#or enough thinking things through in general

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (KPDH x Fem! MC) Prologue

Synopsis: Among the Huntrix fandom, there has always been a discussion of theories and ideas about a strange voice in every song from the girls. Something of which they have avoided in every interview. But the one behind it is so much more than they could possibly think. Unraveling her secrets attracts attention she’s yearned yet feared for her life.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)

CW: Slight anxiety/panic attack

Prologue, Part 1

A/N: I want to join the fic craze bc I really love this movie and I NEED that sequel. Also I’m only describing MC’s hair style and eye details (plot reasons), everything else in your interpretation!

————————————————————

In the large fandom of the ever popular group HUNTR/X, there has always been a pool of theories and discussions about a certain aspect in there songs.

What is that voice in the background?

Ever since their debut, a haunting yet beautiful voice has always been present in every release down to solos and performances.

Combing through every interview, social media content, and performances, fans have tried to figure out who this voiced belonged to.

Overanalysing each of the girls voices weren’t enough.

Nothing matched to that haunting feeling.

And yet…

It always filled them with a sense of comfort.

————————————————————

”Girls, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Curiosity fills the newly formed hunters of the current generation as Celine lead the three of them to the garden. Just at the foot of the tree stands an older women who looked the same age as Celina, though she had a messily tied up bun being held up by a hair pin with noticeable greys along dyed caramel streaks.

Just behind the women was another girl who has a more shaggy appearance judging from the strange uneven cuts of hair around her collarbone and messy fringe covering up her eyes.

The women turns around to meet the other girls with a strange gold rim around her brown eyes.

“Girls, this is (M/N). The previous fourth hunter. And behind her is (Y/N), the new fourth hunter.”

As soon as that was announced, the three girls were filled with shock.

“THERES A FOURTH HUNTER?!”

“For how long?! How come you’ve never trained with us?” Rumi questions. “We’ve had some… complications trying to meet up. The original plan was for Rumi and (Y/N) to meet when they were younger, but things didn’t go to plan.” (M/N) answers with a polite but cold tone. The gold rimmed eyes don’t help them feel better.

”Come on (Y/N), say hi to them.”

Peaking behind her mother that met with the trio of girls, shivering (f/c) eyes with the same intriguing gold rims around. She dressed much more casual, like she just came from lounging on the couch prior.

“Hi… its nice to meet you guys.”

The anticipated softness of her voice struck an unexpected cord in the girls. Something alluring and melodic.

”We’ve decided that (Y/N) will join Huntrix.”

Once those words left Celine’s mouth, the girls swiftly saw the colour drain from (Y/N)’s face.

Slowly turning her head.

”WAIT! WHAT?! YOU SIGNED ME UP FOR THIS?! NO NO NO NO NO! YOU DID NOT CONSULT ME ON THIS MUM! REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME I TRIED PERFORMING?!”

Her surprising booming voice made the girls take a step back for a bit. Though the three snapped out of their shock when seeing (Y/N). Sweat glistened on her forehead and her breathing was steadily going ragged. She was shaking her mother like her life depended on it.

“No no no. NOT performing. We agreed on that. You’re just taking over my previous position in the Sunlight Sisters, just a backing vocalist.”

(Y/N) froze for a second. Before collapsing onto her mother, looking like she ran a marathon.

“Celine should’ve mentioned that first. Don’t worry honey.”

Rumi could hear (Y/N) muttering inaudible words of gratitude.

But she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

And yet…

Her slowly calming voice struck a nerve of peace in the three hunters.

————————————————————

Edit: just wanna add that I imagine MC’s singing voice either be Leehi or Seori. Also the idea evolved into a yandere story, but its not that bad I swear.

[imrix]

Yes! This is also of a piece with the historical utility of skirmishers in general!

Today, many of us who know enough about medieval warfare to even recognise the idea of 'skirmishers' are probably imagining like, something from the Total War or Age of Empires games, and thinking their role was that they could kite more heavily armoured troops, perform hit & run attacks, that kind of thing. This is... not wrong, but it is profoundly incomplete.

A great part of the value of skirmishers was strategic, and a great part of being a skirmisher was improvisational. Pre-modern armies supplied themselves in large part through forage; sometimes gathering wild food, more often pillaging local settlements. That meant they needed a fairly large commitment of raiding bands ranging around the main body of the army to perform that forage, and these usually acted as both scouts and skirmisher elements as well.

Pre-modern armies were also extremely hard to bring to battle if they didn't want to be. It takes time to unfold an army from marching columns into battle formation (and you will start in marching columns, or your army won't get anywhere - you cannot march an army of thousands and all their baggage trains over rough country, it is roads or nothing), time in which someone who doesn't want to fight you can just... Keep marching.

If you want the other leader to fight you, you have to either convince him to agree to give battle, such as by tricking him into thinking he can win (although of course, he's probably doing the same to you), or by threatening something that he must defend, or through skirmishing. It is rather difficult to keep an army on the march when there are laughing maniacs on hobbies pelting the rear elements with darts and jeers! It's all very well for the general to declare that we must keep moving, but the troops at the back who are being pelted with darts and jeers have different concerns on their minds, such as not getting skewered by a dart in the back. The rear of the army must therefore slow down to dress its ranks for a fight, and the rest of the army must likewise slow down or else abandon its rear, a decision best avoided, for surely it will only be repeated some few days later after the skirmishers have fixed the abandoned troops in place to be smashed by another element.

The real counter, of course, was skirmishers of your own to engage the enemy skirmishers, and keep them away from the main body of the army - while also keeping you informed of where they are, and doing a bit of pillaging to keep the baggage train stocked as well. Hobelars might not be the arm of decision in a pitched battle, but for damn sure you weren't going to have a battle without them - without skirmishers an army's fate was to stumble blindly, unable to catch an enemy who could pick them to pieces at leisure, or simply let them starve to death for lack of forage.

To be clear, I am not saying This Is What Hobelars Did. As you say, we don't know, the paucity of source material is a real obstacle. But we do know a fair bit about what skirmishers and other light elements did, historically, and hobelars do seem to correspond to that model of warrior, so it is reasonable to speculate that they were a form of mounted skirmisher, seasoned and practiced, and if that is so then we have grounds to make some educated guesses about what they did, and indeed, those educated guesses point towards hobelars being exceedingly valuable soldiers, even if they weren't piled high with the honours their deeds warranted.

[aervera]

PUBLIC MENACE

synopsis. gojo thinks you’re the real troublemaker for being too cute in a crowded café. contents. SFW, tooth-rotting fluff, gojo being gojo. notes. my first ever imagine. be gentle with me please.

MASTERLIST

it’s not your fault.

you were just sitting there, minding your own business, sipping an iced matcha latte and flipping through the menu at your favorite café in shibuya. your sundress was modest — okay, maybe it had a bow at the back and a slightly twirly skirt, but you hadn’t dressed with intentions. you’d only planned to meet your annoying, cocky, ridiculously attractive boyfriend for lunch.

and then satoru gojo walked in like he owned the entire ward.

he spots you in a second, even though the café is packed. his eyes — though hidden behind his signature black sunglasses — lock onto you like a homing missile. and you already know, from the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, that he’s up to something.

you watch him approach with that confident, lazy gait — hands in pockets, white hair slightly mussed, jujutsu high hoodie casually slung over one shoulder. he looks like he belongs in a commercial, or worse, a fanfiction.

he drops into the seat across from you and doesn’t even glance at the menu. instead, he leans in, rests his chin on one hand, and grins.

“your cuteness,” he says, voice low enough to feel like a secret, “is making everyone stare. stop it.”

you blink.

then you scoff. “excuse me?”

gojo tilts his head, as if he’s genuinely concerned. “i’m serious. that thing you’re doing with your lips while reading the menu? adorable. that little crinkle in your nose when you’re trying to decide if you want fries or mochi pancakes? weaponized cuteness.”

you raise a brow. “you’re the one who walked in here looking like an off-duty k-pop idol. if anyone’s getting stared at, it’s you.”

he shrugs, completely unbothered. “that’s different. i’m always stared at. but you?” he leans even closer, and you can smell the faint trace of his cologne — something fresh, clean, dangerously addictive. “you’re my secret weapon. my greatest weakness. my biggest distraction.”

you roll your eyes, trying to suppress the heat crawling up your neck. “you’re being dramatic.”

he rests his cheek on his palm and smiles wider. “and you’re blushing. which, by the way, is also making everyone stare.”

you glance around. a few people are sneaking peeks. whether it’s at you or at gojo is anyone’s guess, but you pretend to hide behind your menu anyway.

“i should’ve picked a quieter place,” you mumble.

he hums in agreement, but there’s mischief dancing in his expression. “but then i wouldn’t get to show off how cute my girlfriend is to the general public. i mean, look at you. you're like a cupcake with legs.”

you shoot him a look. “you’re so weird.”

“weirdly in love,” he corrects, and then groans dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “god, even your annoyed face is cute. what am i supposed to do? you’re out here breaking hearts, babe.”

you snort. “the only heart i plan on breaking is yours if you keep talking like that.”

“ooh, threats. now that’s hot.”

you try to stay irritated, but it’s difficult when he’s beaming at you like you hung the stars. even when he’s being obnoxious — especially when he’s being obnoxious — he manages to make your heart skip. you glance down at the menu again, hoping he’ll stop staring.

he doesn’t.

you sigh. “do you want to order or just keep flirting?”

he smirks. “who says i can’t do both?”

you deadpan, “gojo—”

“alright, alright,” he surrenders, raising his hands in mock defeat. “but only because i can’t let my cupcake starve. what are you having?”

you end up ordering the mochi pancakes and he gets some ridiculous triple-shot iced espresso with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. the barista barely blinks — clearly used to his chaos — but you can’t help but laugh.

“you have the palate of a ten-year-old.”

“and you,” he says, swirling his straw like it’s a fine wine glass, “have the laugh of an angel. seriously, they should bottle that sound.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but you love me.”

“unfortunately,” you mutter, just as the food arrives.

he steals a bite of your pancakes and makes an exaggerated moan. “delicious. just like you.”

you swat his hand. “people are watching, gojo!”

“that’s what i’ve been saying!” he exclaims, pointing at you with his fork. “you’re the one being criminally adorable! i’m just responding to the threat!”

you give him a look that promises vengeance, but he only winks in response. and for a moment, despite the noise around you, the packed café fades into a comfortable blur.

there’s a kind of bubble that gojo pulls you into — effortless, warm, and just a little chaotic. and even though he can be a menace, he’s your menace.

you eat in a kind of teasing peace, trading bites and sarcastic commentary, until he says — more quietly this time — “you know i mean it, right?”

you glance up.

he’s taken off his sunglasses, revealing those impossibly blue eyes, and his usual grin is softened with something more honest.

