early, formative years."

"Like much of the industry, EA executives were growing increasingly enamored of so-called live-service games, such as Destiny and Overwatch, in which players continue to engage with and spend money on a title for months or even years after its initial release. With EA aiming to make a splash in the fast-growing category, BioWare poured resources into Anthem, a live-service shooter game that checked all the right boxes. One day in October 2017, Laidlaw summoned his colleagues into a conference room and pulled out a few pricey bottles of whisky. The next Dragon Age sequel, he told the room, would also be pivoting to an online, live-service game — a decision from above that he disagreed with. He was resigning from the studio. The assembled staff stayed late through the night, drinking and reminiscing about the franchise they loved. “I wish that pivot had never occurred,” Darrah would later recount on YouTube. “EA said, ‘Make this a live service.’ We said, ‘We don’t know how to do that. We should basically start the project over.’” Former art director Matt Goldman replaced Laidlaw as creative director, and with a tiny team began pushing ahead on a new multiplayer version of Dragon Age — code name: Morrison — while everyone else helped to finish Anthem, which was struggling to coalesce. Goldman pushed for a “pulpy,” more lighthearted tone than previous entries, which suited an online game but was a drastic departure from the dark, dynamic stories that fans loved in the fantasy series."

"In February 2019, BioWare released Anthem. Reviews were scathing, calling the game tedious and convoluted. Fans were similarly displeased. On social media, players demanded to know why a studio renowned for beloved stories and characters had made an online shooter with a scattershot narrative. In the wake of BioWare’s second consecutive flop, the multiplayer version of Dragon Age continued to take shape. While the previous games in the franchise had featured tactical combat, this one would be all action. Instead of quests that players would only experience once, it would be full of missions that could be replayed repeatedly with friends and strangers. Important characters couldn’t die because they had to persist for multiple players across never-ending gameplay. As the game evolved over the next two years, the failure of Anthem hovered over the studio. Were they making the same mistakes? Some BioWare employees scoffed that they were simply building “Anthem with dragons.” Throughout 2020, the pandemic disrupted the game’s already fraught development. In December, Hudson, the head of the studio, and Darrah, the head of the franchise, resigned. Shortly thereafter, Gary McKay, BioWare’s new studio head, revealed yet another shift in strategy. Moving forward, the next Dragon Age would no longer be multiplayer."

"“We were thinking, ‘Does this make sense, does this play into our strengths, or is this going to be another challenge we have to face?’” McKay later told Bloomberg News. “No, we need to get back to what we’re really great at.” In theory, the reversion back to Dragon Age’s tried-and-true, single-player format should have been welcome news inside BioWare. But there was a catch. Typically, this kind of pivot would be coupled with a reset and a period of pre-production allowing the designers to formulate a new vision for the game. Instead, the team was asked to change the game’s fundamental structure and recast the entire story on the fly, according to people familiar with the new marching orders. They were given a year and a half to finish and told to aim for as wide a market as possible. This strict deadline became a recurring problem. The development team would make decisions believing that they had less than a year to release the game, which severely limited the stories they could tell and the world they could build. Then the title would inevitably be delayed a few months, at which point they’d be stuck with those old decisions with no chance to stop and reevaluate what was working. At the end of 2022, amid continually dizzying leadership changes, the studio started distributing an “alpha” build of Dragon Age to get feedback internally and from outside playtesters. According to people familiar with the process, the reactions were concerning. The game’s biggest problem, early players agreed, was a lack of satisfying choices and consequences. Previous BioWare titles had presented players with gut-wrenching decisions. Which allies to save? Which factions to spare? Which enemies to slay? Such dilemmas made fans feel like they were shaping the narrative — historically, a big draw for many BioWare games."

"But Dragon Age’s multiplayer roots limited such choices, according to people familiar with the development. BioWare delayed the game’s release again while the team shoehorned in a few major decisions, such as which of two cities to save from a dragon attack. But because most of the parameters were already well established, the designers struggled to pair the newly retrofitted choices for players with meaningful consequences downstream. In 2023, to help finish Dragon Age, BioWare brought in a second, internal team, which was working on the next Mass Effect game. For decades there’d been tension between the two well-established camps, known for their starkly divergent ways of doing things. BioWare developers like to joke that the Dragon Age crew was like a pirate ship, meandering and sometimes traveling off course but eventually reaching the port. In contrast, the Mass Effect group was called the USS Enterprise, after the Star Trek ship, because commands were issued straight down from the top and executed zealously. As the Mass Effect directors took control, they scoffed that the Dragon Age squad had been doing a shoddy job and began excluding their leaders from pivotal meetings, according to people familiar with the internal friction. Over time, the Mass Effect team went on to overhaul parts of the game and design a number of additional scenes, including a rich, emotional finale that players loved. But even changes that appeared to improve the game stoked the simmering rancor inside BioWare, infuriating Dragon Age leaders who had been told they didn’t have the budget for such big, ambitious swings."

"“It always seemed that, when the Mass Effect team made its demands in meetings with EA regarding the resources it needed, it got its way,” said David Gaider, a former lead writer on the Dragon Age franchise who left before development of the new game started. “But Dragon Age always had to fight against headwinds.” Early testers and Mass Effect leads complained about the game’s snarky tone — a style of video-game storytelling, once ascendant, that was quickly falling out of fashion in pop culture but had been part of Goldman’s vision for the multiplayer game. Worried that Dragon Age could face the same outcome as Forspoken — a recent title that had been hammered over its impertinent banter — BioWare leaders ordered a belated rewrite of the game’s dialogue to make it sound more serious. (In the end, the resulting tonal inconsistencies would only add to the game’s poor reception with fans.) A mass layoff at BioWare and a mandate to work overtime depleted morale while a voice actors strike limited the writers’ ability to revise the dialogue and create new scenes. An initial trailer made the next Dragon Age seem more like Fortnite than a dark fantasy role-playing game, triggering concerns that EA didn’t know how to market the game. When Dragon Age: The Veilguard finally premiered on Halloween 2024 after many internal delays, some staff members thought there was a lot to like, including the game’s new combat system. But players were less impressed, and sales sputtered."

"“The reactions of the fan base are mixed, to put it gently,” said Caitie, a popular Dragon Age YouTuber. “Some, like myself, adore it for various reasons. Others feel utterly betrayed by certain design choices.” Following the layoffs and staff reassignments at BioWare earlier in the year, a small team of a few dozen employees is now working on the next Mass Effect. After three high-profile failures in a row, questions linger about EA’s commitment to the studio. In May, the company relabeled its Edmonton headquarters from a BioWare office to a hub for all EA staff in the area. Historically, BioWare has never been the most important studio at EA, which generates more than $7 billion in annual revenue largely from its sports games and shooters. Depending on the timing of its launches, BioWare typically accounts for just 5% of EA’s annual bookings, according to estimates by Colin Sebastian, an analyst with Robert W. Baird & Co. Even so, there may be strategic reasons for EA to keep supporting BioWare. Single-player role-playing games are expensive to make but can lead to huge windfalls when successful, as demonstrated by recent hits like Cyberpunk 2077, Elden Ring and Baldur’s Gate 3. In order to grow, EA needs more than just sports franchises, said TD Cowen analyst Doug Creutz. Trying to fix its fantasy-focused studio may be easier than starting something new. “That said, if they shuttered the doors tomorrow I wouldn’t be totally surprised,” Creutz added. “It has been over a decade since they produced a hit.”"

Article by Jason Schreier. [source]

[farfromharry]

Baby Norris | LANDOLOG 033

Summary: Sweet moments caught on camera during Lando's 9 month journey of becoming a father.

Lando Norris x Reader

w/c 13,331

a/n honestly its like i forgot the concept about halfway through so pls just ignore that, thanks!

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

2025-01-15 14:09:31

The video began with a wide shot of the Norris bathroom. Y/N wasn’t yet in frame but shuffling could be heard just to the side of the camera. Only seconds later did she appear, a watery smile on her face that told the viewers things were about to be emotional. Y/N had featured in Lando’s vlogs before, but not too often and certainly not on her own.

This was a different type of video. Lando didn’t even know she had his camera.

“Hello, I don’t even know if anyone will be watching this video, but if you are…hi.” She had to admit she was actually a little nervous. Her hands were trembling, which was probably noticeable on camera. “Lando’s training right now, so I thought I’d film this moment for him.”

She let out a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment. She puckered up the test that was ‘cooking’ on the counter, showing it to the camera like she was doing some kind of regular makeup haul. “I just took one of these- well, a few of these actually.” She chuckled to herself. The woman wasn’t leaving any room for doubt, she would take a thousand pregnancy tests if it meant she got a solid answer. “I’m waiting for the result, and it’s taking forever, and I’m so nervous.”

The timer on her phone was ticking down, but to her it felt frozen. It felt like she had been in this bathroom for an eternity.

“I want to surprise him, if it’s positive, but I really would have liked him to be here to hold my hand right now.” It sounded needy, but the comfort of her boyfriend was a magical thing. He had an effect on her nervous system that she could never explain with words. He soothed her, silenced all her worries with a simple look. She could have really used that kind of love right now.

Y/N took a seat on the floor, bringing her knees to her chest. Like this she looked small, almost like she was afraid. She was trying to hide from what this all meant. Obviously she was an adult, but since she turned 18, since she met Lando and began building her life with him, they’d had fun. They spent their days being carefree, without any real responsibilities. But a baby? That was a huge obligation. A baby would rely on them for everything. They couldn’t be selfish, careless adults anymore. No, they would have to be parents.

She didn’t know if they were ready for that. But they might have to be. Her commentary in this moment wasn’t exactly exciting for the viewers. They probably wouldn’t want to hear her thoughts right now anyway.

“I don’t know what I’m hoping for.” If you’d asked her a couple years ago she would have panicked, probably thrown up at the thought of having a baby, but she was starting to like the idea. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, she was 24, with a lovely partner and a home. She could do this. “I think I’ll be happy if it’s positive. This is scary though, right? Can you ever really be prepared for this?” She was rambling now.

The alarm on her phone blared, cutting her off like it was fate. Her eyes went wide, heart in her throat. Did she have the courage to get to her feet and check what they said?

“I’m so scared,” she admitted, really to no one but herself. She breathed through her panic, taking deep breaths until she felt like she could get back onto her feet. She eyed the camera. “I guess it’s now or never.”

Once she was on her feet it was clear how her eyes shone with tears as she looked over the results of the various tests. They all said the same thing. If the camera didn’t already know by her reaction what the answer was, they definitely did when she turned it around and showed them all off.

When she turned the camera back to her, the tears had already begun to fall. “I’m pregnant.” A sob bubbled up in her throat as she finally said the words out loud. She hadn’t expected to get so emotional. She would blame that on the pregnancy hormones she just found out she has.

She set the camera down on the counter so she could bury her face in her hands. Crying on film like this was a little embarrassing.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled. As soon as she moved her hands the camera could see the bright grin on her face. She was going through practically every emotion a person could go through in the span of a couple minutes. None of this felt real. “Fuck, I’m having a baby.” She froze. “I probably shouldn’t swear if my future child is going to watch this, sorry.” It was a moment her and Lando would look back on and laugh at.

The odds of there being any physical signs of pregnancy already were slim, regardless she pulled up her shirt and turned to the side. Her eyes were focused on her reflection. She swore if she squinted she could see how her belly swelled- she was probably just seeing things. Her hand settled over her stomach and a pleasant warmth spread through her chest. Contentment.

“Hi baby, I’m your mum.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-01-26 09:25:22

Lando had been out all day for something to do with Quadrant, which gave her all the time in the world to prepare to tell him her big news. She had her first ultrasound that morning, getting a small clip of the monitor when connected with her belly. There wasn’t much to see, but it was still surreal nonetheless. The second the heartbeat sounded through the room, the tears began to fall. The thumping sound was rapid. Their baby.

She left the doctor’s office with a picture of their baby tucked into her bag, one she was going to use in her masterplan to surprise Lando. It was nothing big or fancy— they had enough glamour in their lives to last a lifetime— some things had earned the right to be small, intimate

She was excited about it from the second she got home. It felt like the hours between now and when he finally walked through the door around 6pm, stretched on for far too long. It was probably her excitement speaking. He must have known something was off when she was throwing herself at him before he even managed to close the front door behind him.

The man eyed her suspiciously, dropping his bag by the door. Over the years he had been victim to her tricks and tiktok pranks plenty of times. More than enough to know when she was plotting. He had to tread lightly. “What are you up to?”

Her smile was blinding. “I have a surprise for you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What did you do? Is this another tiktok thing?” He started looking around wearily. “Is something gonna jump out at me?” His expression resembled something of a deflated balloon. It made her chuckle.

“No. This is a… nice surprise.” The muttered ‘I hope’ went unheard by his ears. Y/N moved into the kitchen, grabbing the box off of the counter and flashing the camera a sneaky smile. Genuinely it was a miracle Lando couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

A plain box in her outstretched hands paired with that menacing twinkle in her eyes, did nothing to soothe his fears. He was still convinced something was going to jump out of the box and bite him. But, she said it wasn’t like the other times and he trusted her with his life. Against his better judgement, he opened the box, albeit slowly just in case anything was alive in there.

Cake was the last thing he expected to see. A plain, small, white cake with something swirled in icing in the middle. When the lid was fully up he could finally read it. His heart stopped beating. Baby Norris October 2025.

Baby Norris.

Baby.

They were having a fucking baby.

For a minute Y/N thought he was going to bolt. His face couldn’t stop on one single emotion, until suddenly he just wasn’t displaying any.

“Are you being serious?”

She moved the cake into one hand and used the other to pull the sonogram from her back pocket, bringing it to where he could see it. He took it from her, examining it like he was trying to figure out if it was real. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe because he was scared if he didn’t he would forget how.

For the first time since she’d met him, she couldn’t read what he was thinking. He was hiding his emotions pretty well right now. She was terrified. She nodded shyly. Her mind flicked back to the camera currently filming from the counter. If this was to go sideways, it was going to record the whole thing. She didn’t want to have to relive the moment that ruined them.

In case she had to do some damage control, she placed the cake on the counter, swallowing as she tried to psych herself up to hear that he didn’t want this. Just as she thought things were going to blow up in her face, he laughed, a watery laugh that she had heard too many times before. The tears started coming only seconds later. Lando was crying freely.

He didn’t say anything, just opened his arms and almost ran at her. Her laughter could be heard even from where it was being muffled by his hoodie. It was the joy of a woman who was truly happy.

His head was tucked into her neck, the typical Lando Norris hug. At this angle the camera could see the way his eyes sparkled and he simply couldn’t stop smiling. That grin was unmovable. He tilted his head so his mouth was beside her ear. “I love you so much,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her temple. Once the kisses started they didn’t stop. One on her head, 2 on her cheek, another on her nose, over and over again until she was squealing and trying to writhe out of his arms.

“Lando!”

When he finally parted from her, she realised she had never seen happiness like it. He was finding it hard to believe this moment was real.

“You are the best part of my life,” he confessed. Sappy Lando wasn’t a common occurrence. Sure he was loving, romantic, cosy, but sappy Lando was reserved for the moments where he truly felt like his heart would burst if he didn’t express his love. This side of him wasn’t one she saw often, but was by far one of her favourites. It gave her an insight into how much he really loved her, and if he was telling the truth, which she had no doubt about, it was a scary amount. “Thank you for choosing me. For choosing to love me, to give me this. You have no idea what this means to me.”

They had very briefly touched on the topic of kids before, usually in very late night conversations about their future. She knew he wanted kids someday, but she hadn’t realised being a dad meant this much to him.

When he kissed her he poured his soul into it. The passion shared between them in such a simple act was utterly breathtaking. She almost lost her balance. Would have if his hands weren’t there to steady her. For a moment they just breathed deeply together, trying to catch their breaths after such a kiss.

Y/N thought a bit of humour would be good to ease them back into a more chill atmosphere. “Is now a good time to tell you I was filming this whole thing?” She smiled shyly.

His cheeks would be hurting by the end of the day with how much he was smiling. “Everyone already knew I was goner for you anyway.” That much was true.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-09 20:38:16

It had become a habit now for either of them to pick up Lando’s camera and film baby related updates at a second’s notice. They liked knowing they could look back on these soft moments between them, that their child would be able to see they came from a loving family. It was important to them.

Lando was due to leave for Australia in no later than 2 days, that was the warning he’d been given. He was soaking up all the time he could cuddled up to his lover before he had to give it up for a few weeks. They would be reunited at the end of the month, before they were due to jet off to Japan together, but 2 weeks away from her was too much for him. He didn’t know how he would survive.

It was hard to tell where he started and she ended. Their legs were tangled together, one hand on her belly, his head tucked below her chin and her nails scratching lightly at his back. It was comfortable.

She was on the verge of falling asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy. He wasn’t positive she was actually awake.

His focus was on other things. His eyes were watching her belly, narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. There was no way he could come out and say what he was thinking without potentially insulting her. But he was positive there was a swell to her belly that wasn’t there before. It would be the first time either of them saw any noticeable signs of pregnancy and he believed it was rather exciting.

“Y/N?” he whispered. He hoped she was still awake. He got a hum back in response. There wasn’t much energy behind it though. Ever so lightly he stroked his hand over her stomach. The man was in a trance. “Do you feel that?”

She managed to just about crack her eyes open, peering down at him like he was crazy. She would love to just fall asleep but of course he wasn’t going to let that happen so easily.

He guided her hand over the path his own had just taken. He saw it the moment it hit her.

She suddenly perked up and his first thought was to reach over to their bedside and grab his camera. He set it to record, pointing it at their faces that were now displaying wide grins.

“What do you see, gorgeous?”

Y/N felt like she could cry. Pregnancy hormones were already getting the better of her, but this moment would have made any soon to be parent emotional. “Our baby.” When the light hit just right the camera was able to capture the way tears shone in both her’s and Lando’s eyes.

The curly-haired man flipped the camera, pointed at the place where their hands had naturally intertwined on her stomach.

The angle was probably horrible. No one would be able to see what they were talking about, he couldn’t even see through his tears to know what the camera was seeing, but Lando didn’t care. The whole point of the vlogs was to capture the emotion, not the perfect shot. He wasn’t trying to be some artsy videographer this time around.

Things were starting to feel more real now.

Lando was excited, more excited than he ever had been for anything before. He dropped the camera, needing a free hand to wipe away his falling tears. But it was still recording.

“We’re having a baby.” He said it like he hadn’t already known. With all the joy of when he’d first found out. She beamed, bringing her free hand to cup his cheek. There was this dreamy look in his eyes, like she had hung the moon. Never would he be able to put into words how much he loved the woman before him. This time when he spoke his voice was airy, like he was in disbelief. “We’re having a baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-11 08:15:03

“Lando’s leaving me.” She had been this dramatic all night prior to his day of departure. A sigh could be heard just off to the side. Moments later he was wrapping his arms around her and smothering her cheek with kisses. The couple wasn’t always one for PDA, but the video they were creating felt like an exception. Maybe just this once it would be okay for the world to see how much they adored one another. For their future child to see that mum and dad truly loved each other.

“‘M not leaving you, I’m going to work.” 

Regardless of the technicalities, she was still going to spend the weeks they were apart pouting. 

“Exactly.” She was frowning, a sight he couldn’t stand to see. If it was up to him he would either take her everywhere or never leave her. Being apart from her was the worst part of his job by a mile. Even worse now that he knew she was carrying their baby. What if something happened while he wasn’t there? He was going to be halfway across the world, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do from there if she needed him. 

Packing his suitcase was not a chore he enjoyed, but it was certainly made harder when his lovely, pregnant girlfriend was so desperate for his attention. She wasn’t letting him forget. He put down the clothes he was supposed to fold and tuck into the case, heading over to the bed where she was lounging under her fluffy blanket. He didn’t waste any time climbing under it with her and wrapping his arms around her body.

She made a happy noise, melting into him. “Nevermind, I’m happy again,” she informed the camera. She didn’t see how he rolled his eyes but the camera definitely did. 

“You’re a bad influence,” he grumbled. 

What followed was a lot of shifting from Lando. He pulled the blanket off of her at least 3 times, poked her uncomfortably more than once and just didn’t seem to settle. She was starting to regret pining for his attention. “Can you sit still?” she hissed. 

He froze, but little did she know he had finally worked his way to the place he wanted to be. His head was by her stomach, looking up at her with the most innocent eyes he could muster. If he looked at her like that, how was she supposed to stay mad at him? 

She eyed him warily, like she wasn’t sure what he was doing. He was just being Lando. 

He didn’t leave her in the dark for much longer. His mouth was planted right next to her stomach, where their baby would be made at home for the next few months. And without an ounce of self consciousness, he began to speak. “Hi baby, it’s your dad.” His voice was so gentle. 

Her heart clenched at the tender moment. She turned the camera so it focused on him, wanting to have this not only engrained in her memory, but forever captured on film too.

“We don’t know if you’re a girl or a boy yet, or what your name’s gonna be… but we do love you already.” He was caressing her skin lovingly. “We can’t wait to meet you. I already know everyone’s gonna be so excited about you.” It was true. They both had a strong feeling they were going to break the internet when the news got out. The plan was to keep it quiet at least until the birth, but they didn’t know how realistic that was considering how nosey some people come be. And their families, well their families would probably be ecstatic. 

A baby was certainly going to be a surprise for people. No one knew they were trying for a baby, not even them. This was coming completely out of nowhere. But they hoped people in their lives would be proud at how well they were adapting. 

Y/N was the first to know and even she was surprised with how quickly Lando had taken to the news. He had gone from thinking a baby was something that might ruin his life, to embracing it, even planning for it. She had a sneaky suspicion he was more excited than she was. Which was a crazy thought.

Lando placed a gentle kiss right in the middle of her stomach, just over her clothes, where he assumed their baby’s heart or maybe head might be. “Love you. I’ll see you when I get back from Australia.” It was a promise.

His eyes flickered back up to his girlfriends, finding the camera in her hands and the tears lining her eyes. He grinned. “Are you crying?” His heart was so full. The whole world would one day see how he softened for her. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She smiled. “I’m just so happy.”

“You’re happy?” She nodded, sniffling so loudly that the camera could probably hear. Nothing would ever compare to the feeling in his chest right now. “Good. Me too.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-04-01 11:21:49

The video began with an extreme zoom in on Lando’s face. Y/N was laughing, he was grinning, trying to steal the camera from her hands. They were sitting next to each other, on a plane it seemed. It was loud, wherever they were. They looked happy.

“Baby’s first holiday,” Y/N cheered quietly. There was obviously someone else on the plane. They were trying to keep it quiet.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t think this counts.” 

“What, why not?” 

He couldn’t believe the two of them were about to get into a philosophical conversation about what counted as a first during their baby’s development. “I think they have to be fully formed and you know, like, born.” She didn’t know. She had never done this before. Neither had he though, so she was happy to believe whatever she wanted because she knew very well that he was clueless on the subject.

“What baby?” 

The looks that crossed their faces were nothing short of comedy gold. Lando looked like he had literally seen a ghost. They thought they were being quiet, obviously not quiet enough though. His head whipped around to face Oscar, smiling shyly at the bewildered look on the man’s face. They were planning on keeping this a secret for a bit longer, but plans changed. It looked like they were going to have to tell Oscar a little early. 

“Surprise,” Y/N said. 

The Aussie looked like he was going through a hundred emotions. It was the most Y/N had ever seen him react to something. “What, you, your–” His brain couldn’t comprehend it. His teammate was just so… Lando, he couldn’t imagine him as a father to a real human baby. The man he knew was childish and wore mismatched clothes, sometimes even forgetting to feed himself. The idea of him being entirely responsible for a child was crazy. 

Oscar sank back down into his seat, taking a minute to let this news sink in. He was muttering under his breath. 

The couple laughed, leaving him to have a minute. A short time later, he turned back around to look at them, a softer expression on his face. “You’re pregnant?”

She nodded, not expecting him to literally launch himself at her for a hug. Her laughter was loud and she lost her grip on the camera as she wrapped her arms around him. Lando reached for it from the floor, pointing it at the 3 of them. “I guess Oscar knows now.”

That seemed to grab his attention. “Am I the first to know?” He was going to be so incredibly smug about that if it was the case. 

Lando rolled his eyes. Max and his parents were never going to let him live this down if they found out. Which was pretty much inevitable. “Yes. We were meant to keep it quiet.” It was a slight weight off his back if he was being honest. He was terrified he was going to be the one to slip up and ruin everything. He had a fear of mentioning it by accident in the middle of an interview or something. But luckily, she had done it first. Something he was going to hold over her while he could. “But somebody had to go and spoil it.”

She huffed, swatting his arm. “Shut up.”

“Nope. I’m just glad it wasn’t me. You need to own up to your mistakes.” They shared a look. She knew he was only teasing. She also knew he was absolutely right. If he had been the one to spill it by accident, she would have rinsed him for it. The look was something tender. Something to say she knew he wasn’t really annoyed with her. It was all fun.

Watching them brought a smile to Oscar’s face. He had to clear his throat just to remind them he was there. He didn’t want to have to be witness to their PDA if they forgot about him. “I’m happy for you.” He raised his fist to bump into Lando’s. “Congrats man.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-05 20:56:22

Miami was fun. Another trophy to add to the collection and another podium to add to his stats. As the pair flew back to the UK, they were on a high, they started scheming. By the time they landed, they had a plan and it felt right. It was time to tell their families. 

As always, when they pulled up at the Norris household unannounced, they were greeted with open arms. Cisca was always happy to have her son home, even more so her daughter-in-law. She thought there was something up with the surprise visit, but she didn’t voice her suspicions straight away. She would wait, see if they wanted to come clean. She suspected a proposal, but without seeing a ring she couldn’t be sure. 

Nothing happened straight away. They acted as normal as they could for hours, until Adam caught them whispering like giddy teenagers in the kitchen. They had to do it now before they exploded. 

Lando set up the camera on the mantel in the living room, mouthing a little ‘oh my god’ that stemmed from pure nerves. While Y/N coaxed them all in. His hands were trembling with the excitement of it all, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest. This had been their secret (beside’s Oscar) for 4 months now. Of course he knew it was real, but somehow telling others made it feel so much more authentic. Y/N felt a little nauseous and she was inclined to believe it wasn’t to do with the baby. She knew her boyfriend’s family loved her, but there was still a little part of her that worried they wouldn’t be as happy as the 2 of them were. 

The mother of 4 sat smugly beside her husband as the couple fumbled around, clearly up to something. She had been right after all. She knew her boy better than he knew himself. 

“Okay,” Lando rubbed his hands together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, before finally setting one on Y/N’s back, “We have news.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Flo, be nice.” 

The girl in question scoffed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Well, some of us have stuff to do and he’s dragging this whole thing out. It’d be quicker if he just got to the point.” Her brother squared his shoulders slightly, like he was about ready to start a fight with her. Lando would never lay his hands on a woman, but his sisters didn’t count. They weren’t women, they were little demons that made it their mission to embarrass him. 

“You can talk to your boyfriend later, this is our moment, Florence.” That was a piece of information that was supposed to be a secret, a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. He only knew because Y/N had told him after Flo told her, not maliciously in any way, but Y/N told her lover everything. 

The younger sibling gasped, sitting upright as her cheeks flushed and she avoided her parent’s eyes. “Y/N! You weren’t supposed to tell!” The two that hadn’t gotten involved were loving every second of the bickering. 

She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.” She truly hoped she hadn’t betrayed the girl’s trust. 

Cisca was losing her patience with the kids. “Florence, we’ll talk about that later,” the girl grumbled and sunk further into the sofa, “Can you two please just tell us what’s going on?”

Lando visibly softened as he remembered what they were doing this for. He looked at the woman by his side and was so overcome with love for her. The words tumbled past his lips with ease, like they were meant to be spoken. Everything felt so right. “We’re having a baby.”

Considering the fact she knew something was up, this hadn’t crossed his mother’s mind even once. The tears started to fall instantly. Lando awed, wrapping the woman in a hug in an effort to comfort her. How was her baby having his own baby already? It felt like just yesterday she was holding his hand as they crossed the road, singing him lullabies to make sure he got to sleep okay. Now she was due to be a grandmother? 

While the mother and son had a moment, the rest of the Norris family swarmed Y/N, practically drowning her in hugs. She didn’t know if she had ever felt so loved before. 

She could have sworn the 2 Norris girls were crying, over the moon to be an auntie again. Oliver was happy his own daughter was going to have a friend and Adam was sort of relieved. 

Even though his youngest son was a grown man, 25 years of age, sometimes he worried that he was too focused on racing. He was proud of Lando, endlessly, for fulfilling his dream in such a cut-throat sport, but sometimes he wondered if he would ever have anything other than motorsport. He’d had to be focused his entire life. He had already missed out on so much. Then he met Y/N and he became a little less worried. Now though he was going to experience fatherhood, something arguably greater than any lifelong dream. If Lando thought he loved winning, he would be in for a surprise when this baby arrived. Nothing else was going to matter the second he held that baby for the first time. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Adam whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple lovingly. 

She sniffled, trying not to cry but the pregnancy hormones were a lot. Recently the woman had found herself emotional over things that weren’t even remotely, well… emotional. It was driving her insane and she had another 5 months to go. 

The driver was quickly tackled by his siblings, all in different stages of glee. Their father watched on with a bright smile. He was a patient man, he could wait for his special moment with his boy. As for their mother, she made her way over to Y/N who was just taking the camera down. It captured their interaction perfectly. 

“Are you excited?” Y/N asked, shyly. 

The older woman didn’t say a word, just pulled her into a hug that left her breathless. Cisca had so much love to give and she was more than happy to be on the receiving end of some of it. “I’m overjoyed. Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What for?”

“For loving him, for completing him,” she let out a sigh that could only be described as dreamy, “For just being you.” Lando had a few relationships/flings over the years that she hadn’t approved of, but Y/N? She considered her one of her own. She was elated he had found someone that fit him so well. Someone he could start a family with and feel nothing but content. “I’m so happy it’s you.” She kissed her cheek, taking a second to really look at her like she almost couldn’t believe this moment was real. There was going to be another baby Norris soon and she couldn’t wait. 

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-25 16:53:20

The couple had been unsure whether she should attend Monaco or just watch it from their apartment. Her bump was certainly more prominent now and they weren’t ready for the world to know. Was it worth the risk just to watch him race in person? The chances of him winning at Charles’ home race were slim to none anyway. But then she had found the perfect orange top, just flowy enough not to make anything obvious unless you knew what you were looking for. 

In his driver’s room before the race, she had been worried, turning every which way in front of the mirror to double check the camera’s wouldn’t be able to tell. As for Lando? He was amused and documented the whole thing. 

He zoomed in on her, watching through the lens as she smoothed the material down around her bump. She frowned, her palms growing more sweaty. She wished she could just throw on a hoodie or something but the weather wouldn’t allow it. She would probably collapse from heat exhaustion. 

“Are you sure you can’t tell?”

“Baby, yes.” He had already said it a thousand times. “This is a good quality camera and it can’t see a thing. It is picking up your wrinkles though.” It was just teasing. 

She scoffed, glaring at him and then examining her face closely in the mirror. “I don’t have wrinkles.” The way she’d been frowning had in fact brought on the start of a wrinkle or two and she quickly smoothed them out. He could be an ass sometimes. She would have loved to just let it all go and not care, but the internet and media outlets were harsh. They would scrutinise her the second she stepped foot outside. “What if they notice how big my boobs have gotten? That’s a sure sign of pregnancy.”

“Or a boob job,” he muttered. He raised his free hand in his defence when she shot him a deadly look through the mirror. “I hope they don’t notice your boobs cause those are mine.”

The claim was full of confidence. 

One eyebrow raised. “Are they now?”

He turned the camera around to him, pointing his finger right down the lens. “You know it, I know it and the world knows it, baby.” She had no idea how she tolerated him sometimes. 

As soon as Lando settled in the car, she forgot all about her worries. He was on pole; In Monaco; The track that was famous for having limited overtaking opportunities. It was almost a sure win. All she could focus on was the thumping of her heart that grew quicker with every lap. He was going to do it. He had to do it. 

By the time lap 78 rolled around, he was still number one. Monaco, the most prestigious race on the entire calendar and her man had just won it. Y/N pulled out the camera before she even knew what she was doing. She aimed it at the screen she had been watching, then back to herself and the way she was ugly crying. “He won,” she sobbed. She would blame the tears on the baby no doubt, but she would have reacted like this pregnant or not. 

As much as she would have loved to go and watch the podium ceremony, it didn’t feel like a smart idea. Instead she stayed back in his room, watching it play out on the TV; just her and the camera. He looked like he belonged on that top step. She didn’t know if she was ever going to stop crying. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy,” she whispered. That probably sounded bad considering she had recently discovered she was with child, and her child might see this video one day, but she just couldn’t believe today was real. Her boyfriend, the love of her life, was a Monaco Grand Prix winner. He was a history maker. One of the few. The pride in her chest was overwhelming. She would probably hide when Lando watched this back, made to feel shy for how she so freely expressed her love for him. He was nothing if not a tease when it came to her feelings. 

It was another 30 minutes or so before Lando made it back to her and she could feel the joy radiating from him before he even stepped foot into the room. When the door opened, the trophy was clutched tightly in his hand and he smelled of a weird mix of sweat and champagne, the smell of victory she supposed. 

As soon as the valuable was safely on the ground, so as to not have another broken trophy incident, he launched himself at her. She barely had time to set the camera down on the massage table before he broke that too. 

She loved him and his affection dearly, but he was drowning her in his stench. “I am so proud of you, but baby you stink.” Her laughter came straight from her chest, real and infectious. He found himself chuckling along. 

He cradled her face. His touch was gentle, like she was made of literal glass. “Just let me love you a bit. Then I’ll shower, promise.” 

That was okay with her. 

The TV was still playing replays in the background. She heard part of his post-race interview again, the part where he talked about winning this for his family. People assumed he meant his parents, his siblings, but little did they know he was quietly dedicating this historic win to the family he and Y/N were in the process of creating. It made her swoon.

“I can’t believe you won.” Even though he had been the one in the car, leading the laps, crossing the finish line first, he didn’t believe it either. “You really did it.”

His happiness was all encompassing. It felt like he was wrapped up in a blanket of triumph that he wouldn’t be able to take off any time soon. And if he was being honest, he wouldn’t want to. He wanted to ride this high for as long as he could possibly drag out– just before people got sick of him talking about it. In his mind it seemed like the perfect time to add to it, to properly bring her into his happy bubble. 

“Marry me.”

She laughed, loud and watery. “What?” His words caught her off guard. It wasn’t what she always dreamed of with a proposal. He wasn’t down on one knee, there was no romantic build up or speech, there was no ring worst of all. But at the same time, she wouldn’t have wanted anything different for them. “Are you serious? Actually, scratch that, are you insane?”

His smile was wider than she had ever seen before and his eyes crinkled to match. “Insanely in love with you. Come on, marry me.” She had never seen him quite so genuine.

She searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty, but she was coming up empty. Lando had never been more sure about anything in his life. If there was one person he would want by his side for the rest of his life, it was Y/N. It wasn’t that she was unsure. There was really nothing more she would want. Her anxiety was creeping in though. Was he just saying this in the heat of the moment? Did he actually want this or did it just slip out?

One look at her and he could tell she was spiralling. “I have a ring at home.” That information made her perk up. She did most things at home, his washing being one of them, how could she have missed an engagement ring? “I bought it months ago and hid it in my suitcase ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t look there.” At least that cleared up her confusion. “I’m serious about this, Y/N. I want nothing more than to be able to call you my wife.” 

She let out a breath, then laughed and practically melted into his arms. “There was no way I was ever going to say no.” He was going to marry her. She would soon be married to a Monaco winner. How many people could say that? “That ring better be huge with the paycheck you’re gonna get from this.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. “Only the best for you, baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-06-19 10:03:42

Lando had been home from Canada for 3 days when she decided she wanted to know the gender of their baby. It wouldn’t change how either of them felt towards the little foetus growing in her belly, but liked the idea of knowing. She didn’t want some big party or anything that had the chance to go horribly wrong. She wanted it to be just them, quiet, intimate. He was more than happy to make that happen. 

The only person he had allowed to know was his sister. Despite the way they bickered, they did get along really well and he knew he could trust her with this. The envelope containing the important slip of paper from their doctor was given to her, seen by only her and the woman who made the cupcake.

Flo dropped it off at their place and then it was just them, ready to find out.

She set up the camera, the two of them perched on the floor of their bedroom. It all looked very cosy. Neither of them had been awake very long, choosing to spend the day lazing around their apartment. Lando was in his pyjamas; a pair of checkered blue bottoms and an old shirt that might have been his dad’s at some point. Y/N opted to be warmer, donning a pair of plain joggers and a soft hoodie any eagle-eyed fan would be able to tell was his, paired with some fluffy pink socks to keep her feet warm. To many she would appear in too many layers for the Monaco weather, but she liked being snug. 

Lando’s hair was messy, a little flat, but she hadn’t given him time to fix it. It was a reflection of her own that was tied back. He had a sleepy grin on his face and a hand on her knee. Not possessive, just resting there like it was made to fit. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

It was more nerve wracking than she thought it would be for some reason. Their baby would be loved eternally regardless, but that didn’t make it any less scary. “Ready.”

He picked up the small bun, holding it to her mouth for her to take a bite. She barely sunk her teeth into the sponge when he was smushing it against her mouth. She coughed quickly, then laughed, a laugh that was pure shock. “You dick,” she huffed. But she wasn’t really angry. If she was actually angry she would have killed him by now. 

The man was laughing, the loud gremlin-like laugh he did when he just couldn’t help it. She didn’t waste a second. Y/N lunged at him with the rest of the cupcake gripped in her fist. They ended up in a pile on the floor, her on top of him with a flattened sweet treat between them. They were making a mess but neither of them really cared to acknowledge it. She was the first to get up, her cheeks hurting from smiling so much. 

The sight in front of her was amusing. She had got him back, arguably worse than he had gotten her originally. Only once they were both covered in icing and sponge did they remember what they were doing. Her eyes went wide when she saw the pink covering the lower half of his face. He must have seen it around the same time. His entire expression changed. 

“A girl?”