“you are cute,” he says. “but it’s not just the dress or your smile. it’s the way you light up when you talk about your favorite shows. the way you pout when you’re concentrating. the way you make even a quiet lunch feel like the best part of my day.”

you stare at him, suddenly speechless.

and then he adds, “still — i do wish you’d stop being so cute in public.”

you blink, touched but also unable to resist. “because people are staring?”

“because,” he says, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand, “it’s really hard not to kiss you right now, and i don’t think the world is ready for that level of public affection.”

you snort and squeeze back. “you’re lucky you’re hot.”

“don’t i know it.”

[mona-risms]

perchance relationship headcanons for mira w/ a gn reader?? i don’t really have too many ideas in mind so you can do whatever feels right 😭

◆ MAIN COURSE: Mira x gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: N/A

◆ NOTES: This req came running in a matter of mere mins since sending out that annoucement my GOD 🥰 THANK YOU 🥰🥰🥰 I've been having their songs on loop I swear to god

I LOVE MY BABY I personally think it's a crime that when you think about it Mira and Zoey are very underdeveloped in the plot 😞 but that's not relevant rn ANYWAY

Mira is someone who holds her cards REALLY close to her chest. She's had to grow up that way—being considered the problem child meant whatever she did was scrutinised to all hell and back, so as rebellious as she was, sometimes that didn't necessarily mean feeling 'free' to express herself either. And when she does, it's blunt, cutting, usually ending up with her parents telling her to hush or soften her words to something befitting of......well........someone Not Her

That carries on to how she is with romance, unfortunately. Dating her would be, for simplicity's sake, difficult, and even getting to that point in the first place is even more so. But I swear, trust me when I say that the effort will be so incredibly worth it

Mira would tend to analyse your words a LOT. The other HUNTR/X members are one thing, she's so extremely close with them now that she's comfortable to let her guard down. But with anyone else? Even you? Oh god she is a SCEPTIC through and through; she's the type to prefer actions over words, otherwise she'll take everything you say with more than a grain of salt

And like I said, Mira would also be extremely blunt. She doesn't hold back with her words, so if she's pissed off or disappointed, she WILL make it known. I think it'd be even more so when it comes to someone she has feelings for as well, not for the sake of maliciousness but it's her own way of letting you know how she genuinely feels in the moment without mixing shit up

I think if you genuinely show her that you respect her agency and how she is, if you give her the time and space she needs, she'll slowly but surely start to open up to you and allow herself to not get her guard up all the time

"Hey."

Mira's sharp tone caught your attention, but you've learned to easily take it in stride. Where staff would've cowed slightly at the feeling of being intimidated, you simply lifted your head up and met the idol's gaze head-on. "Mira," you nodded in acknowledgement, "need something? I thought you were rehearsing."

Mira shrugged as she approached, the penthouse windows reflecting her movements for you to see, "We were, but Bobby needed to talk to Rumi about something and Zoey went to finish her rapping verse for the new song."

You couldn't help the chuckle that escaped past your lips, "I'd have assumed she went to eat her heart out."

"That girl can multitask," the corner of Mira's lips lifted in barely-contained amusement when she leans on the arm of the sofa across you.

"And you?" You tilted your head slightly, "What are you doing now?"

"Taking a break, obviously."

"I thought there was no rest for a K-Pop idol."

"That is Rumi's thing, you're talking to the wrong idol."

"Right, right, my bad, Ms. 'I came to the Met Gala in a sleeping bag'."

Mira huffed in slight laughter at the memory, "If everyone's just going to abandon all sense of comprehensible fashion, what does it matter if I wore a sleeping bag? Realistically speaking, I was the only one there who felt comfortable."

"Fair enough," is all you offer.

And really, the silence should've bothered her. Usually it did. Without Rumi or Zoey to fill the silence, the lack of.. anything would usually make her feel like she's being internally scrutinised for any reason—the way she dressed, the way she spoke, the way she presented herself in general.

But with you? Mira felt none of that. With interacting, the responses flowed easily, and she didn't feel like she was wittingly stepping on landmines whenever she said anything. In silence, there was no pressure, there was no prickling feeling of scrutiny, it was just.. comfortable.

Not quite the same sort of comfortable she had with the other HUNTR/X members, of course, but.. something different.

Honestly she didn't know whether she wanted to lean into it or pull away.

So she tests the waters instead, "You're weird."

"Am I?"

"Yeah, you are. People would either freak out, use us for clout, or give Dispatch the time of their lives," she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, "but you've done none of that. You're just.. here. "

"..Am I not allowed to be here?"

"Not my point. I mean you don't push yourself onto the three of us," on her, though that goes completely unsaid in favour for the feeling of protectiveness for what her trio had. "What's your angle?"

Maybe the question should've offended, but.. all you did was shrug as you answered with complete sincerity, your voice not wavering even once, "None. Is it that hard to believe that I just genuinely enjoy your company?"

Mira blinked. "Yes."

(Some small part of her mind, clearly unimportant, wondered whether you meant to refer to HUNTR/X as a whole.. or just her.)

And you laughed, a low chime in the otherwise quiet penthouse living room, "Not much I can do there, unfortunately. Guess you'll just have to trust me."

Trust.

That never came easy for her, not now and certainly not back then.

And yet.

"..Guess I do."

Once you actually end up dating, it's ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ UGH I love her

Yk how she'd be blunt as hell? See that still stays. HOWEVER. When you're not in, say, a professional or a life-or-death situation, her voice takes on a certain care and softness that she doesn't even have with HUNTR/X. It's not wholly noticeable, but you can hear it in the way she's slightly less sharp when addressing you, you can see it in the way that her expression softens subtly when she talks about you (and Zoey and Rumi tease her to the moon and back, mostly Zoey LMFAO)

I don't think she'd use nicknames personally, feels too cheesy for her. Actually, saying things in general is too cheesy for her, not to mention again she much prefers showing than telling. So instead of nicknames, it's sudden gifts like the jacket she clocked you eyeing up but didn't buy or even just your favourite snack from the convenience store. Instead of waxing poetry about what she adores about you, she expresses it in gestures. An example would be if you did makeup, she'd watch you and if there's something specific that she's noticed about your features but YOU didn't, she might even guide you or do the makeup herself so that your makeup is properly done justice

She won't be clingy, but she'd be EXTREMELY protective of you. Friends (and especially HUNTR/X actually) are one thing, but Mira letting herself date someone in the first place? Shit man that means she considers you as someone she genuinely wants to stay with. She recognises very well that you have your own life, and she has hers, and she wouldn't want to suffocate in the way SHE doesn't want to be suffocated either. But at the same time, when you're out together, she'd step a little closer, guide you through crowds like a bodyguard instead of your girlfriend (lol), and in the case of demons ever coming near you? Oooooh MAN it's over for them—no one, and I mean NO ONE, is taking the person who makes her feel like she belongs and she's lovable

I feel the need to add that if you like dancing or you ARE a dancer/fellow choreographer, then it's bonus points to you. Mira's bluntness actually helps here, since she'll freely give you feedback on your movements AND even demonstate the dances/suggest alternatives. And because the two of you are together? Yes. Yes she'll come close and guide you with touch without hesitation 🥰🥰🥰. OH OH OH AND LET'S NOT FORGET COUPLE DANCES TOO!!!! PLEAAAASE it'd just be the two of you in the dance studio and you're doing the tango or even ballroom dancing (you can tease her about it and she'll say she's multifaceted)

I think there are moments where she'd retreat to herself, especially during the beginning of your relationship or after the first few times you fight. It's already a huge insecurity of hers, being aware that she can be easily UNapproachable due to how brutally honest she can be. The time with Rumi was one thing, but you're someone who she willingly gave and entrusted her entire heart to—what happens if that's.. gone? Please give her space before the two of you talk again, she's genuinely a reasonable person. Reassure her that you're willing to give her whatever she needs, and over time she grows more comfortable with the new form of vulnerability, and she'll withdraw less when she realises that yes! You're staying, and nothing she does will change that

Also? Nap times. Relaxations in the hot springs. GOD yes. Couple spa dates? Genuine bliss 🥰🥰🥰 And speaking of dates, she knows she's busy as HELL. But she tries her best to either carve out time for you or she actually has you involved with whatever it is she's busy with, surprisingly (like having you watch her choreo to see if there's anything that sticks out, watching her and the other girls go on reality shows, etc)

Overall? It's like having a cat for a girlfriend. One that genuinely treasures you when she finds herself wanting your presence to be a constant bc of how you make her feel ☹️

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

We're Going To Get Along Just Fine

Wanda X Reader 18+

Summary- You go home with a mysterious woman from the bar.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- One night stands, Au no powers, Dom Reader/Sub Wanda, Oral sex, Fingering, Waking someone up with sex, Multiple Orgasms

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List

W/c- 1.9k

“What can I get for you love?” asked the redhead behind the bar. She was a gorgeous woman who you could tell easily had people on their knees for her. Sadly that wasn’t what you were looking for as you could tell she was definitely the dominate type, you wanted someone begging beneath you tonight so she was out of the equation. You read the name tag on her bartender uniform before answering.

“What do you suggest Natasha?” she looked you up and down before leaning forward showing off her breasts and bringing a finger to her chin as if she was thinking.

“How about sex on the beach?” You laughed at her before saying ‘why not’ with a shrug of your shoulders. She fixed your drink while making small conversation. “So what’s a young girl like you doing here all by yourself?”

“Drowning my sorrows with the best solution,” you say while holding your drink up. “Also plan on bringing another girl home with me. Got any tips for me?” you asked while taking a sip of your drink. The bartender looks around before catching the eyes of a woman across the room. She’s noticed the woman staring at you for a while so she decides to help you out.

“There’s a stunning woman sat at the booth in the left corner all by herself,” she starts making another drink as well as fixing you a whiskey as she heard you mention your taste for them. “She’s been looking at you for a while so take this,” she hands you a drink identical to the one the mysterious woman has been drinking along with a small glass of whiskey for you.

“Thanks Natasha,” you say while paying her and taking the drink to the woman.

“Excuse me,” you say snapping the woman out of her thoughts. You take in her long, wavy brown hair that complements the captivating green of her eyes and how her cheeks blush ever so slightly when she sees you. Her dress was a simple thing but it hugged her curves perfectly and showed enough of her breasts for you to get a good view. You could see her long legs as well as she placed one leg over the other and moved to face you. “Hi, I couldn’t help but notice such a beautiful woman sitting by herself. May I join you?” You watched how her blush slightly became more visible before motioning to the seat.

“Of course have a seat,” she said. You noticed her accent and couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when she was begging. You cleared your throat before sitting and offering her the drink. She happily took it and had a sip while you had a little whiskey for extra confidence. “I’m Wanda,” she said while looking you up and down.

“Well Wanda,” you say while leaning forward. You notice her looking at your lips and subconsciously wet them before catching her eyes. The green you saw before was now mere slivers as her eyes were full of lust and want. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

As soon as she let you into her apartment you pushed her against the door and slotted your knee between her legs. She moaned against your lips and you took that as the chance to slip your tongue into her mouth. The kiss was hungry and desperate as she pulled you by the belt to press her harder into the door. She whimpered when you pulled away from her lips to kiss along her jaw and neck.

“No marks please,” she moaned as you kissed on the sensitive juncture of her neck. You hummed against the soft skin before trailing your hands up her body. Your mouth made its way to her earlobe while your hands teased the underside of her breasts through her dress.

“What do you want from me,” your tone was sultry and it made Wanda’s knees weak.

“Please fuck me,” she whined as her hips started to grind along your knee. You chuckled lowly, sending shivers down her spine before you pulled away.

“As you wish,” you whispered before dropping to your knees. Your hands ran along the back of her legs and inched their way upwards until they reached the back of her thighs. You slowly dragged your nails down her smooth skin before you hitched up the fabric of her dress so your face could be near where she wanted you. “So wet for me,” you murmured at the skin of her inner thighs as you could see the visible wet spot on her underwear. “May I?” You asked while slipping your fingers under the waistband of her underwear.

“Yes please,” she sighed out and you pulled the piece of clothing down her legs. Your hot breath caused Wanda to moan and the feeling of your fingers gently running through her folds made her head spin. Yes she came to the bar to have a quick fuck but god she didn’t imagine to have someone drive her this mad. You hadn’t even touched her yet and she felt like she could come. You gathered her wetness before circling her clit slowly. You heard the breathless sighs leave her lips and decided to switch it up as you wanted her to be a mess for you. You thrusted two fingers straight into her core and saw her back arch off the wall at the feeling. You leaned forward to place a kiss on her clit before taking it into your mouth and sucking on it. Her moans echoed off the walls as you relentlessly took her against her front door. You felt her start to tighten around your fingers and curled them so they hit her g-spot. A broken moan left her lips as she tried to grind down on your hands to bring her over the edge.

“Look how good your taking me,” your tone sultry as she clamps a hand over her mouth to contain her moans. She throws her head back hitting it against the wall as you slip in another finger, stretching her walls so perfectly it almost had her coming on the spot. “Don’t keep quiet love, I want to hear you,” you say before taking her clit in your mouth again. The feeling of your mouth, fingers and your words sends her over the edge, coming with a guttural scream. Her hips move on their own she rides out her orgasm. Once she calms down you pull out and move back up her body. She laces her fingers through your hair and kisses you, groaning when she tastes herself on your lips. You tug on the bottom of her dress in a silent question and she pulls the garment over her head, leaving her in nothing but her lacy bra. You groan at the sight and pick her up, her legs wrapping around your waist. You can feel her wetness soaking through your shirt as her bare cunt rubs against your toned stomach.

“Bedroom, please,” she whines and you pull her from the door. She guides you around her apartment and chuckles against your lips as you stub your toe on her sofa. You finally make it into the bedroom without dropping her and place her on the bed. You crawl on top of her and press your lips back to hers. She spins the two of you around and straddles your waist. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says as her hands work on unbuttoning your shirt. You pull your belt off and unfasten your pants while she pulls your shirt off your shoulders. She lifts herself so you can pull your pants down leaving you naked beneath the woman. Her hands rest on your shoulder as you move forward to unclasp her bra and throw it somewhere in the room. You take her breast into your mouth, sucking on her nipple causing a string of moans to leave her mouth as her hips roll against yours. A groan leaves your lips as you feel her heat grind along yours. Your hands make their way to her behind and you grip the flesh before guiding her hips into a quick rhythm.

“God you’re so beautiful,” you rasp out as her mouth hangs open in pleasure. With one hand you move to rub fast tight circles against her clit.

“I’m so close,” she whimpers and the sound of her thick accent is making you go crazy. You’re already addicted to her. The taste of her against your lips, the breathless sighs that leave her mouth, the feeling of her bare pussy grinding along yours. It’s intoxicating.

“Beg for it,” you say while panting on her lips. “Tell me how much you want to come.”

“Oh god,” she groaned out and you snap her hips hard against yours, a new spike of pleasure running through her. “Please let me come. You’re making me feel so good and I just want to come. Let me be good please, let me come for you. I want to be your good girl.” You growl against her lips as you speed up the movements of your hand on her clit and the rolling of her hips.

“You want to be my good girl?” you murmur at her jaw, nibbling slightly. “Then come for me. Now.” The tone of your voice sends her straight over the edge and her hips stutter and tremble from another orgasm. You slow the pace until you feel her moving her hips by herself again. “Think you can do one more my love?” you whisper. She nods her head and guide her hips again so she’s brushing against your clit perfectly. “Such a good girl for me,” you rasp out, “I’m so close.” Wanda moves her fingers so they can rub your clit and your hips buck at the feeling.

“Please come for me, I want to be a good girl and make you come,” she purrs at your ear and your hips start to tremble. You rub as fast as you can into her clit and that’s all it takes for you both to fall over the edge. You moan against each other’s lips as you continue to grind against each other like animals until you finally come down from your highs. She goes limp above you and you place a gentle kiss against her forehead as you catch your breath. As soon as you can feel your legs again you roll her over onto her back and move to find her bathroom. Wanda starts to drift in and out of sleep as you clean her and grab her clothes and fold them onto her cabinet.

“Stay?” she asks sleepily and you look at your phone quickly to check the time. It was currently two am and you didn’t fancy travelling all the way home. You joined her in the bed and she quickly made her way over to you to cuddle.

A soft whimper left your lip as you slowly woke up with a pleasurable feeling. You gradually opened your eyes to see Wanda staring up at you, her tongue deep inside you. You groan at the sight before moving your hands into her hair as she eats you out. It doesn’t take you long to come against her tongue and your whole body shakes as you ride out the high.

“That’s definitely the best way I’ve ever woken up,” you breathlessly say earning a chuckle. She crawls back up your body and lays flush against you as your lips press together.

“That was to say thank you for last night,” she mumbles on your lips and you smile.

“Oh yeah?” you say while rolling her over. “Do you have any plans for today?” She bites her lip and shakes her head. “Good cause I’m not letting you leave this bed,” you whisper with a smirk before crashing your lips together.

[technecat-scratchings]

Alright, after considering this for a few days I think I have some new insight and hopefully some explanations for how and why things work the way they do currently (in the US) and how teachers, as individuals, are combating the system as well as we can. I don't go into the whole "treating education as a for-profit industry has ultimately broken it" thing, nor do I go on my "standardized testing as a requirement to judge funding for schools is a scam" rant in this one. I mostly just talk about why grades are a thing and why using LLMs is cheating...but like, not in the way you might think.

If we're talking about general academic structure in the US, then I can see where you might be coming from in terms of broken and destructive, especially if you did well in primary and secondary school and dropped out of uni. (Fun fact: I also dropped out of uni for a bit for mental and physical health reasons, which is why it took me 11 years to get my B.S. degree, yippee). For many people, finishing mandatory education (high school/GED) is a struggle. I always tell my students: if you really hate high school but want to go to college, go to a community college or tech school for a semester. If you hate that too, then the structured system of academia isn't for you and that's OK. People always say that school is designed to prepare you to work quietly on something boring at a desk for eight hours in an office, and I halfway agree that sentiment. I think that school is designed to prepare you to work with other people on challenging tasks that may or may not be interesting to you at the time, but ultimately prepare you for— you guessed it— general adult life. Whether that be college (which is what I think standard secondary schooling has been modeled to prepare students for thus far) the workplace or whatever life hands you.

On Grades:

Grades are meant to be the end result of an assessment, whether it's a paper, project, or exam. They are a standardized way for teachers to communicate what a student's perceived level of understanding on a subject is. It is much, much easier to simply assign a numbered grade to someone and say "this is (ostensibly) how well you did on this task" because it's quantifiable. The number/letter/score is just a way to get accurate data about a student's abilities; to determine if they learned enough to move on to the next level. The idea is that by the time they reach the summative—the end goal— they should have the right amount of knowledge to move on, and they prove that through the assessment.

However in practice, grading often gets seen as either a punishment or reward rather than a way to mark student progress. Parents tend to punish students for bad grades, but an effective teacher should see the grade as a chance for growth, not a reason for punishment. All a bad grade does is show that the student didn't meet the minimum requirements for learning a topic. That can be fixed! Knowledge can continue to be learned after an assessment is over. (Teachers who disallow retakes on tests will forever befuddle me. I allow infinite revisions on every assignment I give.) Ideally, that knowledge will be revisited throughout the rest of the year, helping to further put it into context and offer more chances to prove knowledge was acquired. "Bad" grades should be a motivator to do better, not a punishment for not doing your best the first time around.

Now, I don't know if this was a thing back when I was in high school in the '00s, but nowadays I have full and total control over my gradebook. At the end of the semester, if I decide that a student has met all the learning targets despite having an overall poor score, I will adjust their final grade to reflect that. Maybe they missed several assignments leading up to a big project, but did a great job on that project. My projects (think: tests) aren't weighted that heavily against classwork (department policy) so passing the project won't automatically make up for the missing scores. But to me, passing the project is the proof of learning; they showed they could take what they learned and apply it successfully and that's all I care about. So when it's time for report cards to come out, I'll make adjustments to the final grade and leave a note about how the student demonstrated necessary skills that were not reflected by the original grade. And that's not me cheating the system, that's school policy. A gradebook is just aggregated data, and data, as we all know, can easily misrepresent what its being collected for.

There have been many articles and books and other things that I have not read about abolishing grades entirely, mostly in higher education settings, but I did read this article from The Atlantic about a high school teacher who stopped traditional grading for six weeks and how that affected both her students and their parent's views of their educational progress. The usual arguments I hear against utilizing grades is that they encourage thinking of education as a competition, focus too much on testing as the end-all-be-all, and cause unnecessary anxiety. These things are all true to some degree, however I would argue that this is not because the concept of scoring itself is flawed, but because the way we communicate and treat those scores institutionally is flawed. I'll quote the article above directly:

"The problem lies when the product itself is elevated above the process." - Ashley Lamb-Sinclair, The Atlantic

Again, I am just one teacher and I teach a "fun" class in a "progressive" district, so maybe I'm just very lucky to have as much control as I do over my gradebook, but for me, grades are necessary to track student progress and prove that (a) the student learned was was required and can apply that knowledge in practical situations and (b) I did my ding dang job correctly so that students can do (a) with minimal issues.