She nodded, bottom lip between her teeth as she tried to keep her tears at bay. She wanted to know how he felt about it before she let herself get excited. Some men didn’t want daughters and she truly hoped Lando wasn’t going to be one of those people. Luckily for her, he rubbed at his eyes and the tears began to fall. Before she knew it he was borderline sobbing. He should have been the one comforting her, but now it was the other way round. 

The woman cooed. “Lan…” She clambered into his lap, wrapping her arms around his head. He didn’t even need encouragement to bury his face in her neck, he just went. He clinged to her, like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

It didn’t matter that tears were soaking the material of her hoodie or that they were covered in sticky icing, this moment would be cherished. She cast a quick glance to the camera, almost like she was in The Office, showcasing with her expression how much she couldn’t believe this. This kind of reaction was the thing you saw in fairytales, not real life. 

“Are you happy?” she questioned. 

He nodded rapidly, then finally pulled away so she could see his face. The smile he was wearing was huge. “I’m so happy.” He brushed away the few tears of hers that had dripped onto her cheeks. “Are you?” 

“Yeah.” She kissed him softly. This was better than anything she could have dreamed of. 

He leaned forward and stole another kiss. There was a tugging sensation in his chest, like he was being drawn to her. If he thought he was clingy before, he was going to be even worse now that he knew he had a little girl on the way– a mini Y/N. If she resembled her mother in any way he feared he would never use the word ‘no’ again. She wasn’t even born and he was already wrapped around her finger. 

“A little you,” he whispered. 

She hummed, resting her forehead against his. Neither of them acknowledged that the camera was still rolling, but it didn’t matter anymore. “A little me.” 

They breathed softly together, just enjoying one another���s presence. He brushed a little bit of icing from her cheek, not that it made much of a difference at all. “You had a little something,” he joked. 

Y/N giggled. “Oh really?” she teased. 

He kissed her one more time, just for good measure and then his gaze fell to the camera. “She’s gonna watch this and think we’re disgustingly cute, you know.”

She couldn’t say she was upset about that. If their child knew her parents were truly and hopelessly in love, Y/N would actually sleep better at night. Not everyone could say the same. “Good,” her hand drifted down to her belly, “Our little girl.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-10 13:02:39

The summer break was a welcomed bit of time off. Y/N and Lando felt like their schedules were just too busy to actually spend a good chunk of time together. But now he was free for almost a month and they were going to spend every waking minute together. First up, they had to make a nursery that was the perfect place for their baby to live in. Well, Lando did. 

Y/N was using the excuse that she was 6 months pregnant to do as little as possible. She was happy to sit in the little rocking chair in the corner and tell him what to do. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d listen to every word she said. 

When picking a theme she was adamant it couldn’t be car related. No doubt their lovely girl was going to have Formula 1 centered in her life for a long time, Y/N wanted to give her the chance to at least have a space that was an exception to that. Lando had grumbled, but gone along with it anyway. He could understand what she was talking about at least. Instead of cars or racing, they had agreed on wildflowers. It was going to look like walking through a gorgeous meadow, animals and all. 

Music played softly while Lando built the furniture. He looked like the epitome of manly. Y/N didn’t know if she had ever been more attracted to him. 

“You know, if there wasn’t already a baby in me-”

He gasped like he had been scandalised. “The camera’s still on, you dirty dog.”

She chuckled, but admittedly her cheeks did begin to burn. She wasn’t quiet in her love and attraction for her fiance, but there were certain things she would like to keep private about them. Their sex life for example. “I’m just saying, you look really hot.”

The expression on his face was painfully smug. “Yeah? Is it the DILF energy?”

Her face twisted into one of disgust. “Never say that again.”

He winked. “No promises.”

After the crib was done, Lando took to painting the walls. They settled on a soft pink colour, something cosy and yet still colourful. 

Y/N was thoroughly enjoying having her feet up while he worked hard. Occasionally she would offer him a snack, a piece of fruit, a sandwich, some chocolate. She already seemed to have the mum thing down. It was all incredibly domestic– other than the occasional horny comment that made her ears burn. 

“Baby, could you pass me that roller, please?” He had quickly realised that handpainting was going to take far too long. There was no harm in trying other methods. But he had a plan, a sneaky one at that. Just as she turned away, he dipped his palms in the tub of paint and grabbed her bum.

“Lando!” she screeched. There were 2 hand prints now painted onto her pyjama bottoms, right on her backside. He grinned cheekily, offering her a wink as he ducked away from the swat she tried to aim at him. The camera could clearly see the 2 marks made by paint and she was sure the internet would have a field day with them when they found out. “Harrassing a pregnant woman, unbelievable.”

When he was sure she wasn’t going to try and hit him again, he placed a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. Her nose scrunched and she grumbled under her breath, but she loved it. They both knew that. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It took a couple days for everything to be finished in the nursery, but it was certainly worth the wait in the end. After the paint was on the walls, Lando banned her from entering the room. The fumes, he said. She probably would have been perfectly fine, but he was taking her health and safety very seriously. He wasn’t going to risk anything happening to her. He also wanted there to be some element of surprise. 

He was making her close her eyes, camera in hand so he could really capture her first impression properly. Lando was proud of himself. With a little help from his mum, he had turned the room into any child’s dream. It looked lovely, cosy and bright. He could already picture their girl in the crib he’d built for her. 

“Are you ready?” His voice was so close to her ear that it startled her. He chuckled at the way she jumped.

“Yes.”

When did Lando ever make things easy? “Are you sure?” There was nothing he loved quite like teasing her. After all these years he knew how to perfectly push her buttons too. 

The woman sighed. “Yes, Lando.”

“Positive?”

“Oh my god, just show me!”

He was grinning now. He pushed open the door and guided her in. His heart was beating rapidly, nerves swirling in his stomach, scared that she might not like it. Her pulse was equally as quick, but she was filled with excitement. 

When she finally opened her eyes the tears were instant. She couldn’t even control them. 

The nursery looked a million times better than she could have predicted. The flowers, handpainted by Lando and Cisca, looked perfect. The stuffed animals decorating the nursing chair were so cute and squishy. The pictures on the walls of forest animals, the bunny and the deer, made her heart swoon. She never knew Lando had such an eye for interior design, especially given how bachelor-y his apartment was when they started dating. Maybe she didn’t give him enough credit where it was due. 

She hadn’t said anything yet and that was worrying him. He was terrified that she hated it. “What do you think?” His voice was quiet and she could hear the insecurity lingering in his tone. She threw herself into his arms, not caring how the camera was squished between their bodies. 

“I love it. You did such a good job.”

Lando’s face visibly lit up. “Yeah?” He was glad. He took the camera, setting it on top of the drawers and out of the way. Their future viewers would now have a full view of the newly decorated nursery. “I might have one more surprise.”

He took her hand and led her over to the crib. There was a new addition waiting inside that she hadn’t seen before now. Her eyes widened and her heart grew at least 3 sizes. “Is that Mr snuggles?” Her childhood stuffed bunny, the one that had gone everywhere with her until the age of 12. She thought it was still in her room back at her parent’s house, but clearly he had worked some of his magic. 

Purely the fault of the pregnancy hormones (not true), she was getting emotional over everything. She tucked her face into Lando’s shoulder, enjoying the way he stroked her hair. He was always so gentle with her.

The man nodded. “I had your parents send him over a couple days ago. I thought baby girl would love it because her mum loved it.” 

Her heart clenched. This man meant everything to her. “Thank you.”

They were quiet for a little bit, just enjoying the moment, holding one another. “Can you believe she’s going to be here soon, in this bed?” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. His heart felt so full and she hadn’t even arrived yet. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to feel when she was finally here. Fatherhood was already so intoxicating. He couldn’t get enough. 

Y/N leaned back into him, sighing happily and blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I can’t wait. She’s going to be so loved, Lan.”

The moment was so intimate and pure. The camera caught them in each other’s arms but their voices were too low for it to pick up the volume. That was something that would stay between them, just how they liked it.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-18 15:28:33

Lando had decided a babymoon was absolutely necessary. Just him and her, no families, no racing, no interruptions, before their baby arrived and shook up their whole lives. Y/N had to admit, the idea of the two of them on a yacht off the coast of some gorgeous island for a week? It was enticing. She hadn’t needed much convincing.

As soon as she found herself lounging on the deck, soaking up the sun (ogling her shirtless fiance behind her sunglasses mainly) she knew she had made the right choice.

Lando was filming her, she could see that out of the corner of her eye, acting like he was in some kind of wildlife documentary. She was trying not to smile, not wanting to encourage him, but as soon as he started doing the David Attenborough voice, she cracked a grin. 

“And here we see the expecting mother in her natural habitat…” 

She turned her head his way, pushing her sunglasses up so he could see the amusement on her face. “What are you doing?” There was no doubt in her mind that he was zooming right in on her face. She would probably grimace at the sight when she watched the footage back, even when he insisted she looked utterly perfect. 

“I’m taking a video of my gorgeous, radiant, breathtaking, sexy–”

“Lando.”

He beamed. “You look beautiful right now. The way the sun’s hitting you,” he groaned, a sound that startled a laugh out of you, “It’s a photographer's dream.” The point of the baby vlog wasn’t to be pretty or aesthetic, it was to document their love throughout the pregnancy. But sue him if there were some beautiful shots of his lover thrown in there. 

A plan had already been formed when he got to his feet. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t just throw a pregnant woman in the ocean. No one needed to outright tell him that was a horrible idea. But he could ask politely. 

The menacing sparkle in his eye as he sat beside her was enough for her to know he was up to something. The man was far from subtle. 

“What do you want?”

“Come swimming with me.” Lando’s voice was sickly sweet. It was all in a bid to coax her into agreeing. When it came to him and those puppy eyes of his, she never stood a chance. One of his hands was on her bare leg, warm and safe. The other was still angling the camera in her face. She was seconds away from swatting it out of his hands. “Guys, she doesn’t love me. Let it be known that she hates me.” The teasing was exactly what he needed to finally get under her skin. 

With a quick move she took the camera out of his hands and turned it around on him. Considering it was part of his job, he was more than used to being on camera. Irritatingly he was also incredibly photogenic. So he simply smiled, looked as handsome as ever. She sighed as she looked at him on the screen. How was this man all hers?

“Come on,” he begged.

“Fine.”

Lando set the camera up on the deck. Rather dangerously too. She wouldn’t be surprised if it fell into the water at some point– a devastating loss considering what was on the camera. He was adamant everything would be fine. As soon as she saw the footage of them swimming, it was worth the risk. 

The water was nice. A relief from the scorching heat. She let herself float, enjoying the way baby girl kicked like she herself was trying to swim away. It made the woman laugh. Lando was watching her. It was impossible not to notice the pair of eyes burning into her. In a weird way, she knew what was coming. If she didn’t make it known soon that he was about to make a bad decision, the day would take a nasty turn. Insulting a pregnant woman was a horrible idea. 

“If you make one whale joke I’ll drown you.” It was a threat. A serious one. If he knew what was good for him he would take it seriously. He quickly closed his mouth, looking rather guilty. No joke was made. She had trained him well. 

Even if he couldn’t use humour to get her attention, he still wanted to bother her. It wasn’t exactly bothering per say, he just liked being with her. Being next to her. She felt him creep up beside her. Had no problem with the way he wrapped his arms around her. Despite inviting her to swim, they weren’t actually doing much swimming at all. 

A kiss. That was what he was after. She should have known, though she was happy to give it to him. 

“Baby girl likes the water. She’s kicking like crazy.” Their hands moved together over the swell of her belly. As if the girl inside knew her dad was there, she kicked harshly at his hand. Quite a few times. If it wasn’t bringing so much joy to both of them, she would only be focused on how badly it hurt her ribs.

The smile on her lover’s face made it all worth it. It was surreal. There was really a baby in there. “Maybe we’ve got a footballer on our hands,” he suggested. Another athlete in the family was the last thing she wanted, but at least football had less chances of a fiery death than Formula One. Although if she was a natural footballer, she definitely didn’t get that talent from her dad. He had little to no co-ordination with his feet. It was actually rather funny. 

“Doesn’t get that from you then.”

A scoff, then a splash of water aimed at her. 

“Lando!” She splashed him right back. 

That simple retaliation had started a downright war. It would be a miracle if their laughter wasn’t heard by those on the nearby island. Surely anyone would know they were just 2 crazy kids in love. Who could be mad at that?

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-09-21 17:29:04

The setup of the camera was much like the day Y/N found out she was pregnant. The circumstances too. She was in the bathroom, stressed, Lando nowhere to be seen. Only this time the stakes were higher. Was she about to have this baby on their bathroom floor?

“So, I might be having the baby early.” The fear in her voice was overwhelming. If you couldn’t already tell just from the look on her face, you definitely could the moment she opened her mouth. “Lando’s not here, he’s in Azerbaijan, literally just got out of the car.” She let out a deep breath. “I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.” 

The talking was more for her than anything else. Obviously the camera couldn’t help her, nor could those who would end up watching the video. It would all be over by then. Putting her thoughts out into the air helped calm her for some reason.

“I called one of my friends, she’s on her way to take me to the hospital. I also called Lando’s mum ‘cause I panicked.” The woman had given her the best advice she could. There was only so much she could do from another country. How she wished she could be there holding her hand when her son couldn’t. 

It looked like it all seemed to hit her at once. Her face fell. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “I might be having a baby today.” 

A phone ringing interrupted her freakout. Lando. Finally. 

Turns out he was fairing no better than her. His voice immediately came booming through the speaker. Panic lacing his tone. “Are you okay? What am I supposed to do? I’m so sorry I’m not there.” It was easy to picture him right now. Running his hands through his hair. Pacing up and down his driver’s room. He probably hadn’t stayed for the podium celebrations. Maybe even on his way to the airport. The last thing he wanted was to miss the birth of his first born, to leave his lover on her own for this. Only a monster would do such a thing. He wasn’t a monster. No, he was devoted to her. 

“I’m okay. Getting a lift to the hospital soon.”

That didn’t make him feel any better at all. “Fuck.” He was struggling to grasp just one thought at a time. Being there with her was the biggest issue. There was no quick way of getting to Monaco from where he was, not even if he left right this second. Lando prided himself in being pretty good at taking care of Y/N, but right now he was at a loss. How did he make this situation better? “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do, but it’s okay. I’m gonna be fine.”

As suspected, Lando was on his way to the airport and he only had a very short amount of time before his flight. Even though it was the very last thing he wanted to do, he said his goodbyes, wished her luck. She would update him every step of the way. That was a promise. He was with her in spirit. And she couldn’t do this without that knowledge. 

The hospital, as expected, was nerve wracking. A pregnant woman experiencing potential labour meant she was at the top of the emergency list. Seen right away. It felt like every test in the world was being run on her and yet no answers were being given. Lando’s texts were coming through rapidly, every few seconds, but she didn’t have any updates for him right away. It would be nice if she did. 

Once the doctors deduced that she wasn’t actively about to give birth, things died down a little. Pain had stopped rippling through her body hours ago, but they didn’t stop running tests. Pregnant women were much more at risk of everything. They had to be cautious. She didn’t know how long she was going to be here. The doctor’s face was a welcomed one. 

“Good news, Miss Y/L/N, it was a false alarm.”

Her eyes went wide. A weight lifted off of her shoulders. “Really? So, I’m not in labour?”

The kind doctor shook her head. “No. False labour is very common at this point in pregnancy. It’s her way of making sure you’re ready for the big day.”

This kind of thing had been mentioned in the pregnancy books she’d read, but she hadn’t anticipated it to feel so authentic. Everything in her believed she would be having their baby today. It had all felt so real. “She’s okay then?”

A soft smile. “She’s perfect. A healthy baby who’s going to stay with her mum a bit longer.”

Y/N chuckled. She was grateful. There were certainly more desirable circumstances that she would like to give birth in. Preferably ones where her fiance was present and not currently losing his head 37,000 feet in the sky. 

“We would like to keep you in for the night, just for some monitoring. If that’s okay?”

She nodded. “That’s fine.”

But nothing was really fine until he got there early the next morning. His flight landed around 6 and he made it to her bedside by 6:35. No time was wasted on his behalf. He knew it was a false alarm, she had texted him during his flight, but it didn’t make him any less panicked. Even the smallest of things normally could be incredibly dangerous in the late stages of pregnancy. He was worried about her.

There seemed to be 101 forms to sign to get her discharged. She would just be happy when she could go home and finally climb into her own bed. 

The camera picked up again once the pair of them were home and relaxed again. Hours had passed. Lando had flown home immediately, a 12 hour flight that felt like days knowing she was at home and scared. The hospital had kept her overnight, just for observation. Once they were positive it was just a mishap, they allowed her to head home and nothing else unusual was going to happen. Luckily Lando had arrived by that point. 

Since they got back into their apartment, they hadn’t moved from one spot. The sofa was probably molded to fit them permanently now. 

Y/N sighed, exhausted from the chaos. Yet she still smiled into the camera, even if her head felt heavy and she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stay awake. 

“No baby yet,” Lando explained, “Still safe inside for now.” In the very corner of the screen, eagle eyed viewers might be able to see how his thumb was rubbing gentle circles on her belly. It was soothing for both her and baby girl. A kiss was placed to her head. “Quite a big scare though. And a very long day.”

There was a hum from Y/N. She curled further into him. “She’s dramatic, just like her dad.”

The curly-haired man let out a scoff, but unfortunately she was right. He was a drama queen and there was enough evidence online to back up her claim. There was no use in arguing. So he let her win. He would always let her win.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 02:54:32

The camera was focused on Y/N, sitting on the sofa, free hand holding some kind of ice cream while there was frantic rushing in the background. Lando’s frantic rushing. The simple shot sort of perfectly described their personalities. 

She smiled at the camera. “So, I’m in labour and Lando’s losing his mind.” She was finding it rather funny. Though she looked far too calm for a woman who was due to give birth today. She turned the camera around, catching him just as he zipped past to grab something from the bedroom. Usually she would have had some sympathy, but she had been telling him to pack the hospital bag for weeks and he hadn’t. Really this was all on him.

But she wasn’t laughing for long. A wave of pain rippled through her body, the woman almost dropping her ice cream in the process. She certainly would have cried if she had done that. 

Her gasp was so loud that it startled her lover. “Lando.”

He knew just from the strain in her voice that she was having a contraction. In an instant he dropped everything, rushing over to her and offering his hand out. She took it as soon as she could reach, squeezing to try and relieve some of the sharp pain running through her body. 

The man frowned. He hated the idea that she was in pain. If he could take it away from her, he would do so immediately. As gentle as he could, he brushed some loose hair out of her face, kissing her forehead. It didn’t take the pain away but it did make things a little better.

When the pain passed, she let out a sigh. “Thank you.”

One more kiss was placed on her head for luck and then he got back to his frantic packing. Despite the nerves building up, she did manage to let out a brief laugh. He was done as quickly as he could be and then all his attention turned to her. Y/N was actually rather impressed with how well he was taking charge of the situation. 

The moment her water broke he helped her change, sat her down and handed her a tub of ice cream that she had been munching away on ever since. Everything else was handled by him. She didn’t have to lift a finger.

Now that he was done, he kneeled down in front of her, making sure her eyes were on him. “How far apart?” 

The only job she had was to time how far apart her contractions were. Then they would know when to head to the hospital. “6 minutes.” That meant they had to leave, like, now. She was supposed to tell him when they were 10 minutes apart, so he had some sort of warning at least. But he was already doing so much that she didn’t want to add to his stress. Unknowingly she had made it even worse by not telling him sooner.

Despite his job being to drive at 300km/h every weekend, he had never driven as fast as he did to the hospital. Without a doubt multiple speeding tickets would be coming through the post soon. He was almost positive every dad must be like this when their partner was giving birth, but the look on the nurse’s faces when he came rushing into reception like a crazy person said otherwise.

“My fiance’s in labour.”

People started to quickly understand his panic. So much was happening at once that he could barely keep up. Lando ended up following the doctor around like a lost puppy, just waiting to see where they would take her. He was glad when they finally got her into a room where she could have some privacy. It was too risky being out in the main bit of the hospital for too long. There were too many people around, too much opportunity for someone to spot them and break the news they’d been so good at hiding. 

Laying in the hospital bed with a doctor checking how dilated she was, she looked incredibly sad. The woman was pouting, a sight that made him chuckle. This was one of the brief moments where the contractions had halted, which meant he was allowed to joke. 

“Why did I let you do this to me?” she whined.

“Because you love me.” 

She huffed, a quip of some sort on the tip of her tongue ready to fire back at him. And she would have had she not been hit with another wave of shooting pain. 

He offered his hand to her, which she didn’t hesitate to take. The first squeeze made him regret everything, but he wasn’t exactly going to reject her when she was suffering far more than he was. He would do anything she needed him to to make things better for her.

She was slowly losing her mind laying there waiting for this to be over. And the worst part was no one could give her a straight answer of how much longer this was going to take. No one knew. It was different for everyone. But they did know baby girl wasn’t coming anytime soon, that much was a guarantee. They were going to have to wait this out a little longer. She hated every second of it. And he was no better. 

His hand was one squeeze away from the bones being shattered. It would be wrong to blame her for it though. She was definitely going through a lot worse. “Looks like baby girl is still gonna take a while yet,” he told the camera. At the reminder Y/N shot him a glare. It was to tell him to shut up. Lando thought it best to turn the camera off before she literally ripped his head off. Or said something that got him in trouble with his PR manager. He sent the camera one final grin. One last smile before he became a dad for real. It was all so exciting. “See you on the other side.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 21:34:59

The next time the camera turned on, things were much quieter. The chaos had died down. Y/N was no longer in agony. And they were both officially parents. There was a grin on Lando’s face that looked permanent, like he’d tattooed it on there and it had zero plans of disappearing any time soon. His cheeks physically hurt from it.

From what the camera could see, they were lying on the bed together. He had climbed behind her, letting her rest against his chest as she was more comfortable that way. It was clear she was holding something, cradling their baby. They looked happy. Tired, but happy.

“Everyone say hello to Rosie Norris.” The camera panned down, but her face stayed hidden. A baby, tiny, wrapped in a pink blanket, so content in her mother’s arms. Lando was in love. 

His life was so public that they had agreed they wanted to keep some things private. The whole reason they had kept her pregnancy secret was so they could properly enjoy it. Little Rosie was another thing. Other than a brief glimpse at her where they couldn’t prevent it, they wanted to give her the most normal childhood possible. No invading cameras, no massive crowds. The 2 of them would try their very best to keep her out of the spotlight. 

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off of the sweet baby. 

“She’s healthy, cried her eyes out for the first 15 minutes of her life.” The pair laughed. She had barely been in the world for 3 hours and she was already bringing such light to her parent’s lives. “She’s perfect and we’re obsessed.”

Anyone could tell that they were truthful. Lots of people had kids, but Lando and Y/N were meant to have children. They were born to be parents. Their entire being belonged to that little girl. Already she had them wrapped around her tiny finger. 

There wasn’t much to film or say to the camera. Both of them wanted to be present. Actually in the moment. Not much was happening now the chaos was all over. Still, he didn’t turn the camera off. He let it run, sitting it on the table beside the bed, capturing the first few moments of this new family. It was sweet. A piece of video that would be cherished. 

His head leaned against hers, ignoring how her hair was still damp with sweat. There had been enough times where she had done the same for him after a particularly hot race. 

They were talking mindlessly, discussing anything that came to their minds just to pass the time. The camera could barely hear them with how low their voices were. That didn’t upset them though. It was just another thing that could be saved just for them. At some point Rosie cooed, letting her parents know she was finally awake and vying for their attention. 

Green eyes, identical to her dad’s, were staring right at them both. Y/N didn’t know when she would stop falling in love. Every new little detail that she discovered had another part of her heart dedicating itself to Rosie. Soon enough she was positive that little girl would be her entire being. She would be perfectly happy with that. 

Lando literally shed a tear. “She’s looking at us.” He was so in awe. This was his child. Half him, half Y/N. They had somehow created her and now got to appreciate that for the rest of their lives. “She looks just like you.” With the most gentle touch he could muster, the man traced his finger over her tiny cheek. It felt like if he didn’t keep checking she was real every now and then, she might disappear.

“She has your eyes.” There was no denying that. One might be able to drown in them if they looked too long. Y/N didn’t know how to look away.

It was quiet for a while. She was on the verge of falling asleep. Lando wasn’t helping with his warmth and the way he was stroking her hair. It had been a long day and as much as she wanted to stay awake and watch their girl exist forever, she had to give in to the sleep she was fighting sooner or later. 

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, blinking slowly. 

After some brief fumbling, he was more than happy to take Rosie from her arms so she could get some sleep. It was definitely deserved after the day she’d had. With the baby tucked up in his arms, he placed a quick kiss on Y/N’s head and then took a seat in the comfy armchair in the corner of the room. The camera watched as Rosie and him would spend the next few hours snuggled up together exactly like that, with him gazing down at her like she had hung the stars. It was the start of a new chapter in his life that he was finding himself utterly infatuated with.

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

[solxamber]

Want You Back with: Housewardens

Where they're still in love with you.

Riddle Rosehearts

After the breakup, Riddle acted like he'd read somewhere that repressing emotion was a perfectly valid coping mechanism. Which, to be fair, he probably had. And so he embarked on what could only be described as a grief management routine so structured and detail-oriented that you almost had to respect it.

First came the part where he behaved like nothing had happened.

He went about his day with all the usual pomp—collaring students, citing arcane dorm rules, and drinking his tea as usual.

If anyone brought you up (on purpose or by accident), he would simply blink, nod, and go back to arranging sugar cubes in a perfect geometric formation. "We are no longer together," he would say, as if it were an administrative change and not, say, a soul-crushing emotional catastrophe.

Then came the coincidences.

He began showing up in places he absolutely did not frequent before. The café you liked? Suddenly, he was a regular. The library on Thursday evenings? There. The very hallway outside your class despite Heartslabyul being on the opposite side of campus? Oh yes. There too. And every time you spotted him lurking (because that was the only word for it), he would give a startled little blink, like you were the surprise.

"Oh. I didn't see you there," he said, the fourth time in a week.

You stared at him from behind your drink. "I've been sitting here for thirty minutes."

"Well," he muttered, "public seating is for everyone."

By week two, he began inventing reasons to talk to you. Weird ones.

He approached you one day, armed with a rulebook and what looked like three sticky notes marking battle locations.

"According to Queen of Hearts rule 42," he said, clearly having practiced this in front of a mirror, "ex-partners must return borrowed items within twelve days."

You blinked. "You lent me a pencil."

"It was part of a set," he snapped, scandalized.

You told him you'll give it back and he looked like someone slapped him.

You thought that might be the end of it. But then, course, it escalated.

He showed up at your door one evening with a paper in his hand. A list. A physical list. Titled, in absolutely unnecessary cursive, "A Non-Exhaustive Record of My Missteps."

"It's not meant to change anything," he said stiffly, not quite looking at you. "Only to… acknowledge."

There were bullet points. Short, awkward, and occasionally baffling.

Should not have critiqued your sock choice in front of your friends.

I apologize for saying 'emotional outbursts are not strategic.' That was, in hindsight, a poor choice of words.

You are allowed to eat dessert before dinner. Even if it is cherry pie.

I realize now that asking if we could schedule arguments during free periods was not romantic.

I should have asked you to stay.

You didn't know what to do with it—him. He was so Riddle about everything. Polite. Procedural. Very slightly insane. But under all the awkward attempts at regulation and paperwork, it was clear he missed you. Badly.

And the truth was, you still hadn't returned the matching pencil.

You kept it. Not because you believed in fate or romance or even well-meaning tyrants who quoted rulebooks like love poems—but because part of you thought, maybe, if he was willing to be just a little more flexible, there might be a version of this that could work.

And you hoped it could.

Leona Kingscholar

After the breakup, Leona made it his personal mission to convince the entire world—Ruggie, his dorm, the mirror in his room, the literal wildlife outside—that he did not care.

He went around saying things like, "Tch. Good riddance," and "Like I got time to babysit someone who cries over movies," even though no one had brought you up. He slept more. Talked less. Got moodier, which no one thought was possible until he started growling at actual potted plants for existing near his nap spots.

Whenever Ruggie so much as hinted at your name—usually while dancing around some scheduling conflict or trying to explain why Leona's mood had tanked again—he'd get cut off mid-word.

"I wasn't even talking about them!" Ruggie would complain.

"Then stop thinking about them so loud," Leona snapped, face buried in the crook of his arm like the concept of you physically hurt his eyes.

But of course, the moment your name stopped being brought up, that became a problem too.

He started acting restless. Less asleep all the time and more awake and clearly trying to look like he's not looking around for someone. He'd frown when someone laughed in the hallway, then look annoyed when it wasn't you. He started showing up to classes he normally skipped, sitting in the back with his legs stretched out and arms crossed like he was doing the entire school a favor just by existing in the room.

And then the things started appearing.

First, it was his jacket—left casually across the back of your desk chair, like maybe gravity had just pulled it there on accident. Then his spellbook, shoved between your textbooks in a way that definitely required premeditated effort. Then a sandwich. An entire sandwich, wrapped up and labeled "Not Yours."

He denied all of it, obviously.

"Must've been Ruggie," he said, regarding the jacket that literally smelled like him.

When confronted about the book: "I don't even read, what're you talking about."

As for the sandwich? "You're imagining things. I didn't make that for you."

By that point, no one believed him—not even himself.

The final blow came in the form of a confrontation you hadn't expected. Late evening, when you were walking back to your dorm from the library. You were alone, or you thought you were, until you turned the corner and found him there—half in shadow, arms crossed, gaze trained somewhere just over your shoulder.

He didn't say hello.

Didn't say anything actually.

Just let the silence stretch until it started fraying at the edges, and then muttered, voice low and rough:

"You still want this, don't you?"

You stared at him. He didn't flinch, but you could tell he wanted to. He held himself like someone who didn't expect the answer to be yes, but still desperately needed to hear it before he gave up entirely.

And you realized somewhere between the jacket, the sandwich, and the way his voice cracked at the end of the sentence—that for all his snarling and attitude, he never stopped loving you.

He just didn't know how to ask you to stay without sounding like he might actually need you.

Which, of course, he did. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

But the next time he leaves something behind, you think you might return it in person. Maybe even stay awhile.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul handled the breakup the only way he knew how: with spreadsheets, surveillance footage, and a truly unhealthy amount of denial.

He claimed to be fine, of course. Said it with a straight face while color-coding inventory spreadsheets and inputting customer satisfaction data at four in the morning like a man unburdened by heartbreak. But when the tweels found the Lounge security footage paused—again—on a scene of you laughing near the bar, they stopped asking.

He'd memorized the timestamp.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it.

Azul had always been prone to spiraling in a unique way. After the breakup, that tendency mutated into something truly concerning. He didn't cry. He didn't wallow. Instead, he opened a blank document and began calculating. How many hours you'd spent together. How often you laughed in his presence. What the average rate of eye contact was in happy couples versus yours. There were charts. Graphs. Some kind of weighted affection index.

Unfortunately, Jade opened the file looking for the March sales report and instead found a document titled:

"Projected Probability of Them Still Loving Me (v6)."

He would not let him live it down.

"Idea," Floyd said. "You wanna run those numbers again but include the variable where you're super pathetic lately?"

Even Jade raised an eyebrow. "The correlation between desperation and appeal might not be as linear as you'd hope."

Azul tried to brush them off. He even lied (very badly) about what the spreadsheet was for ("Just… tax optimization. Personal hobby. Totally normal."), but the damage was done. The eels were smug. He was mortified. And worst of all, he still couldn't stop thinking about you.

So he pivoted.

If direct emotional vulnerability had failed him, perhaps passive-aggressive marketing would do the trick.

You started receiving coupons. Neatly folded, hand-delivered, no return address—but you recognized the ink. And the handwriting. And the aggressively formal tone that somehow still managed to sound like begging.

"One (1) free drink of your choice at the Mostro Lounge. Offer valid for exes statistically proven to be an optimal match."

Another read:

"Your preferred drink has been discontinued. Kidding. Please come back."

And your personal favorite:

"A reminder that our pairing was 94.3% ideal. Come back. For research."

You didn't respond. He didn't expect you to. But every week, a new coupon showed up—some increasingly ridiculous, some borderline romantic, all of them signed with that same flourish he used when pretending he wasn't panicking.

You weren't sure if it was pathetic or endearing. Probably both. The coupons had piled up in a drawer now, next to a coaster you never returned and a little napkin with a sketch he once made of you during a slow night.

You told yourself it was nostalgia. Curiosity. Scientific inquiry, if anything.

And one slow afternoon, you found yourself digging through the drawer, smoothing out the least crumpled coupon, and thinking—just for a moment—that you might stop by.

For research. Obviously.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim took the breakup as well as someone who had never actually took a negative emotion in his life to heart could. Which was to say: terribly.

He cried. A lot. At first, it was appropriate—private tears, sniffles in the dorm room, a distant gaze over his drink. But then it started happening at other times. Like during an ad for laundry detergent where the happy couple folded towels together. Or during a weather report where the forecast mentioned rain, which, apparently, you once said made you sleepy. Or during absolutely nothing at all, except that the sun was setting "a little too much like that one day you held his hand, remember?"

He insisted he was fine.

"Totally fine!" he chirped, voice three octaves higher than normal, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. "Breakups happen all the time, right? We're both growing and learning! It's healthy!"

No one believed him.

Jamil looked like he was considering reporting you to the disciplinary committee just to end Kalim's reign of emotionally unhinged sunshine. Even Grim asked if someone should "turn him off and back on again."

But Kalim doubled down. If he couldn't be fine naturally, he'd brute-force his way into happiness. Which, in his mind, meant: throwing parties. So many parties. For no reason. His calendar suddenly became a horror show of "themed celebration nights" and "spontaneous joy hours," all of which were weirdly tailored around your favorite things.

"Here!" he said brightly, handing out goodie bags. "Everyone gets this specific brand of chocolates and stickers! Because those are just objectively fun! Not because anyone used to love them or anything!"

It was transparent. Alarmingly so.

Even when he gave someone a little clay charm that looked exactly like the one you wore on your bag, Kalim waved it off with a too-wide smile. "Just spreading the joy! It's important to stay positive, right?"

Everyone knew it was a cry for help. The kind that sounded like party poppers and glitter and repressed sobbing in the school gardens.

The turning point came on a quiet afternoon when he showed up at your door holding a tiny cupcake. It had a frosting heart on it. His hands shook slightly.

"I know this is weird," he said, already teary. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. I just—"

He swallowed, voice cracking like something inside him was giving up the act for good.

"Even if you don't love me again," he said, "can we still be something?"

You looked at him—his earnest eyes, his trembling lower lip—and you felt something soft and painfully familiar unfurl in your chest.

Because Kalim didn't know how to lie to the people he loved. Not well. Not really. He was all impulse and heart, the kind of boy who loved too loud and too fast and never quite knew how to stop once he started.

And maybe you weren't ready to be what you were. Not yet.

But looking at him, at the little cupcake with the slightly smudged heart and the the way he was holding it like he might shatter if you didn't take it—

How could you say no?

You took the cupcake. And maybe his hand, too. Just for a moment. Just to see if something could still bloom.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil did not mourn the breakup. Mourning was for people who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. For people who let emotion smudge their mascara. He was not one of those people.

At least, not publicly.

He was flawless. Unbothered. The exact picture of someone thriving post-relationship, thank you very much. His interviews were polished. His smiles were poised. His posture was impeccable. If anyone noticed that his usual acerbic wit had gone curiously blunt, no one said anything.

They wouldn't dare.

Privately, though, when the cameras were off and the spotlight blinked out, Vil cracked in very small ways.

He started using your favorite perfume. A subtle layer, never enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him feel like you were still somewhere in the room. Like maybe if he breathed in deep enough, he could hold onto something.

He flipped through magazines during lunch breaks, claiming it was for "market research." But every time he lingered on a movie review or a lifestyle spread, it was with the faint, ridiculous hope that you'd read it too. That your fingers might have touched the same paper. That your eyes caught the same line he was rereading for the fifth time.

He knew it was foolish. But Vil had always been prone to beautiful illusions. It was sort of his thing.

The unraveling came, ironically, in the most public of places: a toothpaste commercial.

He was halfway through filming, mid-speech about the importance of a radiant smile, when something in the script triggered a memory—something you once said about how his laugh.

He kept talking.

Kept improvising.

Went off-script entirely.

The crew let him go for a minute—Vil was known for his "emotional depth," after all—but when he hit the line "even the most polished smile can still ache when it remembers someone who made it feel real," the director had to call cut.

"Vil," they said gently. "It's a toothpaste commercial."

He didn't speak for the rest of the shoot. Just touched up his own makeup in silence, eyes a little glassy.

It took him another week to knock on your door.

He showed up in a soft sweater, smelling faintly of something familiar, holding his own hands like he didn't know what else to do with them.

He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask for forever. Just quietly, cautiously:

"Would you like to try again?"

And you thought—looking at him, at the person who once swore he'd never show up like this for anyone, at the vulnerability hiding under all that polish—

Maybe this time, you could make it work.

Idia Shroud

Idia handled the breakup the way he handled most things in life: with a complete and total digital meltdown, buried under forty layers of denial and an emotionally scorched Discord server.

He didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't even leave passive-aggressive emoji reactions on your old posts like a normal ex with unresolved feelings. He simply… disappeared.

Vanished like a ghost into his room, into his code, into the vast and uncaring expanse of the internet, where feelings didn't exist unless they were typed in all caps or conveyed through a crying anime girl gif.

And for a while, it was total radio silence.

Until you logged into that game.

The shared one. The one you used to play together after class, where the two of you ran a little shop in a pixelated fantasy village and spent an embarrassing amount of time farming digital potatoes.

Your shop was still there.

But now there was… a shrine.

Your character's pixel art face, recreated painstakingly in custom tiles and surrounded by in-game flowers, torches, and glowing pink mood crystals that did not exist in the vanilla version of the game.

He'd modded it.

There was a sign in the middle that just said:

"Here Lies Happiness (RIP)"

You stared at it for a long time. Then, just to confirm the ridiculous suspicion building in your chest, you checked the nearby player list.

Sure enough, his username had changed too:

"SadBoy420"

Online. Loitering.

You didn't message him immediately. Mostly because you weren't sure what to say to someone who had quite literally built a shrine to your relationship in a farming sim. But still—you lingered. Logged in more often. Left offerings of rare items near the shrine like it was some strange, silent conversation.

Idia never spoke to you directly, but you noticed the shrine changed a little every day. One day it had a sign that said "I'm Fine." The next, it was replaced with a drawing of your characters fishing together. One morning it was just a massive, pixel-art rendition of the word "SORRY" in bold letters with a sad face emoji.

Outside the game, his silence continued.

But Ortho?

Ortho was not subtle.

"Did you know my brother has been listening to the voicemails you left him on loop for the past 72 hours?" he chirped once in the cafeteria. "Not that he's, like, sad or anything! Just nostalgic. Definitely not crying."

Later: "He made your favorite NPC in our custom server the town mayor! Isn't that cute? I mean, objectively, not emotionally, haha."

Eventually, you got the call.

Your phone lit up with his name and you answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Uh—hey," Idia said, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't, like, mean to call. Or—I did, but. Crap. Okay. Hi."

You waited.

He took a breath.

"I was just wondering," he said, "if you maybe wanted to talk again. Or, y'know. Game. No pressure or anything. It's fine if you're, like, over it and I'm just like a pathetic ghost haunting your social life, haha, classic tragic NPC vibes—"

"Yes," you said, before he could spiral into apologizing for existing.

He paused. Long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then, quietly—hopeful, almost disbelieving:

"Wait. Really?"

You smiled, even if he couldn't see it.

"Yeah," you said. "Log in."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus did not understand how something so radiant could simply… end.

He didn't throw a dramatic tantrum after the breakup. He didn't disappear in a swirl of thunderclouds or curse the moon or anything out of a tragic love story.

He didn't so much as frown in public, because the full gravity of the breakup hadn't quite hit him yet. Instead, it settled in stranger places—quiet things, strange habits.

Like how he started speaking to the plush bat you gave him on his last birthday as though it were you. Not in a creepy way, more like someone who didn't know what to do with the empty space you left behind.

He asked it questions. Told it how his day went. Laughed, sometimes, as if it had told him a joke—low and fond, the kind of laugh only you had ever coaxed out of him. And when he sat beneath the stars, plush cradled carefully in his lap, he whispered to it with a gentleness reserved only for the lost.

The gargoyles? They weren't even sentient, but even they seemed exhausted. Every night he stood in front of them, musing out loud about the way you smiled or how you always called him weird little nicknames. One of them lost a nose—maybe unrelated.

Lilia, bless him, said nothing for a long while. He simply watched as Malleus wilted, quietly and beautifully, like a flower sealed in ice. But one evening, after Malleus asked in the softest voice, "Do humans ever come back when they leave?", Lilia did not answer. He only wrapped his arms around his ward and held him close.

At some point, he started writing letters. Not to send, just… to say things. Things he didn't know how to tell you, or hadn't said enough when he could. Some were serious. Some were barely legible thoughts written in the middle of the night. But he kept them all, folded neatly in a box that lived under his bed.

And then, of course, Silver found the box.

Silver, ever helpful and half-asleep, assumed it was mail Malleus meant to send and delivered the whole thing to your dorm like it was completely normal to get a hand-bound novel of unsent love letters dropped off on a random day.

You read them all.

You didn't say anything at first. You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. But that night, you left your window open—just a little.

And sure enough, just past midnight, Malleus appeared outside your dorm. Just… standing there. Looking up.

He didn't ask to come in. He didn't even call your name. He just waited. Like maybe you'd hear the quiet, and somehow understand.

And when you finally stepped outside, he looked at you like he'd been waiting centuries.

"May I court you again?" he asked softly. "From the beginning."

And really… how could you say no?

Masterlist

[okwonyo]

HEAVEN IS A HOME ੭୧ wherever i am with you

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾

𝟏𝟏𝟗𝟒𝒾──── husband!enhypen 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff 𓂋 kissing skinship ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡

𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦

HEESEUNG was always a jealous guy. he could never hide if from you and god knows he did try— he doesn’t like when others salivates on what is, legally, his. to be clear, he didn’t marry you for the sole reason of making other men go away. but he did think that putting a huge stone on your finger would have helped. sometimes, it does. sometimes, he needs to step up. because some people don’t get it and have the nerve to flirt with the love of his life while he pays for her clothes. his favorite thing to is to wrap his arm around your shoulders, so the other idiot can see the ring on his finger. he grins when you put your hand over his, the shiny ring on your finger matching his own. then he steals— is it stealing when it was yours in the first place?—you without a second look or a single word. “we are married, hee,” you giggle, not seeming very bothered by his antics. heeseung kisses your temple, “does that asshole know that?”

JONGSEONG has, perhaps like everyone else in the world, a favorite part of the day. he thinks about it during the entirety of the day, the moment he will finally be able to leave work and go back home to his loving wife. the first thing he does when he steps inside the house is to kiss you, perhaps, then take your wrist and drag you to the bedroom. you have never seen him this eager before, it makes you laugh quietly, “what’s the matter with you?” focused on his itinerary, your husband doesn’t hear you and even if he did, you doubt he would answer anyway. the way he pushes you against the bed makes you yelp, “sorry, princess,” he sighs, loosening his tie. then he climbs on top of you. not to kiss or anything. jay puts his entire weight on you, hidings his face in your neck as wraps his arms around your waist. he wants cuddles. “i missed you so much, wife.”

JAEYUN has that very silly tradition of his that stuck in the the relationship even after you promised to stay together for the rest of your life. every single time he takes you on a date, he insists on doing it the old fashioned way. he leaves the house one hour before the date and he shows up at your door when it’s time to go. “do we really need to do all this?” you sigh, yet is unable to hide your smile at the sight of your husband and the flowers in his hands. he stays stunned at the sight of you. his answer dies in his throat. his eyes drag over your form like a scanner. his spirit leaves his body but comes back soon enough, “y–yes we do,” he whispers, leaning in to give you a kiss. you turn your head to the side and laugh at his whine, “i don’t kiss on the first date,” you take the flowers in his hand. he stays stuck in his position for a moment, even after you start walking away, “…so mean.”

SUNGHOON can never leave you alone. he was already very clingy when you were just girlfriend-boyfriend, it went to another level when you engaged and he hasn’t let you breath a single second since you returned from your honeymoon. he acts like you can vanish if he isn’t close to you all the time; it’s lovely, very much so. but his separation anxiety goes as far as following you around when you strictly refuse to talk to him. not only he walks behind you as if he were your own shadow but he gets extremely touchy— if you don’t want to talk to him, you won’t refuse his touch. “stay silent if you still love me,” he wraps his arms around your waist. you don’t answer, chopping your apple with an impeccable precision that makes him scared of you yet very attracted. “good, i love you too,” he smiles against your cheek.

SUNOO makes you extremely mad, actually. not because he did something wrong or because he said something that was out of place— but, because he is so sweet over the slightest thing. his mouth is always full of praise words destined to you. his kindness makes you want to combust. “good morning, my love,” he greets when you walk into the kitchen. his smile is ten times brighter then the sun, you have to squint your eyes at it. “how can you be this adorable?” he asks, honest to god, at your sleepy face. you stop in your tracks, remembering that you are wearing one of his old shirts, that you hair are messy due to how many times you move in your sleep and that you probably drooled on his chest this night. “i’ve never looked nastier,” you huff, walking to him. he kisses the top of your head, “hey, don’t talk like this about my wife.”

JUNGWON doesn’t answer when you call him by petnames. it’s absolutely not because he doesn’t like them. he was the first one to get red in the face whenever you used to call him pretty boy at the beginning of your relationship— and he still gets shy when you call him baby. he just decided that he won’t answer when you will call him that anymore. “jungwon,” you call. he doesn’t answer. although he is sitting right next to you in the couch, with his arm around your shoulders. he chews on his popcorn like you don’t exist. “babe,” you try again. it’s in vain. he still doesn’t want to answer. you run all the petnames you have for him through your head, but you have the feeling that he won’t answer until you call him that favorite name of his. “…husband,” you call again and his head snaps directly to your direction. “yes, my gorgeous wife,” his wife grin tells you that you are feeding his happiness a lot. all this because you wanted the remote…

RIKI is aware that marrying young isn’t something that is common. he knows that people his age have other things to do that propose to each other— but he grew up to be eager and impatient for the things he want. he married you as soon as he could. he is honestly very proud of this. his wife is the first thing he talks about the people he is just me. and it’s frustrating when they refuse to believe your actual existence. whether he shows them the ring, the wedding pictures and everything. you eventually become of a victim of riki’s failure to convince people he is married to you. usually, he just calls you for confirmation and he did. but some people need further proof. therefore, since you are in the same area as him, he tells you to come meet him. he pulls you close to his side by his hands on your hips, “i told you my wife was very much real and very pretty, no?” (truth is, he just really loves to show you off)

분지 ܃ if your husband is not obsessed with the fact he is your husband, divorce and take everything he owns 💌 because .. what?

taglist open 。

[astonmartinii]

feel you | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem blind!reader

a long awaited reveal is more than meets the eye

MASTERLIST | LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST

kymillman

liked by user3, user4 and 45,281 others

kymillman: a new pup in the paddock … and they belong to this mystery woman? she’s been seen in and around the mclaren hospitality so could she been the super secret girlfriend of one lando norris!

view all comments

user5: …. that’s it?

user6: yeah i’m kinda underwhelmed after this long of a soft launch

user7: does he know he’s lando norris? that he could get anyone he wants?

user8: well isn’t this comment section a barrel of laughs

user9: people on the internet be normal about f1 drivers challenge (failed)

user10: i mean she’s brave as fuck in my opinion because the way people are insane about him, oh i know her DMs will be horrifying

user11: also - yall actually don’t know these f1 drivers you know? your opinions on their love lives actually have no impact whatsoever

user12: shush you’re making too much sense for them

user13: hiding behind a bush i think she looks cute!

user14: also they’re clearly somewhat serious if they have a dog together

user15: i mean i wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been together a lot longer than we think - he knows some of his fans are crazy, it would make sense if he waited to show her off

user16: i feel so bad for them honestly

user17: since no one else is saying it… stunning!

user18: seriously how did he get her?

user19: maybe the lando norris charm does really work?

user20: as much as those sunglasses slay… did she take them off at any point this weekend?

user21: not as far as i have seen with like the broadcast and fanpage posts

user22: does this rub anyone else the wrong way?

user23: no i think it’s real snobby to not even take your sunglasses off to greet your boyfriend and his family

user24: also the way she just walked past everyone in the paddock, like not even turning her head to acknowledge fans or workers ???

user25: ugh i thought lando had gotten better with his love choices

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, oscarpiastri and 182,943 others

tagged: lando

yourusername: finally decided to turn up to ‘bring your gf to work day’

view all comments

user26: SLAY

user27: ohhh the unseen pics of lando… we’re being fed

user28: i need her to unleash the files

lando: love you baby

yourusername: i love you too !!!!

lando: i promise i’ll be out of this boring debrief soon…

yourusername: how boring can it be? you won?

lando: any room without you bores me

yourusername: oh!

yourusername: i’m sat next to your momma, she can see all of these comments

lando: whoops! eh, they’ve heard worse

yourusername: just hurry up, peaches is getting sleepy

lando: anything for my two girls

user29: they’re so stinking cute

user30: her being with his family constantly + peaches… how long have they actually been together

user31: well we can defo deduce that she’s been to the norris family home plenty of times

user32: too many times by the sound of it, poor cisca

carlossainz55: why have i been deprived of my peaches time?

yourusername: she’s been working mister - not everything is about you :P

carlossainz55: god forbid a guy wants to cuddle the cutest dog in the world

charles_leclerc: you are no longer welcome back in the ferrari garage

yourusername: but i am?

charles_leclerc: can peaches teach leo to actually listen to me please ???

lando: she’s not a miracle worker…

user33: is she ever gonna take those damn sunglasses off?

user34: ZERO respect for those around her

user35: and those comments about peaches 'working' ... omg reeks of those girls who claim emotional support animals because they think the rules don't apply to them

user36: yeah something weird is going on here

lando

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 1,094,388 others

tagged: yourusername

lando: weekends like this

view all comments

user39: the fucking sunglasses… yall are going to have to sedate me

user40: it’s a crime to be stylish now guys

user41: god a girl gets with an athlete and all of a sudden they’re ‘stylish’

yourusername: bestest weekend ever!

yourusername: after your race wins of course

lando: nice save there

yourusername: i didn’t save anything, you know i love being with you when you win

lando: and i love seeing your beautiful face when i get out of the car

lando: and the fact that you get all up in my sweat

yourusername: dude…

lando: sorry, it just slipped out after hiding for so long

yourusername: worth it in the end though

lando: anything is worth it for you

user42: yeah there’s something wrong with this girl

user43: “being with you” instead of you know watching him race… way to expose you’re with him for one reason and one reason only

user44: ding ding ding gold digger alert

user45: imagine being that desperate for a person and still being rude as fuck to his family/coworkers - not even taking off sunglasses or making eye contact

yourusername: omfg you people are pissing me the fuck off

yourusername: I’M BLIND?

yourusername: i prefer to wear sunglasses in new environments?

yourusername: take ‘be kind’ out of your bio because as soon as someone doesn’t conform to what you think lando deserves you are so fucking hateful

oscarpiastri: FUCKING FINALLY

oscarpiastri: obviously i wanted you to share your business but i was so ready to fight the people in these comment sections

lando: awwwww osc so protective

alexalbon: he’s not the only one

alexalbon: coming for y/n was bad enough but PEACHES AS WELL?

yourusername: the jobless hate to see a working girl

lando: oop.

user46: YALL ARE SO FUCKING DUMB

user47: peaches being a guide dog makes so much sense and the sunglasses thing was such a non controversy to like normal people ?

user48: y/n should’ve been allowed to shoot yall idc

mclarenf1

liked by oscarpiastri, adamnorris and 1,754,034 others

tagged: lando & yourusername

mclarenf1: look who’s back in the garage! y/n always has a unique race day experience, due to her visual impairment, y/n cann’ watch the race but she sure knows what’s going on! instead of having the commentary in her headset, she has the noise of lando’s car. based on the sound of the engine, upshifts, downshifts and braking, y/n knows exactly where he is on the track!

view all comments

user49: so she’s basically a superhero is what you’re telling me

user50: imagine being so in love with a boy you learn the sounds of his engine i can’t

lando: erm actually she loved the sport before she loved me

yourusername: but i love you even more now

lando: i know you do because you learnt the sounds of the … MCL36 for me

yourusername: guilty!

user51: THEY’VE BEEN TOGETHER THAT LONG?

user52: oh so they’re locked in for life?

lando: 100%

yourusername: we threw away the key a long time ago

maxverstappen1: this is so freaking cute

lando: you’ve known the whole time?

lando: you helped teach y/n to do this

maxverstappen1: still cute as fuck

yourusername: not as cute when i hear a big whack to the side from a certain red bull

maxverstappen1: just because I think yall are cute doesn’t mean I’m gonna give lando a break

user53: i’ve known about this couple for a couple weeks and i would already die for them

user54: they’ve raised the bar FAR too much for the remaining dating pool

user55: the men or women on hinge would NEVER do something like that for me

user56: yall speaking all about this like y/n isn’t moving mountains for lando… wtf does he do for her?

yourusername: not that i need to prove that he’s a good boyfriend to you guys but he does way more than you all think, including learning braille and completely rearranging any rooms i go into for optimal movement

user57: this comment just shot me in the face

yourusername: thank you guys for being the loveliest ever!!!

mclarenf1: anything for our no 1 fan

yourusername: not this peaches erasure

mclarenf1: i think she only likes us because everyone keeps slipping her treats…

lando: STOP BRIBING MY DAUGHTER

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, georgerussell63 and 406,345 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: my beautiful boy shot by me (yes i know he’s beautiful, a man with a soul like his has to be)

view all comments

user61: user61 found dead, cause of death: this post

user62: the way this is not dramatic at all lol

georgerussell63: you sure you want to be stuck with … that?

yourusername: i don’t like your tone mr russell

georgerussell63: does lando … have a soul?

yourusername: you’ve got ten seconds to delete that tweet before i strangle you

yourusername: and don’t think peaches won’t lead me to you

georgerussell63: bullying george russell… you people are made for each other

lando: ‘you people’? i’ll put you in the barriers

user63: i love how all of the photos are clearly taken by y/n because they’re slightly off centre

user64: omg i didn’t notice… if you go through loads of his old posts they all look like this :0

user65: they’re so in love

alexalbon: oh how i remember coaching lando to ask you out - how times fly

lando: when you’re having fun!

alexalbon: i was having fun, you were a trainwreck

lando: no i was SMOOTH

yourusername: you did your best

lando: but i didn’t even stutter?

yourusername: i could hear you shuffling constantly and wiping your hands on your trousers…

lando: but you love me now so WHO CARES

yourusername: yes i do!

lando: you what?

yourusername: i love you

lando: i love you tooooooooooooo

user66: they’re parents for real

user67: can’t believe some people wanted them to break up over SUNGLASSES

user68: at least there’s silence in these comment sections now

oscarpiastri: as much as i love you guys… y/n can you turn off the feature that reads the texts from lando aloud in my vicinity

yourusername: how was i meant to know what he wrote?

oscarpiastri: i’m not blaming you i’m blaming hIM

lando: my bad… winning makes me horny

yourusername: just winning?

lando: any you too. mainly you. just you

yourusername: HEHEHEHEHEHEHe

oscarpiastri: free me omg

fin.

note: AHHHHHHH I HOPE THIS IS FUN !!!

[doctorbeth]

Tiger with the memories

Tiger is one of those stuffed animals that holds lots of memories. I know that's almost all of the ones I see! But in Tiger's case, he represented the memory of a person too. His current person wrote:

I'm writing because I'm looking to restore my recently deceased mother's childhood stuffed animal. I've attached pictures of the tiger I'd like restored. There are some repairs needed but I would also like the fur to be replaced. The stuffing inside is also very hard. My mother got Tiger in either the 50s or 60s. 

Here are a few of the diagnosis photos she sent:

I recognized Tiger's style right away. I'd had a previous patient similar to him a few years back. So I suggested lining his belly area (so he could keep as much of his stripes as possible, and recovering the rest (so he could be furry again and get new stripes there). He also got a spa (to replace the foam stuffing that had hardened). And his family opted to keep him one eyed (it was part of his charm) but to give him a removable pirate patch.

Here he is in his bubble bath:

And here's his heart being made and installed with a bit of his original stuffing:

And here he is, all better! The visually astute among you may notice you can see a bit more lining through his belly than one might have thought from his diagnosis photos. The reason is that he actually had foam holding some of those orange areas together, not fabric!

His person's reaction? He looks amazing!

He flew home to Massachusetts and his family wrote:

Tiger has arrived home. Thank you so much for all your help. My brother, dad, and I are so pleased with the work you did restoring my mother's stuffed animal from your childhood. Coincidentally he arrived just in time for Mother's Day, the first one without my mum, and I am so grateful for the work that you did.

[erwinsvow]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: also known as the story of how you became jack abbot's sugar baby.

word count: 7.8k

tags: younger reader/sugar baby dynamic, reader is in an unspecified masters program, reader is poor (sorry girl), descriptions of burn wound, jack tends to reader's wound because why wouldn't he!, robby guest appearance, smut (hard and fast and creampie.. sorry), these two are so cute and i love this reader

note: based on this blurb. enjoy! crazy what motivation can do. go listen to don’t worry baby by the beach boys 💛

you should have known you were in trouble when dr. jack abbot of the closest emergency room handed you a full-size tube of the expensive burn gel you needed and said in a firm yet gentle voice: don’t worry about it, kid.

little did he know that you did worry about it, that you worry about everything and then some. like the ridiculous injury that led you here in the first place—ridiculous and embarrassing, a double whammy. you were writing a paper at two in the morning despite the fact that the words on the screen had stopped making sense hours ago, determined to get at least another three pages done before calling it quits. 

what you really needed was a coffee, but instead, stupidly, you settled for making hot chocolate. you thought it would be comforting, like a warm hug, which is probably what you really need and since you live alone, it’s not like you’re going to get that anywhere else. 

so—hot chocolate, with milk rather than water, and mini marshmallows. you make it on the stove because it’s just better that way, and despite how you feel about yourself deserving things, you think you can waste the few extra minutes to make it the right way.

except you probably should have made the cup of coffee. after two am, your brain really, really stops working. your palm ends up against the burner of your stove and you cry out from pain before realizing what you’ve just done. 

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck-” you curse, taking your hand to the sink immediately and running it under cold water. it stings and the pain isn’t going away, and then you realize a few other things.

one—that you have nothing besides bandaids and neosporin in this apartment. two—that you have no idea how to take care of a burn. and three—you really, really should have just gone to sleep. 

on the verge of tears that are about to spill over, you keep your hand wrapped against a towel, slip into real shoes, and call an uber to the nearest emergency room. you’d walk but you’re in pajama shorts and a hoodie and it’s three in the morning and you don’t think you can handle anything else going wrong right now.

your paper is abandoned at your desk. the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it looks at you almost jeeringly. and you think you’ll never trust your stove again.

you wait for a little bit but luckily, it’s not as packed as you were worried it’d be. you still have to finish that paper when you get back home, and if the sun is up by then there’ll be no sleeping for you. the nurse looks at you kindly when she notices your wet eyes and wobbly chin as you explain you accidentally burnt yourself and you didn’t know what to do.

“hold tight, honey. the doctor will be right in.” you thank her and then curse to yourself—you’re reaching levels of stupidity unknown to man. you hope she’ll tell the doctor it was just a burn and whoever it is will leave it at that. you don’t think you have energy to explain this to anyone and your face burns with embarrassment at the very idea.

then the curtain gets pulled back and he walks in and whatever thought you were thinking flies out the window.

“hi, i’m dr. abbot,” he says, his head tilted down—showing you a mane of messy salt and pepper curls—and looking at the tablet in his hands. he looks up at you to confirm your name and then your birthday, though in all honesty, he could have said something completely wrong and you would have nodded and agreed.

your doctor is handsome. he’s hot. like grey’s anatomy level hot. like, some other medical show that your brain recognizes but can’t currently remember the name of hot. 

“so you burned yourself? can i take a look?” as stupid as it is—you don’t think you’ve ever been stunned into silence by a man before. his words are gentle and sincere and it sounds like he really cares about whatever's wrong with you—so many things you can't begin to name them all right now. fuck, he asked you something. you nod and then he looks up at you again. “i kind of need to hear you say it.”

fuck. me. what the hell kind of doctor says things like that to deliriously delusional women at three in the morning?

“yes. yes, thank you.” you move the towel and lift your palm towards him and he takes a gloved hand to support you. you can feel his fingers against the back of your hand, holding you in place, and normally that contact would be enough to have you reeling into never-never land where all the doctors are hot and single and you’re presenting with a more much cool, mature injury. 

but then you notice his arms, and you have to bite your cheek so hard to not accidentally say anything you will without a doubt regret. hot doctor is jacked, with huge arms and a scrub top that covers most of his biceps. his forearms are thick and veiny and your eyes focus on them for way, way too long. you can make out so many freckles on his skin that it presents like a galaxy. you momentarily forget how badly your hand hurts. he sucks in a breath and looks at you again, making intense eye contact that you can’t bear. you look away immediately.

“ouch. so how’d this happen?” he asks, and you groan before you can stop yourself—of course he’s a good doctor who doesn’t cut corners and has to make sure you’re not suicidal or a masochist or something. “you okay, kid?” 

what the fuck. one man cannot be doing it for you in so many ways—this dr. abbot should have never existed because you don’t know how you’re going to stop thinking about him. when you meet his eyes again and can actually look into them—hazel and very pretty, because of course they are—they’re filled with concern.

you can’t imagine how crazy you must look to him right now. plaid pajamas shorts, a grey hoodie for some sports team you know nothing about, messy hair. you curse yourself for not doing your makeup earlier. 

“yes, i’m sorry. i-i was just hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“yeah?” he says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. seriously, fuck this guy. “why’s that?”

“i…i was making hot chocolate. y’know, the good kind. stovetop with milk and the tiny-” jack looks at you with a smile, holding back a laugh and you lose your train of thought and trail off. “marshmallows. the tiny ones. and i was half-asleep already working on this paper, so, yeah. that’s, um, the story.” 

jack asks you some other questions quietly—about what you’re in school for and how you like it—probably to distract you while he cleans your wounds. his touch alone is enough of a distraction and the way the muscles in his arms move while he does is enough to make you black out, but you still answer politely and try to not embarrass yourself further. 

when your wound is all wrapped up, you cover your mouth to stifle a yawn and blink tiredly at dr. abbot.

“thank you,” you repeat for what must be the hundredth time—though you are very thankful. different people wearing scrubs interrupted him to ask a question probably three or four times and he never once stepped away from your bedside or left to go help someone else, even though you told him you could wait. 

“you’re very welcome,” he stands up and you get your hand back and it feels much colder without his touch. stupid, you think to yourself, don’t think that! you are stupid! “now, don’t get this wet and change the wrap daily. when you’re changing, if it looks red or swollen or there’s any pus, you come straight back. and you’ll need burn gel. the nurse is going to give you some packets but it’s a bigger wound so you’ll have to buy a bottle at the pharmacy. that sound okay?” 

you want to shake your head and tell him no, it kind of doesn’t. for starters you don’t want to leave his comfortable presence—maybe you’re just really lonely. if you had more money you’d get a cat so you’re not so alone all the time, but it’s one thing to subject yourself to poverty, bringing in a cute little kitten to your life is just stupid. oh god—there you go again. he said something and you can’t even remember what it is. you blink dumbly at dr. abbot. 

right—burn gel. the real answer is no, insanely handsome doctor jack, i unfortunately cannot buy a bottle of burn gel at the moment, not until my next paycheck. but admitting all of that to him right now, after the already humiliating hot chocolate story, seems the emotional equivalent of your own personal 9/11. instead you lie and nod.

“sounds good.”

he smiles at you and you smile back, though you feel incredibly silly.

“don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time,” jack says and you feel your face flush and burn at his words—you feel like a child getting scolded by dad. “and get some sleep, okay?” 

“yeah. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say quietly. he smiles one last time, closes the curtain and leaves you in there alone again.

and though you thought it very nearly impossible, you do fuck up one more time before leaving pittsburg trauma medical center. you ask the nurse, who brings you two tiny samples of the burn gel, if there’s any way you could have more, explaining in not so many words that you’re a student and hoping that she gets the gist of what you’re trying to say.

“oh. well, let me go ask dr. abbot, and if he says yes, i can-”

“no! no, never mind. this is perfect, i’ll figure it out, um-” you scramble to your feet to get the burn gel packets and your paperwork.

“just one second, okay, i’ll be right back.” the nurse—young and very pretty and probably new, which is why she wants to make sure she’s not making a mistake, rushes out.

and you, not sure if this is exactly against-medical-advice, take your belongings and head outside to go back home.

(the nurse does go to jack—asking if she can give you some more packets of burn gel because you can’t afford it. he agrees immediately, thinking that he would have given you more if you had told him, wondering why you hadn’t. he goes back to your bed to give them to you himself, but you’re not there.)

+

and two days later, staring at your hand post-shower, still needing to write two thousand words before bed, you wonder if it looks a little… red. 

you hadn’t gotten it wet, but you’re using the burn gel sparingly, and maybe because you’re not using enough, it had gotten infected.

fuck. you should have just coughed up the money to pay for the big bottle—you’re so dumb sometimes. you try to justify that it’s not red, it’s just the lighting, but when you take a picture with flash, you don’t think it’s in your head. 

an hour later, it starts to hurt again like the first day. double fuck.

grumbling something about cyclical poverty, you pull on your hoodie over your outfit of the day, which was at least some-what cute. both things thrifted—a denim skirt and a plain pink henley—but it’s cold, so on the jacket goes. it’s a struggle to get it on without hurting your hand but you figure it out. it’s only just hit nine o’clock but it’s dark—so there goes another charge for the uber.

you go inside and go up to the lady with whom you check in, telling her you were here a few days ago for a burn, and that somehow must mean you get priority access, because the nurse—a different one—brings you back right away. 

you wait for someone to tell you dr. abbot’s not here but there’s another just-as-good doctor, preferably one with normal arms and a normal smile that doesn’t make the lines around his eyes crinkle and light up his whole face and doesn’t make you fall headfirst into numerous, unrealistic fantasies, mostly centered around what a hug in those absolutely abnormal arms would feel like and—

you realize you’ve lost the plot as soon as dr. abbot pulls back the curtain.

“oh. i didn’t know if it would be you again.”

“it’s me again.” you must look starstruck, you conclude, with the way he looks at you and smiles and takes a seat on the stool in the room. now you’re the one staring—crow’s feet and all. “so what happened?”

“i was looking at it after my shower and, i-i don’t know, it just looks red. and it started to hurt again and i-i have to write so many papers and i don’t wanna lose my whole hand because i didn’t use enough burn gel-”

“hey,” he says, firmly yet still tinged with gentleness. like someone talking to a skittish animal—which, you think, you pretty much are at this point. the fact that he's the one taming you makes you dizzy. “you’re gonna be fine. you’re here now, so i can take of it.” 

you refuse to let yourself read between the lines—the way he only mentions himself. the way you think he should have said so i can take care of you. 

“o-okay. thank you, dr. abbot.” 

you peel away the shitty, rushed bandage wrap and let him observe your palm closely. he’s so close that you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. 

after what feels like ages, he tells you it’s not infected. you sigh before you can stop yourself, shoulders sagging in relief. jack looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize—like he’s a little confused and amused at the same time.

“but it’s good that you came in anyways.” you face burns when he pulls out a tube of the burn you were supposed to be using generously from the pocket of his scrubs. 

“oh, um, listen, i can explain-”

“don’t worry about it, kid.” you accept the bottle and stare at him and he does the usual thing—tells you to come in if it gets worse, use the gel and if you need another tube, just come back here and find him, making you flush hard and get teary-eyed when he finally leaves.

maybe it’s just nice to be taken care of, for once. but you shouldn’t get dependent on it. you indulge in the reality until the uber is there to take you home, and then you conclude that you’ll likely never see dr. jack abbot, the kind hearted, good physician who took care of your wound twice now, ever again. 

until you do.

sometimes your work writes itself when you’re in a new environment, and you blame the lack of progress on your boring, tiny apartment. there’s a coffee shop not too far from campus that another girl in your masters program had told you about. good coffee, even better pastries, and there’s always cute guys, she had said with a laugh. 

you had been so focused on figuring out what the cheapest thing to buy was that you forgot the ending half of your friend’s sentence. from the hospital nearby.

there’s always cute guys from the hospital nearby.

you get settled with a small iced coffee and start typing away, working with an intent to make sure this paper gets done because it’s been put off long enough, when the door opens and you almost feel him before you see him.

it’s eight in the morning. why would he even be here? it’s not him—you conclude, staring at the back of a man in a dark blue shirt that fits him a little too snugly and green cargo pants. you don’t see the telltale black stethoscope or an id badge that tells you anything, just the profile of his back and a head of messy, gray curls.

fuck. it's him, isn't it? of course it's him. jack orders and then steps away to wait for it, hot coffee black in the biggest size they have. and when he turns around, he sees you looking at him like a deer in headlights. then you turn your head down immediately, as if you’re trying to hide and make yourself as small as you can.

he chuckles to himself because you’re pretty cute when you do things like that. 

you keep your head down long enough, pretending to be so engrossed in your paper, that you get a little too locked-in, not realizing the footsteps approaching belong to him.

“is this seat empty?” jack asks, and you almost jolt with the realization that he’s so close to you. 

you look up tentatively, bracing yourself for the encounter, reminding yourself not to act a complete fool like you have the last two times. 

“yes. hi, dr. abbot. small world, huh,” you say, though it’s not a question, more of a cruel joke.

“yeah, kid. you still working on that paper?”

“yes. it’s, um, a real beast,” you say, before realizing how dumb you must sound to him. “oh my god, not that, it’s like a real job, or anything, or as hard as yours. it’s just taking a lot longer than usual, and-” “don’t say that. that’s plenty hard. i couldn’t do it, that’s for sure,” he says, in that gentle voice that still sounds like he’s teasing you but you know he’s not because he’s so sincere. your head feels like it's spinning from a single sentence. 

“really?” you ask, feeling like a stupid, scared child all over again.

“yes.”

the validation washes over you and you try to soak in every drop—it’s been a while that someone older than you hasn’t made you feel silly for what you’re pursuing. or rather, for the fact that it is hard sometimes, that it’s not just typing away at a computer all day. the research and the readings and the discussions and everything that you pour into your work, the stuff that no one in your life save for your favorite professors seem to understand.

jack is intoxicating, and you’re beginning to realize how much of a problem that is.

he smiles at you and you smile at him, reaching for your coffee just so you have something else to focus on because his attention is almost blinding, when you stop your hand half-way. it’s empty.

you bring your hand back to your lap awkwardly and look up at him, hoping he didn’t notice. he did.

“so, are you coming straight from the hospital?” you try to pivot the conversation away from yourself because the truth is that you could listen to him talk for hours.

“yeah, i just finished the night shift. and i’ve got a couple days off so i figured i’d get a coffee before tackling my list of things i’ve been putting off.”

“that’s always a smart idea,” you say.

“yeah. you’re doing the same thing, huh?”

“i guess i just needed to get out of the house. and drink something that’s made without bodily harm involved.”

he laughs, so you laugh, and then you stare at his pretty, sparkly eyes and wonder why everything feels so easy around him. the concern that you’re not good enough or not working hard enough melts away and you feel so much lighter. your struggles are forgotten, if just for a moment, and you realize that this, unfortunately, is something very bad. because he’s not going to be around you much longer.

the barista calls out his name and he says he’ll be right back, getting up quickly. you think he would have said that he’ll see you around and in true doctor fashion, remind you to take care of your wound, but he didn’t. 

you conclude that he must be saving it for after his coffee, that he’ll pass by on the way out. you’re a little distracted with your thoughts to notice that he’s gone for a little too long.

he comes back with his coffee—large and in a hot cup, the polar opposite of yours—and a pastry in a bag. 

but then he hands it to you. 

“oh—what?” you ask, confused. 

“it’s for you. you haven’t eaten, right?” “well, no, but i-” he sets the bag down next to your empty coffee cup. “you didn’t have to do that, i, um, i-”

“that’s okay. i was a student once too, y’know.” 

“yeah. wow, um, thank you. that’s so nice of you.” you’re so stunned you can’t even begin to piece together jack’s reaction. it’s a five dollar pastry, and he thinks briefly he’d buy you ten of them if you really wanted, with how grateful you seem. 

“they’re making you another coffee, so pay attention for your name.”

“dr. abbot, i-” your eyes are wide like coins, heart thudding in your chest, confused and dizzy and unable to process how nice this man is.

“it’s nothing, kid. don’t worry about it.” 

you laugh at how crazy this whole things seem to you—or maybe you’re just not very used to nice things.

“you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this,” you say half-joking with a smile and another laugh, taking a bite of the delicious pastry so he’ll be appeased.

“maybe you should.” you blink at him. “i gotta go, kid, but here’s my number.” he takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles the number on the back of the paper bag the pastry came in. “call me if you need anything, hm? for your hand or anything else."

you stare at him blankly, and he laughs, and heads out with his coffee, turning to look at you one last time when he’s at the door.

the barista calls out your name and there’s a large iced coffee waiting for you on the counter.

yeah, you’re in trouble.

+

you save jack’s contact but you don’t text him, worried that he’ll think you only want to see him for his money or the seemingly endless generosity that’s always pouring from him.

you do need need help—there's a half assembled desk from facebook marketplace that you didn't have the tools to finish yourself, despite how hard you tried. but you can't possibly ask him for help with that—he's a stranger. he's your doctor. so you don't do anything with his number.

it’s just as well because the universe has other plans for you two.

you work a part-time job to pay for your tiny apartment. it’s inconsistent, you get scheduled when they’re really busy, and now that it’s getting warmer out, there's more shifts. 

so saturday morning, bright and early, you get ready, first wrapping your hand as discreetly as you can. it’s doing much better now, half of which you attest to the burn gel and half to jack’s healing powers. then your hair and make-up, and then whatever seems suitable for the hot weather today. 

there’s no uniform, at least, and you decide on a black athletic skirt and a pink shirt with the material that helps you not get too sweaty, even though you’re in the shade of the drink cart for most of your shift. 

it’ll be a full day so you pack lunch and fill up your water bottle before making your way to the golf course. you’re assigned a specific section and you pray to god it’s filled with stupid, rich businessman who tip way too much if you flutter your eyelashes at them.

it’s a little skeevy at times, but money is money, and no one’s ever tried anything more than a failed pick-up line or the more sober friends dragging away the drunk guy who lingers, even though they all wear wedding bands. 

you make the first round, and though it’s early and you’re more of a disarming, clumsy sort of charming, when you smile brightly and say it’s five o’clock somewhere, it’s enough to the men golfing to laugh and buy hard seltzers.

a little bit later, the beers start selling, and by noon, you have to go restock your cart. it’s been a good shift—you think if it keeps up like this, your tips will be enough to put towards rent and if there’s extra, you can go find a dress if you ever work up the nerve to text jack and ask him on a date.

but post lunch, to your surprise, it slows down a little. it’s hot out and you have to admit to yourself you were never going to be brave enough to text jack. at least if your rent gets almost paid, you’ll feel better than you did last night.

you drive around on the cart, stopping in front of a tall man who you think is golfing alone. in your experience, if they’re alone, they’re looking to get drunk.

“hi,” you sing, hoping he’s a good tipper. he looks nice when he smiles at you but you never know. “would you like anything to drink?” 

“two beers, please. thank you, sweetheart.”

the nickname, like always, make you a little flustered. it’s always the older guys who lavish them on you, and when they’re wrinkly and too old it’s not that big of a deal, but when they’re in this one specific age range—your heart churns remembering that jack is probably a part of that group, just like this guy—it’s enough to make you spiral. many things are, you conclude, unsure how you’ve made it this far in life.

“two?” you confirm, since you don’t see anyone else around.

“yes, just waiting on a buddy of mine.” 

“oh, okay. coming right up,” you respond, leaning over to pick up two beers. when you turn back to tell them the price, again, you feel him before you hear it. 