But look, I know grading isn't always fair. I have had to talk my students into advocating for themselves against unfair grading practices with other teachers in my own district! In my department, student attendance can affect their grades (participation), and I personally hate that. I flunked a few classes in uni because I got sick and was unable to provide "adequate proof" that my absences should be excused because I needed a "real" doctor's note and I had no insurance. Several of my classes had a one letter grade deduction per unexcused absence policy, so missing four days was an automatic failure. I had a few teachers that did their best to bend the rules for me, but policies are policies. At that point, the grade wasn't representative of my ability to learn anything, it was representative of my inability to afford to go to the doctor and not the free campus health clinic; and that sucks.

Let's go back to OP's initial example of the book report though. I guarantee you that OP's English teacher had specific things they were looking for in the book report as an assessment of skills. It was probably something like:

Students Will Be Able To... -Describe the themes of ABC and how they relate to XYZ -Compare and contrast the tone of XYZ -Defend their position through persuasive writing -Use correct terminology and cite sources

Or something like that. And each of those tasks, known as learning targets in some systems, is designed to assess student knowledge and ability. If a student does all of the above effectively, then they get the highest score. If they flounder on one or two, then they score lower. How those scores are broken down may depend on department requirements or just be up to the teacher themselves. In the end, it's the teacher who decides whether to student met the targets, not the number on the paper. Notice how none of those targets I listed said "read the book in its entirety". We can infer that is implied, but nowhere does it say the student must do this. Thus, it can be seen that, as long as OP met the necessary criteria, they did in fact earn that A.

On Academic Integrity:

So where do GenAI and LLMs come into all of this? Cheating, right? That is what OPs original topic was addressing. Now, here is the thing about cheating in school: despite how many institutions might frame it, education is not a competition against other students. The only person you are competing against is yourself. It's like cheating on a race against your own best time. OK, you did better because you cheated, but why did you cheat at all? What did you get out of it? A better number? What does that number even mean if it is not just a way to prove you could do better than you used to? You don't actually get anything out of cheating except a meaningless score. And, more to the point of the topic at hand, the teacher doesn't get anything out of it either. When it comes down to it, you can't actually do what you said you can, and false data is useless data.

I mentioned this in another post, but I did have a student turn in multiple assignments that were AI generated last year and I had to start an academic integrity investigation with administration. These were not ChatGPT short answers on an exercise or whatever, they were fully AI generated images they tried to pass off as their own classwork. And I had to give them zeroes on those assignments, not because they cheated and thereby deserved to be punished, but because they didn't demonstrate what they needed to in order to prove they understood the material. When they went back and re-did the assignments the intended way they didn't do a stellar job, but they met some of those learning targets I mentioned earlier, and that's because they demonstrated some ability to do what they were being assessed on.

But, OK, maybe that kid didn't give a ratty-patootey about learning how to create vector art and just wanted to pass so they wouldn't get in trouble and run laps in football or whatever. Alas, sometimes we have to do things we do not want to in order to improve ourselves. And, alas, sometimes those things are mandatory because someone with more power than us has declared it so. And, again—alas, we just have to do them to move on to better things. Something-something-something- well-rounded individuals. Anyway, sometimes you have to eat your vegetables because they are actually good and beneficial even if you don't understand that yet. They needed a Fine Art credit to graduate and they got one. Vegetables consumed. Who knows what knowledge congealed in their minds once they actually went back and did the work? A lot of knowledge sticks in surprising ways.* Maybe they walked away from my class with at least enough design knowledge to pick a legible font and readable layout for their next History presentation and they don't even know it.

Buuut, I'm still a newbie teacher—coming up on year five— and my views and understanding of teaching and assessment are based on my years of teaching art, not mandatory core subjects like Science or English Lit. So, allow me to take us back in time for a moment to 2006 when I was failing Algebra 2/Trig in high school.

I had the worst math teacher, possibly of all time, and he made my personal math learning journey a living hell. I won't go into detail here, but basically he wouldn't actually do anything to help me to understand the material. He never noted why I got something wrong or offered any assistance on correcting my repeated mistakes, he just scored it and moved on. And when I directly asked for help he would tell me to go over the problems again in the book. Our textbook was from 1985 and it had all the answers to the even numbered questions in the back. Amazingly, we were never assigned just the odd numbers, but full batches of numbers, odd and even both. So, I always had half the correct answers on hand and you'd think that knowing half the answers would make things easier, but it did not.

Because simply knowing the correct answer didn't help me to understand it. And I knew that I had to understand how to do the problem in order to do the next problem, and the next, and eventually all the problems on the test which would ultimately determine my grade. At 16 I understood that my grade = hard proof of my level of ability, and I was failing (and unfortunately did fail the semester completely). I never understood Trigonometry. I retook it in college and barely passed (I earned more points just for showing up and trying my hardest than I did for actually passing tests!) I couldn't tell you anything about it now except that I haven't used it in my life since because I actively avoided learning any form of math after that.**

So therein lies the biggest issue with using LLMs or genAI to do your schoolwork for you. It's not really about "academic integrity" or even that more than half the time it's not even correct, it's that— despite how trite it may seem in our giant capitalist hellscape— the point of going to school and getting an education is to better ourselves through learning and not to game the system***. You might be able to cheat your way into getting to wave a paper around that says you are good at something so you can get a job, but you cannot improve yourself without doing the work.

Working toward any kind of self-improvement is often tiring and thankless work, and it can often feel pointless if we forget that its purpose is ultimately to help ourselves so that we can then turn and help others. Without the actual knowledge that you would have gained by putting in the work, you have effectively done nothing to improve yourself or the world around you. And if that sounds preachy well, sorry, but it's my literal job to care about education and part of that is constantly fighting public misconceptions on the importance of it, so I have to get a bit preachy sometimes.

Further thoughts on the Future of LLMs

I think about those Columbia University students who were suspended and later dropped out because they developed an AI to cheat on job interviews. The school disciplined them because they were promoting a tool that, while allegedly not designed to do so, could be used to cheat on classwork and the students were upset because they had checked the university guidelines and did not see any explicit reasoning why their project violated them. They viewed the tool as a protest, a disruption of a corrupt system, and yet they apparently don't see the irony in profiting off of it. "It’s so obvious that to us, we’re placing a huge bet on the fact that in the future, the entire way we think is going to be dramatically changed by AI and to assume that this is not going to be cheating, this is just going to be how people operate".

So their company's big idea is that once everyone is cheating then no one is. But then what? Once no one puts in the work, then...? Is the idea that no one has to work anymore? Or that only the people smart enough— or rich enough—to cheat won't have to work anymore? How is this even challenging the system at all? This isn't protest or disruption this is just grabbing the bag and running before it all explodes in your face. Keep thinking like this, and companies will soon decide that if you can use an algorithm to cheat a job interview, then maybe they don't need you to do the job at all.

I'll always come back to the same old soapbox with regards to LLMs/genAI: it's all a scheme to devalue human labor for corporate profit, and we can't let society fall for it!

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[vampmira]

PUT UP YOUR HANDS IF YOU'RE MY BFF !!

after their new global blow up in popularity, huntr/x get a call from bobby, announcing their new "co-manager in training". you're overly awkward with each other until he finds the ultimate solution – a sleepover.

pairing: platonic!huntrix & gn!manager!reader

warnings: movie spoilers

a/n: there's sprinkled korean in here — in hangeul, romanized, and translated — if that matters. lowk it's so i can practice my korean again 😭 also this one's longg i got excited to write again

a quiet penthouse in the center of seoul doesn't stay quiet for long; not when huntrix, one of the bigger girl groups of their current generation, just finished another perfect concert. their fans disburse through the streets, traffic picking up faster than the speed of light. there are groups of lightsticks along the sidewalks lighting their way home and the girls are doe-eyed as they look out the window at what's bloomed below them.

"they're so cute when you think about it." rumi leans against the window, voice soft and arms crossed in her tanktop and train pants. "getting with their friends, coming out to see us?"

"IT'S SO PRECIOUS!!" zoey's eyes are swallowed in tears as she wildly wipes them away with her arms. their lavender leader pets their youngest's head, demon marks sparkling in the moonlight.

mira looks on at the groups of fans, smiling against each other, protected under the golden honmoon, and nearly cries herself before her phone vibrates — a video call coming in, unfiltered by her activated do not disturb setting. she slides it between the three of them, answering immediately.

"hi bobby!" they respond unanimously to their manager.

"my girls!! you three were INCREDIBLE tonight, as always!" streetlights flash across his face, illuminating his proud smile. "listen! i know it's been a crazy night but i have a liiiiittle favor to ask– SO SMALL, you'll barely even notice it!"

the girls gather on their couch. bobby never asked them for much – maybe for them to stop playfully kicking each other in their makeup chairs or to drink water after concerts or to lean on him if they ever need anything – but never big favors. regardless, huntrix knew they'd do just about anything for him. he's always taken care of them on their best and worst days. their number one behind the scenes, from the stressful rush of comeback season to the grueling nights of unending practice when he waits for them in the car outside until 2 in the morning. so when they gathered the screen and told him to "hit them" with his favor, they knew one thing.

nothing would be too much for bobby.

then they met you.

not you as in you yourself, but you as in their new manager.

"a junior co-manager to even out some of the work around here!" bobby exclaimed when he entered the room. the girls tried not to stiffen when meeting you, this brand new stranger in their home, but their introduction was clunkier than it is on tv.

mira came in too early, rumi came in too loud, zoey came in too late.

"hello-" "hello, we are- are huntrix!" "hun.. huntrix...?"

they physically cringe at the memory.

there were bumps in the road getting you comfortable with each other

you'd get caught off guard by mira's intense stare

rumi would speak so formally with you, it'd make her stutter over her pronunciation

zoey would bow and apologize to you, which you would return with a deeper bow, and she would return deeper

... let's just say you got more flexible as time went on

until bobby had enough of the over politeness.

until the destined sleepover.

"okay!" bobby placed a mountain of chips, sandwiches, and popcorn on the penthouse table, enough to cover it like a river. "welcome to your manager and huntrix girls night! or uh... friendship night!"

"what's this all about?" rumi questions, her members far to excitedly staring at the popcorn to fully listen.