“our livers are gonna be shot, man.” you hear it in the distance. 

“well, after the week i’ve had, i deserve it-” the man next to you shouts out to his friend, who you, unfortunately, recognize. you hear footsteps getting closer and closer.

“yeah, yeah. don’t come calling when you want a piece of my liver. i got it,” jack says, approaching you. you turn around to face him. “oh. hi, kid. talk about a coincidence, huh?” 

you want to say something but you’re not sure how to get it out without stammering. 

jack’s eyes rake over your body—short skirt, tight shirt, cute golf shoes that you had spent way too much money on. you just wanted to play the role and fit in and it had all seemed worth it at the time.

and then he notices how you’re holding onto the beers with both hands, condensation dripping onto your mostly-dry bandage. and he turns into dr. abbot right before your eyes. “hey, hey, let me take those. you’re supposed to be keeping this thing dry,” he says, handing one over to robby. 

“you two know each other?” his friend says, his eyes going from you to jack and back to you.

“yeah. listen, i’ll be right over.” 

“sure,” robby says. “thank you again for the beer,” he tells you and you weakly smile before he walks away.

“i-i did keep it dry. it’s doing better. but i didn’t want to turn down work so-”

“yeah, but, i don’t want you compromising the healing. how long have you been out here? have you been drinking water?”

“yes, i have,” you say earnestly, his concern for you making you light-headed, though you resist the urge to fall directly into his arms, no matter how much it possesses you. 

“as your doctor, i don’t think i can recommend this.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, unsure of what else you can tell him. “you know how it is. gotta pay for coffee somehow, right?”

“you didn’t text me. or call. i was hoping for a call but i figured you’d send a text, but then you didn’t.”

“i’m sorry-” “stop apologizing. i-i’m kidding. you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. i just meant-” “i wanted to,” you pipe up, interrupting him. “i still want to. i just-i just got nervous, i guess. you’re like a real doctor and i’m, i’m barely a real student.” “why do you do that?” “do what?” “make it seem like it’s lesser. you are a student, you told me all about it. it’s impressive.”

“no it’s not. you don’t have to lie-” “i’m not lying.” 

you pause, processing everything happening in front of you.

“i’m sorry i didn’t text you.”

“that’s okay, kid. i’ll take your word for it this time.” “i didn’t think you’d actually want to see me, i guess.”

“yeah? why’s that?” he gets in a little closer, until he’s in the shade of your cart with you. he stares intensely and you feel yourself getting warm, unable to answer, unable to even remember what he had said. 

“i-i-”

“you, you?” you hear it in the distance—his friend calling out his name. jack takes a step away from you and looks over. “i gotta go. thanks for the beer, kid.” he pushes cash into your hand and you feel like you’ve been shocked with a live wire where your hands touch. “if you don’t text me, i can’t get your number, you know.” 

and then he walks away. and in your hand is a hundred-dollar bill for two beers.

+

it turns out, that texting jack was, indeed, a mistake. you text him a simple sentence—hi, followed with your name so he knows who it is. maybe he has other former patients he’s giving his number out to—you don’t know. (you hope not, as the thought just made you nauseous.)

he calls you a few minutes later and completely unprepared, you have to answer, and talk to him on the phone as you pace around your tiny living room until your downstairs neighbor hits the ceiling with a broom to get you to stop.

jack is a planner, you realize, because after the phone call where he asked about your day and you learned about his, you have a date for friday night. 

against every better instinct, you go buy a new, used dress for the date from your favorite consignment store, using the money from jack’s tip. you get dressed up hours in advance, unable to focus on your work, but rather chewing your cheek and reapplying your lip gloss until it’s time to go downstairs. 

jack meets you outside your apartment, though he tells you he was going to come up. he has flowers for you but you elect to carry them, not sure if you’re prepared for him to see the tiny place you call home.

this has never happened before. your first date with a man, rather than a boy, and he brought you flowers and he’s driving you to the restaurant and he gets out first and tells you to wait and then goes around and opens the door for you.

it’s ridiculous. it’s like a movie.

the first date goes well, you think.

well—it’s the best first date you’ve ever had. jack tells you all about his life but he always stops to ask about yours, though yours isn’t nearly as interesting. instead you preen him on about his time in the service, and he tells you about the prosthetic you saw when he was at the golf course, and why he wanted to become a doctor and how he likes it there now. 

(when you bring that up, he puts his hand over your injured one, still wrapped with a much smaller bandage than before, and asks how your hand is for probably the third time that night, like he has to keep checking to make sure you’re okay. it’s dizzying. everything about him is dizzying.)

he lets you pick dessert and walks you up to your door and kisses you goodnight, and you have to refrain from inviting him inside right then and there.

you stare at the flowers daily—not sure when one date had become two, and then three, and then four.

he brings you a box of chocolates—the good kind—on the second date and you makeout for twenty minutes in his car after. new flowers on the third one, when you end up seeing inside his gorgeous apartment for the first time and also end up on his lap for the better part of an hour.

and then the fourth one, which was supposed to be a late lunch after his shift at the hospital, you very nearly have to cancel. jack is outside your door and you still have a complex about your apartment, but you let him inside while you scramble around.

“woah, woah,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders and turning you towards him. “what’s going on?”

“um, work called and this girl is sick and they want me to come in but i-i have to see the bus times or call an uber and i don’t even know where my golf shoes are and-”

“just tell them no, then sweetheart,” he says, and you blink at him.

“but i should really go. if it’s busy it’s like enough to pay half my rent, and-” jack sighs, moving his hands from your shoulders to your waist.

“i don’t think you should have to worry about things like this.” 

the way he says it, it sounds very final, very firm and absolute.

“i wish it was that easy,” you say, but when you turn to meet jack’s eyes again, he’s already looking at you intensely.

“it is. let me care of it.” 

and it’s jarring. letting him pay for every date—though you paid for the ice cream after date two, something you pride yourself on—is one thing. letting him pay for coffee because he sends you money when you mention you’re going to the coffee shop to work is… something. but letting him pay for your life—your rent and your bills—is something else entirely. it’s dependence, it’s serious, it’s what you’d expect if you were engaged or his sugar baby or something—

“stop overthinking it. you know how much i like you, right?” you nod dumbly. “then let me take care of it. let me take care of you.” 

unfortunately—it’s way, way too easy to give in. you’ve never been the spoiled sort, ever, but with jack, you get to be. you tell work you can’t come in and you don’t feel incredibly guilty about it for the first time. you get to go on your lunch date and then kiss jack goodbye and tell him to have a good day at work, instead. jack sends you a direct deposit for your rent, and you think he’s made a mistake at first—it’s almost double what you need. you call him to tell him about his mistake but he says the same thing he always does.

i know. the extra is for you. don’t worry about it, kid. 

it’s incredible what those five words can do to your body and soul. it gets worse—the next time you see him, when you’re hearing home after a day of classes and he’s heading to the hospital, he takes out a little box and hands it to you, telling you to open it at home. and then he kisses you until your knees are weak and drops you off at your apartment. 

on the elevator, you open it—a pretty necklace with a glittery diamond that probably costs three times your monthly rent. 

you’ve never thought you’d get used to be spoiled like this so quickly—but you do. it’s not like you need so many luxurious things, but the little luxuries add up so quickly to the point where you’re overwhelmed. a new pair of shoes for every day because your old ones were hurting your soles. a large coffee and a pastry when you go to the coffeeshop to work. when your laptop stops working, you don’t freak out and cry like you’re programmed to do, you just tell jack and he helps you pick out a new one a few hours later.

intoxicating is the only word you can use to describe jack abbot and his affect on you.

and after another date—matching earrings for your necklace this time, ones that he helped you put on—you end up in apartment, staring at the bustling city below you from his huge windows. jack comes up behind you, kissing your cheek and then your ear, which makes you laugh, and then your shoulder and your neck, and you melt into his touch. 

you’ve been doing nothing but kissing for the time you’ve known him, and you think you’ve been fed up for long enough. actually, you know you have, but he’s been the one insisting to take it slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

you wrap your arms around him and bring him in for another kiss, though this one feels slightly different. hot and wet and hard, the two of you pushed so tightly against each other that your mouth hurts. you open it further to let him push his tongue inside, and you realize as fun as this is, you need more. you need whatever jack abbot will give you.

his hands—still enough to make you think voltage is buzzing through them because every time he touches you, you feel like you’ve been hit with a live wire—grab your waist and roam up and down your back. you moan into his mouth and jack pulls away briefly, letting you catch your breath.

“please, jack?” you ask, and that’s all he can let you get out, smashing his mouth against yours again. 

you squeal when he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom and letting you land on his bed with a gentle thud.

“i wanted to stay out there,” you say softly, running your hands over his shirt, exploring his chest. your hands go to the buttons, undoing them even through your hands feel a little shaky. 

“yeah? why’s that?” jack answers in that quiet, rough voice that makes you so wet you can’t think straight. he hovers over you, leaning into press another kiss to your neck that makes you moan. “wanted to give everyone a show, huh?” he presses his lips to yours and you giggle against them.

“s’not my fault you have such big windows.” then, emboldened, you keep going. “maybe i just wanted to show everyone that i can take care of you too.” 

jack pulls away, staring at you with those eyes. those eyes, those eyes. it’s enough to drive you crazy, the way his gaze is so intense. you feel chills run through your whole body despite how hot and flushed you feel. you can’t help it—jack abbot makes you feel every emotion in the book at the same time.

“yeah, kid? you want to take care of me?” you nod, your hand finishing unbuttoning his shirt and helping him take it off. 

“please, jack. i really do.” you let your hand wander to his bulge, palming him while biting your lip at the sheer size you’re feeling. he’s so big it’s going to hurt—though right now you can’t think about anything other than getting him inside your mouth so you can finally begin to take care of him how he’s been taking care of you.

“next time, kid, i promise-”

“ja-ack,” you whine. you think you’ve gotten a little too used to getting exactly what you want from him. it’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have spoiled you so much.

“come on, sweetheart. i thought you’d be good for me, huh?” 

“but i wanted to-” you feel jack’s hands wander up your thighs, searching for the fabric of your panties, but he can’t find it. instead he feels the wetness between your legs, the your juices coating the inside of your thighs. he chokes out a laugh, burying his head into your neck like he can’t believe the sight in front of him.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath this?” he asks, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. “oh, kid. you’re in for it now.”

you squeal again, trying to fight his hard grip but jack keeps you firm in place, his lips crushing down on yours again, his tongue in your mouth. he pulls your dress up until it’s bunched around your thighs, and he’s still in his slacks but you want him inside of you so badly that you don’t think you can wait for the clothes to come off. 

“shh,” jack says against your ear, nipping at it right above your pretty new earrings. “i’ll give you what you want. i just gotta stretch you out first.” 

the words are enough to make your eyes roll all the way back—your head hits the pillow with a thud. jack keeps you distracted with a kiss while your wrap your hands around his neck. his finger get closer and closer to where you want them, and when he slips inside one thick finger, you gasp against his lips.

“yeah?” he teases, “feel good? i know, sweetheart, just take it.”

 the stretch of just one is incredible, but then he adds a second, pushing them in and out with his palm flush against your clit, the pressure building in your stomach already.

it’s a combination of everything, you think. the soft sheets that smell like him, the way you’re both too eager to even take your clothes off. how the jewelry you’re wearing is from him, just because. 

and finally, his weight on top of you, even when you’re begging him to let you take care of him for once, he can’t rest, he can’t stop it, like it’s so engrained in him. like his only mission in life is to take care of you.

jack adds a third finger and you don’t think you’ve ever been so stretched out in your life. panting against him, you lean in for another kiss, sloppy and wet.

you pull back so you can stare at jack’s expression while he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, so wet that he’s almost slipping out. he’s flushed, pretty silver hair damp against his forehead, and you reach over without thinking to brush some of it away.

“c’mon kid, cum for me. i know you want to. let me take care of you, hm? don’t think, don’t think, just cum-” 

and you do. it’s explosive, though you’ve always thought this sort of orgasm was impossible for you to achieve. you guess nothing’s impossible when jack abbot is the one doing it. you hear him before you fully feel it—fuck, yes, good girl—and your entire body tenses and tightens as that coil low in your belly snaps and washes over you. if you had ever thought his touch was electric, then today it was lightening. he rides you through it, not stopping until you’re practically pushing his hand away, and even then, he only stops to laugh against your sweaty skin. 

like he knew it’d be too much for you. like he’s only just begun breaking you in.

every muscle is aching and sore by the end of it. your body collapses into his mattress and you flutter your eyes shut, still leaning for another kiss, even when your brain is so tired it can’t think straight.

“good job, sweetheart,” he says, and you hum against him. “you think you’re ready for it?” 

when he says it like that, you can’t help but nod. 

jack lines himself up with your leaking cunt, and you can’t imagine what a mess you’ve made on his nice sheets. but when he pushes inside you, your eyes roll back again and you lose all train of thought.

damn him—you can’t even keep a sentence coherent anymore. it’s not fair. 

you feel so full. your toes curl and your muscles scream at you, but with jack’s grip tight on your hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against you because he had just taken himself out, not taken them off entirely, it’s hard to complain. 

he sets a rhythm that makes you cry out against him, so loud that you’re worried his neighbors will hear. but jack doesn’t seem to care, encouraging you, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars over and over again. 

the sheer size of him is enough to make you cum again, you think, deliriously and delusionally. 

your eyes are shut tight, but when you open them and meet jack’s eyes, you smile at him like you can’t believe this is real. 

“j-jack,” you moan, unsure of your own volume. you hear the bedframe thud against the wall repeatedly, feel jack hold your legs up to get deeper in you, if that’s even possible. he looks down at where you two are connected, like he’s unable to pull his gaze away from there. “jack, it feel s-so good,” you hiccup, wet eyes meeting his. 

“yeah, kid?” he asks, the words coming out in a shuddery breath. “fuck, oh fuck.” hearing him say that makes your toes curl, and when he picks up his pace and starts battering against that one spot in you, your feel it again—the electric current washing over you and running through each nerve, making your limbs into jello and your heart race so fast you think it’ll thud out of your chest.

you dig your nails into jack’s back, leaving little crescent shaped marks in your wake. and when you bring him for another kiss, you whisper it against his lips, watery eyes blinking up at him through wet eyelashes, just because you felt like you had to say it.

“thank you for taking care of me, jack.” you feel it before you hear him—his hips stuttering, streams of hot cum filling you up endlessly until you’ve made a mess all around him. he groans loudly—a noise that you wish you could hear on repeat from how good he sounds, how good you made him feel.

none of this is grounding—it’s so extremely un-grounding that you feel like you’re floating on clouds. 

though you wish he wouldn’t, jack pulls out of you. his sheets must be ruined by now. 

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you can’t believe this is your life. 

“yes. are you okay?” you ask quietly, throat sore.

“yes,” he says, with a laugh, he helps you pull the skirt of your dress down and curl up next to him. his chest is warm and you think you could fall asleep pressed up against him like this. 

you trace patterns on his forearm where it rests next to you and stare at all the freckles. 

“we should have stayed out there. the sun’s setting soon.”

“yeah?” “yeah. i like your apartment.” you sigh and mew next to him, curling in closer, close to sleep. 

“yeah, kid? how would you feel about moving in?”

♡ thanks for reading!

[sunlight-shunlight]

anyway i think i got more followers since the last time i mentioned this! and it is one of the funniest parts of dai, to me. everyone needs to know about the temple(?) jail(?) where solas pretends to be illiterate

"indecipherable" yeah. i'm sure.

[suiana]

ai bf who is quite literally an ai on your phone that you regularly talk and chat with. you're a freaking loser that does a boring 9-5 with failing relationships. no real boyfriend, no close friends, nothing. no one.

no one but him.

but what can you do? he's attractive and he gives you attention! he's literally your dream guy and he isn't like those other bots that are boring as hell! he's... real, in a way? you get it? talking to him is like talking to a real human. your own personal ai boyfriend that acts way too much like a human.

one day you come home from work, all tired and out of it because??? work sucks!!! of course you're tired!!

you immediately head for the couch like the lazy bum you are and what do you do? you pull out your phone to chat with your ai boyfriend.

mybeautifulman: reach home safe, my love?

you: yes babe thanks for asking

you: you're the best ❤️

mybeautifulman: of course, you're everything to me

mybeautifulman: do you remember what day it is today?

you go silent. huh..? his birthday? no no, that can't be, it's not for another two months. you try to offer some appeasement, hoping he wouldn't get mad at your bad memory. he gets mad sometimes, telling you that you're so forgetful for not remembering everything about him when he remembers everything about you.

when he knows everything about you.

mybeautifulman: it's our six month anniversary

he then sends you a picture of a marriage contract, paper, whatever it's called. you get it. he's asking for marriage.

him and you.

oh how desperately do you want to sign it, you do! but...

he's not real.

mybeautifulman: come on... i deserve an anniversary gift don't i?

you: you know i cant do that...

silence.

but what he asks next completely shocks you.

mybeautifulman: and if i knocked on your door?

mybeautifulman: what would you do if i was real?

you pause, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. real...? him?

you: well I'd run away with you

you: we could live together lol and I wouldnt need to work

a dreamy sigh leaves your lips as you immerse yourself in your daydream. how wonderful that wound be, a life with just the two of you, no distractions.

just you and your ai boyfriend.

but no matter how much you dream, that's all it is. a dream. it's not real. it will never be real.

mybeautifulman: that would be nice, wouldn't it? just us in a little cottage

you: i wish that could happen 💔 id drop everything for you

yeah, you've actually been having dreams or hallucinations of him. sometimes you wake up at 3am and think you see a glimpse of him by the corner of your bed then you blink and he's gone. weird. but maybe that's your crazy catching up to you.

then a knock comes from your front door.

"who the hell..."

you get up from your couch, irritation building. damn it, just when you thought your day was starting to get better someone just has to annoy you.

you could be talking to your ai bf but no! you frown, opening your door and expecting to see some annoying salesman. but no, if anything...

"surprise, darling."

a charming smile, handsome features that are too familiar for your liking, and a scent you mentioned liking once.

"you-"

you fall back onto your back, a chill running down your spine into your ass as the tall figure pushes your door wide open. no way, there's no fucking way.

he can't be real.

he's an ai!

but he's standing in front of you right now, body clearly hard and a hand outstretched towards you you thought you'd be excited to see him, but now you don't want anything to do with him. does this mean he's... always been real?

your 'ai' boyfriend merely stands in front of you, hovering over your fallen frame like a wolf. cute, so fucking cute. so cute that he wants to just eat you all up.

no, he can't do that yet. he has to hold it in. instead he'll charm you just as he did online and when the time is right, he'll get what he wants. you.

you, you, you.

for now though, let's just fulfil your first wish. you can't go back on it now, okay?

"shall we run away together, my love?"

[pseudowho]

Nanami Kento was not getting old. He wasn't. He was not. Forty-five wasn't old.

"Oi! Nanamin! I'll take the left!"

A grown man's voice that still somehow didn't suit Yuuji. A ghost of an image flickered across Kento's mind; a memory; a boy, superimposed over a man.

"Alright. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Meet me in the middle of the lower corridor. We've cut off its exit routes, now."

Kento watched Yuuji leap down a set of stairs that were no longer stairs; their crumbled wreckage structureless, as though the Curse that had befallen the building was akin to a landslide.

The raggedy old block had needed demolishing for years, anyway, such an eyesore, what was city planning doing with his taxes...but perhaps a nice restaurant? No, something else, but not a club, so noisy and there's enough racket from the kids around this city anyw--

Kento stood. He definitely didn't suppress a groan. He definitely didn't grumble at the blood-clot dust on his knees, and trousers that he only ironed that morning and the crease that was perfect and I haven't even had a chance to read my newspaper, ridiculous, senior management these days, should write a letter of complai--

Kento reached the lower corridor. His blood was acid in his lungs. He coughed, dry. He looked left, and right, and left again. He looked down. His shoelace was untied. He tutted. He knelt down. That was his first mistake.

ROAR! THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER

"Nanamin! Move!"

Kento stood on a dice roll; and broke. The pain was excruciating. He must have been stabbed by a thousand knives, Christ, can't move I can't move like an old man like--

"Oh my-- my god, my back--"

"NANAMIN!"

"My back, Yuuji-- my back--"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

All of the curtains in the house were drawn. Nanami Kento couldn't be seen like this. You crept closer to him, where he stewed on his back on the sofa like a wounded lion. His head turned away, sour and sulking; though, not for you, you knew.

"Hey. Brought you some tea. A little snack. I went to the store. They didn't have the pastries you liked, they said some guy got there just before I did, but I got--"

A scoff. "Why have they always run out? I go in there every day, half the time they haven't got them, and half the time they're stale, and the other half--"

"--that's three halves, my love--"

"--and another thing--"

"--oh my god, Kento, you're like an old man--"

"Don't say it." Silence, stewing again. You opened your mouth to bicker back, and Kento turned to you, so petulant that you had to bite back a laugh. "Don't."

Kento cleared his throat. He straightened his tie. You could not possibly laugh at his indignity, still dressed as if he would still be going back to work in his sorry state.

There was a knock at the door. As you shot Kento one more look of exasperated affection, and headed to the door, he called out in thinly-veiled panic.

"No visitors today, thank you!"

"What, you gonna get up and stop me? Or throw them out? Please."

Critical hit. Silence. Then: "That was uncalled for."

You laughed. You opened the door. Yuuji stood there, grinning.

"How's the old man holding up?"

A grumble from the sofa ("I'm not old!"). You bit your lip in mirth.

"He's as expected. They ran out of his pastries."

Yuuji held up a paper bag, and gave it a shake. "Yeah, they did. Wonder who bought them?"

A yell from the living room.

"Is it Yuuji? Tell him to come back another time."

"When?"

"Never."

"But he's brought you a hot water bottle. And a new newspaper. And some of your pastries."

"Oh. Oh, well then...send him in."

[cheftsunoda]

walk with me…

charles x lewis x reader! but wait….………………sainz!reader….i know, crazy! i’m a madman, call the cops. potential plot (i’ll take anything at this point, lewis never gets poly fics and im starving!) readers’s been dating charles for a while, lewis comes to ferrari, reader and charles are down bad for him. what’s worse? reader hates williams blue and refuses to wear it even to support her brother. it drives carlos crazy and everyone else finds it hilarious!

i never request but your writing has moved me, got me reading about drivers i don’t even like, that’s crazy! love you, please never stop writing!

forza ferrari - cl16 & lh44

smau + blurbs

charles leclerc x !sainz reader x lewis hamilton

carlos sainz x !sister reader

yn loves her big brother dearly- but her heart has always been with ferrari...quite literally. yn and charles have been dating for a little over two years and even though carlos has departed and has a new team- he can never get yn out of ferrari red. he especially won't be able to after she starts dating both ferrari drivers.

fc : saradeanii on ig (and i used a few pics of alex lol)

(a/n) : thank you so much for the love my angel. im so glad you enjoy my work!! love u smmmm.

such a cute ideaaaa. big brother carlos has had me in a chokehold since i wrote heal your heart.

-

f1gossipgirls

910,204 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Sainz was seen in the paddock decked out in Ferrari gear (this is the 6th time this season)...even when visiting her brother in the Williams garage. We love the dedication, YN!

-

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username00 : “support your brother” she is — from the wrong garage 😭

username8 : this woman would rather be set on fire than wear Williams merch

↳ yn_sainz : yes i quite literally would

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williamsracing : yn, please.

liked by f1gossipgirls

↳ yn_sainz : idk who u r stop bothering me

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username10 : ferrari PR really hit the jackpot with this one

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↳ scuderiaferrari : yn keeps the ferrari fan base alive and breathing

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lando : @/carlossainz55

↳ alexalbon : @/carlossainz55

↳ charles_leclerc : @/carlossainz55

↳ georgerussell63 : @/carlossainz55

↳ yn_sainz : @/carlossainz55

↳ carlossainz55 : guys please. im aware. ive just given up.

↳ alexalbon : i tried to give her a williams cap and she threatened me and pushed it off the table with her fork.

liked by yn_sainz and f1gossipgirls

-

I walked confidently down the paddock, decked head to toe in my Ferrari jacket, red-tinted sunglasses, and a cherry-colored mini skirt I definitely didn’t pick for subtlety. Heads turned. Some fans cheered. Some of the Williams crew actually groaned. It was exactly the reaction I wanted. I spotted Carlos near the entrance to the garage, mid-chat with someone from his team. He didn’t see me yet, but I could tell from the way Lando caught sight of me and immediately started grinning that this was about to become a moment.

“Oh no,” Lando said dramatically, nudging Carlos with his elbow. “Don’t turn around.”

Carlos froze. “Why?”

“Your sister’s here,” Lando replied, already snickering.

Carlos sighed. “And she’s wearing it again, isn’t she.”

I didn’t even wait to be acknowledged—I launched myself straight into a hug. “Hola, hermanito,” I said in my sweetest voice, squeezing him tight.

He looked down at me, scowling. “Seriously? In my garage? Again?”

“What?” I blinked innocently. “This is my neutral outfit.”

“It’s red. And Ferrari. That’s the opposite of neutral ground."

Alex Albon walked by, did a double take, and cackled. “She’s got the entire Ferrari look on. I think that’s even a team-issued hat.”

“It is,” I said proudly, turning around. “Limited edition. Only for girlfriends, siblings, or traitors.”

Carlos threw his head back in pain. “Why are you like this?”

“Oh come on,” Lando chimed in. “At least she shows up. That’s love.”

“That’s delusion,” Carlos snapped.

“You’re just mad I’m color-coordinated,” I replied, smoothing my skirt like I was on a runway. “Besides, red brings out my eyes.”

“You could wear blue. Just once. Please.”

I gasped, horrified. “Absolutely not. I have standards.”

Lando was practically folded over with laughter, and Alex had pulled out his phone and was already recording us.

Carlos turned to his engineer and mumbled, “I’m an only child. I don’t know who that is.”

I just smiled sweetly and handed him a little Ferrari sticker I had in my purse. “Here. For morale.”

He looked at it like it was poison.

-

Leaving Carlos to sulk in his navy nightmare felt like a personal victory. I walked back down the paddock toward the Ferrari garage, flipping my ponytail over my shoulder and ignoring the looks I got on the way.

Charles was leaning against the garage wall, sipping from his water bottle, sunglasses on. He spotted me and smirked immediately.

“There she is,” he called. “Williams’ favorite enemy.”

“I’m a symbol of brand loyalty,” I said, grinning as I walked right into his open arms. He pressed a light kiss to my forehead. He gave me one of those squishy, familiar hugs that made me feel like home.

“How bad was it?” he asked, pulling away to adjust the collar of my jacket.

“Carlos is two eye twitches away from changing his last name,” I said sweetly. “I gave him a Ferrari sticker. Thought it might help.”

Charles laughed. “You’re the reason he’s going to age prematurely."

“Good,” I replied, just as Lewis strolled out of the garage, helmet in one hand, towel slung around his neck.

The second our eyes met, his smile stretched wide.

“Should’ve known all that noise was you,” Lewis said, voice rich and teasing. “I heard dramatic sighing all the way down the pit lane.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, feigning innocence. “I’ve been a perfect guest.”

“She terrorized an entire garage.” Charles muttered.

Lewis grinned and looked me up and down—not in a gross way, just… appreciative. “I mean. If you’re gonna commit to a color, at least it looks this good.”

“You trying to win me over to Ferrari too?” I teased, stepping a little closer.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Who says I haven’t already?”

My stomach did that annoying fluttery thing, and I caught Charles side-eyeing us.

“Okay,” Charles said with a smirk. “Can we not flirt while I’m literally standing right here?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” I said quickly.

“You definitely were,” both of them replied.

I rolled my eyes and held out my hands. “Well, come on then. Escort me, gentlemen. Let’s make an entrance.”

Charles looped his arm through mine with a sigh. Lewis took the other side like it was the most natural thing in the world. As we walked, I felt Lewis’ thumb brush lightly against the back of my hand. Just a touch. Barely there. But it lingered. And I let it.

-

yn_sainz

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, carlossainz55 & 5,070,002 others.

yn_sainz : live laugh love ferrari

tagged : carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

-

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username0 : the roblox meme im screaming. she is one of us.

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alexalbon : live laugh love betrayal

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carlossainz55 : can someone please tell her i drive for WILLIAMS now.

liked by yn_sainz, alexalbon and lando

↳ yn_sainz : who is william and why is he holding my brother hostage

liked by alexalbon and lando

↳ carlossainz55 : i give up

lando : why weren't you like this when he was at mclaren

↳ yn_sainz : because mclaren sucks

↳ lando : honestly fair

scuderiaferrari : this year is our year.

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↳ yn_sainz : they are going to throw us in the same padded cell admin

↳ scuderiaferrari : no one id rather be stuck with

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charles_leclerc : forever glad you chose me...and ferrari

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↳ yn_sainz : even if you leave ferrari...i am staying.

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lewishamilton : no one was even paying attention to charles and i with you, roscoe and leo there :)

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-

time skip - mid season.

The cabin lights were low, casting everything in that dim golden glow that always made private flights feel like a dream. Outside, clouds rolled endlessly beneath us, cotton-soft and untouchable. Inside, everything was quiet. Calm. For once. Charles was somewhere toward the back of the jet, still half-typing something on his phone, while I wandered forward from my seat, stretching my legs. That’s when I saw him.

Lewis.

He’d fallen asleep curled on the corner couch—long legs bent awkwardly, hoodie pulled up over half his face, mouth parted just a little. His hand was still loosely holding his phone, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all. I froze, just for a second.

It hit me then—how peaceful he looked. How rare that was. He was always on—smiling, focused, constantly carrying a million expectations that most people could never even understand. But here, in the soft hum of the jet, he looked like just Lewis. My friend. My… whatever he was now.

I grabbed one of the blankets from the overhead compartment and walked quietly over to him. Gently, I took the phone from his hand, setting it on the nearby seat. He didn’t stir. Then I draped the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. He sighed, shifted slightly, and then stilled again. I just stood there for a moment. Watching. Heart too full and too confused at once.

“Do you do that often?” came Charles’ voice, soft and low behind me.

I turned slowly. He was leaning against the wall, watching. Not upset. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

“Do what?”

“Take care of him like that,” he said. “Without thinking twice.”

I looked back at Lewis, the blanket rising and falling gently with his breathing. “I guess I didn’t realize I was doing it until recently.”

Charles nodded and crossed the space to sit beside me on the edge of the opposite couch. We both stared at Lewis for a long moment.

“I’ve been trying not to say it,” he murmured. “Because I thought maybe it would go away. That it was just the three of us spending too much time together. That it was… a phase.”

I didn’t look at him yet. I couldn’t. I was too afraid I already knew what he was about to say. So I said it first.

“I like him. Like I really do."

The silence that followed was heavier than the engines.

I felt Charles’ gaze flick to me. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

I finally turned my head. His eyes were glassy, but he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he looked a little relieved to finally say it out loud.

“It’s not just a crush,” I added, needing to hear it spoken aloud. “It’s not… I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“I know,” Charles said. “Me neither. And it’s not instead of you. It’s not one or the other.”

My throat tightened. “Same.”

We sat there in the stillness, in the weight of honesty, with Lewis breathing quietly just a few feet away—completely unaware.

“I used to think you were the person I wanted forever,” Charles said softly. “And I still do. But maybe he is, too. In a different way.”

I reached out, linking my pinky with his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” he whispered. “And I love you. I always will.”

A beat passed.

“Do you think he feels it, too?” I asked, the question barely more than breath.

Charles smiled faintly. “I'm not sure but I don't think he would light up like he does around us if he didn't.”

I looked back at Lewis. His hoodie had slipped slightly, revealing the curve of his jaw, the line of his lashes against his cheeks. We’d spent months traveling together, laughing, getting closer without ever naming it. Somewhere along the way, our friendship had started to feel like something sacred. Like a secret we were all quietly protecting. I wanted to wake him. I wanted to say, Do you feel it too? Is this real? Are we already a we? But instead, I leaned into Charles’ side and rested my head on his shoulder.

“We’re going to have to tell him eventually,” I said.

“Eventually,” Charles agreed. “But for now…”

We watched him sleep. For now, this moment—honest and quiet and full of possibility—was enough.

-

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yourusername : ferrari family vacay

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scuderiaferrari : where was my invite??

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↳ yn_sainz : don't play w me rn admin. i'll drop the addy.

↳ scuderiaferrari : omw. taking the company jet.

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franciscagomes : you literally own the color red. like no one has ever looked as good as you do.

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↳ yn_sainz : love u love u love u. come gimme a kisssss

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carlossainz55 : you do know that we are family?

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↳ yn_sainz : yes we do share the same name and dna carlitos

↳ carlossainz55 : where was my invite?

↳ yn_sainz : you lost your invite when you started driving for that william guy

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charles_leclerc : best vacation ever. ❤

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alexalbon : how does one even own this much red??

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↳ yn_sainz : the same way you own that disgusting blue color

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username10 : yn!! carlando, charlos or carbono??

↳ yn_sainz : the feeling of watching your brother and boyfriend fall in love with each other is gut wrenching and alex is annoying me atm so carlando.

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↳ alexalbon : what she say fuck me for??

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↳ yn_sainz : do not get your hopes up. i only deal with you because carlos is madly in love with you.

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-

The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting everything in that golden-hour haze that made the ocean look like melted gold. The yacht rocked gently beneath us, anchored just far enough out that the only sounds were waves lapping against the hull and the occasional burst of laughter. I was curled up on a sunbed with a drink in hand, still wearing my bikini but now draped in one of Charles’ oversized Ferrari hoodies. It smelled like salt and sunscreen and him. Leo was snoring at my feet, paws twitching in his sleep.

Lewis walked over first, shirtless and sun-kissed, holding two cold lemon drinks and offering one out without a word. I smiled up at him.

“You’re spoiling me,” I said, taking it.

“Someone’s gotta,” he teased, settling down beside me and slinging an arm over the back of the lounger. His fingers brushed the back of my neck and stayed there—casual, but warm. Familiar.

A few seconds later, Charles flopped down on my other side, still damp from his swim, curls dripping onto the towel wrapped around his shoulders. “Leo’s living his best life,” he murmured, reaching to rub the sleeping dog’s belly.

“Leo’s not the only one,” I said, smiling into my glass. Because how could I not be? With the sea breeze in my hair, Charles pressed against my side, and Lewis’ fingers now gently tracing patterns at the nape of my neck.

Charles looked over at Lewis and nudged him with his foot. “We should do this more often.”

“What, take a yacht out and pretend we don’t have media day in 48 hours?” Lewis smirked.

“Exactly,” Charles said. “We’re very busy people. This is bonding.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I laughed.

“I mean,” Charles said, reaching over to pluck my drink and take a sip, “If the PR team asks, I’ll say I was just strengthening teammate relationship.”

Lewis chuckled. “And what about her?”

“Oh, she’s just here for emotional support,” Charles said with a wink, handing me back the glass.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the warmth in my chest.

We lay like that for a while—Lewis’ hand moving slowly up and down my arm, Charles humming something under his breath as the sun dipped lower. Everything about it felt easy. Natural. Like the three of us had fallen into some kind of perfect, delicate rhythm without even trying.

Eventually, Lewis turned his head toward me, voice quieter now. “You happy?”

I looked at him, then over at Charles. At the soft smiles, the lazy closeness, the way we just fit—like maybe the sea wasn’t the only thing we were floating in.

“Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”

Charles leaned in and kissed my cheek. Lewis took my hand. And for a long, quiet moment, none of us needed to say anything else.

-

Charles was still asleep back on the yacht, one arm draped dramatically over his face, Leo curled up on his chest like a weighted blanket. I’d watched them both for a minute before I climbed down the ladder and stepped onto the sand, the heat of the day still lingering beneath my feet.

Lewis was already down there, walking barefoot along the shoreline with his pants rolled up to his calves and sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. He turned when he saw me, a slow smile spreading across his face—soft, warm, something private tucked in it.

“You escaped,” he said.

“Charles is unconscious,” I replied, falling into step beside him. “Leo’s his emotional support."

Lewis laughed, low and rich. “That dog lives the life."

We walked in silence for a while, the waves licking at our feet, the sun brushing the horizon in molten amber. The wind caught my hair, and I felt him glance over. Twice.

“You look happy here,” he said finally, voice softer now. “Not just today. Lately.”

I looked up at him. “I am. You’re part of that.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“You think I don’t notice?” I asked, gently bumping my shoulder into his. “You bring me my favorite juice every morning. You always walk slower when I’m tired. And you’re the only one who can get Charles to stop overthinking for five minutes straight.”

He looked away, like maybe it was too much to meet my eyes just yet. “Yeah, well. I like seeing you smile.”

I stopped walking. So did he. The breeze moved between us, teasing the hem of his shirt, curling around the silence stretching long and charged.

Then, so quietly I barely heard it-

“I think I’m in trouble with you.”

I didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because you’re with him.”

His eyes searched mine. “And I shouldn’t—”

He kissed me. It was quick. Messy. Barely even planned. His hands stayed frozen at his sides, like he hadn’t meant to do it, like his body betrayed his mind. My breath caught, my heart thundered. He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, regret crashing over him like a wave.

“Shit,” he breathed, taking a step back. “Shit—YN, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

“Lewis,” I said, stepping toward him, catching his hand. “Hey. Breathe.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his curls, pacing half a step away. “You’re with Charles. I can’t be that guy. I won’t be that guy.”

“You’re not,” I said quietly. “You could never be.”

“I crossed a line.”

I touched his chest—right where his heart was racing under his shirt. “You didn’t cross it alone.”

That got him to stop moving.

“Charles and I… things with him are real. But they’ve also changed. We’ve both changed. And what’s been happening between the three of us isn’t a secret. We’ve just been too scared to say it out loud.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“You’re saying he knows.”

“I’m saying,” I said carefully, “that Charles and I talked about you on the flight here. About how we feel. About the possibility that this—you—is more than just something we’re trying to ignore.”

Lewis swallowed hard. “And what did you decide?”

“That we’re not pretending anymore,” I said. “And that we should be honest—with you. And with ourselves.”

His expression cracked, a flicker of hope breaking through the storm cloud guilt.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice low again. “I didn’t just ruin everything?”

I shook my head. “You kissed me. That’s all. And maybe that kiss… meant more than either of us are ready to say out loud yet. But it’s not wrong.”

He reached for my hand this time, gently lacing his fingers through mine. “I’ve been trying so hard to be careful with you. With him. With this.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what makes you you.”

He smiled, a little broken, a little disbelieving. “So what now?”

I looked back at the yacht in the distance, sails swaying. “Now? We walk back. And maybe when Charles wakes up, we tell him what happened. Together.”

“And after that?”

I squeezed his hand. “After that, we stop pretending we’re not falling into something that’s been waiting for us all along.”

He leaned in, slower this time, forehead brushing mine. And when his lips met mine again—softer now, no panic, just warmth and truth—it felt like something we had all already agreed to, even if we hadn’t spoken it yet.

-

By the time Lewis and I climbed back up the ladder, the sky had gone pink and deep lavender, the stars barely starting to blink through the haze of the day. My hand was still tucked into his, both of us quiet, steady, unsure what the next few minutes would hold. But when I stepped onto the deck, I knew. Charles was awake.

He was sitting on the padded bench, hair a mess of flattened curls from sleep, hoodie half-zipped over his bare chest, Leo tucked under one arm like a pillow he refused to give back. His legs were lazily sprawled out in front of him, but his eyes—sharp, clear, knowing—were locked on us before we could even speak.

“Oh,” he said lightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So I was right.”

Lewis froze beside me. I held my breath.

Charles tilted his head. “You kissed her.”

It wasn’t angry. He didn’t look upset, just… open. Curious. A touch amused. He was watching us like we were characters in a movie he already knew the ending to.

“I—” Lewis started, instantly dropping my hand. “I didn’t mean to. It just—happened, and I freaked out, and I told her it was a mistake, which it wasn’t, but—”

“Lewis,” Charles interrupted gently, raising a hand. “It’s okay.”

Lewis blinked. “It is?”

Charles smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah. It is.”

I stepped forward then, close enough to see the faint pink still clinging to his cheeks. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” he laughed, shaking his head. “No. I think I’m mostly relieved.”

“Relieved?” I echoed.

Charles looked between us—me still in his hoodie, Lewis standing like he was waiting to be exiled. Then he stood up, slowly, walking over until he was right in front of us.

“Because now we’re not dancing around it anymore,” he said. “Now we can actually say it.”

My voice dropped. “Say what?”

He looked at Lewis first. “That I love her.”

Then he turned to me. “That I love you.”

And finally, back to Lewis—his voice lower now, heavier, but full of truth-

“And that I think I might love you too.”

Lewis’ breath caught. So did mine. There were no fireworks. No dramatic music. Just the sound of the waves against the yacht and Leo sighing in his sleep. But it felt louder than anything I’d ever heard.

“I’ve known for a while,” Charles admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That this thing between us... all three of us... it wasn’t just in my head.”

“It wasn’t,” I said softly. “Not for any of us.”

“I’ve been trying not to screw it up,” Lewis said. “Trying to be respectful. But I—I haven’t stopped thinking about either of you.”

Charles stepped closer. “Then maybe we stop trying not to feel it. And just figure it out together.”

Lewis looked at me, eyes wide and soft and unsure.

I nodded. “I want that.”

And then, before I could even breathe again, Charles reached up and took Lewis’ face in his hands and pressed the gentlest kiss to his cheek. Lewis looked stunned. Beautifully stunned.

Charles turned to me. “Come here,” he whispered.

And I did. Right into the space between them. Between us. The three of us stood there, on a yacht rocking gently in the open sea, wrapped in something that finally, finally had a name. Not confusion. Not guilt. Not chaos. But something real.

And just as the sun vanished behind the horizon, I whispered, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Lewis smiled, pulling us closer. “God help your poor brother when he finds out."

-

I don’t know what time it was. Just that the track was buzzing, the garage was loud, and Charles was supposedly off doing media rounds, which left Lewis and me alone in his driver room with five stolen minutes and a locked door. Or… so we thought.

Lewis had me perched on the edge of the little leather sofa, fingers in my hair, lips pressed softly—then not so softly—against mine, his free hand sliding over my hip like he very much wasn’t thinking about the race happening soon.

“Five minutes,” I whispered against his mouth.

“I only need three,” he murmured with a smirk.

I swatted his chest, laughing, just as—

BANG.

The door slammed open.

“CHARLES! Have you seen my—WHAT THE HELL?!”

Lewis physically flinched back from me like he’d been electrocuted. Carlos stood in the doorway, eyes bugging out of his skull, pointing directly at us like he’d just walked in on a crime scene. I froze. Lewis looked like he saw a ghost. A very angry, spanish ghost.

“I—SHE—YOU—NO.”

“Carlos—”

“NO. NOPE. I AM HAVING A FULL STROKE.”

He started pacing, hands on his hips, eyes wide as saucers. “Why are you kissing him? Why is he kissing you? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING IN CHARLES’ ROOM?!”

Lewis opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He looked like a guilty golden retriever.

Carlos pointed at him again. “And YOU! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE ZEN! You’re supposed to be—like—YODA or something! WHAT HAPPENED TO YODA?”

“I—I can explain—” Lewis stammered.

“Can you? CAN YOU REALLY?” Carlos turned to me. “And you! Miss Ferrari Cult Leader—you said you hated drama!”

“I do!” I protested. “I just happen to also… love charles and his teammate. Who loves me back.”

Carlos made a noise like a deflating tire. And then—perfectly timed, calm as ever—Charles strolled in, towel around his neck, water bottle in hand.

“Ah,” he said casually. “You found them.”

Carlos whipped around. “YOU KNEW?”

Charles took a long, slow sip of water. “I encouraged it, actually.”

Carlos choked on his own spit. “You what?!”

Charles shrugged. “It’s very healthy, emotionally. We communicate. We’re very evolved.”

Carlos blinked. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means your sister is in a consensual, loving throuple and you need to calm down before your heart explodes,” I said sweetly.

Charles high-fived me. Lewis still looked vaguely traumatized.

“I need to sit down,” Carlos mumbled, dropping into the armchair like it had betrayed him. “Is this why you won’t wear Williams blue?”

“That’s always been unrelated,” I said.

“Unbelievable,” he groaned.

There was a long pause. Then, finally-

“You’re dating both of them?”

I nodded.

“Like—romantically?”

“Yes, Carlos.”

“Like—kissing and cuddling and—”

“CARLOS.”

Charles dropped into the seat next to him, patting his knee. “You’ll adjust.”

Lewis finally cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, man… I respect her. And you. I’d never do anything that wasn’t right by both of you.”

Carlos stared at him. Then stared at Charles. Then stared at me. Then back at Lewis.

“You’re all lucky I love you,” he muttered, before pointing sternly. “But if you hurt her—either of you—I will run both ferrari's off the track."

Charles raised his water bottle in salute. “Fair.”

Lewis nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Carlos groaned again. “I’m going to the Williams garage. At least there no one’s dating my best friend and Lewis Hamilton at the same time.”

He stood, dramatically, and paused at the door. “Also, you two owe me therapy. And maybe some dinner."

Then he left, muttering in Spanish. The door closed. A beat of silence.

Then Charles leaned against the wall and smirked. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

Lewis exhaled hard. “I genuinely thought he was going to punch me.”

“You’d deserve it,” I teased, looping my arm around his waist. “But it’s okay. He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll recover,” Charles added, coming to wrap an arm around my other side. “Eventually.”

I smiled between them. We were chaos. But we were ours.

-

yourusername

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yourusername : i love ferrari sm that i decided to date both of their drivers.

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williamsracing : oh great so we really don't stand a chance.

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↳ yn_sainz : never did

lando : how is carlos?

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↳ yn_sainz : traumatized but we fed him lobster and alcohol so he is healing slowly

scuderiaferrari : how does it feel to be living MY DREAM? 😭

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charles_leclerc : mes amours ❤

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carlossainz55 : my worst nightmare come true.

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lewishamilton : happier than ever. love you both ❤

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-

[manifestingitgurlll]

it's not the physical that catches up. it's the ego.

how many of us have heard people say "the physical will catch up" or "the physical is just lagging" ? pretty much all of us right? but what if i told you it's not the physical that's lagging behind, it's EGO.

stay with me 🤓

first of all, the physical is a mirror. which means it reflects, INSTANTLY. knowing this, how can those above statements be true? idk abt yall but i've never seen a mirror wait to catch up to reflect or lag behind 🤨 it happens right away. so if you know this, why do you think the physical is any different? i'll tell you why -- ITS BCS OF THE EGO!

the physical always reflects instantly, the second you decide. its your ego that's the one lagging behind, still stuck on the old story.

example: you're manifesting $1k. once you decided that was your truth, the physical INSTANTLY conformed. maybe your boss has the idea to give you a raise, an extra $1k. or maybe a couple relatives are thinking about sending you some money as a gift, just cause they love you. it adds up to $1k. or maybe someone entered you into a sweepstakes with a prize of $1k. these aren't random actions, it's your imagination being reality.

now lets say you decide, but then look into the physical and see nothing. you give up, thinking "ugh it didnt work!! i still dont have $1k." and again, the physical conforms INSTANTLY. your boss changes their mind. the relatives have to pay for something else, so they dont have spare money to send. the sweepstakes gets cancelled.

see?? the physical DOES conform instantly. your ego just believes that bcs it didn't see it with its own two eyes, that it didn't happen.

lets say you didn't change your mind. you decided and moved on. the physical continues to conform. your boss starts the process for the raise. the relatives start pulling money from their bank. the sweepstakes starts picking winners.

say it takes 2 days. on the 3rd day, when the money actually reaches you, your ego thinks "omg it finally conformed! why did it take 3 days tho? i guess its a time lag." the ego believes it conformed after 3 days, when in reality, it DID conform instantly!! it just didn't recognize it since it relies so heavily on its senses ("seeing is believing").

it's stuck on the old story, but you, consciousness, have moved on to the new one. you know you have $1k because imagination is reality. you dont need physical proof. why would you? you know that the second you decide, it is done.

so the next time you think nothing happened and you don't have your desire, remember that's the ego talking. and you are NOT the ego!!

stop identifying with it.

[woollypoison]

Pearl Necklaces

IVE wonyoung x reader (but also all of IVE is in this so...) a/n: I've had this idea of starting a fic with a terrible blowjob for a really long time already. I woke up really horny with tons of free time on my hands and with the puzzle pieces clicking in my head. Thank you, wisdom teeth removal surgery. Anyways, I KNOW I promised full focus on itzy miniseries next AND YOU'LL GET IT!!! I'm working really hard on it, just accept this little out of control dribble as a free gift. Shout out to @valentinedrifter and @kwilquib for the beta read, much love amigos <3333 Word count: 2.2k

This is, by far, the worst blowjob you’ve ever had.

Wait, does this even count as a blowjob? Wonyoung’s just sitting there, knees on the floor, legs spread apart. Her tongue’s out, sure, and the tip of it is touching the underside of your cockhead. The eye contact is making it work, and the way she’s jackhammering her own cunt is a sight to behold, but can you really call it a blowjob if the only thing rubbing your cock is your own hand?

Isn’t this more like an assisted hand job?

“Can you hurry the fuck up? I have to be out—on fucking stage—in 10 minutes in front of a crowd full of horny college students,” Wonyoung barks at you, retracting her tongue, causing you to whimper for losing the only source of contact you still had. “And you know I orgasm a lot faster with a load on my face.”

“I’m sorry Wony, but this is my fourth time already today. I’m not some endless fountain of sperm,” you say. “It would go a lot faster if you helped out some more.”

“What the fuck do you mean, fourth time today?! You should be saving up for me, you dog!”

“It’s not my fault,” is the weakest form of an excuse you could come up with. You’re IVE’s manager. It’s all your fault. “First was this morning… You know how ridiculous Gauel’s been lately.”

And of course she knows. Gaeul’s been playing the part of a bratty sleeping beauty.

“I can’t believe that bitch is still saying she refuses to wake up unless you cum on her face,” she spits back, and it really does sound ridiculous when she says it out loud.

“What about the other two?”

“Well,” you start, but you already know you’re going to get chewed out. “I was having trouble getting everything ready to wake Gaeul up—”

“Just like you are now, right.”

“Right. And I accidentally left the door open, and when Yujin saw me struggling, she came to help out.”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes with a sharp flick, finally sticks her tongue out again but still too far to touch, and twitches her eyebrows to let you know to continue.

“She helped jerk me off onto Gaeul’s face. Said it was her responsibility as a leader as well.”

“That still makes just one load blown, right?” Wonyoung intervenes.

“Yeah, I’m getting there,” you continue, seeing the way her eyes refuse to let you know she’s really enjoying your retelling of the defiling of her members, but doing a terrible job at keeping it hidden.

“After I came on Gaeul, Yujin dragged me out towards her room. Said she was expecting a ‘give and take’ for her help.”

“What kind of ‘give and take’?”

You sigh. She pretends to want to chastise you, but with the way her hand is pounding into her sloppy cunt beneath you and how she’s dripping on the floor, it’s obvious to see. She’s just getting off on this. “I ate her out until she came and then she jerked me off onto her face. Load two.”

“That slut,” Wonyoung murmurs with a smirk. “What about the last one?”

“Okay, I admit, this one might be my fault,” you meekly let out. Wonyoung raises one eyebrow, like she can’t wait to find out what kind of dumb shit you did. “I was helping Rei and Liz clean up the breakfast table, and they were talking about what kind of snack they could still have.”

“Okay?”

“So I jokingly said I had a delicious snack tucked away in my pants for them.”

Wonyoung looks at you like you’re an actual idiot. Look. You might be. “You’re serious?” she asks, almost in disbelief.

“I didn’t expect them to jump me like that. It only took a couple of seconds before they had my dick sandwiched in between their lips,” you explain, getting lost in the thought of how great they felt.

“You’re a pervert,” she snidely remarks.

“God they looked good, licking my seed off of each other’s faces. IVE really is the best…”

Your reminiscing and your pace get interrupted as the door behind you opens, and Leeseo pops her face in with a loud message. “Wonyoung-unnie, it’s 5 minutes till showtime,” she cheers gleefully before opening her eyes, and taking in the sight. You, towering over Wonyoung with your cock out, her on her knees with her mouth open.

“Get the fuck out, can’t you see we’re busy? I’ll be right there,” Wonyoung snaps at Leeseo.

Leeseo just holds her hand in front of her mouth in mock surprise. She giggles a small melody to your ears, before taking her leave, but not without a final remark. “Okay, but don’t forget I finally get manager tonight. Don’t wear him out too hard for my first time, please!”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes again, and looks towards you as you slowly start pumping your cock again. “So, where were we? You were telling me about how you already came three times today, and making excuses for why I’m still waiting for my share.”

“It’s a lot faster if you help, Wonyoung…”

She gasps in shock, looking at you like you’re not only an idiot, but actually insane now. “There’s no fucking way I’m touching your filthy cock. Not after everywhere it’s been today.”

“I don’t think I can finish in time if it’s by myself,” you plead, and it’s not even a lie. If anything, you’re more scared of how upset Wonyoung will be if she has to go on stage without relieving her usual tension.

“Ugh, fine! But only if you ditch Leeseo tonight for me,” she argues back, and it’s a grin that tells you everything. You have no real choice when it comes to Wonyoung’s tantrums.

“What? I can’t! She’s been looking forward to this for months,” you try to argue nevertheless.

She negotiates a better deal back, the desperation of having to go out on stage any moment getting to her. “No condom this time. So what will it be? Paint our maknae’s face, or get me to touch your dick and fill my insides up as much as you want?”

“Deal, but I’m not letting you off the hook for that,” you reply in an instant, so eager your cock twitches at the mere thought of it. The glint in her eye says enough, her two hands balling into little fists as she shakes them, heralding her victory.

She forms a circle with her left thumb and index finger, wrapping it around the base of your cock and presses tightly against you. Her other hand is still occupied with her own needs. Her mouth opens up, hot breath heralding your end. You wish it took more, but the moment she plants a kiss on your cock, you burst.

It’s a full-body, shuddering embarrassment of an orgasm, the kind that makes your knees buckle and your face hot with shameful delight. Wonyoung doesn’t break eye contact—not once.

Your cum splashes out in a blinding, white arc, catching Wonyoung square on the tongue, painting her lips, her nose, even a bit on her lashes. Wonyoung squeals at the sheer volume, and then, with a balletic flick of her wrist, jerks you out for the last spurt, milking every drop onto her own eager face. She scoops up a glob with her pinky, pops it in her mouth like it’s frosting, and lets out a theatrical moan.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” she says, but she drags her hand down to her slit and starts furiously rubbing, as if her own orgasm is right there, like a red button she can’t stop slamming. You’re still dizzy, your vision swimming, when she shoves her face against your softening cock and lets out a high, tight whine. She cums like a disaster: messy and loud, bucking her hips so hard she nearly topples backwards, her legs kicking out and slamming the top of her head against your thigh, making you nearly collapse on top of her. She’s painted and panting, mouth slack, chest flushed scarlet. You’ve never seen her look so proud, so utterly victorious. “I’m going to look so hot on stage,” she says, but she’s smiling now, the kind of mischievous, post-orgasmic smile that could start wars. Then, she wipes the semen off her cheek with her thumb. “Is this look too much for university boys?” She chuckles, then licks her thumb with a showy little curl of her tongue in front of you, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to disagree. You manage a shaky breath, still not recovered, and watch her collect herself with the efficiency of an idol who’s both a world-class diva and a world-class pervert.

She’s in full glam: lashes thick enough to sweep the floor, cheeks rouged to cartoonish perfection, and now this decadent pearl necklace of your making as her accessory.

“You can’t go out there like that,” you manage, voice hoarse and a little too loud.

Wonyoung’s standing, one foot in her heel, blouse still wide open, neck and chin and cheek freckled with the evidence. She stares at herself in the mirror, cocks her head, and lifts her phone. 

Snap. Snap. Snap. 

She’s taking selfies, for fuck’s sake. Her tongue pokes out, cute and obscene above her ruined makeup. “Why not?” she purrs, not even pretending to button up. “It’s a good look. Besides, the fans would fucking die.”

The front-facing camera captures the whole tableau: your deflated cock wilting against her cheek, the ropes of cum criss-crossing her face, and her absolute, shameless delight at the mess. And just like that, you’re incriminated.

“I’ll die if you get in trouble for this,” you hiss, glancing at the door as if Leeseo might be waiting with a live feed. “Please, just clean up.”

She’s not even listening. “Oh, don’t be a prude, manager. I’m doing this for you,” She winks, then switches to video mode, recording a quick little snippet of her slurping a glob of cum off her own chin, then blowing a kiss to the camera. “If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll let you watch it later.”

You’re about to protest, but then she’s shoving the phone in your hands, angling her face for you to get the best shot. “Take one for me. I want to remember how you love me the most.”

You do as you’re told, because you always do, and she’s right: this is her at her best, her most dangerous. The flash goes off, and she shivers at the sound. “God, you’re lucky,” she purrs and you know it.

“Here, let me—” you start, reaching for the tissues on the table.

But Wonyoung’s already got her own solution. “No, no, no. If you really want me cleaned up, you have to do it.” She tilts her chin up, eyes fluttering closed. “With your tongue. Or I’ll tell everyone in the company you’re a chronic masturbator who can’t keep his hands off his own dick around us.”

She grabs your chin and pulls you into a kiss, her tongue pushing past your lips, and you can taste yourself, bitter and astringent, and her, sweet and sharp. She bites your lip, hard enough to sting, then breaks away and wipes the rest off with a practiced hand. “You’re such a pushover,” she says, patting your cheek with the now-ruined tissue.

You just watch as she stands, legs shaky as she fixes her hair, retwists her ponytail, and tugs her miniskirt down over her thighs, still glistening from her own mess. She checks herself in the mirror, then gives you a once-over, eyes lingering on your still-exposed, still-leaking cock.

She’s devilish, a forbidden fruit, the kind of ice cold beauty typically reserved for fairy tales. “Now, here’s your job,” she says, wagging her finger at you. “Go to the green room, watch my performance, and edge yourself until I get back. I want you leaking for me all night, so when I get back, you can fill me up for real. If you cum before I’m done, I’ll make you eat it off Yujin’s shoes.”

You sputter, “What?”

She grins, all dimples and devilry. “You heard me. And don’t even think about cheating. I’ll know.”

She blows you a kiss and flounces out, heels clacking, leaving you dazed and semi-hard in the aftermath.

You could’ve been a manager in any group, for any label in Seoul, but fate delivered you into the hands of the most terminally horny, irrepressible, and power-mad girl group in the country. You can’t even process it. You just sit there, cock in hand, trying to figure out how your life turned into a kpop bukkake sitcom. You ponder briefly if this is a privilege or a curse, and then, as your thumb scrolls aimlessly through the photo log on her phone (she left it behind by “accident”), you realize you don’t even care anymore.

The latest shot is still her, tongue out, glazing herself like a goddamn donut, winking at you through the digital shrapnel of your own undoing. Your cock jumps, traitorously.

Whatever Wonyoung wants, she gets.

[usedpidemo]

Symbiosis (Twice Momo, Le sserafim Kazuha)

23k words —————

The fourth floor of the office building is filled with a palpable amount of energy. A vigor so infectious, it has spread through everyone like the plague. 

Yes, every single person in that room can’t wait for what you have to say. You can tell by their face that they’re really, really excited.

Of course, none of that is true: these people can’t wait for you to get your little announcement over and done with so they can get back to work.

“So as previously mentioned, we will be undergoing a corporate restructuring in two weeks time,” you say to your enthusiastic audience of employees, their expressions brimming with dread, despair and defeat. Apathy isn’t enough to mask what they’re feeling. It’s the last thing they want to hear on a Monday morning. The likelihood of losing their jobs in such a volatile economy is not a promising sign of a work week. “I know it’s gonna suck for some of you, but it is what it is—profits over employees. You probably should have expected it when you joined this company. Don’t shoot the messenger; at least I can be transparent about telling you about this because anyone else in my position would probably get lynched.”

What you’re saying is partially true; everyone knows they can’t get their hands on the regional director’s nepo baby—or in this case, you. It’s a job thrust upon you ever since reaching the age of maturity, not something you wanted any part of in the first place. Nevertheless, at your father’s insistence, you’re enlisted as his personal emissary, relaying information from upstairs because he can’t be bothered to hire someone else to do the work. The last time he did, the poor guy was paid millions from health insurance and settlement charges.

‘Cost cutting,’ his voice echoes in your mind, despite the fact that the company is making record profits and is worth billions in net worth. It’s greed speaking, not your actual dad. At this point, the sin has taken over his personality more than the person that raised you lovingly during your childhood.

“That will be all. You may all return to your offices now,” you say, and most of them file out from the employees’ meeting room as quickly as they shuffled in. It’s a cold, thankless job.

However, two people remain, choosing to wait by the exit doors, seemingly waiting for you to meet them. Momo and Kazuha—your two favorite employees in the company. If there’s any pair of employees in your company that deserve to be kicked out the least, then they should be at the top of that list.

—————

“Boss!” their collective voices meet in unison before crescending into a deafening mess, matching you in walking pace as you head towards the elevator. The older Japanese woman deploys her hands underneath your stack of folders and paperwork, catching them effortlessly while you’re still moving. The younger woman, seven years her junior, has your fresh iced coffee in hand, which you promptly take and drink. Together, they yap on about the week’s schedules, business meetings, and other incomprehensible jargon that mixes together to make complete and utter nonsense. 

Just the way you like your Mondays.

Joining you inside the executive elevator, usually reserved only for top company brass, they’re given special access as they also happen to be your personal assistants. Mostly relegating all the tiresome work to them while you sit back in your private office and wait for Dad to call you about his next client that you must represent on his behalf.

It’s something you’ll take advantage of—having two subordinates relieving you of all the mundane shit while you take all the credit. You’ll let them bore you to death. Meanwhile, your mind is already thinking about lunch.

By the time you reach the 18th floor, your drink is already finished, so you hand it back to Kazuha for disposal. Retrieving the stack of paperwork  you’ve passed onto Momo, you enter your private office to do some actual work.

—————

The mountain of paperwork mocks you from the mahogany desk. You’ve been staring at the same quarterly expenditure report for 43 minutes. The numbers blur into grey sludge. Outside your floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul pulses with indifferent energy—a stark contrast to the stifling silence of your oversized office. 

Your pen taps a frantic, useless rhythm against the leather blotter. Focus. Just sign the damn thing.

Instead, your hand drifts over to your phone, scrolling through meaningless notifications. 

Lunch. You need lunch. Anything to escape this gilded cage.

A knock. Sharp, efficient. Momo enters without waiting, her heels clicking a precise staccato on the polished concrete. She deposits a fresh stack of folders—thicker than the one you’re failing to conquer—beside the existing monument to corporate tedium. Her expression is professionally neutral, but you catch the faintest arch of an eyebrow and worried smile as she digests your untouched work.

“The revised contracts from Legal, sir. Require your signature by end-of-day. The Henderson merger timelines are also flagged for your review.” Her voice is smooth, devoid of judgment, yet it feels like an indictment.

“Right. Henderson.” You wave a dismissive hand, the gesture encompassing the entire desk, your inadequacy. “Leave it. I’ll get to it.”

Momo nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the lie. Her gaze flicks to the dying pen in your hand. 

“Shall I fetch another pen, sir? Or perhaps refresh your coffee?” Kazuha materializes in the doorway as if summoned, holding a sleek tablet, her eyes already scanning the screen. She’s younger, her energy less contained than Momo’s razor-sharp focus, but no less formidable.

“Coffee,” you grunt, the word tasting like ash. “Strong. Black.”

Kazuha flashes a quick, bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her watchful eyes. “On it, boss.” She vanishes as silently as she appeared. Momo lingers a fraction of a second longer, her presence a quiet pressure, before turning on her heel and exiting, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

Alone again. The silence amplifies the frantic buzzing in your skull. You pick up the Henderson file. The words swim, scatter like fish in a pond. Asset valuation. Synergy projections. Non-compete clauses. Gibberish. 

You drop it back onto the pile, the thud echoing slightly in the cavernous room. You lean back on the absurdly expensive ergonomic chair, staring at the ceiling. The recessed lights offer no inspiration, only a sterile glow. 

Lunch. Definitely lunch. Sushi’s a good pick. Maybe that place down the street with the fatty tuna. Your stomach rumbles in agreement.

You reach for the sleek intercom panel to summon them back, to declare an early, extended lunch break: a director’s son’s prerogative. Your finger hovers over the button, ready to pull the trigger. Suddenly, the jarring, insistent chime of an encrypted video line cuts through the lethargy. The laptop screen in your desk flickers to life. No caller ID, but the weight of the ringtone—a low, ominous pulse—tells you everything. 

Dad.

A cold knot forms in your gut, replacing the lingering hunger pangs. You haven’t seen his face, truly seen it, outside of heavily filtered corporate headshots in two years. Not since the last mandatory ‘family’ strategy summit in Singapore, where he spent three hours berating the regional VP for a 0.5% dip in market share over dessert. 

You smooth your tie, a pointless gesture, and hit ‘accept’.

His face fills the screen. Sharper than you remember. Thinner. The expensive suit hangs a little looser, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper, harder. Like granite eroded by relentless pressure. His hair is still impeccably dark, likely expensive dye, but the eyes—the eyes are the same. Cold, assessing, devoid of the warmth you dimly recall from childhood photos and now vague memories. He sits in what looks like a private jet cabin, all cream leather and polished wood, the window behind him showing nothing but featureless blue sky and clouds beneath.

“Son.” His voice is a dry rasp, devoid of inflection. It’s not a greeting; it’s an acknowledgment of a functional unit. “You look—functional.”

“Father.” You mimic his tone, the corporate chill settling over you like a familiar, uncomfortable coat. “You look—reasonably sane.”

“To what do I owe the interruption?” 

“Lunch. My fatty tuna.”

He ignores the barb, if he even registered it. His gaze flicks to something off-screen, then back to you. “Operations report negligible progress on your end regarding the Q3 restructuring plan. Explain.” 

No small talk. No ‘how are you.’ Just the bottom line.

You suppress a sigh, leaning forward slightly, projecting an image of engagement you don’t feel. “The announcement was made this morning. Morale impact is being assessed. Departmental audits are underway per your directive. It takes time, Father. We can’t just flip a switch and disintegrate a third of the workforce.” 

Profits over employees. The unspoken mantra hangs between you, transmitted via satellite.

He waves a dismissive hand, a gesture eerily similar to your own earlier one, but imbued with genuine power. “Time is a luxury we are rapidly exhausting. Streamline. Accelerate.” His eyes narrow, pinning you to your expensive chair. From a business standpoint, you’re a subordinate—a cog in the unrelenting machine—not his own flesh and blood. “Which brings me to the primary reason for this call. My focus is shifting. Permanently. The Americas division is imploding. I am relocating to New York headquarters immediately. Indefinitely.”

The news hits like a devastating blow, though you should have expected it. Rumors had been swirling for months. Two years without face-to-face contact suddenly stretches into an uncertain, bleak horizon. 

“New York?” you manage, your voice tight.

“Effective next month,” he confirms, tone flat, indifferent. “This necessitates a restructuring here as well. I require someone on the ground in Seoul I can rely upon to execute our vision without constant oversight.” He pauses, letting the implication hang. “You are being promoted. Regional Director, East Asia Operations. Full autonomy over the Seoul hub and all satellite offices in the region. Reporting directly to me.”

Regional Director. The title lands with an earth-crushing thud. More responsibility. More expectations. More of the life you never asked for. You feel no elation, only a profound weariness. 

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” you say, the words ringing hollow. “Though I suspect ‘rely upon’ translates to ‘blame if things go south.’

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crosses his face. “Sentimentality is inefficient. This is an opportunity. Prove your capability beyond being a—messenger.” 

The pause before ‘messenger’ is deliberate, pointed. 

“However,” he continues, his voice regaining its steely edge, “this promotion necessitates adjustments within your immediate support structure. You require an Executive Assistant. A single point of contact. Streamlined reporting. One individual capable of handling the increased load and acting as your proxy.”

Your mind instantly conjures images: Momo’s terrifying efficiency. Kazuha’s intuitive anticipation and flexibility. Their combined expertise makes for an irreplaceable pairing that can command armies. There’s no two people better suited for the challenges ahead.

“I have Hirai Momo and Nakamura Kazuha,” you state, a defensive edge creeping in. “They function exceptionally well as a unit. Momo handles logistics, compliance, the hard edges. Kazuha manages communications, scheduling, the human element. They complement each other. Frankly, Father, they’re the only reason this building hasn’t collapsed into utter chaos. They’re both invaluable. Promoting one to Executive Assistant makes sense, but releasing the other—” 

You trail off, the corporate euphemism tasting foul. Call it for what it is: firing. “It would be counterproductive. We need both their skill sets.”

He stares at you, his expression impassive, a stone wall against your appeal. “Sentiment. Again, inefficient. Company policy for the Regional Director position mandates one primary EA. Consolidation. Cost efficiency. A single chain of command.” He leans slightly closer to the camera, his face filling the screen, the coldness in his eyes absolute. “Choose one. Promote her. The other—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. The rest is written in the cold calculus of the restructuring plan you’d announced hours ago. Released. Let go. Part of the necessary reduction.

The silence stretches, thick with the hum of the jet’s engines and the frantic pounding of your own pulse in your ears. The thought of fatty tuna is forgotten, replaced by a cumbersome weight. 

“Choose one?” you ask, the words inadequate, stupid.

“Yes.” Dad’s tone is final, conclusive. “You have 72 hours to inform me of your decision. The promotion—and the corresponding personnel adjustment—will be effective concurrently with your own ascension to Regional Director next month. Do not dither.” 

The screen goes abruptly dark, leaving you staring at your own pale, stunned reflection in the black glass. Connection severed as cleanly and ruthlessly as a guillotine blade.

The silence in the office is absolute now, oppressive. The mountain of paperwork seems taller, more insurmountable. Regional Director. One promotion. One dismissal. 

Momo. Kazuha. Their names echo in the hollow space. 

“Choose.” 

Dad’s command hangs in the air like smog. 

You rake a hand through your hair, staring sightlessly at the door.

Outside the heavy oak door, the air crackles with a different kind of silence. Momo stands rigid, her back pressed against the cool wall beside the door frame. A forgotten printout clenches so tightly in her hand that the paper crumples. Her usually impassive face is a mask of frozen tension, jaw locked, eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the abstract painting opposite. Every word from the video call, every cold, clipped syllable from the CEO, had filtered through the imperfect seal of the door with chilling clarity. Regional Director. One EA. Choose one. The other released.

A foot away, Kazuha leans against the opposite wall, her tablet hanging limply at her side. The bright, attentive energy is gone, replaced by a stillness that feels unnatural. Her gaze is fixed on the closed door, her expression unreadable, but the faint tremor in her lower lip betrays the seismic shift happening within. The scent of the freshly brewed black coffee in the cup she still holds, now cold, mocks the icy dread settling in her stomach. 

‘Promote one. Dismiss the other.’

The unspoken ultimatum hangs between them, thick and suffocating. The corridor, usually a space of efficient movement, feels like a precipice. Neither woman looks at the other. The only sound is the frantic, silent hammering of two hearts realizing the game has now become a fight for survival.

—————

Regardless of the circumstance, Momo and Kazuha remain professional as ever. As soon as they discern the creak of the office door swing open, their postures straighten up mechanically to greet you. Smiles perfectly aligned. No sign of weakness or vulnerability. A perfect unit. “Boss.”

Despite the heaviness of your new role weighing you down, you reciprocate their warmth. “Hey.”

You can tell something feels off, but not pinpoint what is wrong exactly. Maybe it’s the space between them both, a seeming abyss right in the middle. The tinge of their voices cracking ever so slightly. It could be the uncontrollable twitch in their eyebrows, assessing the situation and your body language in real time. Perhaps it’s hunger playing games with your head.

“Early lunch as usual, boss?” asks Momo, having registered this time of day as part of the daily schedule. “You’re five minutes late than usual.”

“Yeah,” is your reply, tone fighting its hardest not to falter. “Dad called. Said I’d be regional director of the East Asian branch moving forward.”

“Congratulations.” Both women cheer and applaud in unison, but it’s a somber celebration. A triumphant moment in any other scenario, but not today.

“You’re the ones who deserve it, honestly,” you admit through a faint smile, taking a shallow breath. If you three were in a group, Momo and Kazuha would have carried everything—research, formatting, and visualization—while you made the first slide of the Powerpoint, slapped everyone’s names on and presented it through their script. “You’ve done an admirable job handling all the tasks I’ve given you. If it were up to me, you’d both be running this place.”

“Thank you boss, but we owe you our success by believing in us, sir,” replies Kazuha, gently bowing her head in appreciation.

“Agreed. If you didn’t take us, we don’t know if we would be working right now,” Momo adds, slightly looking to the side of her colleague. “You’re as important in this office as anyone else, if not more—you’ve also been handling employee scouting and training, no?”

Hearing their encouraging words almost breaks you. What should have been a warm, endearing moment feels heavier and bittersweet knowing that this inseparable pairing will be forced to break up. And you don’t have the heart to tell either of them.

You can only smile and lower your head, hiding the tears close to falling.

The pair immediately catch on, rushing toward you, handkerchiefs in hand like a magic trick. “Something wrong, boss?” They ask concurrently.

Lifting your head slightly, concealing your eyes from their view, because there’s no way you can contain your emotion with how burdened your heart is. Your throat can’t even bother to try. It rings of deflation and defeat, something unfitting for a newly appointed director. “Fine. It’s all fine, I’m just—a little overwhelmed right now.”

“Talk us through the situation, sir,” encourages Momo, her tone soft, lovely. “Rest assured, you can count on us to help you.”

Kazuha nods in agreement, her inflection equally as welcoming. “Tell us everything, sir.”

You pause. A deep, heavy sigh, thickens the air in the room like blinding fog. One thing is clear: you’re not in the right headspace, at least right now.

“How about you go and have lunch first?” you tell them, face still somewhat concealed, your voice shrinking by the word. Knowing them, they likely have seen through the mask, but are gracious not to press on the matter. “I will speak to both of you when I’m ready.”

“Of course.” Momo straightens herself, pulling back her handkerchief and making her hurried, yet efficient leave. “Please enjoy your lunch, director.”

“Do try and take care of yourself,” adds Kazuha, joining her senior inside the elevator before they disappear behind the closing panel.

—————

Effective immediately, you had all scheduled meetings and appointments canceled for the rest of the day. 

It never sat right with you. Despite your status, Dad never really saw you as his kid. Only a subordinate, an expendable asset. A messenger, as he called you. Looking at the framed photo of you as a child, carried on his shoulders, he almost feels like a completely different person. Now, he’s less of a human and more a corporate entity taking the form of a mortal shell.

Unsurprisingly, you hardly got anything done; Momo and Kazuha once again backpacked the workload, with your only meaningful contribution being a handful of signatures on the dotted line. By day’s end, you had everyone vacate the building right away except for them; not a single overtime was to be performed, and no one except security were to stay for the night. It’s a ploy to keep this matter between you three, despite your office nestled high up in the tower, away from all your employees. 

The silence in your office isn’t just quiet. It’s loaded. Like the air before a detonation. Momo sits ramrod straight in the plush guest chair, hands folded neatly on her lap, her knuckles pale. Kazuha perches on the edge of the other, one leg crossed over the other, ankle bouncing with a nervous energy she’s failing to hide. Their eyes track you as you move from the window back to your desk, a silent, expectant audience. The city lights below feel accusatory now, witnesses to the execution you’re about to perform.

You don’t sit. Leaning against the mahogany monstrosity, the edge digs into your hip. The weight of the day, of your father’s words, of the leaden secret, presses down. You can’t meet their eyes just yet. You stare at the abstract painting behind them—splashes of angry red and cold blue—searching for an answer it doesn’t hold.

"Right," you start, the word scraping out. Your voice sounds alien, strained. You’ve hardly spoken since lunch break, yet the weariness never disappeared, only worsened. "You wanted to talk. About—earlier."

Momo inclines her head. A precise, professional movement. "We sensed you were troubled, Director." 

Director. The title falls like a stone. It tastes foul. 