"i know i'm your amazing manager and all but we have a new member on the team!" he gestures over to you, sitting a few visible feet away from the very huddled up idols. "and, for them to do their job, you need to be closer! so, take tonight! have fun, play games, learn secrets- whatever!"

he walks out, waving at the mess of young adults he left behind — you all. it was quiet, unspoken small glances being shared between the four of you before the scary rapper cutely smiled behind her hands, cheeks stuffed with popcorn and eyes sparkling with mischief.

"you guys wanna play 딸기 (ddalgi / strawberry)?"

that game became a staple in your friendship

zoey's amazing rap skills kept her winning but you? oh she was THRILLED she FINALLY had good competition!!

when she, the undefeated champion of 딸기, wore her crown against you for the 3rd round in a row – that's when it got serious

the mario kart was pulled out.

before you knew it, you were leaning against rumi's demon markings, watching her take 1st place again.

"you're rigging the game! totally rigging!" their youngest in fourth place accused their leader, shaking her by her shoulders as she drifts across toad's turnpike seamlessly.

you hung behind her at second until that destined mystery box gave you the one thing you were looking for – a miraculous blue shell. its release was cinematic as it hit her biker princess daisy persona, allowing you to surpass her at the last second mid drift – akira drift style. it was slow motion, that switch of the neck and neck rivalry to a historic soar in the rankings, before the girls lost in fourth and twelfth jumped around you in triumph at the decrowning of their beloved leader.

all lighthearted of course !

rumi called for an immediate rematch but her smile told you it wasn't serious

the rest of the night barely called for icebreakers

no, the ice was thoroughly broken

in fact, the ice was broken, chopped, grinded, melted, refrozen into ice spheres, and plopped into the glasses of 화채 (hwachae) that you all prepared at 2 in the morning

if you asked the girls, there'd be small argument over which part of the sleepover you definitely became friends

zoey would say during 딸기

rumi would claim it was the mario kart

mira would put it on the time she accidentally smeared mascara on your face a week after you met for the first time and didn't tell you until you got in the van post-inkigayo win

...very embarrassing that day.

but for you? the 2am 화채 was it.

you sat against the penthouse's tall windows in your own pajamas, watching your idols excitedly scramble things together on the floor of their living room. chilled watermelon, blueberries, honeydew and kiwi cubes, lemon-lime soda, honey, and sugar are tossed in front of you with wild excitement.

"i can't. believe. you've never. had. HWACHAE." the huntrix maknae leans into you. she was just falling asleep on your shoulder during their 7th rewatch of extraordinary attorney woo a few minutes ago before their deep voiced compadre brought up her craving.

"you're gonna love it." her intense stare is softer now, a stark difference to how she is during rehersal or morning makeup. she looks at you the way she looks at hwachae. she looks at hwachae the way she looks at their fans.

you sat around the combination of fruit and sodas and cups as they start putting it together, the kdrama going on in the background. zoey makes a comment about the love interest being a green forest before absent mindedly pouring in soda, you being the one to stop her before it overflowed.

seoul was bright outside their tall windows, buildings shining with lights and cars passing by here and there, but it was quiet. the sky was clear enough to let the moonlight shine on the girls in front of you, as if they were the chosen ones, and when they looked at you for your first opinion of the sweet treat, you weren't just a manager with the rockstars they "had to babysit". you were a couple of teenagers having a sleepover. the epidemie of youthfulness, humanity, and friendship.

hwachae, k-dramas, and friends.

friends.

the next morning, you were surprised to see that your once fully scheduled phone calender was cleared

instead,, an email sent to you from bobbypearl@huntrix.com, titled "enjoyyyy the day offffff" in your notifications

you never shared this email with the girls, allowing them to sleep in until they groggly arose around noon, but the attatched photo of them laying around you, looking like a pile of emotionally attached puppies in your sleep, went framed in your apartment later that week

when the four of you showed up at work later that week, coffees in hand, engaged in a casual conversation of a show he couldn't recognize, he couldn't help but pat himself on the back, finally free from the collective awkwardness.

[suunani]

full of you [ jeong jaehyun ]

you somehow end up cockwarming in your best friend’s lap by the end of the night.

❛ content 2.5k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, bottom! male reader, cockwarming, so much praise, lots of pet names, jaehyun being completely gone for reader, sligh fingering (prep), fluff, lots of kisses.

( part one )

you hadn’t planned on staying the night.

it was just supposed to be dinner. maybe a movie. a casual tuesday night the same way it had always been — except 'casual' hadn’t meant the same thing in weeks. not since that kiss. not since everything shifted without either of you really acknowledging it, like the ground had quietly changed beneath your feet and you both just agreed not to panic about it.

now jaehyun kissed you often.

on your mouth, your cheek, your shoulder when you were brushing your teeth. he didn’t ask anymore. and, honestly, he didn’t need to.

you were already his — and he was yours — in every wordless way that mattered.

so when his fingers had curled around yours after dinner, tugging you gently into his bedroom without saying a word, you didn’t question it. you never could, not when he looked at you like that : soft and full of something you didn’t quite have a name for, but felt deep in your bones.

he sat on the edge of the bed while you stood between his knees, your thighs brushing the outsides of his, his hands exploring in slow, patient movements — under your shirt, across your waist, thumbs skimming the waistband of your sweats like he was drawing a map of you in his mind.

jaehyun didn’t rush. he never rushed. not with you.

you leaned down and kissed him — not deep, not eager, just slow. mouths barely parting. it was the kind of kiss that just felt like breathing, like leaning into warmth. you felt the subtle flex of his fingers on your hips, the way he exhaled softly through his nose when your lips skimmed the corner of his mouth. that made him weak — you could tell, and it made your heart ache with affection.

“can i ask you, hum… something?” he murmured, barely breaking the kiss, his lips brushing yours with each word.

“mmh?” your forehead stayed pressed to his.

his thumbs rubbed slow circles into the bare skin just above your waistband — he was not pushing, not teasing either, just… grounding you.

“i’ve been thinking about something,” he said, eyes flicking up.

you pulled back just a bit, enough to see the shift in his face — open, but careful. that look he gave you when he was being vulnerable. when he wanted something and wasn’t sure how you’d take it. that look alone made your stomach flutter.

“yeah?” you asked gently.

“i kinda wanna try cockwarming.”

you blinked.

your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. your throat went tight, and your heart slammed once — hard enough you could feel it in your teeth. his words didn’t even fully register at first, like your brain had hit a glitch trying to process them.

jaehyun smiled softly, thumb still tracing your skin. “you okay, baby?”

“i…” you swallowed, your eyes flicking down to his chest like you couldn’t look at him for a second. “you want me to… sit on it?”

“that’s the general idea,” he said, smiling a little more, voice still so soft. he laughed gently when your face went warm — not teasing, just fond. “but only if you want to.”

you choked a little — or whatever the hell that thing in your throat was — because your whole body had gone tight. not out of fear. just that visceral hit of nerves and want colliding in your chest like a wave.

you tried to speak, failed, cleared your throat, and tried again. “y–yeah. i want to. just… wasn’t expecting that.”

“i know,” he said, and his hands moved slowly up your sides, like he was reading you. “i’ll be really soft with you.” his voice dropped a note, not dirty — not even close — but reverent, like he was giving you a promise.

it went straight through you.

“i just want to feel you,” he said, breath brushing your jaw. “no rush. just… stay inside you.”

you didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt until he tilted his head and pressed a slow kiss to your jaw, like he could taste the way your pulse jumped there.

“okay,” you whispered, breath catching.

“yeah?”

you nodded.

his hand found yours again, his fingers lacing with yours like they always did when he needed you to stay close.

“come here, baby.”

the clothes came off slow — peeled away like they had all the time in the universe. his hands skimmed up your back when he took your shirt off, brushing his fingers down your spine as if he couldn’t bear to lose contact. your pants were pushed past your thighs with quiet exhales and shy glances, every bit of skin uncovered only making the air feel heavier between you.

he laid you back on the bed for a moment, not even to do anything — just to look at you, to lean over and kiss down your chest, his mouth tracing every line of you with quiet awe. he kissed your stomach, the soft part just below your navel, his hand warm against your side while the other held the lube.

then he settled behind you, letting you lean back into him while he slicked his fingers and started prepping you — slow, warm, so careful. every movement was met with a whisper at your ear.

“you’re doing so good,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, lips brushing the side of your face. “opening up so easy for me, honey. like your body already knows what it wants.”

you groaned, head falling back against his shoulder. his fingers moved deeper, coaxing you open, the stretch manageable only because he gave you so much time. his free hand stroked along your waist, grounding you with every soft word and every warm breath.

by the time you were ready, he was sitting back against the headboard again, legs spread just enough, his dick flushed and slick in his hand. you watched him stroke it slow while you moved into his lap, watched the way his breath caught just slightly when you just touched his shoulders for balance.

everything slowed down.

your knees pressed to the mattress on either side of his hips. you hovered just a little, hands on his shoulders, letting him guide you by the waist as you lined yourself up his dick.

the tip nudged against you, and—

the stretch made your breath hitch immediately. your fingers clenched on his shoulders like you needed to anchor yourself really bad, your thighs trembling with the effort to stay in control.

“you okay my love?” he asked, eyes locked on your face. you nodded shakily.

“y–yeah. just… oh my god.”

jaehyun smiled, smoothing one hand slowly up your spine. “take your time, baby. don’t rush. i’ve got you.”

so you did. you took your time — letting yourself sink down inch by inch, breathing hard, feeling your body slowly adjust around him. it was intense — the pressure, the heat, the way he filled you without even moving. his hands never left you, stroking your waist, brushing the backs of your thighs, eyes never leaving your face.

and when you finally settled all the way down, seated flush in his lap, his dick buried deep inside you… everything went still.

your chest was pressed to his. you could feel the way your own heart pounded against his, the subtle shudder in your limbs, your fingers trembling where they clutched his shoulders. he wrapped his arms around you like he was holding something fragile, his face burying into your neck as he let out a low, shaky breath.

“fuck,” he whispered. “you feel… so warm. my pretty baby. so perfect.”

you didn’t move. honestly, you couldn’t. he filled you so completely, so deeply, you could feel the whole shape of him pressing against the most tender parts of you. the weight of him inside was overwhelming — not in a painful way, but in that too-much-and-still-not-enough way that made your head feel like it was floating.

every twitch of him inside you made your body respond — tightening involuntarily, fluttering around him in little pulses. even the smallest shift in your position sent a slow, pulsing wave up your spine, making your chest rise sharply against his.

and yet… the stillness was a high all its own. the way nothing moved. the way your body and his body simply existed together, locked in this quiet, molten closeness.

jaehyun’s mouth moved against your skin — soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the edge of your jaw. he didn’t press for more, didn’t chase the rhythm most people would. he kissed you like worship, like gratitude. like touching you like this was more than enough.