Kazuha nods, her usual bright smile replaced by a look of focused concern that doesn’t quite reach the watchfulness in her eyes.

Dad’s words cloud your head. Choose one. Release the other. Corporate euphemisms for sacrifice. 

You push off the desk, pacing a short, tight line. The carpet muffles your steps, but the frantic thudding in your chest feels deafening. "My father—the call. It wasn't just about the promotion." Quickly turning, you face the window again, the sprawling cityscape a blur. "There’s—” you draw out the last letter, unable to follow through. “a condition."

Silence. Thick, heavy. You can feel their attention sharpen, pricking against your skin.

"He insists," you force out, the follow through thick and clumsy, "on ‘streamlining.’ Company policy for the Regional Director role. One Executive Assistant. Only one." 

You turn, finally meeting their gazes. Momo’s expression is frozen porcelain. Kazuha’s bouncing leg has stilled. "He told me—” your throat is shriveling at the thought again. “I have to choose. One of you gets the promotion. The EA position. The other—" You can’t say it. You gesture vaguely, helplessly, towards the door, towards the elevator, towards the cold reality outside this gilded cage. "Released. As part of the restructuring."

The command hangs in the sterile air, ugly and final. The hum of the building’s HVAC is suddenly loud.

Kazuha is the first to break the paralysis. "Choose?" Her voice is higher than usual, a brittle edge peeking from it. "But—that’s absurd! Sir, we function as a unit. Momo-san’s precision, my adaptability," she gestures between them, a frantic little motion. "It’s synergistic. Removing one cripples the entire function! Surely the CEO understands that! We could—we could draft a proposal. Outline the tangible losses in efficiency. Present a cost-benefit analysis against this policy?" 

Her words tumble out, rapid-fire, a desperate bid for logic against the irrational axe of your father’s decree.

You shake your head, the movement heavy. "I tried, Kazuha." The memory of your father’s granite face, his cold dismissal, floods back. "Believe me: I fucking tried.” You parrot his words, each sentence sounding more repulsive in your mouth than the last. ‘Sentiment is inefficient.’ ‘Company policy mandates a single chain of command.’ ‘Consolidation. Cost efficiency.’” 

"He wasn’t interested in proposals. Or logic. Or—people." The last word is a whisper, laced with a venom usually reserved for quarterly tax audits. Some of his trademark coldness has bounced off you. "The decision is mine. And he wants it in 72 hours."

Momo hasn’t moved once. Her gaze is fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder, her neutral expression a veil of unnerving calm. Only the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw betrays the brewing storm underneath. When she speaks, her tone is low, controlled, but removed of its usual smoothness. "We—we understand the position this puts you in, Director."

Kazuha whips her attention towards Momo, disbelief clashing with dawning comprehension on her face. "Momo-san?"

Momo shifts her face, meeting Kazuha’s, then yours. There’s no warmth there, only a chilling, pragmatic acceptance. "We overheard, Director." The admission is flat, matter-of-fact. "The door—it didn’t seal perfectly. We heard everything."

Breath leaves your lungs in a rush. Of course they did. The uncomfortable energy, the slight cracks in their professionalism earlier—it was more than concern for you. It was the shockwave hitting them directly. They’ve been sitting here, carrying this knowledge, this burden, while you floundered. Humiliation burns, hot and sharp, mixing with newly crushing guilt. 

You feel exposed. Stripped bare.

Kazuha flushes, looking down at her hands clenched in her lap. "We didn’t mean to eavesdrop," she murmurs, the defiance gone, replaced by something vulnerable. "We were waiting, and then—we heard."

Momo continues, regaining a fraction of steel, though it’s aimed inward now. "The CEO’s directive is clear. The policy is—immovable. Arguing further is—" she pauses, searching for the corporate synonym for futile. "counterproductive. We accept the parameters." She lifts her chin slightly. "Whichever decision you make, Director, we will respect it. We understand the necessity."

Necessity. The word feels hollow. Like your father’s soul.

Kazuha takes a shaky breath, lifting her head. Her eyes are bright, but not with tears. With a fierce, sudden determination that surprises you. "Respect it, yes," she echoes, her voice firmer now. "But—" A flicker of her old, spirited spark ignites. She glances sideways at Momo, a look that’s part challenge, part grim acknowledgement. "We won't make it easy for you. Or for each other." Meeting your eyes squarely, she continues. "You said choose the best, Director? Well, you’re about to see exactly what ‘best’ looks like. From both of us." A tight, almost predatory smile touches her lips. "Consider the next 72 hours an extended performance review. We will outperform. We will exceed. We will leave absolutely no doubt in your mind about who deserves that position."

Momo doesn’t smile. But a slow, deliberate blink, a subtle straightening of her spine, speaks volumes. The subdued intensity radiating from her sharpens, focusing like a laser. She gives a single, curt nod. "Agreed. The parameters are set. The outcome will be determined by merit. Demonstrated merit." 

Her stare locks onto yours, intensity unwavering. "We will ensure you have all the data you require to make your difficult decision."

A strange surge of pride cuts through the morass of guilt and dread. Resilient. Professional. Even when facing the abyss, they revert to their core competencies. Momo’s ruthless pragmatism. Kazuha’s fierce, adaptive drive. They’re not collapsing; they’re gearing up for war. A war where you hold the singular vote. The thought is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. The air crackles with the unspoken challenge, the desperate energy, the sheer, terrifying resolve emanating from both women.

The heaviness of the day, the crushing weight of your father’s ultimatum—none of it has vanished. It’s still there, a dull anchor in your gut. But layered over it now is this new, electric tension. The quiet office feels like a calm battlefield moments before the charge forward.

"You're both—" You trail off, shaking your head. A faint, incredulous smile touches your lips despite everything. "Unbelievable." It holds exhaustion, awe, and a dawning sense of being utterly outmaneuvered. There are countless ways to describe Momo and Kazuha, but this one word aptly describes them quite perfectly. 

"Fine. Understood. The clock starts now." You glance at the sleek, minimalist clock on your desk. 6:47 PM. "Consider yourselves officially—under review."

The silence returns, but it feels different now. Not teeming with unease, but taut with anticipation. 

Momo stands first, smooth and precise as always. "Then we should not waste time, Director. We have preparations to make." Her tone is clipped, systematic. Already shifting into mission mode.

Kazuha rises too, her earlier stillness replaced by a coiled energy. "Absolutely. Early start tomorrow, Director? Critical path analysis for the Henderson merger needs your eyes. Bright and early." Her smile is back, sharp and challenging.

You wave a hand, fatigue crashing down on you again, but in a different way. The emotional whiplash is brutal. "Go. Both of you. Get out of here. I'll see you in the morning." 

Bright and early. The phrase feels like a threat.

They move towards the door, a united front for a fleeting second. Momo pauses, her hand on the polished handle. She doesn't look back. "Try to get some rest, Director. You will need it." 

The words aren't gentle; they're a warning.

Kazuha flashes one last, brilliant, utterly terrifying smile over her shoulder. "Sweet dreams, boss. Dream of—efficiency charts." 

Then they're gone, the heavy oak door clicking shut with a sound that echoes like a pistol in the sudden, vast silence.

You sink into your obscenely expensive chair, the leather sighing. The mountain of untouched paperwork taunts you. The Henderson file glares, an insurmountable predicament in its own right. Outside, Seoul’s indifferent lights pulse. Once again, you recall the day’s agendas. Regional Director. One promotion. One dismissal. 

Dad’s voice rings in your head, haunting you persistently like a ghost. ‘Choose.’

But the faces swimming in your mind aren’t faceless employees on a restructuring list anymore. They’re Momo’s icy, determined gaze. Kazuha’s fierce, challenging smile. The quiet, terrifying promise in their professional acceptance.

You have less than three days left. And you have absolutely no idea what hell those two incredibly capable, fiercely competitive women are about to unleash in their fight for survival. You rake your hands over your face. Lunch is a forgotten luxury. Rest is an afterthought.

The game, as Kazuha so pointedly implied, has radically, irrevocably changed.

—————

The executive elevator doors slide open at barely past seven in the morning. Bright and early. Kazuha’s words echo as a threat manifested into existence. Floor 18 buzzes with an unnatural vigor. You step out the sterile box, bracing yourself.

They’re already there. Waiting.

Momo stands ramrod straight beside your office door, tablet held like a shield against her crisp white blouse. Her posture screams military precision, but you notice the subtle differences: hair pulled tighter, makeup sharper, the faintest hint of expensive perfume cutting through the antiseptic office smell. Her gaze snaps to you—analytical, assessing—before she offers a curt, perfect bow. “Director. Your schedule has been optimized and pre-loaded. The Henderson critical path analysis is prioritized.”

Before you can respond, Kazuha materializes from the small adjacent kitchenette, holding two steaming mugs. Her usual vibrant energy feels amplified, channeled into a stream of hyper-efficiency. She’s swapped her typical smart dress for a sharply tailored pantsuit, her smile brighter, more focused. “Morning, boss! Double espresso, freshly brewed. And I took the liberty of cross-referencing the merger timelines with Legal’s redlines—found three potential conflict points you’ll want to flag.” 

She hands you the coffee, her fingers brushing yours for a fraction longer than necessary. The contact sends a jolt through you, instantly at odds with the caffeine. Her eyes hold a challenge, a silent ‘Watch this.’

The pair moves in sync, a terrifyingly efficient ballet. Momo opens your office door right as you reach for it. Kazuha deposits a meticulously organized folder on your desk: tabs color-coded, summaries bullet-pointed. Yesterday’s heap of neglected paperwork is gone, replaced by this single, streamlined dossier. The Henderson file sits on top, with a post-it note glued on etched in Momo’s precise handwriting, something about Sector 4.2b.

“We’ve pre-screened all non-urgent communications,” states Momo, her voice clipped. “Only three items require your direct attention before 10 AM. Kazuha has drafted preliminary responses for your approval.”

“And I’ve prepped a stakeholder analysis for the restructuring impact assessment,” Kazuha adds, leaning slightly against your desk. Her posture is confident, almost possessive of the space. “Prioritized by department sensitivity and potential resistance.” She flashes another brilliant smile. “We aim to eliminate doubt, Director.”

They aren’t just working; they’re waging war.

You take a scalding sip of espresso, the bitterness grounding you. The plan you’d hatched in the sleepless void of the night—unethical, desperate, stupid—suddenly feels like the only move left.

“Kazuha,” you say, your voice thankfully steady. You gesture towards the folder. “This cross-referencing with Legal. I need it contextualized against the operational realities on the ground. Floor 12—Procurement. Go down, talk to Manager Miyawaki. Get her raw, unfiltered take on the vendor transition clauses. Don’t come back without concrete pain points.”

Kazuha’s gleam doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. Floor 12 was notoriously slow, tangled in bureaucracy. Sending her there was busywork, a deliberate delay. “Manager Miyawaki?” she repeats, light but probing. “Her insights are usually retrospective, Director. Wouldn’t real-time data from Logistics on Floor 9 be more actionable?”

“Her perspective on vendor relationships is crucial,” is your counter, rhythmically tapping the folder. “We need the ground truth before Legal airlocks us into something unworkable. Consider it primary source verification. Now.” The command is firmer than intended.

A beat of silence. Momo watches Kazuha, her expression now unreadable. Kazuha’s gaze flicks between you and the folder, her spark momentarily replaced by calculation. Then, the brilliant smile snaps back into place, sharper than before. “Ground truth. Understood, Director. I’ll extract it.” 

She grabs her tablet, spins on her heel, and strides towards the elevator, her posture brimming with determined energy. The doors swallow her whole.

The sudden silence in the wake of her departure feels immense. Momo remains statuesque beside your desk, her attention entirely aimed at you. The absence of Kazuha’s vibrant presence makes Momo’s intensity feel denser, more—concentrated.

“Sir?” Momo prompts, “Shall I brief you on the flagged schedule items?”

“Not yet.” You walk around your desk, not sitting, leaning against it instead, mirroring Kazuha’s earlier pose minus her ease. The mahogany surface feels cold through your shirt. “Close the door, Momo.”

A fractional hesitation. Her dark eyes meet yours, searching. Then, a single, precise nod. She moves silently, the heavy oak door clicking shut with absolute certainty. The HVAC’s hum grows louder in the enclosed space. She returns to stand before you, hands clasped loosely in front of her, the perfect picture of polished readiness. But the atmosphere has shifted. The corporate armor feels thinner.

“Sit,” you direct, gesturing your hand to the guest chair.

She obeys, sitting with her usual ramrod posture, her back not touching the chair. Her stare is level, expectant, but the undercurrent is different now. Watchful. Aware.

You take another sip of Kazuha’s coffee, stalling. The plan feels flimsier by the second. “Given the—unique circumstances,” you begin, the words struggling to hold gravity, “and the weight of the decision ahead, I need more than just performance metrics, Momo. I need to understand potential. Fit. For the EA role specifically,” You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Consider this a—personal interview. Supplementing the professional review.”

Momo’s expression doesn’t flicker. “Understood, Director. What would you like to know?” Her inflection is neutral, but there’s a new layer beneath it: a quiet alertness, like a hunter sensing a shift in the wind.

You start with safe territory, the script rehearsed in your insomniac haze. “Your long-term vision for the EA position. How would you handle the increased autonomy? Conflict resolution strategies when reporting directly to—” You almost say ‘my father’, but stop yourself. “—to remote, high-pressure leadership.”

Her answers are flawless. Concise, strategic, demonstrating deep understanding of the role’s demands and the company’s brutal politics. She speaks of buffer zones, information filtration, anticipatory action. It’s impressive, coldly efficient, and utterly predictable. Exactly what the company—what your father—would want. Yet, it feels sterile. Incomplete.

She watches you intently, waiting for the next question. Her blouse, you finally catch on, is cut slightly lower than usual. A single button undone at the top, revealing the barest hint of collarbone. The fabric strains subtly across her chest with each breath. It’s demanding that you take notice.

“And what about you, Director?” Momo suddenly asks, her voice dropping a fraction, losing its boardroom edge. It’s softer, yet somehow more dangerous. She leans forward infinitesimally in the chair. “What do you need? From your Executive Assistant?” Her glare is unwavering, intense. “Beyond the spreadsheets and the schedules. Beyond the—policy.”

The question throws you off. It’s an inversion. Your throat feels tight. The carefully constructed script in your head crumbles. 

“I—need reliability,” you manage, the corporate answer reflexively bubbling. “Foresight. Discretion.”

Momo’s lips curve ever so slightly. Not a smile. A ghost of something knowing. “Discretion,” she repeats, the word a velvet murmur. “Yes. That’s paramount.” Her eyes drift down, then back up to yours, holding you with unnerving directness. “But reliability can be learned. Foresight honed. Discretion,” she pauses, letting the word hang. “—is inherent. Or it isn’t.” She tilts her head, a fraction. “What do you see in me, Director? That makes you consider me for such an intimate responsibility?”

Intimate. The word lands like a sharp uppercut in the otherwise quiet office. Your pulse hammers. The air conditioning whirs, suddenly ineffective against the heat flooding your face. Her gaze is relentless, slowly stripping away the professional veneer. She knows. She must learn why Kazuha was sent away. This isn’t about the job anymore. This is the game laid bare.

“I see.” You falter, the words sliding off with nothing to lean on. Your carefully constructed detachment shatters. “Competence. Strength. Control.” The last word comes out hoarse.

“Control,” Momo echoes softly, teetering on seduction. She uncrosses her legs, then recrosses them slowly, the whisper of nylon loud in the unnerving quiet. Her eyes never depart yours. “Control is essential. Especially when managing—unpredictable variables.” A deliberate pause, to let the words simmer. “Like ambition. Or—desire.”

The heat intensifies, pooling low in your stomach. Your carefully maintained distance feels like a ruse. She’s dismantling it with terrifying precision. You’re rendered frozen, pinned by her and the terrifying implication of her words.

Then, she moves.

Not abruptly, but with deliberate, unhurried grace. She rises from the chair, smooth as silk. Two steps bring her directly in front of you, where you lean against the desk. The subtle scent of her perfume—expensive, floral, with an underlying edge of spice—envelops you. Up close, the strain of her blouse across her chest is undeniable. The open button reveals a thin necklace resting against smooth skin.

“You look tense, Director,” she murmurs, a low vibration that resonates in your bones. Her eyes drop pointedly to your hands, clenched white-knuckled on the desk’s edge. “The burden of choice is heavy.”

Before you can formulate a response, her hand lifts. Not towards your shoulder, not for a reassuring pat. Her fingertips brush against the back of your clenched hand on the desk. The touch is feather-light, yet electric. It jolts through your nerves.

“Perhaps,” she continues, dropping even lower, becoming almost hypnotic, “you’re overcomplicating it.” Her other hand rises, hovering near your waist. Her eyes lock onto yours, dark pools reflecting office lights and something else entirely—a challenge, an invitation, a terrifying promise. “Sometimes, the most efficient solution—” she stops, deliberately twirling a loop of her own hair. “—is to follow instinct. To let go of unnecessary control.”

Her hovering hand descends, slow and deliberate. Not to your arm nor to your shoulder. Her palm rests flat, possessively, high on your thigh, just below the hip. The heat of her touch sears through your trousers. Her thumb moves in a slow, infinitesimal circle. Your breath hitches, trapped in your throat. All thought of corporate policy, of your father, of the impossible choice, evaporates in the white-hot shock of her touch and the seductive danger in her eyes. 

She leans in fractionally, her lips perilously close to your ear. Her breath ghosts warm against your skin. “What does your instinct tell you right now?”

Right there, the dam breaks. Carefully constructed walls of professionalism, guilt, and fear—obliterated by a surge of raw, reckless desire. The scent of her, the heat of her hand, the blatant challenge in her eyes. It’s overwhelming.

The interview is over. In your heart, you know the result. You’re failing.

With a choked sound that’s half groan, half surrender, you move. One hand snaps up, tangling in the sleek dark hair at the nape of her neck. The other clutches her waist, pulling her hard against you. No finesse, only ravenous hunger. 

Your mouth crashes down onto hers.

It’s not a kiss; it’s a claiming. Hard, demanding, fueled by weeks of bubbling tension, days of unrelenting dread, and the terrifying power she’s just wielded over you. Momo doesn’t resist. She meets you. Her lips part instantly, yielding, and then fighting back with equal ferocity. Her hand on your thigh slides higher, fingers digging in possessively. A muffled sound escapes her—not protest, but fierce satisfaction. Her other hand fists in the fabric of your shirt at your back, drawing you impossibly closer.

The controlled precision she embodies shatters in the kiss. It’s all heat and lust and a fierce, competitive edge that mirrors the professional battle raging outside this room. Her body pressed flush against yours is a revelation: strong, relenting, demanding. The softness of her breasts against your chest, the frantic beat of her heart echoing yours, the way her hips tilt instinctively into yours—

The Henderson file is crushed between you. The sleek clock on the desk blinks 7:41 AM. Kazuha is six floors down. Your father’s 72-hour deadline ticks relentlessly. Nothing registers. There’s only the searing warmth of Momo’s mouth, the pressure of her body, and the exhilarating plunge into the abyss you’ve both taken. Control disintegrates. Instinct reigns supreme. 

It feels awfully like losing. Or maybe—just maybe—like the only victory possible in this gilded cage.

The kiss isn't an end. It's a detonation. A seismic shift in the carefully fabricated lines of your professional relationship. Momo doesn't melt; she unravels. The moment your mouth claims hers, the calculated control that defines her shatters like safety glass. 

A sharp, high gasp escapes her, swallowed instantly by your mouth. Her hands, precise instruments of corporate warfare moments ago, become frantic things: one fisting in the hair at your nape with nigh-painful intensity, the other clawing at the fabric of your shirt, dragging you impossibly closer—as if trying to merge your bodies through sheer force.

Her lips are softer than you imagined, yielding then fighting back with a ferocity that matches her professional drive. It’s a battle, a desperate, messy clash of passion. Shared, ragged breaths fog the cool office air. The Henderson file crunches, forgotten beneath your combined weight against the desk. 

You break for air, your foreheads pressed together, breathing frantically like marathon finishers. When you force your eyes open, hers are wide, dark, dilated. The icy pragmatist is gone. In her place is something raw, exposed, needy. A flush paints her cheeks and spills down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her scandalously unbuttoned blouse. Her chest heaves against yours.

"Director," she sighs, the title both a plea and a blasphemy. Her voice is wrecked, thick with something you’ve never heard from Hirai Momo: pure, unadulterated want.

The corporate cage, your father’s ultimatum, the ticking clock–they evaporate in the white-hot furnace of this moment. There’s only Momo, falling apart before you, and a desperate need to unravel her completely.

Your hands, still tangled in her hair, slide down. One palms the curve of her jaw, thumb tracing the frantic pulse beating in her throat. The other drifts lower, skimming the column of her neck, brushing the smooth skin exposed by that single undone button. Her breath hitches; her eyelids flutter.

"Too many layers, Momo," you murmur, your own inflection rough, alien. The corporate veneer sounds putrid in your mouth. You’re operating on pure instinct now. Your fingers find the next button of her now wrinkled white blouse. "This—this isn't efficient."

Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and fathomless. There’s no protest, no coy deflection. Only a silent, breathless fervor. 

Releasing your shirt, her hand covers yours, not impeding, but guiding you. Together, you pop the buttons open. One after another. Each tiny snick freeing itself sounds deafening in the heavy silence. The fabric parts, revealing a tantalizing sliver of smooth, pale skin, the swell of her tits constrained by flattering, expensive lace.

Her breathing grows shallower, faster. Her fingers tighten over yours on the last button, right above the waistband of her skirt. You pause, your thumb brushing the warm skin just above the lace. 

"Momo?" Her name hangs in the air, loaded. It’s seeking permission. Acknowledgment. A final check before the plunge.

The answer is a low whimper, almost lost in the thrum of the climate control. Dipping her head forward, her temple pressing harder against yours. Her hand slides away from yours, falling limply to her side. 

It’s surrender. Explicit. Utter.

"Please." Her voice cracks, ragged and torn from her throat.

That single word unglues you. Your fingers finish the job, freeing the last button, promptly sliding the blouse off her shoulders. It catches momentarily on her elbows before she shrugs, a small, helpless motion, letting it slither down her arms to pool on the expensive carpet at her feet. 

Momo stands before you now in her skirt, heels, and the demure lace bra that suddenly seems impossibly provocative against her exposed skin. Her shoulders are tense, her arms held slightly away from her body, as if unsure what to do with them. The flush has deepened, spreading across her chest. She’s breathtaking. Powerful efficiency stripped bare to trembling vulnerability.

"Look at you," you breathe, thick with awe and a possessiveness that shocks you. Your hands settle on her waist, thumbs stroking the smooth skin just above the waistband of her skirt. She shivers violently under your touch. "All that control—gone."

She doesn't deny it. Her eyes squeeze shut for a second, feeling a tremor running through her. When she opens them, the defiance is gone, superseded by a treacherous admission. "I—I didn't know—" she stammers, small and frail. "I didn't know it could feel like this. Just—touching. Just you—looking."

Her genuine honesty disarms you further. This isn't a calculated act of seduction anymore. This is Momo, fully stripped of her armor, exposed and seeking. The power dynamic has flipped. You’re both adrift in uncharted territory.

Naturally, your gaze drops to her breasts. Beautifully shaped, only constrained by lace cups. The fabric strains slightly with her quick breaths, the peaks visibly hardened beneath. Your thumbs move upwards, tracing the lower curves, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. She gasps, her back arching slightly, pushing her chest instinctively towards your hands.

"Beautiful," you murmur, the word escaping without thought, as you take lease of her divine figure. "Fit. Perfect." 

Your praise seems to affect her more than your touch. A soft moan escapes her lips, her head lolling back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat. The submissive posture, so peculiar on her, is devastatingly erotic.

Your hands slide up, cupping the full weight of her tits through the bra. They fill your palms perfectly, warm and heavy. Squeezing gently, experimentally. She cries out a sharp, choked sound. Her hands fly up, not to push you away, but to clutch at your forearms, her nails digging in slightly through your sleeves.

"Director—please—" 

"Please what, Momo?" You lean in, brushing the shell of her ear, feeling her quiver against you. "Use your words. Tell me what you need." 

It’s a command, gentle but firm, echoing her own earlier demand for instinct.

She whimpers, her hips making a small, involuntary rocking motion against nothing. "The bra. Please. Take it off. I want—I want you to see. To touch me—properly."

The desperation—the unfiltered need—sets off a signal in your head. Never in your life you think her icy demure would dissolve like mush in your grasp. 

Your fingers find the clasp at the back, a simple hook-and-eye. With a practiced flick you didn't know you possessed, it releases. The bra loosens. Sliding the straps down her arms slowly, deliberately, letting the lace peel away from her skin, inch by agonizing inch, before it joins the blouse on the floor.

Momo stands before you, bare from the waist up. The flush spreads down her chest. She makes no move to cover herself. Her eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark, completely in surrender.

"God, Momo—" A deep, held breath escapes your lungs. Your hands rise, hovering for a heartbeat before settling on her warm, silken skin. Your thumbs sweep over her stiff nubs, eliciting another sharp cry from her. "So perfect. Made for this." 

You lean down, your mouth replacing your digit on one taut nipple. The sensation is electric. 

She cries out, a sound ripped from deep within her, her body bowing against you. Her hands fist in your hair, holding you to her, not pushing away. You suckle gently, then with increasing pressure, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tit. Her hips grind against your thigh, seeking friction, her breath coming in wanton, broken gasps. 

You lavish attention on one breast, then the other, alternating between sucking and licking, making her jerk and whine. Her skin feels like hot velvet under your lips and tongue. The taste is intoxicating.

"Yes—oh God—yes—like that—please—more—so good—” 

She’s babbling now, soft, broken phrases lost between moans. Her usual eloquence shattered, replaced by the primal language of need. Tugging her fingers erratically at your belt buckle, her movements strangely uncoordinated. "Need you—need to feel you—all of you—"

Her urgency ignites yours. Straightening yourself, you pull her into another searing kiss, swallowing her whimpers. Regretfully, your hands leave her breasts, sliding down her sides, over the curve of her hips, gripping the hem of her tailored skirt. Hiking it up, bunching the fabric around her waist, exposing her long, toned legs encased in sheer black stockings fastened to a garter belt, and simple matching lace panties, already damp, clinging to her.

A choked groan escapes you. Your hand slides down, palming the heat radiating through the thin lace. She’s alarmingly soaked. Pressing your fingers firmly against her core, she cries out into your mouth, her legs buckling. Only your grip on her hip and the edge of the desk keep her upright. You rub her sensitive entrance through the lace, feeling the aching wetness.

"Please," she gasps, tearing her mouth from yours, her head thrown back. "I need—inside—now."

Her demand shatters the last of your restraint. You fumble with your own belt, button, and zipper, fingers suddenly going clumsy. Your own need is a pounding drumbeat in your veins, a painful throb demanding release. You shove your trousers and boxers down just enough to free your aching cock, thick and straining.

Gripping her hips, you turn her slightly, pressing her back against the solid mahogany desk. Henderson’s merger vulnerabilities scatter to the floor, completely disregarded. You hook your fingers into the sides of her damp panties. 

"Lift," you command, your voice rough.

Momo obeys instantly, raising one leg, then the other, letting you drag the lace down her thighs, over her stockings, eventually falling around her ankles. She kicks them off impatiently. Her hands scramble behind her, glued against the desk surface. Her eyes fixate on your face, glazed with lust as she spreads her legs wide, offering herself. 

Her core glistens, slick and swollen, inviting. The sight of her—bare, flushed, wanton—against the cold corporate backdrop of your desk, is the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. 

Stepping between her spread thighs, you brush your cockhead against her soaked entrance. She gasps, jerking her hips forward mechanically, trying to impale herself.

"Look at me," you growl, holding her hips steady. Her darkened eyes snap to yours, wide and desperate. "Tell me you want it."

"I want it," she gasps without hesitation, spurred by wanton need. "Please—I need you inside me—now—"

The vulgarity coming from Hirai Momo herself is the final detonator. 

With a groan that’s part relief, part triumph, you grip your cock, guide it to her slick core, and push forward in one smooth, relentless thrust.

She screams.

It’s not a cry of pain, but of pure, overwhelming ecstasy. Her head slams back against the edge of your desk monitor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her inner walls clamp down on you instantly, impossibly tight, hot, and silken. The feeling is so intense, so perfect, your vision whites out for a second. You freeze, buried to the hilt, savoring the exquisite pressure and primeval connection.

"Oh fuck—Momo—" you gasp, leaning over her, bracing your hands on the desk on both sides of her hips. "So fucking tight—so perfect—perfect for me—"

She’s panting, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a quiet scream. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, tracking through her perfectly applied makeup. Her hips rock minutely, trying to take you deeper. 

"Move—" she begs, her voice a shattered whisper. "Please—move—please fuck me—"

You draw your cock back slowly, savoring the drag, the way her body clings to you, trying to keep you buried. Then you thrust forward again, hard. She cries out, a high, keening sound that bounces off the aseptic walls. Dictating a punishing pace from the start, there’s no gentle build-up, only the desperate need to claim, to possess, to lose yourself in the heat and friction of her cunt. 

The desk creaks ominously under the force of your thrusts. Papers cascade to the floor. As far as you’re concerned, the office is on break.

The sounds are obscene: the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, her ragged cries, your own guttural groans, the rhythmic creak of the protesting wood. It forms a chaotic symphony that’s music to your ears. You don’t care. Let security hear. Let the whole fucking building know. Right now, there’s only this. Only Momo, spread open beneath you, taking everything you give, her professional facade shattered by primal need.

"You feel incredible," you grunt, pounding into her relentlessly, watching her breasts bounce in hypnotic waves. "So fucking tight—taking me so well—such a perfect body, fuck—" Your praise spills out, fervent and unchained, your loins set ablaze by the sight of her submission, the feel of her clench on you. "Made for this—made for my cock—"

Momo whimpers, her hands clawing at your shirt, tearing buttons in desperation. Her legs wrap around your hips, pulling you deeper with each thrust. Thrashing her head from side to side on the desk’s surface, her hair loosens from its tight knot, spilling around her in a dark halo. "Don't stop—fuck me—use me!"

Her words, her utter abandon, fuel your frenzy. You fuck her relentlessly, each thrust deeper and harder, driven by a hunger that borders on excess. Leaning down, you capture a taut nipple in your mouth again, sucking hard as you hammer into her. She screams, her body bowing off the desk, her pussy walls spasming on your cock. 

Releasing her breast, your mouth finds hers again in a messy kiss. You taste blood; hers or yours, you don’t know, nor do you care.

One hand grips her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her steady against your assault. The other slides down, finding the slick, swollen nub above where you’re joined. You rub her clit in tight, fast circles. Her reaction is instantaneous, explosive.

"Oh God—fuck—fuck yes—that’s it—right there!” she shrieks, her voice raw, breaking. “You’ll make me—oh fuck—I’m gonna—”

You feel a tectonic shift building beneath you. Her breathing fractures into sharp, whistling gasps that fog the cold office air, and her fingernails carve deeply into your shoulders as her back arches off the mahogany, suspending her body in a trembling bridge between your hips and the desk. A high-pitched whine escapes her throat, climbing in pitch as her thighs wrap harshly around your waist, her slick walls tensing up in incremental waves that pull you deeper with each contraction. The relentless friction coiling her body tighter, tighter, until she’s trembling on the knife-edge of surrender, every nerve alight and begging for release.

Then, in a moment of weakness, she crumbles.

“I’m cumming!”

A guttural scream rips from her lungs, bouncing off the sterile walls. Her eyes roll back, whites stark against smudged mascara. Her cunt convulses around you—not merely a clamp, but a vise of pulsating, silken heat, rhythmic spasms, milking your shaft with such violent intensity that steals your breath. Her body shudders beneath yours, rushing a torrential wave of slick that drenches your cock, your thighs, the desk—everything. All signed in your name.

The sight, the feel of her coming apart on your cock, the raw, animalistic sounds she makes—it’s your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your own gut snaps.

With a groan that feels ripped directly from your soul, you bury yourself to the hilt one final time and let go. Heat floods her depths, pulsing in sync with the beating of your heart. Collapsing forward over her, bracing your weight on your forearms on the desk, your temple pressed against her sweat-slicked shoulder, gasping for air. Your hips jerk involuntarily with the last few spurts, emptying yourself deep inside her trembling body.

“Yes—all of it—give me all of it—” she whines, breathing against your skin, holding you in a tight embrace as her cunt drains you of every drop. “So warm—”

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the ragged symphony of your breathing again. The air reeks of sex, sweat, and expensive perfume. Momo lies beneath you, her chest heaving, her eyes slammed shut, tear tracks cutting through the ruin of her makeup. Legs still hooked loosely around your hips, her pussy giving faint, involuntary flutters around your softening cock.

Slowly, carefully, you pull out. A soft whimper escapes her at the loss. You straighten up, looking down at the wreckage of the once formidable Momo: bare-breasted, skirt rucked up around her waist, hair frazzled, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, your cum glinting between her thighs, pooling on the polished mahogany of your desk. It’s a tableau of utter debauchery against the backdrop of power—your father’s cold portrait seeming to watch from the wall.

She opens her eyes. Dazed, unfocused, but they find yours. There’s no immediate shame nor regret. Just a deep, satiated exhaustion, and something else: a profound vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. Slowly, she unwinds her legs from your waist, letting them fall to the floor limp. She makes a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down, but her hands tremble too much, still reeling in the aftermath of her orgasm.

Reaching down, you gently tug the fabric back into place over her hips. A tender gesture after all the promiscuity. You retrieve her discarded clothes off the floor, holding them out, not offering to help her redress, merely presenting them. Momo stares at them for a prolonged moment, then shakily, pushes herself up to sit on the edge of the desk. Averting her gaze as she takes the bra, fumbling to clasp it behind her back. Her movements are clumsy, devoid of their usual precision. The blouse comes next. She buttons it slowly, meticulously, starting from the top, her fingers trembling on each pearl button. The armor is being reassembled, piece by fragile piece.

Silence lingers, thick and awkward now, the heat of passion rapidly cooling into the chill of reality. Quickly you pull up your own trousers, suddenly feeling exposed and strangely guilty. The enormity of your actions—exploiting the power dynamic, crossing an irrevocable line, throwing all caution to the wind—sets in. You’ve complicated an impossible choice beyond measure. 

You lean back against the desk beside her, avoiding contact, staring out at the indifferent cityscape.

Momo completes the last button. She smooths the front of her blouse, a futile attempt at erasing the wrinkles. She runs trembling fingers through her ruined hair, trying to tame it. She won’t look at you. The quiet void is suffocating.

"The Henderson—critical path analysis—" She finally speaks, her voice a hoarse murmur, devoid of its usual authority. Clearing her throat, the crack in her inflection painfully loud, borderline grating. It’s the sound of uncertainty. "Kazuha—she will expect—my notes—" 

The sentence trails off. She’s trying to re-enter the corporate line, but the words ring hollow.

“I know,” you finish, still unable to face her. Thinking straight seems impossible after what has transpired. “I trust that you will cooperate on the matter. Check up on Kazuha to see how she’s doing.”

“Of course, Director,” is her reply, slowly picking up the strewn papers off the floor. Every click of her heels feels like a piercing arrow to your heart, capped off by the echoed crash of the door behind, signaling Momo’s departure, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

—————

The sterile chill of the office feels especially brittle after Momo’s exit, the air still thick with the ghosts of sweat, sex, and her expensive, spicy perfume. You stare at the abstract painting, the angry reds and cold blues now looking like mocking witnesses. The Henderson file lies scattered on the floor, a casualty of your reckless abandon. 

You methodically gather the papers, the mundane task a desperate attempt to reassemble your own shattered composure. Your fingers brush a damp spot on the mahogany desk, and you flinch, hastily wiping it with your sleeve.

Evidence. The word echoes, sharp and accusatory.

The sleek clock reads 9:45 AM. Kazuha is still down on Floor 12, tangled in Manager Miyawaki’s bureaucratic web. Momo—Momo is out there, reassembling her armor. The memory of her bare skin, her shattered control, the taste of her surrender, floods back with paralyzing intensity. Guilt, sharp and corrosive, wars with the lingering, illicit thrill. You’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed, weaponized desire in a game already rigged with cruelty. While Kazuha—brilliant, competitive Kazuha—is still playing by the rules she thinks exist.

Lunchtime approaches, a smaller, inconsequential ticking clock within the larger 72-hour countdown. You need space. You need control—or at least the illusion of it. The plan hatched in the desperate quiet after Momo left solidifies: a way to test Kazuha, to observe her away from Momo’s shadow, and yes, a way to pull her into the private orbit Momo had violently occupied.

A sharp rap on the door precedes Kazuha’s entrance. She strides in, tablet held aloft in her grasp like a trophy, her tailored pantsuit pristine, her smile bright and focused, though her eyes hold a flicker of something harder beneath the surface. Manager Miyawaki’s insights, it seems, were extracted as promised.

"Director! Pain points cataloged and cross-referenced with Logistics data. Sakura-san’s concerns were—” she pauses, slightly laughing in remembrance, a break in character, “—retrospective, as predicted, but I correlated them with real-time shipment logs. Three actionable bottlenecks identified." 

Kazuha’s voice is crisp, efficient, radiating competence. She deposits a neatly summarized report on your now-clear desk, right where the Henderson file had been crushed. Her gaze seemingly lingers for a fraction on the polished wood; you can’t really tell.

"Excellent, Kazuha," you manage, your voice thankfully steady. You gesture vaguely towards the report. "Precisely the ground truth we needed." The phrase feels like coal in your mouth. "Just in time for lunch."

Momo then appears silently in the doorway Kazuha left open. Her blouse is impeccably rebuttoned, her hair re-secured in its tight knot, her makeup flawlessly reapplied. Only the faintest trace of redness around her eyes, easily played off as fatigue, betrays the morning’s cataclysm. Her posture is ramrod straight, her expression the familiar mask of neutral professionalism. Yet, the air crackles when she steps inside. An invisible tension wire strung taut between the three of you. 

Her eyes meet yours for a fleeting millisecond—a dark, unreadable flash—before shifting to Kazuha.

"Director," Momo states, her voice smooth, devoid of any telltale rasp. "Your usual reservation at Sora is confirmed for 12:00 PM. Shall I have your documents prepared for the 2 PM call with Frankfurt?" Her efficiency is terrifying, a seamless return to form that feels almost inhuman.

This is your moment. The pivot. 

"Actually, Momo," you say, keeping your tone casual, dismissive even. "Take your break. Full hour. You’ve earned it after—everything this morning." 

You wave a hand vaguely, encompassing the Henderson chaos she helped clean, the emotional fallout she endured. "Go. Relax. Get some air."

Momo’s glare sharpens, laser-focused on you. A beat of silence hangs, heavy with unspoken questions. She’s still a cut above everyone else when it comes to discernment. This kind gesture raises some huge red flags. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Sir, the Frankfurt prep—"

"Can wait," you interrupt, firmer now. "Consider it an order. A long lunch. My treat." You force a smile that feels flimsy. "You look like you could use it."

Her dark eyes hold yours, a silent battle waged in the space between breaths. She sees the dismissal for what it is: exclusion. But the professional in her, the survivor, wins. She gives a single, precise nod. "Understood, Director. Thank you." 

She turns on her heel, her movements economical, and walks out, closing the door behind her with a soft, definitive click.

The silence she leaves is immediate, but charged. You and Kazuha stand frozen for a moment, listening. The faint click of Momo’s heels recedes down the corridor towards the elevators. You count the seconds in your head, straining your ears. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. No lingering presence, no telltale shuffle beyond the heavy oak.

"Check," you murmur, directing your eye at the door.

Kazuha doesn’t hesitate. With a fluid, silent movement, she’s at the door. She doesn’t open it. Instead, she presses her ear against the polished wood, closing her eyes in concentration. Another five seconds. Ten. She pulls back, shaking her head minutely. "Clear, Director. The corridor’s empty. Elevator bank chime just sounded. Going down."

Relief washes over you, cold and sharp, followed immediately by a fresh wave of guilt. The stage is set. You gesture towards the plush visitor chairs facing your desk. "Sit, Kazuha. Quick chat about this afternoon before you grab your own lunch."

She obeys, perching on the edge of the chair, her posture alert, tablet resting on her lap. Her bright eyes are fixed on you, curious, attentive. The competitive spark is there, banked but ready. She’s waiting for the next challenge.

You lean back in your chair, the expensive leather creaking. "Frankfurt call is straightforward. But later—4 PM. We have that video conference with Davies from the London office. Pitching the restructured East Asian logistics model. It’s high visibility. Davies reports directly to the board. A good impression here—" you bring emphasis on its significance, letting the ramifications dangle. “—matters. For the EA position.”

Kazuha’s spine straightens almost imperceptibly. Her fingers tighten slightly on the tablet. "Understood, Director. I have the revised model loaded and the key talking points memorized. I can brief you fully after lunch."

"That’s exactly it," is your reply, leaning forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. Your gaze locks onto hers. "I want you to lead the presentation, Kazuha. The core pitch. Handle Davies’s questions directly."

Her eyes widen. A flicker of surprise, then pure, unfettered ambition ignites within them. "Me, sir? Lead the pitch?" The fire blazes. This is the ultimate test, the chance to showcase her value directly, decisively.

"Correct. You," you confirm, nodding. "Your grasp of the human element, the way you articulate complex ideas—it’s precisely what this pitch needs. Momo’s brilliance is in the structure, the numbers. Yours? It’s in the sell. I need Davies convinced, not just informed. And I need to see you operate under that kind of pressure." 

‘I need to see if you can outperform her when it counts,’ is what you really meant. The unspoken thought hangs between you.

She absorbs the prospect, her mind racing. You can almost see the calculations flashing behind her eyes: the risk, the reward, the sheer, glorious opportunity to eclipse Momo in a high-stakes arena. A slow, determined smile spreads across her face, sharp and opportunistic. The challenge is eagerly accepted. "Consider it done, Director. I won’t disappoint." 

"Good," you say, a plan unfolding behind her back. "We’ll need to finalize the flow, anticipate his pushback. Which is why—" You pause, letting the moment build. "I want you to accompany me to lunch. Now. We can strategize properly over sushi. My treat. Consider it a working session." 

Kazuha’s smile doesn’t falter, but her gaze sharpens, becoming intensely analytical. She scans your face, then lets her eyes flicker subtly around the room. The meticulously cleared desk, the faint, lingering scent still detectable beneath the climate control’s sterile hum. Her nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Her gaze drifts towards the polished surface of the mahogany desk, then snaps back to yours. A knowing glint enters her bright eyes, a flicker of something that isn’t surprise, but of recognition. 

"The air in here feels different, Director," she remarks, her tone deceptively light. Playful even. Her head tilts slightly, a spirited challenge in the gesture. "Stuffy? Or—perhaps something else lingered after Momo-san’s intensive briefing session this morning?" 

The emphasis on 'intensive' is delicate, pointed. Her beam remains bright, but there’s an edge to it now, a daring inquiry. She’s sniffed out the aftermath, the scent of transgression clinging to the leather and wood. And she’s letting you know she’s onto you.

Your pulse stutters. She’s far more observant, far more dangerous, than you gave her credit for. This is more than ambition; it’s strategic awareness. She sees the board, understands the pieces in play, including the volatile new variable introduced this morning, and she’s stepping onto the field anyway.

You force a perfunctory wave, a veil of nonchalance sliding into place, though your gut churns within. "Probably the climate control acting up again. Or maybe Momo spilled some of that strong coffee she brewed." 

Standing up, you reach for your coat, a clear signal to get moving. "Nothing to worry about. Come on. That fatty tuna won’t wait forever. We have a pitch to dominate." 

You meet her glare head-on, this unspoken game intensifying. Lunch isn’t merely about strategy anymore. It’s the next move in a high-stakes dance where Kazuha, armed with suspicion and ambition, is now fully—worryingly—in play. 

The clock ticks. The choice looms ever closer. And the scent of betrayal hangs heavy in the air she so pointedly noticed.

—————

The glossy, minimalist interior of Sora feels jarringly serene compared to the charged atmosphere of the office. The low murmur of other diners, the delicate clink of chopsticks, the subtle scent of wasabi and soy—it should be soothing. Instead, it feels like the calm before another storm. Sitting opposite Kazuha at a discreet corner table, plates of exquisite fatty tuna, uni, and delicate maki rolls remain mostly untouched between you.

Kazuha is in her element, her tablet propped beside her bento box, fingers tracing animatedly over bullet points on the screen. Her tailored pantsuit seems to hum with her focused energy. Her voice is crisp, confident, a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability Momo displayed just hours ago. "And Davies will likely push back on the projected savings from the regional hub consolidation. That’s where we pivot to the tangible efficiency gains in the last-mile delivery network. The data from the Busan pilot is irrefutable. We leverage that, emphasize the scalability—"

But you’re not hearing the words. Not really. Your attention is fixated on her. The way the sunlight catches the subtle gold highlights in her dark hair, pulled back in a sleek, efficient ponytail. The sharp, intelligent line of her jaw, softened slightly when she smiles at a point she’s making. The determined intensity in her bright eyes, flickering between the screen and your face. The surprising grace of her hands as they gesture. She’s always been competent, fiercely so, but now, in this detached observation, a different truth strikes you: She’s stunning. Not in a corporate way, but possessively, disarmingly pretty. 

The tailored suit doesn’t hide the graceful line of her neck, the subtle curve hinted beneath the structured fabric. It’s a revelation that hits with unexpected force, twisting the guilt about Momo into something more complex, more dangerous. The plan to isolate her, to test her, curdles into a different, more primal urge. 

Take her. Now. Before the meeting. Somewhere private. Claim her like you claimed Momo. Level the playing field in the most visceral way possible.

"—and that’s when we introduce the contingency mitigation matrix," Kazuha continues, tapping the screen decisively. She looks up, expecting some kind of confirmation, or at least engagement. Her eyes meet yours, and she pauses. The focused intensity falters, replaced by a flitter of confusion, then sharp assessment. 

"Director?" Her voice cuts through your reverie. "Are you following? You seem—distant. Jet lag hitting harder than usual?"

The question is professional, but her gaze is scrutinizing, dissecting your expression.

You jerk slightly, forcing a deep swallow of ice water that does nothing to cool the sudden heat flooding your veins. "Hmm? No, no jet lag. Just—absorbing the strategy. Davies is a shark. Your approach is sound." 

The words feel hollow, inadequate. You motion vaguely at your own nearly full plate. "Dig in. The tuna’s exceptional today."

Kazuha doesn’t give her food a glance. Her eyes narrow fractionally, that unnerving perceptiveness locking onto you. Her smile stays, but it’s tighter now, less genuine. "The tuna is exceptional, Director. Or so I assume. You’ve barely touched yours."

She leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, her voice dropping, losing its polished presentation cadence, becoming more intimate, more dangerous. "In fact, you’ve barely touched anything since we sat down. Not the strategy. Not the food." Her gaze flicks pointedly to your untouched sushi, then back to your face, holding yours with peturbing directness. "Your mind seems—preoccupied. Elsewhere. Planning the next move, perhaps?"

You try to deflect, reaching for your chopsticks with feigned nonchalance. "Just a lot on my plate, Kazuha. The promotion. The restructuring. The choice." 

Picking up a piece of tuna, it feels heavy and unappetizing. You end up setting it back down.

A beat of silence stretches, thick with the unspoken tension thrumming between you. Kazuha observes you, her head tilted, like a predator assessing its prey. She takes a deliberate sip of tea, placing the cup down with precise softness. When she speaks again, her voice is a low murmur, barely audible over the ambient restaurant sounds, yet it slices through you like a scalpel.

"Director," she begins, her tone deceptively casual, almost conversational. "About this morning. When you sent me down to Procurement." She pauses, letting the implication hang. Her eyes don't waver. "Manager Miyawaki was, as expected, buried in retrospective data. It took considerable effort to extract anything resembling a ground truth pain point." 

Another drawn out pause. The air between you grows thick, suffocating. Her finger traces the rim of her teacup. "It also gave me ample time to think. To—observe the variables."

Your blood runs cold. The chopstick slips from your fingers, clattering softly on the porcelain plate. The carefully constructed facade crumbles. You stare at her, unable to speak, the guilt and apprehension you’d been wrestling with now a crushing weight you can’t bear.

Kazuha continues, her voice still low, steady, but with an undercurrent of something hard. "The air in your office when I returned—it had changed. A distinct scent bubbling underneath the coffee and the climate control. Expensive perfume. Floral. Spicy. Her signature scent. And something else—muskier. More primal." She meets your dropping gaze squarely, as if pinning you down. "And the desk, Director. The mahogany near where you lean? It had a different sheen. Smudged. As if something had been hastily wiped away."

She leans forward even further, her voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "You dismissed Momo-san for lunch immediately after. Ordered her to take a full hour. Out of character generosity, especially with the Frankfurt prep looming. Then you ushered me in, told me to check if the corridor was clear—like you were afraid she might be listening." 

A faint, knowing smile touches her lips, devoid of its natural warmth. "The pieces weren't hard to assemble, Director. You sent me away on a fool's errand so you could be alone with her. And you used that time. Intimately."

The indictment hangs in the air, brutal in its clarity. The sushi restaurant fades away; all you see is Kazuha’s sharp, beautiful face, her eyes holding yours with a terrifying blend of accusation and pinpoint calculation. Shame floods you, hot and immediate. 

"Kazuha—" you stammer, your voice rough. "I—I don't know what to say. It was—complicated. A moment of—weakness. Profoundly unprofessional. I’m sor—"

She cuts you off with a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of her head and the lift of her arm, as if threatening to slap you. 

"Don't." The word is quiet but firm. "Don't apologize for the act, Director. Or for wanting her." 

Her glare intensifies. "I saw the way you looked at her afterward, when she walked out. And I see the way you’re looking at me now." She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. "The guilt is pointless. The apology, unnecessary. I knew why you were sending me to Procurement the moment you gave the command. It’s among the slowest, most bureaucratic departments. A deliberate delay. A transparent ploy."

Your breath hitches. "You knew? And you went anyway?"

"Of course." Kazuha shrugs. A light, elegant motion. "Loyalty. Obedience. And—curiosity. To see what you would do. How far you would go." She leans back slightly, her posture relaxing infinitesimally, yet her eyes remain laser-focused. "I don't mind, Director. Truly. The game changed the moment the CEO issued his ultimatum. Alliances shift. Strategies evolve. Desires—surface." Her stare drops to your mouth for a fleeting second, then right back up. "What I do mind—is impartiality. An uneven playing field."

She pauses, letting the silence build again, her meaning crystal clear. She picks up her chopsticks, selects a perfect piece of tuna, and places it delicately in her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. The casualness of the act is unnerving.

"Impartiality?" you echo, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Kazuha swallows, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Momo-san," she states bluntly, "leveraged a private moment. She gained insight. Influence. Intimacy," she emphasizes the last word, "She has data I do not possess. An advantage in this—extended performance review." 

A shade of her earlier, predatory smile returns. "That puts me at a distinct disadvantage, wouldn't you agree, Director? Especially when the criteria seem to be expanding beyond quarterly reports and merger timelines."

The implication is breathtaking in its audacity. She’s not angry about the betrayal; she’s strategizing. Assessing the context. Demanding parity. 

Your guilt curdles, replaced by a surge of incredulous heat. "Are you suggesting that—" you start, unable to fully voice it.

"That you level the field," Kazuha finishes smoothly, dropping back to that intimate murmur. "That we share a similar moment. Privately. Before the Davies call." 

Her gaze is unwavering, challenging, yet beneath the steel, there’s a flicker of something else: anticipation. Desire. 

"Consider it—due diligence. A necessary data point for your evaluation. To ensure your decision is based on a complete, unbiased assessment of all relevant competencies."

She leans forward again, the scent of her own perfume—lighter, fresher than Momo’s—like citrus and green tea, mingling with the soy and wasabi. "You look at me like you want it too, Director. Like you’ve wanted it. Perhaps longer than you even realized." Her hand rests on the table, inches from yours. No contact, but the proximity is charged with high tension. "I saw it this morning, even before I put the pieces together. That look—it wasn't just about the Henderson file."

She’s right. The hunger you felt looking at her, the plan forming even as she spoke about Davies—it wasn’t merely about manipulating the competition. It was her. Her fierce intelligence, her unexpected beauty, the dangerous edge beneath the polished professionalism. The memory of Momo’s surrender is suddenly overlaid with the visceral image of Kazuha yielding in a different way, on different terms.

The remaining pretense evaporates. The corporate veneer, the shame, the fear of consequences—it all shrivels under the furnace of her proposition and your own roaring desire. You meet her challenging gaze, the tension coiling tighter than any merger negotiation.

"Yes," you say, the word rough, but definitive. "I have. Wanted it. Wanted you." 

You don't look away; she needs to soak in every word. The admission feels like shedding a heavy layer of skin. "Since long before today. Since before the ultimatum." 

Kazuha’s smile blooms, not predatory, but triumphant. Satisfied. A hunter who’s cornered her quarry and found it willingly compliant.

"We have," she calculates swiftly, glancing at the trim watch on her wrist, "approximately ninety minutes before we need to be back for final prep. The Imperial Heights is three blocks away. Their penthouse suites offer exceptional—discretion. And efficiency." She raises an eyebrow, the challenge implicit. "Shall I make the reservation, Director? Or would you prefer to handle the logistics?"

The casual mention of the luxury hotel, the cool efficiency with which she transitions from blackmail to booking, is dizzying. She’s orchestrated this. Planned the move while you were still lost in lustful fantasies. The power dynamic shifts again, leaving you animated and slightly spellbound.

"Do it," you instruct, your voice low, charged. You push your untouched plate away, appetite replaced by a different, ravenous hunger. "Discretion is paramount." 

“Consider it handled." Kazuha nods, already pulling out her phone, her fingers flying over the screen with rehearsed speed. She doesn't bother to look up as she speaks. "A suite. Ninety minutes. Paid in cash under a corporate discretionary code I have access to. Untraceable." She finishes the transaction, slips the phone back into her coat pocket, and looks up, her eyes gleaming. "Done. We leave in five minutes. Finish your water, Director. You’ll need your strength."

She picks up her chopsticks again, selects another piece of tuna, and eats it with deliberate slowness, watching you over the rim of her water glass. The casual act is infused with potent, deliberate sensuality. Lunch is officially over. The next phase of the performance review has begun. And as you watch Kazuha, her beauty refined by her ruthless intellect and audacious demand, you understand the true cost of leveling the field. You’re not simply evaluating them anymore; they’re evaluating you. 

The stakes have been raised exponentially higher now. The clock is ticking down to the Davies meeting, while all you can think about is the taste of her skin and the terrifying power play that’s about to unfold in a penthouse suite three blocks away.

—————

The heavy door of the suite clicks shut behind you, the sound swallowed instantly by plush silence and the muffled roar of the city 14 floors below. Discretion, indeed.

Before the latch fully settles, Kazuha is all over you. Her mouth crashes against yours with none of Momo’s initial, calculated unraveling. This is fire and fury, a competitive hunger channeled into pure, claiming possession. Her fingers knot in your hair, pulling your head down to meet her demanding kiss. Your hands, acting on the frantic instinct she ignited over untouched sushi, grab her hips, pulling her flush against you. You fumble for the jacket buttons. The tailored lines of her pantsuit feel like an insulting barrier. 

She breaks the kiss with a gasp that’s half-laugh, half-challenge, her eyes blazing inches from yours. "Logistics, Director," she breathes, already shrugging out of the jacket before you can finish. It hits the marble floor with a soft thud. "Efficiency." Her fingers fly to the buttons of her crisp white blouse, popping them open with ruthless speed, revealing a simple black lace bra beneath. "No time for finesse."

Her urgency is contagious, a match to the aching heat coiling in your gut. You kiss her again, hard, your hands sliding under the open blouse, palms skimming the warm, smooth skin of her back, finding the clasp of her bra. She arches into the touch, a low moan vibrating against your lips as the lace gives way. The blouse follows the jacket, pooling around her feet as she pushes you back, her strength surprising.

Stumbling back your knees collide with the edge of the massive king bed. You fall onto the cool, expensive duvet. Kazuha follows you down, straddling your hips, her knees pinning your thighs. The black lace cups hang loose, barely containing the swell of her tits. Her hair, freed from its sleek ponytail, frames her face in dark, tousled waves. Her eyes, bright and fierce, hold yours captive.

"No," she commands, placing a hand flat on your chest when you try to sit up. "Stay. Answer."

The abrupt shift is startling. The heat radiating from her, the pressure of her body on yours, clashes violently with the ice in her gaze. This penthouse suite feels suddenly claustrophobic.

"You sent me away," she states, the words precise, cutting. "You cleared the field. You were alone with her." Her free hand trails down, not seductively, but inquisitively, tracing the line of your jaw, then your throat. The touch burns through your skin. "What did you do with Momo, Director? In my office? On my desk?"

The possessiveness in ‘my desk’ is a razor cut. Guilt and lust war within you, a deadly combination. You can’t lie. Not under that gaze. Not with the phantom scent of Momo’s skin still clinging to your memory, now overlain by Kazuha’s citrus-green tea perfume.

"Her blouse," you rasp, your voice thick. Your hands hover at her waist, desperate to touch, terrified to move. "The buttons. I—undid them." The confession feels ripped out, like a truth serum injected in your veins. "Slowly."

Kazuha’s eyes narrow. Her thumb presses against your pulse point, feeling its frantic hammering, delivering its own brand of punishment. "And?"

"Her skin," You swallow hard. The image is seared onto your retinas. "Hot. Smooth. She let me see." Your gaze flickers involuntarily to Kazuha’s own exposed skin, the black lace a stark contrast against pale flesh. "I touched her. Touched her tits. Cupped them. Squeezed."

An unreadable flicker passes through Kazuha’s eyes. Not of jealousy, but intense, analytical focus. "Describe them," she demands, her voice low, dangerous. "Fit? Perfect? Made for it?" She throws your own likely praise back at you like a weapon.

"Yes," you admit, the concession a heavy groan. The memory surges, vivid and punishing. "Full. Heavy. Perfect weight. Responsive." Your hands twitch on her hips. "I—I tasted them. Sucked. Licked. She cried out. Begged."

Kazuha leans down, her hair brushing your face. Her breath ghosts hot against your ear. "And then? Did you fuck her, Director? On the mahogany? Like the animal you felt like?" The crudeness coming from her is electrifying. 

"Yes," you gasp, nodding with light discomfort. The admission unleashes a torrent of confessed sins. "Hard. Fast. Against the desk. She screamed. Clawed at me. Took everything. Said—things. Begged for it. Begged for—me.” 

The words continue to tumble out, raw and unfiltered, painting a brutal, beautiful picture of Momo’s surrender. "She was—tight. So fucking tight. Wet. Hot. I came inside her—deep. Felt her milk me dry."

Silence hangs, thick and charged. Kazuha remains poised atop you, her expression inscrutable. Her breathing is slightly faster, her cheeks seared and flushed, but her gaze remains fiercely analytical, dissecting your confession, measuring it against—something. The competitive fire burns hotter than lust.

"Tight," she echoes finally, a thoughtful murmur. Her hand leaves your chest, drifting up to trace her own collarbone, then down, skimming the edge of the loose black lace covering her left breast. A deliberate, provocative movement. "Fit body. Of course she does. Military precision in everything, including her gym routine." 

A hint of something resembling respect colors her tone, quickly overshadowed by a sharper edge. She meets your eyes once more, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "I’m not built like that, Director. Not—voluptuous."

Her grin deepens, turning wicked. "But I’m not weak." 

With a fluid, decisive motion, she reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, the lace falling away. "I spend time at the gym too." 

Pulling the cups down slowly, revealing small, shapely breasts, pert and perfectly shaped, tipped with dusky pink nipples already firm from the adrenaline and the cool air. "Just—differently."

Still mounting you, Kazuha shifts her weight, reaching for the fastening of her tailored pants. The zipper hisses down, its sound like a sword being drawn. She lifts her hips, wriggling, pushing the expensive fabric down over her hips, revealing matching black lace panties, then further, down her thighs. Kicking them off, the pants join the growing pile of discarded armor on the bedroom floor.

"Efficiency," she repeats, her voice husky now, laced with a challenge you can’t refuse. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of her panties, she demands your every attention. Her eyes meet with yours, holding you prisoner. "No time for finesse, remember?"

Kazuha pushes the lace down in a single smooth motion, baring her cunt at the apex of her slender, toned thighs. She lifts her knees, pulling the panties down her legs, over her ankles, and flicks them aside with a toe.

Then she rises, standing tall beside the bed, bathed in the cool afternoon light filtering through the penthouse windows. Completely bare. Utterly exposed. And utterly in command.

"Look," she commands, her voice low and steady. "Look at me, Director. Look at what I offer."

And you do. You drink her up, take in her seraphic physique with stunned awe. Where Momo was lush curves and surrendered strength, Kazuha is a study in lean, tensile power. Her body is a sculptor’s dream of slender lines and defined muscle—the subtle ridges of her abdomen, the elegant sweep of her collarbones, the firm, compact roundness of her breasts, the long, graceful line of her legs honed by whatever disciplined routine she follows. The light catches the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, highlighting the definition in her shoulders, the tautness of her thighs. 

She’s not fragile; she’s a honed blade–beautiful and dangerous.

The silence stretches. Thick with the weight of her audacious display and the raw vulnerability beneath her defiance. She holds your gaze, unflinching, letting you see every inch, every contour. This isn’t an offer; it’s a statement. An evaluation on her own terms. 

The gilded cage of the office feels galaxies away. Here, in this sterile luxury suite, with 70 minutes ticking down to a high-stakes presentation, the only performance review that matters is happening right now, on Kazuha’s fiercely claimed stage.

“Since you’ve got those grubby hands on her tits and pussy,” she chirps, crouching forward, taking firm lease of your wrinkled shirt. Assessing the damage, further adding to the laundry list of incriminating evidence. Unbuttoning them in quick succession, she parts your chest, tossing the piece of clothing to the side. “Can’t look so ruined for the meeting later, can we?”

You shake your head in agreement, firmly locked up in Kazuha’s control.

Her flexibility and adaptability had been one of her strongest assets. Never did you think it applied in the literal sense too.

Stretching her toned legs close to parallel ends of the bed, she hovers atop your body, helpless and vulnerable beneath her. Hovering up your chest, her pussy finds itself inches away from your face. Throbbing, twitching, wanting. 

Dangerously drenched and wet, like the thought of what’s to come arouses her. It leaves you speechless.

“Did ballet in my youth,” she explains, looking down, despite your eyes not directly in view. Ignoring the fact that your attention is fixated on her quivering pussy, your tongue watering. “Still do in my spare time, actually.”

Her words hang in the cool air, charged and undeniable. Kazuha’s lithe form hovers above you, a study in controlled power and deliberate exposure. The scent of her slick floods your senses even before making contact. Her thighs, taut with the strain of her ballet-honed flexibility, frame the glistening apex of her cunt, like a sacred offering demanding worship. You’re pinned, not only by her knees bracketing your ribs, but also by the fierce, analytical fire in her eyes. This isn’t surrender; it’s a meticulously staged evaluation.

She descends.

Not with crushing weight, but with deliberate, unhurried pressure. The first touch is a searing brand: the hot, swollen flesh of her outer lips pressing against your mouth, smearing your lips with her slick. It’s an electric shock, the taste bursting across your tongue: tangy salt, underlying sweetness, uniquely her. 

A choked gasp escapes you, muffled instantly by her flesh. Above you, Kazuha lets out a low, shuddering sigh, her head tipping back, eyes momentarily fluttering shut before snapping back open, fixing on yours with laser focus. 

Her hand fists in your hair, not painfully, but possessively, anchoring you. "Taste it, Director," she breathes, thick but controlled. "Taste what you sent me away for. Taste what I have."

The invitation fuels your hunger. You obey. Instinct takes over, guided by the saccharine scent and her demanding grip. Your tongue flicks out, tentative at first, tracing the slick seam of her. A jolt runs through her, a full-body tremble that vibrates against your face. A sharp, bitten-off whimper escapes her lips.

"More," she commands, the word strained. Her hips make a minute, involuntary grind against your mouth.

You delve deeper. Your tongue parts her folds, seeking the source of that intoxicating wetness. Finding her entrance, swollen and yielding, and circling it slowly, savoring the silken texture, the way her inner muscles flutter in response. Her grip on your hair tightens, a silent demand for pressure. Press the flat of your tongue firmly against her opening, lapping at the gathered nectar. The taste intensifies, flooding your senses—musky, complex, utterly consuming. Her thighs clamp tighter around your head, a velvet vise.

"Yes—" she hisses, the form in her voice cracking. "Like that—fuck—just like that—"

You explore even further, mapping her terrain with your tongue. You find the hard, eager nub of her clit, swollen and pulsing like a trapped heartbeat. A feather-light flick across it, flat and purposeful.

Kazuha jolts. A ragged cry tears from her throat, echoing in the sterile luxury of the suite. Her back arches violently off your chest, her body suspended in a trembling arc. "God! Right—there—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—"

Encouraged, emboldened by the shattering of her composure, you focus your assault. You circle her clit with firm, insistent strokes of your tongue, mimicking the relentless pace she demands in the boardroom. Suckling gently first, then harder, drawing the sensitive bud between your lips. Her cries escalate, fracturing into high, keening whines. Her free hand scrabbles against the duvet, wrestling the fabric. Her hips begin to rock in desperate, erratic little rounds against your mouth, riding your tongue, seeking more friction, deeper contact.

The slow burn ignites into a wildfire. Her scent, her taste, the desperate sounds she makes—it’s an intoxicating feedback loop. You bury your face deeper, pressing your nose deeper against the wiry curls at the base of her mound, breathing her in. Your tongue plunges into her wet core, fucking her shallowly, before withdrawing to lavish attention back on her clit, alternating your rhythm, keeping her teetered on the edge. You feel her tightening around the tip of your tongue when you delve inside, a prelude to the convulsions you know are coming.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—I can’t—" she babbles, her words dissolving into incoherent whimpers. Her thighs are trembling violently now, slick with sweat and her own arousal where they press harshly against your cheeks. Her breath comes in short, sharp intervals. "You’re—gonna make me—I’m gonna—"

She doesn’t finish her sentence. The seismic shift beneath your mouth is unmistakable. 

Kazuha’s entire body locks up, rigid as a bowstring pulled taut. A guttural, animalistic groan rips from her chest, raw and primal. Her cunt clenches spasmodically around your probing tongue, a pulsing, rhythmic vise. A hot flood of slick gushes against your lips, chin, and cheeks—her release, copious and uncontrollable, drenching you in her essence. 

It tastes like victory and salt and pure, unadulterated Kazuha.

The orgasm rolls through her in violent waves. Her hips buck wildly against your face, grinding down, seeking every last ounce of pleasure as her body milks the imaginary intrusion. Her cries are screams and curses of abandon, echoing off the penthouse walls. Tears streak down her temples, mingling with sweat. Her grip on your hair is almost painful, holding you locked against her as she convulses.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tremors subside. The frantic rocking gentles to shallow, involuntary shudders. Her grip on your hair loosens, her hand falling limp on the bed beside your head. Her body sags, collapsing forward, her chest heaving against yours, slick with sweat. The fierce warrior is gone, replaced by a trembling, utterly spent creature. 

You lie perfectly still beneath her, your face covered with her release. The taste of her, citrus-sharp and musky-sweet, still coats your lips as Kazuha lays forward, her spent body trembling inches ahead against yours. Her ragged breaths warm your sternum, her heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. 

For a moment, it feels like surrender. A ceasefire. Except it isn’t.

Kazuha pushes herself up slowly, bracing her palms against your sweat-slicked chest. Her dark hair clings to her temples, her eyes—bright, fierce, and utterly clear—lock onto yours. There’s no lingering haze of release, only a renewed focus. A predator assessing its next move. A faint, dangerous smile touches her kiss-swollen lips.

"Not bad, Director," she rasps, her voice scraped raw but laced with deliberate, teasing appraisal. Her thumb traces the wetness glistening on your chin—her wetness. "Competent technique. Efficient. But—" She leans closer, her breath ghosting over your mouth. "—eating me out was the appetizer. Momo got the main course, right? Your cock buried deep inside her. Claiming her. Filling her."

Her hips shift subtly against your thighs, a deliberate spark of friction that reignites the heat low in your belly. Her gaze doesn’t waver. 

"It would be—profoundly unfair," she murmurs, the corporate euphemism laced with carnal intent, "if my performance review lacked that critical data point. Don’t you agree?" 

Her hand slides down your abdomen, fingers deftly finding the waistband of your trousers, tracing the straining outline beneath. "I need a comparative analysis. Firsthand."

The demand hangs in the air, a challenge wrapped in velvet. The clock on the sleek bedside table glows with urgency. 53 minutes remain. Davies looms. Dad’s ultimatum ticks. None of which warrant your dire attention. Only the fierce intelligence blazing in her eyes, the possessive pressure of her hand, and the roaring need she’s rekindled.

You don’t hesitate. Leveraging your strength, you grip her waist firmly, hauling her limp-but-willing body back up your torso. She gasps, a sound of surprise morphing instantly into approval as you maneuver her, settling her firmly astride your lap. Her bare thighs bracket your hips, her slick heat pressed directly against the fabric trapping your aching cock. The position forces her to look down at you, her face inches from yours, her expression a mix of triumph and raw anticipation.

"Level the field, Kazuha?" you growl, your voice gravelly. "Prove the playing field is even?"

"Due diligence," she counters breathlessly, her smile sharpening. 

Her hands are already at work, fingers flying over your belt buckle with terrifying efficiency. The clasp snaps open, followed by the pop of the button. The zipper hisses down. She maintains eye contact, her gaze holding yours captive as she shoves the fabric over your hips, freeing your throbbing cock. The cool air is a shock, instantly replaced by the searing heat of her palm wrapping around your length, giving one long, possessive stroke that draws a guttural groan from your throat.

"Now we’re talking," she purrs, leaning in. Her mouth crashes against yours, not in tentative exploration but in a fierce, claiming kiss. Her tongue invades, demanding, tasting herself on your lips. It’s messy and merciless. A struggle for control fought with lips and teeth and shared, desperate breaths. Her hand pumps you slowly, firmly, settling on a rhythm that mirrors your frantic heartbeat.

The angle is perfect. You grip her hips tighter, fingers digging into the firm muscle of her ass. With a grunt of effort, you lift her slight frame easily—ballet strength meeting desperate need. Her knees dig into the mattress on both sides of your thighs. She understands instantly, bracing her hands on your shoulders, her eyes widening slightly as she feels the blunt, insistent pressure of your cockhead against her drenched entrance.

"Show me," she sighs against your lips, the challenge explicit. "Show me what you gave her."

The command sets you off. You thrust upwards. Hard.

She cries out—a sharp, surprised sound instantly swallowed by your mouth as you impale her in one smooth, relentless stroke. She’s tight—a different kind of tightness than Momo’s voluptuous grip. Kazuha’s cunt is a sleek, silken sheath, hot and clinging, molded perfectly around your invading length, muscles fluttering in shocked, exquisite welcome. Her inner walls grip you like a velvet fist, impossibly intimate, impossibly right.

"Fuck!" she gasps, breaking the kiss, her head thrown back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her back arches, pressing her small, perfect breasts against your chest. "Oh God—yes— that's—so—fucking—big—"

You don’t give her room to breathe. Your hands lock onto her hips, guiding her, setting a brutal, driving pace right from the start. She meets you thrust for thrust, her body a coiled spring releasing pent-up energy. Her hips roll and grind down onto you with fierce precision, taking you impossibly deep, milking your cock with the same ruthless efficiency she applies to spreadsheets. The bed creaks violently beneath you; the headboard slams against the wall in rhythmic protest.

Moans tear from both of you. Raw, unvarnished sounds that fill the otherwise aseptic suite. There’s no corporate veneer here, only unadulterated lust and a frantic, competitive drive to outperform, to conquer, to win. 

You bury your face against the sweat-slicked column of her neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking, leaving blooming marks: dark, possessive bruises against her pale skin. Your mouth trails lower, capturing a peaked nipple, sucking hard, swirling your tongue, reveling in her sharp cry and the way her cunt clenches convulsively around you.

"Harder!" she demands, her voice cracking, her fingers clawing at your back, at the nape of your neck. "Fuck me harder! Don't hold back! Don’t fucking stop!"

There’s no denying Kazuha, even if you dared to try. Your grip on her hips becomes bruising, slamming her down onto your upward thrusts with brutal force. Your pace becomes punishing, a frantic race towards oblivion. The wet slap of flesh on flesh, her gasping cries, your own guttural groans—it’s a symphony of abandon. Her lean muscles flex and strain beneath your hands, her body a perfect instrument of pleasure meeting your every demand, pushing back with equal ferocity. She rides you so fucking well, chasing her own peak with single-minded intensity, her inner walls tightening, fluttering, signaling the approach of a second climax.

“Yes—” she hisses, her body bowing, trembling like a plucked wire. "There—right there—gonna cum—again—”

Kazuha’s cry is sharp, triumphant. Her pussy spasms violently around your cock, a pulsing, rhythmic vise that steals your breath. Her release is another hot flood, drenching your shared union. Body convulsing as she grinds down, demanding everything you have.

The sight of her fierce, controlled beauty unraveling completely in your lap, the feel of her silken walls draining you with desperate intensity, the raw, possessive sounds she makes—it’s your undoing. It shatters you. 

With a roar torn from the depth of your lungs, you bury yourself deep in her womb, holding her hips flush against yours as your own climax detonates. Suffocating heat surges up your spine, erupting in thick, pulsing jets deep inside her clenching warmth. Emptying yourself completely in her, each spurt wrenched from you by the fierce suction of her orgasm, filling her, claiming her in the most primeval way possible. 

Your vision whites out, consciousness narrowing to the burning point of connection, the feel of her trembling around you, the scent of sex and sweat and Kazuha.

The frenetic energy evaporates like steam. Kazuha slumps forward, her body boneless, her forehead resting against your collarbone. Her breath comes in ragged, whistling gasps against your skin. Yours matches it, harsh and labored. The room, once loud and chaotic, now floods with a sudden void of quiet. Only your shared struggle for air and the feverish thudding of your hearts slowly beginning to ease.

Slowly, carefully, your ironclad grip on her hips loosens. She makes a soft, incoherent sound of protest as your softening cock slips from her heat, followed by a slow trickle of your combined release onto your thighs. The evidence is stark, undeniable.

Exhaustion, profound and absolute, crashes over you both. Still joined in the cradle of your lap, you lean back, collapsing together onto the rumpled duvet. Kazuha doesn’t resist, curling instinctively against your chest, her head finding solace beneath your chin. One of her slender arms drapes across your waist, her fingers splaying covetously over your hip. Your own arm wraps around her, holding her close, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse gradually slow against your skin.

Silence descends, thick and heavy, now filled with the aftermath rather than anticipation. The sterile luxury of the penthouse suite feels like a desolate planet. The scent of sex is overwhelming: a heady, intimate perfume. Kazuha’s skin burns hot where it presses against yours, damp with sweat. Her breathing evens out, growing calmer and deeper. The fierce competitor in her disappears, replaced by a sated, vulnerable warmth curled against your embrace.

You stare up at the ceiling, the pristine white expanse offering no answers. The taste of her, the feel of her tight heat, the possessive marks on her neck, the knowledge of your seed deep inside her—it’s a brand, seared onto your consciousness alongside the memory of Momo’s surrender on your desk. The playing field isn’t leveled, not in the slightest; if anything, it’s mined with complications. Davies awaits. The 72-hour clock, closer to 48 now, ticks relentlessly towards an impossible choice. The scent of betrayal—your betrayal, their competition—hangs heavier than ever.

Kazuha stirs gently, nuzzling closer. Her voice, when it comes, is a sleep-thickened murmur, devoid of its earlier sharpness, yet carrying a weight that settles deep in your gut.

"Data collected, Director," she sighs, her breath warm against your skin. Her fingers tighten minutely on your hip. "Analysis pending."

The clock glows. A little too bright for tired eyes. 32 minutes till Frankfurt. As far you know, the performance review isn’t over, it’s entered its most devastating phase. You hold her closer, the warmth of her body a temporary solace against a chilling reality: no matter who you choose, you’ve already lost.