“god, you feel so good,” he breathed at your ear, his voice cracking faintly at the edges. “so fucking warm… so tight around me, baby. i could stay like this forever.”

your whole body flushed at the confession. you clenched down on him — just slightly, unintentionally — and the way he groaned in response made your eyes flutter shut. his forehead dropped to your collarbone, breath stuttering against your skin.

“shit…” he murmured. “you can’t do that, baby. i’m trying to behave.”

you laughed — breathless, warm — and your hands came up to cup his face. his skin was hot under your palms. your thumbs brushed over the apple of his cheeks, which were flushed high with pink. his lips were swollen from kissing, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

he looked… completely gone.

like he was drunk on you.

“you’re really not gonna move?” you asked, voice barely steady, teasing him enough to make him smile again.

“not unless you do first.”

his hands slid over your thighs — warm, gentle, almost reverent — before settling again at your lower back. the pressure was soft but firm, grounding. his touch felt like a tether, like it was holding you right there, keeping you full and safe and still.

you rested your forehead to his and just breathed.

and with every second you stayed like that, your nerves slowly began to quiet — like the rest of the world was fading out. all that was left was the fullness, the heat of him inside you, the solid weight of his body beneath your hands. every throb of his dick, every tiny twitch, sent ripples of sensation through you. your muscles clenched without thought, your body pulsing around him in soft, slow waves.

jaehyun leaned in and kissed you again — soft, unrushed. his lips moved against yours like the world was paused just for you two. then he pulled back just far enough to see your face again.

“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “you know that?”

your throat tightened at the sound of his voice — like it cracked open something inside you that you weren’t ready for.

“jaehyun…”

“you are,” he insisted, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “the way you look at me… the way you feel around me. my pretty boy, you’re all i’ve ever wanted.”

the ache in your chest bloomed at those words, too full to hold. you kissed him before he could say more — a deeper kiss this time, one that felt desperate not from lust but from emotion. from the sheer weight of everything he was giving you just by being here like this.

minutes passed in a haze of soft touches and slower breaths. neither of you spoke. you didn’t need to.

you let your bodies say everything else — in the warmth of your mouths, in the quiet slide of your fingers up his arms, in the way your bodies fit together without friction, without force.

eventually, you shifted in his lap — just the barest rock of your hips. not a thrust, not even a grind, just enough to feel him move inside you. and jaehyun moaned — loud and raw, like he hadn’t expected it.

“oh my god…”

you froze — startled — and then let out a soft laugh against his mouth.

“sensitive?” you teased, your voice breathy with affection.

he glared up at you with playful exasperation, his hands tightening on your waist like he was restraining himself from snapping his hips up.

“baby, i’m trying to last, and you’re out here trying to kill me,” he muttered.

you laughed again — full and quiet — and then gasped as you moved just a little more, the slow drag of him inside you setting every nerve on fire.

jaehyun kissed you again — harder now, but not fast. his hands came up to cup your face like he couldn’t stop touching you, his lips sliding against yours, his tongue brushing soft and slow. you felt his hips twitch under you — once, restrained — like his body couldn’t help but react even when he was trying so hard not to.

“stay like that,” he whispered, breath trembling. “don’t move. just let me feel you, baby.”

you rested your head on his shoulder, breathing hard. your dick was fully hard now, pinned between your stomachs, leaking steadily onto his skin. the way your bodies were pressed together made the sensation almost unbearable.

“can i come like this?” you asked, voice soft, uncertain.

jaehyun moaned at the question, a loud moan, like just the thought undid him.

“yeah, baby,” he breathed, and one of his hands slid down between your bodies, wrapping carefully around your dick. “come just from sitting on me. let me feel it, yeah? let me have it.”

his hand moved slowly — steady, perfect strokes in sync with the pulse of his dick inside you. you were so full, so open, it was almost too much — but not in a way that made you want it to stop. in a way that made you want to live there, in that moment, forever.

you were shaking when it hit — a soft, beautiful, startled gasp leaving your mouth as you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that his breath caught hard in his chest.

“fuck— you’re so perfect,” jaehyun groaned, voice breaking. “so fucking perfect.”

you spilled between you, the heat of it spreading across both your bellies, and he held you through it — one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your jaw, pressing tender kisses to your temple, your cheek, like you’d just given him something really sacred.

after a beat, when your heart had slowed and your breath had steadied, you felt his hips shift, just once.

a shallow grind. a soft moan that sounded like a plea.

“baby,” he whispered, voice cracked and wrecked. “i need…”

you nodded, not even waiting for him to finish.

“okay,” you breathed, still trembling.

jaehyun thrust once — slow and so deep — and you felt his whole body shudder beneath you. he came with a gasp against your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needed to feel every inch of you when he let go.

the warmth of him filled you, spilling deep, your body still fluttering around him with every soft aftershock.

you stayed like that — his dick still inside you, your chest pressed to his, his breath against your throat — for what could’ve been hours. long enough for his pulse to slow. long enough for your fingers to loosen from his shoulders. long enough for the world to feel quiet again.

neither of you spoke.

there was nothing to say, really. not when everything had already been said — in every whisper, every still breath, every soft praise pressed between kisses.

because this wasn’t about trying something new.

it was about knowing each other — and wanting to be known that way.

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Coming from wealth doesn’t mean you come from love. When your father cuts you off, you're left to find a roommate to help keep your life in Monaco afloat. Kimi Antonelli’s place isn’t ready yet, so he moves in—and what starts as convenience slowly brings peace, family, and unexpected change. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: I was going to do this with Ollie, but I already have an Ollie story in mind, so, I figured I would give everyone some Kimi once again on this blog. S/n (sister's name), and your best friend's name in this is Amilla, entirely up to your imagination how she looks as well as your sister. ENJOY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Growing up surrounded by wealth wasn't the gilded fairytale people imagined. Sure, there was luxury—soft sheets, name-brand clothes, drivers who opened doors, and holidays in warm places. But luxury didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean attention. And it certainly didn’t mean fairness.

Your family had money. Old money. The kind of wealth that came with expectations and unspoken hierarchies, where lineage mattered more than individuality. Your father ran the family business—something passed from generation to generation like a sacred heirloom. One day, he’d hand it down again. But not to you. That had been clear since you were old enough to understand your own name. It would go to S/n. Always S/n.

Your mother was a neurosurgeon, brilliant and always composed, walking through the house with heels clicking and a schedule tighter than her high bun. She was the kind of woman people admired. But she was distant, her affections portioned carefully, like rations during wartime. And you learned early that most of those rations went to your sister.

Vacations as a kid had been something you used to look forward to. Back then, you didn’t notice how different things were. You just knew you got to be on a beach with a juice box, and your sister got the bigger floaty. You thought that was normal.

But as the years went by, the favoritism stopped being subtle.

At Christmas, you’d unwrap two gifts. Your sister had a mountain. A literal mountain. Once, when you asked if you could get a digital camera, your mother had looked at the price tag and said, “Maybe next year.” That same year, your sister got a custom-built pink go-kart because she said it looked "cute" in a movie.

You were twelve when you started noticing that conversations weren’t really conversations with your parents—they were lectures disguised as concern. You’d get a scolding for a B on a test. Your sister would be celebrated for an A she hadn’t even earned—she was charismatic enough to charm her way out of anything.

And your father—he spoke of her like she was a miracle. “One day, she’ll take over everything,” he used to say to guests at parties while you stood beside him, invisible. “She’s got the look, the mind, the instinct.”

No one ever asked what you had.

When you were sixteen, sitting across from your father at the dinner table, he asked casually, like it didn’t mean anything, “So what are you planning for the future?”

You’d been waiting for that moment. You straightened your spine and spoke clearly.

“I want to go into motorsports engineering.”

He paused, halfway through cutting his steak. “Hmm,” he muttered, then nodded. “That’s good, sweetie.”

That was it. No follow-up. No curiosity.

Across the table, S/n chimed in without being asked. “I’m thinking of modeling. I’ve already had a few agencies reach out. Plus, I want to travel. Maybe get a fashion line started.”

Your mother beamed. “Oh, darling, you’d be perfect. Your face was made for a billboard. And with your father’s connections…”

You sat there, pressing your fork into a piece of overcooked asparagus, chewing your silence.

That was how most conversations went.

At eighteen, after your graduation, you brought it up again—this time more serious. It was just you and your father at dinner in the study, eating off plates without the pretense of table manners.

“I want to move out,” you said, testing the words.

He didn’t even look surprised. He barely looked up.

“That’s good, sweetheart. Where are you thinking?”

“Monaco,” you said. “I’ve looked into a few universities there. I want to continue with engineering—eventually get my master’s. I know it’ll take time, but I’m ready.”

You tried to smile, like it would help him see your sincerity. You wanted him to care.

He nodded absently and took a sip of his scotch. “That’s good. Let me know where you land. I’ll help you get settled.”

Your heart squeezed. “You will?”

“Of course. I’ll cover the rent for your flat, but you’ll need to get a job. Can’t support everything.”

You hesitated. “S/n doesn’t work.”

He exhaled like you’d said something exhausting. “Y/N, your sister is preparing to take over the business. Her time is coming. You know that.”

Right. Her time. Like yours never would.

So you moved.

Monaco was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. The city glittered at night like it had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, far away from the echo of your father’s praise and your mother’s quiet favoritism.

You found a small flat with plain walls and cheap furniture, but it was yours. Your father helped you move in, carried boxes with a detached politeness, then handed you a spare key and left.

“Be smart with your time,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”

You weren’t sure if it was advice or a warning.

You got two jobs. A café by day, a restaurant by night. You’d collapse into bed, then wake up to submit your assignments before rushing back to work. Your professors only knew you as a face on a screen. You hated online school, but it was all you could afford.

Your fridge was mostly empty. Your walls were bare. You had three pans and one cutting board. Dinner was usually takeout—cheap pasta or boxed rice—because after a ten-hour shift, the last thing you wanted was to stand in front of a stove.

And your sister?

She was everywhere.

You’d scroll through social media, half-awake, and there she’d be—posing on a yacht in Santorini, smiling on a balcony in Paris, lounging in a silk robe with captions like #blessed #bookedandbusy. Her followers adored her. Your father reposted every brand deal she landed. Your mother shared her photos like holiday cards.