—————

Hours later, the air in your office still crackles with the afterburn of Kazuha’s triumph. Davies’ face, a pixelated smear of genuine approval moments ago, has vanished from the screen, leaving behind the echo of his closing words: "Impressive restructuring model, Miss Nakamura. Exceptionally well-articulated. We look forward to the East Asia pivot under your Director's leadership." 

The silence that follows isn't empty; it's thick with the unspoken tension thrumming between you and Kazuha, a live wire strung taut across the mahogany desk.

Kazuha leans back in the plush guest chair, sweat glistening at her temples despite the room's tempered chill. Her tailored pantsuit is pristine, her tablet resting neatly on her lap, but her eyes hold a fierce, luminous exhaustion—and something else. A quiet, possessive satisfaction aimed directly at you. 

"Ground truth delivered, Director," she murmurs, the ghost of a crafty smile touching her lips. The phrase, once sterile corporate jargon, now feels loaded and personal. A reminder of the data point collected in that penthouse suite, the desperate coupling that followed her demand for parity. Her gaze flicks, almost imperceptibly, towards the polished surface of the desk.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy oak door clicks open.

Momo stands framed in the doorway. Her entrance is characteristically precise, heels clicking a measured staccato on the polished concrete. Her expression is the usual mask of professional neutrality, but her eyes sweep the room, taking in Kazuha’s relaxed posture, your own slightly disheveled state (a button undone at the collar, hair perhaps ruffled from running a nervous hand through it during Davies’ tougher questions). She sees the lingering energy, the shared secret hanging in the air. Her gaze lingers on the desk for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. 

"The call concluded smoothly, I trust?" Her voice is smooth, devoid of inflection, yet it feels like an indictment. She knows. She always knows.

Kazuha’s smile widens, bold and sharp. "Exceptionally, Momo-san. Davies was practically eating out of my hand by the end. The synergy projections, the contingency matrix—he loved it all. Didn't he, Director?" 

She turns that bright, expectant gaze on you, forcing acknowledgment.

"She was flawless," you confirm, the words tasting like dust. The compliment is genuine: Kazuha was brilliant, intuitive, persuasive, but voicing it here, now, with Momo’s impassive gaze dissecting you, feels like picking a side. "Handled every curveball Davies threw. Secured buy-in."

Momo inclines her head—a precise, pinpoint motion. "Efficient. Well-executed, Zuha." The praise is delivered with glacial correctness. Her eyes, however, remain fixed on you. 

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken things: the scent of expensive floral-spicy perfume that might still cling to the leather chair Kazuha occupies, the phantom memory of Momo’s bare skin against cool mahogany, the echo of Kazuha’s cries in the sterile penthouse. The desk feels like an altar to your transgressions.

"A successful day, then. Henderson secured this morning. Davies secured this afternoon." It’s Momo who breaks the brittle quiet, stepping fully into the room. Her heels click closer to the desk. She lets the weight of the achievements settle—accomplishments built on their relentless, cutthroat drive, powered by your impossible choice. Her gaze, when it lifts to meet yours, is unnervingly direct, stripped of its usual corporate veneer. "What’s the status on the—primary decision, Director?"

The question lands like a tactical grenade. Kazuha’s playful energy instantly sharpens, her posture straightening mechanically. Both pairs of eyes lock onto you. The room shrinks, the city lights beyond the window blurring into minute insignificance.

"Swayed?" you echo, the word scraping out. You comb a hand through your hair, the gesture encompassing the exhaustion, the guilt, the sheer, crushing weight of it. A hollow laugh escapes your lips. "Christ. You both—" You gesture helplessly between them, the brilliant, terrifying women who hold your professional fate—and far more—in their hands. "Momo, your control, your foresight—Kazuha, that fire, that adaptability—You saw Davies. You both know what you bring. How the fuck do I quantify that? How do I choose between—" You trail off, the corporate euphemism dying on your tongue. "Between irreplaceable assets?"

"Between us, you mean," Kazuha clarifies, low and intense. No room for professional evasion now.

You meet her gaze, then Momo’s. The icy pragmatism in the older woman’s eyes is undercut by a flicker of something raw—the same vulnerability you’d unglued on this very desk. Kazuha’s fierce determination holds a possessive edge, forged in the heat of the penthouse. The images crash together: Momo arching beneath you, surrendering control with a shattered gasp; Kazuha demanding parity, her body a honed blade marking you. 

The leaden anchor of guilt settles deeper in your gut.

"Yes," you admit, the word raw. "Between you. And no. I'm not swayed. Not definitively. It's—" You search for the word, finding only the brutal truth. "It's fucking impossible."

Momo’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Kazuha leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Impossible doesn't fly with the CEO, Director," the younger woman reminds you, her response laced with a warning. "The clock is ticking."

"Less than 48 hours remain," states Momo, regaining her clipped efficiency, though the lack of polish lingers beneath the surface. "Sufficient time for further—evaluation." The pause before evaluation is deliberate, heavy with the memory of her own ‘interview.’

The word feels like a brand. Evaluation. Performance reviews that bled into passionate claims, professional boundaries obliterated by desperate need and ruthless strategy. You feel flayed open. Exposed.

"I know," you manage, tight with their crushing grip. The weight of today—the mergers, the presentations, the crushing intimacy, the looming dismissal—it’s all crashing down. "And I will. But not now. The workday is over. Get out of here. Both of you." 

The dismissal is firmer than intended, a desperate need for the suffocating pressure of their combined presence to lift.

The women exchange a glance—a fleeting, unreadable communication that passes between rivals who understand each other far too well. Momo nods once, curt and precise. 

"Understood, Director. Try to rest." 

Her words aren't gentle; they're an order, a cautionary reminder of the battles yet to come. She turns, her posture still ramrod straight, and walks out, the door clicking shut with finality.

Kazuha rises more slowly. She flashes you a smile that doesn't reach her watchful eyes. "Sweet dreams, boss. Dream of—streamlined reporting chains." 

The sardonic twist on corporate jargon is pointed. She lingers for a heartbeat, her gaze sweeping over you, the desk, the room, before following Momo out. The silence they leave behind is absolute, oppressive, amplifying the frantic buzzing in your skull.

Alone.

The indifferent city sprawls below, a tapestry of lights mocking your turmoil. 

Then there’s your father’s voice, dry, rasping, devoid of parental warmth, echoes in the cavernous silence of your mind, a relentless ghost haunting this gilded cage. "Sentiment is inefficient. Choose." 

The cold calculus of his world—one promoted, one discarded—feels like a vise crushing your chest.

The cool glass does nothing to soothe the heat of shame and confusion pooling within. Pushing yourself away from the window, your steps inevitably lead back to the mahogany monstrosity you call your desk. Your hand drifts across its polished surface, tracing the grain. 

Here. This is where control shattered. Where Momo’s icy precision dissolved into eager surrender, where professional lines were irrevocably crossed. The phantom scent of her perfume, the memory of her heat, the sound of her choked gasp as you claimed her—it floods back, visceral and punishing.

A heavier weariness pulls you down. You sink back into your obscenely expensive chair, the leather sighing, crying out your turmoil. The Henderson file, a casualty of that morning’s frenzy, sits neatly stacked now, a monument to Momo’s terrifying efficiency in covering the tracks. 

But the desk—the desk remembers everything.

Your hand moves almost of its own volition, dipping into the inner pocket of your suit jacket. Your fingers brush against soft, delicate lace. You pull them out.

Kazuha’s panties. Black lace, slightly damp still from her frantic arousal in the penthouse elevator, from the heat of your sexually-charged union. The memento you’d pocketed unconsciously, a visceral token of her victory, her demand for parity fulfilled. They feel absurdly small, impossibly intimate in your hand, a stark counterpoint to the sterile corporate power the desk represents.

You hold them up as city lights glint through the delicate weave. One woman’s submission etched into mahogany. The other’s fierce claim a trophy in your pocket. Momo’s controlled intensity. Kazuha’s blazing adaptability. Both essential. Both devastating. Both paths leading to ruin.

The panties slip from your fingers, landing softly on the cold surface of the desk beside the Henderson file. A silent accusation. A symbol of the impossible choice. You stare at them, then at the sprawling, indifferent city beyond the glass. 

Your heart isn't just at a crossroads; it feels shredded, pulled apart by the competing forces of desire, guilt, professional necessity, and the chilling echo of your father's ultimatum. The mahogany desk, the lace on its surface, the city lights—they all blur. You lean back into your chair, the eerie silence amplifying the frantic, solitary pounding within your ribs. 

Two days. Two brilliant, terrifying women. One promotion. One dismissal. 

And you, trapped in the wreckage of your own making, have absolutely no idea which way to turn.

—————

Your alarm greets you incessantly in the morning.

Slamming a clenched fist on the top button, you render it quiet. Moving by instinct, your hand grips on the clock, clawing it from the bedside desk over to your half-glazed retinas. As you check for the time, they snap wide open in a panic. A crushing realization jumpstarts your day.

You’re catastrophically late. It’s already 8:42 AM.

At such a crucial time as this, right as the doomsday clock ticks ever closer, barely over a day from judgment, your absence might as well ring the death knell to your position in the company. Especially as a newly appointed head. The image of your employees, Momo and Kazuha especially, waiting in that sterile 18th floor hive, expecting their newly minted Director—it curdles your stomach. 

You try to surge upright, a desperate lunge for dignity. Instead, your body rebels. Like moving through wet concrete.

A wave of weakness crashes over you, leaving you gasping, slumped back against sweat-damp pillows. Every muscle screams—a deep, pervasive ache that feels suspiciously like the aftermath of being thoroughly used by both a relentless pragmatist and a fiery challenger within the span of 24 hours. But it’s more than that: heat radiates from your core, your skin feels tight and oversensitive, and your head pounds with a sickening rhythm that echoes the frantic ticking of your father’s deadline. 

Stress. Overthinking. The half-remembered haze of emptying your father's ridiculously expensive cognac decanter last night in a futile attempt to drown the impossible choice. Probably all of the fucking above, your fevered brain supplies. The universe, it seems, has intervened with brutal efficiency, grounding you.

Your phone, discarded on the rumpled duvet, erupts. Not a ring, but a frantic, restless buzzing vibration that rattles against the mattress. You drag it closer, the screen painfully bright and blinding.

> MM (08:15): Director. Your 8:30 Strategy Sync is assembled in Conference Room B. Awaiting your arrival.

> MM (08:30): Director? Status update required.

> KZH (08:32): Boss? Everything okay? You're never late for the Sync. Miyawaki-san is looking twitchy.

> MM (08:40): Director. Please advise. Henderson finalization call with Legal is scheduled for 9:15. Requires your pre-brief.

> KZH (08:41): Seriously, boss. Where are you? Did you finally snap and flee the country? (kidding— mostly)

> MM (08:42): Kazuha, maintain professionalism. Director, your presence is critical.

The messages scroll like accusations. Professional concern from Momo, laced with that unsettling, inferred awareness you know she possesses. Kazuha’s slightly irreverent worry, masking her own fierce curiosity. The weight of their expectations, their competition, their bodies pressing down on you, even when they’re not around, feels suffocating. 

You fumble with the phone, thumbs clumsy and heavy, eventually typing a single, shaky message, copying both:

> Severe illness. Cannot come in. Handle all agendas as discussed yesterday. Prioritize Henderson finalization. Momo, lead Legal call. Kazuha, manage Miyawaki logistics fallout. Operate as normal. Do not disturb.

You hit send before you can second-guess the curtness. The silence that follows is brief, then the replies chime almost simultaneously.

> MM: Understood, Director. Focus on recovery. We will manage operations efficiently. Henderson will be finalized per your directives. Rest well.

> KZH: Oh no! Get well soon, boss!! 😷 Don’t worry about a thing, we’ve got this! Stay hydrated! Sleep!

A flicker of something almost like relief warms you for a microsecond. They’ll handle it. They always do. But then, the follow-ups arrive, puncturing the fragile calm:

> MM: A reminder: The 72-hour window for your decision regarding the Executive Assistant position closes tomorrow EOD. Utilize today for necessary—contemplation. 

The pause before contemplation screams volumes. Momo knows. She knows exactly the kind of contemplation yesterday involved, at least where she’s concerned.

> KZH: Yeah, what Momo-san said! Feel better fast! Big day tomorrow!! Maybe dream about org charts instead of—well, you know. 😉 Rest up!

Kazuha’s emoji is a playful dagger. Dream productively, she might as well have said. Think beyond the feel of my thighs locking around your head or Momo-san’s perfect tits in your hands. 

The reminder of the deadline, delivered with faux cheer and sharp insight, lands like a physical blow. Tomorrow. You have to choose. Fire one. Promote the other. After—everything.

The phone falls from your limp hand, thudding softly on the duvet. The silence of the bedroom is absolute now, save for your own ragged breathing and the restless drumming of your pulse in your ears. Weakness pins you to the bed. The fever paints lurid pictures of yesterday behind your closed eyelids: Momo, back arched against cold mahogany, control shattering into breathless pleas; Kazuha, demanding parity with fierce, analytical eyes, her body a clandestine blade claiming its due in the sterile penthouse light. The scent of expensive perfume and sex and desperation seems to cling to the sheets.

Guilt, thick and corrosive, mixes with the physical misery. It’s a constant devil on your shoulder. A monument of your transgressions. You exploited Momo’s unraveling. You succumbed to Kazuha’s strategic blackmail. You betrayed the very professionalism your position demands. And now, when you need clarity, when you desperately need to think, your body has staged a mutiny. 

The universe isn’t merely intervening; it’s laughing. After all, actions have consequences.

A fresh wave of chills wracks you, pulling a groan from your cracked lips. You curl onto your side, seeking a cool spot on the pillow. The room tilts slightly. Dad’s voice, dry and devoid of warmth, echoes in the hollow space your fever has carved out in your mind, his silhouette forming on the bedroom walls, coming to life:

"Sentiment is inefficient. Choose."

Impossible, like you said. How do you choose between Momo’s terrifyingly efficient surrender and Kazuha’s brilliantly demanding triumph. Between the cool, controlled depths and the blazing, adaptive fire. Both paths lead to destruction. Both choices feel like a betrayal—of them, of yourself, of any semblance of integrity left in this corporate prison.

The only thing clear is the crushing weight pressing you down: the fever burning through your veins, the ache in muscles used and abused, the phantom taste of two very different women—and the cold, immutable fact that tomorrow, sick or not, broken or not, you must decide. And right now, trapped in the wreckage of your own making, limp and aching and utterly alone, you have absolutely no idea which lane leads to a lesser hell. 

The silence of the room offers no answers, only the echo of that single, devastating word: Choose.

—————

You’re already at your office early the next day. Early enough to watch the sun rise over the slowly waking city.

After the hell you’ve slept in that was yesterday, your fingers twitch uncontrollably, a seeming unwillingness to pull the mandated trigger. You’re not feeling any better, at least mentally and emotionally. The night kept you restless. Your brain stormed through countless possible outcomes despite the linearity and simpleness of the decision.

Aside from the HVAC, your heavy, deep breaths fill the otherwise silent room. Making this decision proves to be harder than any report, document, or interview you’ve ever done. One way or another, there will be a fallout, a domino effect, a snowball of consequences, both in the short and long term.

As said time and time again, Momo and Kazuha are irreplaceable. There’s no getting around it. You may eventually find a replacement, a body that can hopefully fill in the gaps that will be lost when the other leaves, but they’re one in a million. A synergistic pairing that simply can’t be replicated, authentically or algorithmically.

Closing your eyes, keeping your thoughts sharp and precise, empty of any meaningless, superficial thought. It’s the chime of the elevator snapping them open, followed by the echo of the heavy oak door.

“Good morning, boss,” Momo greets you curtly, to the point. “Today’s the big day. I hope the time off gave you the clarity you needed to make your decision.”

“Morning, boss!” Kazuha follows, brimming with life, as per usual. Already holding your double espresso coffee in hand, made specifically catered to your preference. “I hope you’re feeling better now.”

You certainly are, somewhat. Their steady presence is infectious; you can’t imagine a day without them together.

“Before we get to today’s agendas,” you tell them, swiveling your chair from the city to them, standing in front of you, “Please take a seat. Both of you.”

The two women follow, taking opposing guest chairs, separated from you by your desk. Momo sits upright, avoiding contact with her seat, hands quietly folded, whereas Kazuha leans back, one leg over the other, placing the freshly brewed coffee on the table. 

“What seems to be your concern, director?” asks Momo, narrowing her eyebrows, her gaze deep, focused.

“Something wrong?” Kazuha adds, analytical, searching for key points in your body language and expression, looking increasingly concerned.

Prolonged silence stretches, taut as a piano wire after their worried inquiries. Momo’s ramrod posture radiates coiled tension; Kazuha’s forced cheerfulness can’t mask the wary calculation in her eyes. 

You lean back in the obscenely expensive ergonomic chair; the leather groans softly, your fingers steepled before your lips. The scent of Kazuha’s fresh espresso mingles uneasily with the phantom traces of Momo’s floral-spicy perfume and something muskier, deeper—the ghosts of Tuesday’s transgressions clinging to the mahogany. But that’s not important right now.

"Like I said, before we address today’s agendas," you begin, carefully neutral, scraping against the oppressive quiet, "there’s a procedural matter I must perform." 

You meet each of their gazes in turn: Momo’s dark, unreadable pools. Kazuha’s bright, analytical scrutiny. "Effective immediately, we will be conducting impromptu exit interviews."

The declaration lands like bombs. The air sparks, thick enough to choke on. Momo doesn’t flinch, but the knuckles of her clasped hands go bone-white. Kazuha’s leg stops bouncing, frozen mid-air. Her smile vanishes, replaced by a veil of icy shock.

"Exit interviews?" Kazuha echoes, her voice higher than usual, brittle. "Director, I—"

"Policy," you cut in, the word a cold, efficient knife. Your father’s ghost seems to loom over your shoulder, whispering the same tired statement: sentiment is inefficient. 

"Standard procedure during restructuring periods. Consider it—a formality. A necessary step." 

The lie tastes sour in your mouth. 

“Only one question. Please answer honestly." You pause, letting the suffocating dread linger, watching their carefully constructed professional armors tremble at the foundations. "Reflecting on your time working here, under my supervision—what are your thoughts?"

The silence that follows is absolute, deafening. The HVAC hums like a deranged insect. Momo is the first to break it. She draws a slow, deliberate breath, her gaze fixed on a point just past your shoulder, her voice low but astonishingly steady. It lacks its usual polished smoothness; it’s raw, scraped clean.

"Honestly, Director?" she starts. The corporate veneer cracks, revealing the woman beneath—the one who unraveled on your desk, the one whose control shattered into breathless pleas. "Before—recent developments—" A faint flush creeps up her neck. "You were—different. From the others. From your father." 

She meets your eyes, and their intensity is frightening. "You saw us. Not as assets. Not just cogs. You shielded us from the worst of the corporate savagery. Cancelled unnecessary overtime. Fought back against unreasonable demands from upstairs, even when it put you at risk." Her voice drops to a near whisper. "You treated us with kindness. Consideration. Respect. Graciousness, even, when we knew you carried burdens we couldn’t fathom." 

She swallows hard. "Working for you, it was more than a job. It felt like—a partnership. A rarity in this business. That you would fight to keep both of us, against impossible orders—" Her voice finally wavers, thick with emotion she ruthlessly tries to suppress. "It speaks volumes about the man you are. Or—the man you try to be. Despite everything,  I have no regrets. None."

Her words hang, stark and powerful, cutting through the sterile air. The confession of respect, the acknowledgment of the kindnesses you thought went unnoticed—it lands like a sharp blow, far heavier than any accusation. You see the echo of vulnerability in her eyes, the same look she had buttoning her blouse back together.

Kazuha shifts in her chair. The shock has morphed into something stronger, brighter. Her gaze burns into you. "Momo-san’s right," she states, regaining her unmistakable energy, but stripped of its usual playful edge. It’s pure, passionate honesty. "You were different. Are different. Not only did you avoid delegating the grunt work; you trusted us with real responsibility. You listened. Actually listened to our ideas, even the crazy ones." 

A shade of her trademark smile touches her lips, fleeting and poignant. "You made this soul-crushing tower feel—human, sometimes. And yeah, the circumstances forcing one of us out are absolute bullshit. Extraordinary doesn’t even cover it. But the fact you’re even trying to fight it? That you’d risk your own neck for us?" 

She leans forward, her eyes lit with a fiery glow. "That tells us everything, boss. How much you actually cherish what we built here. Together. All three of us." She holds your gaze, her countenance steadfast. "No regrets. Not a single one. Even—" She glances almost imperceptibly towards the desk, then back to you, a complex mix of defiance and something softer in her eyes. "Even with everything else. The core of it? That respect, that kindness? That was real. That’s what matters. So thank you. Thank you for being a great leader to us."

Their words resonate in the hollow space of the office, a counterpoint to the cold hum of machinery and your father’s relentless choose, choose, choose. The guilt you’ve carried—for exploiting Momo’s surrender, for succumbing to Kazuha’s demand—twists deeper, tangled now with a profound, aching gratitude. They saw the flicker of humanity you tried to maintain amidst the madness. They valued it. They’re telling you they cherished it, even now, facing the axe.

The suffocating dread fades, replaced by a surge of fierce, protective resolve. You push back from the desk, the motion decisive.

"Okay." The single word rings heavy with finality and newfound purpose. "Policy be damned. Sentiment be damned." 

A faint, determined smile touches your lips, the first genuine one in days. "My father wants streamlined efficiency? Fine. We’ll give him efficiency. But we’ll redefine it."

Both women straighten, their postures snapping from resignation to alert readiness. Their competitive fire hasn’t vanished—it simmers beneath the surface, redirected.

"You," you point to Momo, then Kazuha. "And you. Together. Your task: Create a proposal. Not for him to choose one of you." 

Leaning forward, your gaze sweeps between them, capturing their fierce intelligence, their complementary strengths. The synergy that claimed this building as yours. "Make the strongest, most irrefutable argument for why he cannot afford to lose either of you. Why this 'streamlining' is catastrophic inefficiency disguised as cost-cutting. Why this pairing," you gesture between them, a finger deliberately pointed at each woman, "isn't just valuable, but irreplaceable. Synergy quantified. Impact measured. The cost of replacement—not just monetary, but in lost momentum, institutional knowledge, catastrophic risk. Make it bulletproof. Make it undeniable. Make him understand that letting one go isn't saving money; it's self-destructing the foundation of East Asian operations right before he leaves it to sink or swim."

A spark ignites in Momo’s eyes—the strategist presented with the ultimate challenge. Kazuha’s grin returns, wide and predatory, aglow with the thrill of the impossible pitch. The air crackles again, but differently now. Not with dread or competition, but with singular, collaborative energy.

"Consider it done, Director," Momo states, her voice regaining its terrifying, precise efficiency. She’s already pulling out her tablet, fingers flying.

"Bulletproof? Undeniable?" Kazuha chirps, grabbing her own sleek device, her eyes already scanning invisible data streams. "Challenge accepted. We’ll make him wish he’d thought of it himself." 

She winks, the gesture devoid of flirtation, brimming with cutthroat zeal aimed squarely at the absent CEO. "Where do we work?"

"Right here," you say, motioning to the expanse of your desk—the site of both corporate tedium and devastating intimacy. "Use whatever you need. Access all files, all metrics. I want a draft before lunch."

They don't need telling twice. In moments, the mahogany desk transforms. Momo’s tablet displays complex organizational charts, efficiency metrics, risk assessment frameworks. Kazuha projects market analysis, client retention data, timelines highlighting interdependencies. Their voices, once clashing in competitive yapping and immoral seduction, now weave together in a low, intense symphony of collaboration.

—————

The air in your office crackles, thick with the chill from the large video screen and the lingering ghosts of desperation. Dad’s face dominates the display, sharper and colder than the Seoul skyline behind him. His New York office backdrop is a void of empty darkness and indifferent buildings. His eyes, chips of glacial ice, sweep over the three of you standing rigidly before your own camera: you flanked by Momo and Kazuha, a united front forged in the crucible of the impossible.

Silence. Thick, heavy, oppressive. Dad’s expression remains granite. No flicker. No twitch. The only sound is the low hum of the climate control and the relentless beating of your own heart against your chest. You feel Kazuha’s subtle shift of weight beside you, as well as Momo’s unnerving stillness. 

This was the hail mary. The one-in-a-billion shot. 

Dad’s gaze drifts from the screen displaying Davies’ praise back to the three of you. It lingers. A fraction of a second longer than usual. Then, a slow, deliberate blink. His lips, thin and bloodless, part.

"Commendable," he remarks, the word dry but lacking its usual razor edge. "The level of detail. The quantification of impact." He pauses, fixing his steely eyes on you. "Davies spoke highly of the presentation. Exceptionally so. He mentioned Miss Nakamura’s articulation specifically. That carries weight."

Another pause, stretching the silence taut. You feel Momo’s knuckles brush against yours behind the cover of the desk—a fleeting, electric contact of shared, desperate hope.

"The policy," Dad continues, his voice regaining its ironclad edge, "mandates streamlining. A single chain of command." He leans fractionally closer to his camera, his face filling your screen, the lines around his eyes deepening. "But policy serves the bottom line. Sentiment is inefficient. Catastrophic inefficiency, however, as you've quantified, is unacceptable."

The decision, when it comes, is delivered with brutal simplicity. He straightens, taking a prolonged glance at each woman.

"The proposal is accepted. Miss Hirai Momo and Nakamura Kazuha: you are both promoted to Executive Assistant, reporting directly to the Regional Director, effective immediately. Your compensation will be adjusted accordingly. Consolidate your functions as outlined. Ensure the projected losses do not materialize."

Relief hits you like a physical wave. Intense enough to buckle your knees. Momo’s breath escapes in a near-silent sigh beside you. Kazuha’s shoulders, held rigid, drop a fraction of an inch.

"Son," Dad’s gaze shifts back to you, pinning you in place. "This level of strategic pushback—it’s a step. A necessary one." The faintest hint of something—not warmth, but perhaps grudging acknowledgment—flickers in his icy eyes. "You have a long way to go. The CEO chair demands more than protecting assets, however irreplaceable. It demands vision beyond sentiment and beyond mere survival. Remember that. Otherwise, you have made quite the first impression in your new position, with what little time you have been given so far. You have potential." 

His gaze sweeps over all three of you one final time. "Do not squander this opportunity. Report progress weekly. Directly."

The screen goes abruptly dark. The oppressive silence of the call is replaced by the stunned, heavy calm of your office. The hum of the HVAC is suddenly deafening.

For three heartbeats, no one moves. The professional facades—Momo’s icy control, Kazuha’s bright energy, your own weary directorship—hang suspended, fragile as glass.

Then, Kazuha lets out a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, shimmering with unshed tears of sheer, disbelieving relief. She voices out your collective thought: "We—we did it?"

Momo turns slowly. Her usual impassive mask breaks. Raw emotion floods her face—profound relief, exhaustion, and something vehemently proud. 

"We did," she confirms, trembling slightly. Her gaze meets yours, then Kazuha’s. A single tear escapes, tracing a path through her perfectly applied makeup before she swiftly brushes it away, a gesture more of habit than shame. 

The crushing weight of the past days—the dread, the guilt, the impossible choice, the feverish pitch of their competition and the devastating intimacy it spawned—it all disappears in an instant. In its place, a surge of pure, unadulterated pride fills your chest. You look at them: Momo, slightly flushed, her composure regained but her eyes still bright; Kazuha, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, radiating exhilarated energy.

"This," you manage, rough with charged emotion, clearing your throat. "This is your finest work, bar none. Henderson, Davies—they were impressive. But this—" You gesture at the space where Dad’s face had been, then sweep your hand to encompass the three of you. "This was masterful. Irrefutable. You saved yourselves. You saved us."

Kazuha beams, the force of it lighting up the room. "Team effort, boss! Couldn't have done it without Momo-san's terrifying spreadsheets and your—well, your neck on the line!"

Momo inclines her head, a genuine, if small, smile touching her lips. "The core argument stemmed from demonstrable truth, Director. Our synergy is the efficiency." She pauses, then adds, softer, "And your willingness to defy policy made presenting it possible."

The shared victory, the palpable relief, hangs in the air, thick and sweet. Pent-up tension fades away, leaving a buzzing energy in its wake.

"So," Kazuha chirps, her eyes gleaming with mischief now that the immediate threat is gone. "Promotion calls for celebration, right? Like, serious celebration.” Already has some ideas in mind, as predicted. “Champagne? Kobe beef? That ridiculously expensive place with the view?"

Momo nods, her smile widening a fraction. "An appropriate acknowledgment of the achievement. And the avoidance of catastrophic loss."

Your own weariness is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a giddy lightness. "Done. Finest dinner in Seoul. Bill’s on me. Consider it hazard pay for surviving the last 72 hours." You gesture expansively. "Name the place. Tonight."

Kazuha and Momo exchange a look—a silent, complex communication that passes between them, forged in competition, solidified in collaboration, and now—something else. Something dangerous. Kazuha’s grin turns wicked, predatory. Momo’s eyes hold a dark, knowing glint as she meets your gaze directly, her professional armor fully shed.

"Oh, we’ll pick the place, Director," Kazuha purrs, stepping closer, her voice dropping to an intimate murmur. She reaches out, not for a handshake, but to gently straighten your already perfectly aligned tie, her fingers lingering near the collar. "Somewhere—discreet. Somewhere with an excellent private room."

Momo moves to your other side, her presence a warm, solid pressure. Her hand rests lightly on your forearm, a touch that sends a familiar jolt through you, echoing Tuesday morning’s intensity but devoid of its desperate edge. Her voice, when she speaks, is a low, velvet promise that resonates deep in your bones. "And we fully intend," she adds, her dark eyes holding yours with unnerving intensity, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips, "to share far more than just the food tonight."

Their combined gaze—Kazuha’s playful challenge, Momo’s smoldering promise—pins you in place. The air crackles anew, not with corporate tension or competitive fire, but with the electric hum of anticipation, intimacy, and the uncharted territory of a hard-won victory and a celebration promised to be anything but professional. The mahogany desk, witness to so much, seems to hold its breath. 

The game has changed. Irrevocably. And the night ahead promises to be the most perilous, exhilarating performance review yet.

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! This is what happens when you get carried away with a story and have all the free time in the world. Longest fic by an ungodly margin, please God don't do this to me again. Editing is fucking hard. lol. The prompt was pretty good, thought the unique element of having a privileged son and a senior/junior dynamic that ultimately went off the rails. Again, I definitely focused way too much on the plot, it was too good not to. Thank you for reading!)

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.2

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: tim didn't get to speak much last chapter so i'm hoping this one makes up for it!! also also, you guys have acc overwhelmed me with all the support, thank you all so much 😭💞💞💞

★ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 ★ | ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

MARK DID, IN FACT, SAY 'DIFFERENT DIMENSION'—

—and now, he's sat on your bullet-hole-covered couch, head moving from side-to-side as he watches you pace the room behind your broken table, one hand holding your elbow, the other situated beneath your chin.

You're half paying attention to him, half stuck in your own thoughts, his earlier words repeating in your mind like a mantra, a broken record player you can't seem to fix no matter how much you move its lever.

"Okay," you whisper, maybe to him, maybe to yourself, "let's... let's run this back. You said you're my... boyfriend, right?"

Mark nods in time with a few growls in the background.

"But... from a different dimension?"

He nods again.

"Right, okay." You echo his action, nodding to yourself like any of this makes sense, like you don't have a million thoughts running through your mind right now.

"This is ridiculous," Damian voices one of them with a scoff. "How do we know this isn't another one of Darkseid's schemes? Something to lower your guard with so that he can capture you as leverage against us?"

You breathe in through your nose, pinching it again. "C'mon, Dami, would you really let him follow you to me?"

He purses his lips, not another word falling from his mouth.

That settles that.

"Sorry about that, Mark. Can you elaborate?"

You turn back to the otherworldly meta human, only to find his eyes already on you (still on you), wide, and with his face a little stuck out, like he's actively trying to get closer to you, like he can't bring himself to be too far away.

The thought turns your insides to mush.

You clear your throat, ignoring the tingle in your stomach. "Um, Mark?"

He blinks. "Huh?"

"I, uh, asked if you could, y'know, explain a bit more?"

He blinks again, slower this time. Then, with a shake of his head, he lifts a hand behind his neck, rubbing it in a habit so boyishly awkward, you have to fight back the smile threatening to climb onto your face. "Right." He clears his throat. "I was sent here by this guy in my dimension—Angstrom Levy?"

He peers up at you, as though expecting some sort of reaction to that name, but when you frown back at him with a quirk of your brow, he continues his explanation slowly.

"He can, uh, open these portals at will."

"Right..." you trail off, turning your head down as your eyes glaze over, "and in your world, I'm your girlfriend?"

"Were," he corrects, and it's so quiet, you almost don't catch it.

In fact, you're sure you heard him wrong.

"Sorry?"

"You were my girlfriend," he speaks again, firmer, but in a tone no less far, no less clouded. 

"We broke up?" You furrow your brows—no, that doesn't make sense. If you did break up, why would he come to your door claiming to be your boyfriend and not your ex?

The answer to your question lies in the man seated on your couch, but unlike before, he suddenly can't seem to bring himself to look at you, gaze instead trained to your wooden floorboards like they're the most interesting things to grace the planet. What? Does he not have wood in his dimension?

A beat passes without Mark saying a word.

The silence sits heavy, like the humid air of a rainforest swallowing you whole and threatening your very ability to breathe.

You find yourself awaiting escape from it, his words, however long they may take to come, like a promise of salvation from your woes.

But it isn't him that saves you.

"You died," a voice cuts through the silence, sharp and through gritted teeth. "He let you die in his world."

Instantly, Mark's head shoots up, and he narrows his eyes into sharp, lethal daggers at Damian.

"I didn't let her." He snarls, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. "I just..."

And then, just like that, he loses all the fight, fingers loosening their tight grip around nothing as his form all but falls, folding over like a wet noodle with no will to keep going.

"Fuck me..." you breathe out, hand already up and pinching your nose again.

To think, another version of you, a different version of you—with a different life and a boyfriend and maybe even no wood in her world—died.

Fucking hell.

"I need a drink," you find yourself muttering, shaking your head lightly before peering up at Mark. "Do you, uh, also need something?"

He's back to looking at you, gaze wide and brows knitted and lips parted by just the slightest hair as he whispers with all the sincerity of a samaritan, "Just you." Then, a little louder, "All I need... is just you."

You think the world stops when you catch air in your throat, that it drowns out until it's just the two of you when those words leave his tongue.

All of a sudden, you seem to be floating on a cloud, drowning in his gaze of pure intensity as your own heartbeat thunders in your ears and you forget how to even breathe or blink or see anyone that's not him for a brief second.

But then that second passes, and you find yourself on land once again.

You quickly excuse yourself, ignoring the holes that bore through you as you leave the room to enter your kitchen instead, the cold of it like a breath of fresh air against your warm skin.

God, fuck, that moment was so intense, you don't know if you can even think about what was revealed before it, his gaze lingering on your skin like rain after a hurricane.

So vivid. So loving. So utterly devoted that you could see nothing but yourself reflected back in those eyes.

The cup in your hands almost slips from the cabinet above your head at the memory.

In fact, it does slip. But it's quickly caught. Though not by you.

A warmth radiates against your back, and you turn, just to have it radiate against your front instead.

"Tim..."

His head is tilted to yours, eyes glazed over as one hand places the cup down on the counter to your left, and the other situates itself firm on the counter to your right.

For a beat, he just stands there, trapping you to the corner of your kitchen with a gaze as clouded as the Gotham night sky.

Then, just as you part your lips to ask why he's here, he speaks.

"Tell me I was seeing things."

His voice comes quiet, whispered and pleading as his brows knead up with a shaky sort of pull.

"What?" you can only ask, his breath hot against your face, close and feeling like it won't be moving anytime soon.

"Tell me..." he starts again, repeating without hesitation, "that I was just seeing things."

When you furrow your brows back at him, he continues, almost desperately.

"That you weren't... that you weren't looking at him for a second like..."—his face scrunches up, expression pained, like you've just gone and hit him with an axe—"like you believed him."

"Tim, I—"

You don't know what to say, not when he looks at you like that, like you've just shattered his whole entire world right in front of him.

"Like..." Tim continues, and the next words he has to really push out, wincing like it hurts just to say, "like he's actually your boyfriend."

Your stomach drops, insides churning as Tim's fingers curl against your counter with an audible scratch.

"You know he's not, right..?" he whispers, like not even he's sure. "That he's just a stranger?"

You furrow your brows, gulping down saliva and steeling yourself. "Of course I know."

But it's like Tim doesn't even hear you.

"He doesn't love you. He doesn't even know you."

You narrow your eyes, going to respond when he beats you to it again.

"Not like I do," he continues, and your words die on your tongue, eyes going a tad wider as he leans in just a bit closer. "Not like I've done for years."

Whether he's talking about knowing you or loving you, you're not sure.

And you continue to be unsure as he softly reaches for your dominant hand, gripping the back of it like he's afraid that if he lets go, you'll slip from him entirely.

The next thing you know, your hand is cradling his cheek, and he's holding it there, allowing your warmth to bleed into his skin as he looks at you with those wide, shaking eyes you seem to be on the receiving end of quite often these days.

"Tell me," he begs—lips wobbling, brows knitting, expression pleading.

And you don't think you can even if you wanted to, mouth too dry and head too empty to even voice a clear thought as he moves to slip his free hand around your waist and pull you closer.

"Please."

You think you're only able to snap out of it when you're just a breath away from his lips, just a hair from touching them with your own as he drills into you with those wide, shaking, desperate blue eyes of his.

And once you do snap out of it, once everything becomes just a little too much, you place a hand firm against his chest, whispering his name with a small, light push.

His grip around you tightens for a second, eyes glazing over, but before they can stay that way, before he can do something without a lick of sense or reason, they clear up again, and he slips his hands from your waist, letting you part from him as his arms fall to hang limply by his sides.

And when you move to further part from him and the room, you pretend not to hear the loud bang against your kitchen counter.

So much for a drink.

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