One night, sitting on your bed with a carton of takeout balanced on your lap, you opened your calendar to find a red-circled reminder: Family visiting tomorrow.

You groaned, setting your food aside. The idea of them walking into your small space, judging the plainness of your life—it made your chest feel tight.

You hadn’t invited them. Your father had insisted.

“It’s important,” he’d said on the phone. “We want to see how you’re doing.”

But they didn’t want to see how you were doing.

They wanted to compare.

You leaned your head back against the wall, sighing into the quiet. Your laptop screen buzzed gently, the cursor blinking in an empty assignment document.

“I’m tired of this,” you muttered.

Of the imbalance. Of the cold love. Of being measured against someone you could never outshine.

S/n would walk through your door tomorrow in a designer coat and full makeup. She’d sit on your secondhand couch like it was diseased. Your mother would comment on the size of your kitchen. Your father would ask if you’d “thought about getting something more stable.”

And none of them would see it—the long hours, the aching feet, the grades you worked for, the resilience it took to just exist outside their shadow.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe not.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You sat on the edge of your couch, back straight, arms folded tightly across your chest, the ticking of the wall clock louder than it should’ve been. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, despite the open window. Your parents sat opposite you in the two mismatched armchairs you’d found at a secondhand shop last month, looking as though the fabric might give them a rash. Your sister—S/n—occupied the arm of one chair like it was a throne, one long leg crossed over the other, perfectly manicured fingers brushing invisible lint from her designer slacks.

They hadn’t even been in your flat five minutes and already you could feel their judgment soaking into the walls. Your mother kept glancing at the chipped paint near the baseboards. Your father’s gaze swept across your bookshelf with unreadable criticism. S/n looked around like she was in a student dorm.

You broke the silence. “So… you said this visit was important?”

Your voice was low, careful, not wanting to sound defensive—but there was already tension coiled in your spine.

Your father nodded, finally giving you his full attention as he folded his hands across his knee. “Yes. It is.”

You watched him pause for effect, the same way he did at corporate meetings you’d sat through as a kid, the same way he always made sure the room was ready to listen before dropping his words like gospel.

“Well, S/n is engaged.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could control your reaction, your gaze snapping to your sister. “What?”

S/n’s grin widened as she held up her left hand, her long fingers shimmering under the weight of a diamond so big it could probably be seen from space. You stared at it. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement—loud, bold, impossibly expensive.

“She said yes last week,” your mother added softly, pride swelling in her voice like it was her engagement, not her daughter’s. “It was the most romantic proposal. Private jet to Lake Como. He had the staff arrange everything. Champagne, roses, the whole thing.”

“Wow,” you said, your voice flat. You didn’t know what else to say. You hadn’t even known she was dating anyone seriously.

“And the wedding is going to be expensive,” your father continued, his tone businesslike now. “Top-tier venue, elite catering, designer dress, security, stylists, floral design… everything a celebration of this scale demands. Her fiancé is contributing, of course, but most of the financial responsibility falls on us.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing the weight of what was coming.

“Which means,” your mother interjected, her tone cooler now, “we’re going to have to cut your funding. The rent for your flat, your utilities… we simply won’t be able to cover it all anymore. We need to give S/n our full attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

Your voice cracked slightly, the disbelief catching in your throat. Your eyes darted between their faces, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke. But no one was laughing.

“I’m sorry, honey,” your mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “We just need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” you echoed.

“You can still live here,” your father offered, shrugging like that solved everything, “but… we know you won’t be able to afford it on your own. And with your school and… your work, that’s a lot to juggle. It might be best if you came home for a while. Regroup.”

“Right,” S/n chimed in, her voice bright, chipper, like she was offering you a lifeline. “You could come back home with Mom and Dad! It’s not a big deal. I mean, let’s be honest—this place is a bit of a dump. It’s not like it’ll be a huge step down.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You stared at her, wondering how someone could say something so casually cruel.

“I have two jobs here,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I study all night, I sleep maybe four hours, I bust my ass trying to keep this apartment and pass my classes and stay afloat—and you’re just… cutting me off?”

“Y/N…” your father sighed, like your voice was giving him a headache. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re not being punished. This is just the reality. You’re not a child anymore. And we need to invest in the child who’s… in a critical life stage right now.”

“Right,” you scoffed bitterly, sinking back against the couch. “Because God forbid I ever be in a critical life stage.”

“It’s not like we’re abandoning you,” your mother added, sitting forward slightly. “You’ll always have a room at home. You can work at your pace and be comfortable.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Comfortable? You mean invisible. That’s what I’ll be back home. A ghost in the hallway while you all parade S/n down the aisle and throw her the wedding of the century.”

“That’s not fair,” S/n said with a shrug. “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean it’s about favoritism. I just have different goals. Glamorous ones.”

You stared at her. “Different goals,” you repeated, biting back every word you really wanted to scream. “Right. Like being loved. Celebrated. Chosen.”

Your father stood, brushing his slacks like he was done with the conversation. “We’re not here to argue. We just came to inform you. The rent will be covered through next month. After that, it’s up to you.”

You stayed seated, your whole body trembling with a quiet anger that went deeper than your skin. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about a lifetime of being passed over.

They started gathering their things, your mother smoothing out her coat, your sister checking her phone, already distracted.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled without looking up.

S/n glanced back at you with a smirk. “Thanks. I’ll send you the invite.”

They left without hugs. Just a closing door and the lingering scent of your mother's perfume.

And for a long time, you sat there, staring at the dent in the couch cushion where your father had sat, like his presence still weighed it down.

You didn’t cry.

You were too tired to cry.

But deep in your chest, something hardened. You didn’t know what yet. Maybe it was resolve.

Maybe it was the first breath of freedom.

After the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was loud—almost oppressive. The kind that settles in your bones and reminds you just how alone you are.

You stared at the chipped tile near the front door, hands limp in your lap. The echo of their voices still clung to the walls—your father’s cold practicality, your mother’s detached logic, your sister’s smug indifference. It all buzzed like static in your ears.

You blinked slowly, chest tight, and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered for a second before you tapped the contact without thinking—Amilla.

The only person who really knew you.

The only person who had stayed.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but it cracked with concern.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let out a hum, tired and hollow.

“Family meeting went bad?” she asked knowingly.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, dragging your palm down your face as you leaned back against the couch cushion. “You could say that.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like car keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move. Don’t overthink. Just… breathe, okay? You can tell me everything when I get there.”

And with that, she hung up.

You stared at the screen a moment longer before placing the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Ten minutes.

That’s all you had to hold yourself together for.

You stood up slowly, your joints aching from tension and exhaustion, and moved around the flat in a daze. The room suddenly felt smaller. Dimmer. Like your family had sucked the color out of the space with their judgment and fake smiles.

You shuffled into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A bottle of water. A leftover takeout box. Two eggs. Some mustard. You shut it again, heart sinking a little lower.

You moved instead to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain and looking out over the street. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden hue across the balconies of neighboring buildings. People were laughing somewhere down below. A couple walked hand in hand across the sidewalk, her head on his shoulder. You wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Or if luck even had anything to do with it.

You heard the buzz of the intercom almost exactly ten minutes later.

“Coming,” you murmured, pressing the button before you opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

A few moments later, Amilla walked in without knocking. She didn’t have to. She never did.

She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup—just comfort. She took one look at your face and set her bag down immediately.

“Okay,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Hug first. Words later.”

You didn’t argue. You stepped into her arms, and for the first time all day, your body finally let go. Your face buried into her shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. The tears came—not loudly, not dramatically—just quiet and exhausted. Like a release.

She held you tightly, like she knew exactly how broken you felt. She rubbed your back in slow, steady circles. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

You pulled back after a moment, sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said firmly. “Now sit. Start from the top.”

You both settled on the couch, your knees tucked under you as she pulled a throw blanket over your lap and curled beside you.

You took a deep breath, letting it all out. “They came here just to tell me they’re cutting me off. Rent, utilities, everything. Because S/n is getting married.”

Amilla’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

You nodded, voice hollow. “She’s engaged. Huge ring. Huge wedding. Dad’s paying for the whole thing—the venue, honeymoon, probably a freaking fireworks show too. And since it’s going to be ‘expensive,’ they decided they can’t afford to help me anymore.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, because clearly their child working two jobs and doing college alone isn’t a priority, but throwing your sister a royal wedding is.”

“They told me I could move back home,” you said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like that’s some kind of gift. They said it’d be easier. More ‘comfortable.’”

Amilla narrowed her eyes. “Comfortable for who? So you can play second fiddle in your own house again? Watch your sister get crowned Queen of the Universe while you serve snacks at the engagement party?”

You laughed dryly. “Basically.”

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “You’re not going back.”

“I can’t afford this place on my own.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said instantly. “Maybe we find you a roommate. Or a smaller place. Or you move in with me for a while—I’ve got space.”

“Millie…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, but her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go back there. Not to that house. Not to them. They don’t see you. But I do.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening again. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it felt warm—like safety, not judgment. The apartment, still small and dim, somehow didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

You looked over at her, brushing hair from your face. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she said, offering a small smile. “Now, do you want to keep venting or should we do something reckless like drink wine and look at Airbnbs we can’t afford?”

You grinned, a tired kind of grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

The day was bittersweet, soaked in a kind of ache that settled somewhere deep in your bones. It was the kind of ache that had no clear origin, no obvious wound—just the slow burn of disappointment, of being reminded once again that love, in your family, came with conditions. You had gone through all the stages—shock, anger, confusion—and now, sitting in the quiet after your parents and sister had left, it was just sorrow lingering like smoke in the room.

You didn’t understand her. S/n.

She had always kept you at arm's length. Like you were competition, not family. Like your existence threatened the affection and money she wanted all to herself. Even when you were little, she’d treated you more like a shadow than a sister—one she wanted to outshine, outrun, and forget. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most: you never wanted to compete. You only wanted to be seen.

After spending the afternoon with Amilla, the heaviness dulled just slightly. You’d curled up on the couch with her, shared cheap snacks and worse jokes. She made you laugh when your chest still ached from holding in tears. And though she never said it outright, she understood the weight of what you were going through. She always had.

Your flat didn’t feel quite so dull with her in it. Sure, it was a bit lifeless—bare walls, basic furniture, cold lighting—but it wasn’t awful. It was small, a little plain, but it was yours. It just needed… love. Color. A plant or two. Maybe some laughter.

You walked her to the door, leaning against the frame as she slid on her shoes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still breathing,” she teased, tugging her bag up on her shoulder.

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile. “I’ll try not to die in the next 24 hours.”

She paused, half out the door, then turned back to you. Her face softened. “Seriously. Stop thinking you’re burdening me. If you need anything—anything—just ask. You're not taking anything from my life. You're in it.”

Her voice carried more weight than it usually did, and for a moment, you felt it. The sincerity. The safety. She felt more like a sister than S/n ever had.

You blinked back the emotion rising behind your eyes and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Millie.”

“I mean it.” She pointed at you, backing down the hall. “I will drag you out of here if I have to. Preferably not by the hair, but I’ll do what I must.”

You laughed softly, and just like that, she was gone—leaving behind warmth in her wake.

A few blocks away, Kimi let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing outside a quiet café, phone pressed to his ear. The Monaco sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the sleek buildings and cobblestone streets.

“My place won’t be ready for a few more months,” he murmured into the phone, watching a group of teenagers skateboard across the square. “Still doing the kitchen, flooring, painting… all of it.”

His father’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm but filled with quiet concern. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the summer home? You don’t have to live in a hotel or whatever.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ve got options.” Kimi glanced around. “Just want to figure it out myself. Starting my life here, you know?”

There was a pause on the line before his dad spoke again. “Alright. But if you need us, if anything goes wrong, just say the word. You’re never alone out there, Kimi.”

He smiled faintly, nodding to himself. “I know. Thanks.”

After hanging up, he stepped onto the sidewalk, stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket and letting the breeze hit his face. Monaco had been a dream for a while—fresh start, new chapter, Formula 1 career in full swing. He had the money, the status, the success. But none of that helped with finding a place ready to live in right now. The luxury flat he’d purchased was stunning—top floor, sea view, sunlight flooding through tall windows—but far from move-in ready.

As he rounded a corner distractedly, his shoulder bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” he said immediately, looking up.

Amilla laughed, steadying herself and crouching down to pick up her phone. “No worries there. I’ve dealt with worse than being body-checked by someone who smells like expensive cologne.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She dusted off her phone and tucked it away. “I’ve been there. My brain’s a whirlwind right now. My friend—she’s kind of going through hell.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Amilla nodded, ready to talk like she’d known him for years. “Yeah. Her dad’s cutting her off, like boom, done. Next month’s rent is the last bit of help she’s getting.”

“That sucks,” Kimi muttered with a frown.

“Right? And she’s here in Monaco—alone, juggling two jobs, going to school, barely keeping it together. And her parents just bailed on her because her sister’s getting married. The whole Cinderella step-family situation.”

He blinked. “That’s… harsh.”

“Tell me about it,” Amilla said, adjusting her bag. “She’s too proud to ask for help. I keep offering. Hell, I told her to move in with me. I said I’d kick out my boyfriend if I had to. He wouldn’t even fight me on it.”

Kimi chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got her back.”

“Always,” she said.

He paused, thoughtful. “Actually… is she looking for a roommate?”

Amilla’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you psychic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I literally said earlier I’d help her find a roommate! I said I’d start asking around! And now, boom, here you are, asking me that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my place isn’t ready, and I don’t want to do hotels for months. I’ve been thinking about finding something temporary. If she’s got space…”

Amilla squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

“Good. You’re about to change someone’s life,” she said, pulling her phone out again. “What’s your name?”

“Kimi.”

She grinned. “Alright, Kimi. I think I’ve got someone you really need to meet.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The rain had faded into a soft drizzle by late afternoon, painting the Monaco streets in muted silver and gold. You were still wrapped in your hoodie and blanket, curled up on the couch as your laptop sat open on the coffee table—an unfinished motorsports engineering module on engine telemetry blinking back at you, completely ignored.

Your mind was elsewhere. Namely: rent, your sister’s wedding, and the gnawing ache of being left behind by the very people meant to love you unconditionally.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You shuffled toward it slowly, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a makeshift shield.

When you opened the door, Amilla stood there in her rain-damp hoodie, cheeks pink from the breeze and wearing a grin that made your suspicion kick in immediately.

“You brought something, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Technically someone,” she corrected, stepping aside.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled dark hair damp from the rain. A sharp jawline, hoodie pulled low, and deep brown eyes—warm, steady, quietly observing.

You knew that face instantly.

Kimi Antonelli.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Formula 1’s golden boy. Mercedes’ pride. The Kimi Antonelli, with a junior record longer than your coursework, and a fanbase that included a good half of your class. You’d watched his F2 performances like gospel before he ever made the jump to F1. His Monaco junior win? Practically mandatory viewing in your program.

And now he was standing on your doormat, like this was totally normal.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you said, voice slightly too high-pitched. “Um. Come in?”

He nodded and stepped inside, doing a polite scan of your modest flat while Amilla followed, already peeling off her coat like she owned the place.

“You didn’t say Kimi Antonelli,” you hissed at her, eyes wide as she flopped on the edge of your couch.

“Did I not?” she blinked. “I just said Kimi.”

“You said Kimi like he was some guy you bumped into, not like Kimi Antonelli, the Formula One driver who literally eats data for breakfast.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You gave her a pointed look, and then—without hesitation—grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

“Are you out of your mind?” you whisper-yelled.

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “He’s chill!”

“He’s also famous! Like, motorsports world famous. Do you not realize I wrote a paper on his F4 championship run last year? I have a graph on my laptop right now that literally has his race telemetry in it!”

Amilla blinked. “Wait. That’s him?”

“YES, Amilla. That’s him.”

She paused. Then grinned slowly. “Damn. Well. He’s cuter in person.”

“Not the point!”

You began pacing. “I can’t just… live with Kimi Antonelli. What if I geek out? What if I say something dumb? What if he sees my notes and realizes I analyze his braking patterns for fun?!”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Second, you’re acting like he’s a rock star or royalty. He’s just a dude who drives really fast and wears a fancy fireproof suit.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Amilla—”

“Hey. You need help. He needs a place. You both know how to change tires. It’s a match made in motorsports heaven.”

You blinked, exhaled hard, and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Fine. Cool. Calm.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Now put on your chill face. You’re the girl who knows how to recite FIA regulations from memory. You’ve got this.”

You nodded slowly, squaring your shoulders.

And then both of you walked back out to the living room like nothing had happened.

Kimi looked up from where he’d politely sat himself on the couch, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes flicked between the two of you with faint curiosity.

“Sorry,” Amilla said breezily. “Just a minor fashion emergency.”

You shot her a glare that she absolutely ignored.

You sat across from Kimi, trying to look neutral—cool, composed, totally not someone who once stayed up watching his entire rookie season highlight reel on YouTube.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re looking for a place, and I’m… well. Being kicked out by my parents. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

Kimi gave a small nod, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. My place won’t be ready until December. Renovations are taking longer than expected.”

“You’re in Monaco full-time?” you asked.

“For now. It’s a good base. I’m barely here during race weeks, anyway, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself.”

You nodded, your mind already calculating logistics: space, schedule, rent split. It could work. If you didn’t combust from awkward fan energy first.

“I mean,” Amilla chimed in with a grin. “She’s a motorsports engineering student, so if anything breaks, she can probably fix it better than your mechanics.”

You flushed slightly, and Kimi smiled—just barely, but it was there.

“That’s good to know,” he said, looking at you, not amused… but intrigued.

You swallowed, nodded once. “Okay. Trial run. One week. If we don’t kill each other, we can talk about extending it.”

“Fair enough.”

Amilla stood and stretched. “And with that, I have officially solved your housing crisis. You’re welcome, Monaco.”

You and Kimi both said at the same time, “It’s not like that.”

You paused.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

A beat.

Then, a flicker of a smile on both your faces.

Not like that… but maybe something was about to begin anyway

When Amilla left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoed just a little too loudly. And then came the silence. Heavy and awkward—not uncomfortable, just new.

You stood there for a second, not quite knowing where to start. Kimi stood across the room, still taking it all in, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as his brown eyes scanned your small, lived-in flat. No judgment, just quiet observation.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s not bad,” you said, gesturing around vaguely. “Small kitchen, yeah. And the lighting sucks at night—but it’s a decent two-bedroom. The second one’s kind of bland, just a guest room right now. But you’re free to do what you want with it. Move furniture. Put up posters. Burn sage. Whatever.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile. “Well… thank you. Seriously.”

You tucked your arms around yourself, half-shrugging. “And, uh, I mostly live on takeout. I work two jobs and still help pay for stuff around here, even when my dad was covering the rent. I also cover my school tuition, some bills, extra things. So if you get hungry, there’s some tea and sad leftovers, but… you’ll probably wanna grab something from down the street.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

You studied his expression for a second—unreadable, but not distant. Then you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and gave a sheepish laugh.

“I feel like a loser. I’m sorry you have to stay in a place this… bland.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Your friend told me the basics of your situation. So it’s fine. Really.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders. Not all, but enough to speak with less of a guard.

“At least we can make this work,” you said, crossing to the window and tugging at the blinds. The city outside glowed faintly through the mist. “You said your place will be ready by December. Until then, you can help with some bills, keep things running. And then when you move out, I’ll… probably move back home.”

He nodded. “Just tell me my half. I’ll take care of it.”

You hesitated. That quiet promise—I’ll take care of it—wasn’t something you were used to hearing without fine print.

Your life had always been private. Not by choice, just… survival. You’d learned to keep the details quiet, tucked behind tired smiles and vague explanations. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like Kimi was trying to push past that. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t giving advice. He was just here—in it, without judgment.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to breathe.

You gestured down the hall. “Guest room’s yours. Go ahead and check it out, unpack, move things around, whatever you need to do.”

“Sure thing,” he said, walking toward the hallway, then pausing as he turned to you. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Honestly… I’m kind of surprised you’re not freaking out.”

Your stomach flipped.

And deep down, you were. Your heart had been skipping beats since he first stepped inside.

You swallowed and gave a dry laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite buy it.

You sighed, rubbing your palm against the back of your neck. “Okay. Fine. I know who you are.”

His expression barely changed—just a slight lift of one brow, waiting.

“I study F1 alongside my main coursework,” you admitted, voice softening. “Motorsports engineering. I want to work in it—trackside, data, power unit management, maybe race strategy. You were in one of my research papers last semester.”

Kimi blinked.

“I broke down your Spa performance frame by frame for a telemetry analysis project,” you added, managing a nervous smile. “So, yeah. You being here? It feels a little fake. Like… dream-sequence, simulation glitch kind of fake.”

He smiled—just slightly, but you caught it. Not smug. Not flattered. Just… quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said, voice even, “give it a few days. It’ll feel real eventually.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-laughing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, the sound low and real, and disappeared down the hall to explore the guest room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the place he’d been, and whispered under your breath—

“Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t—”

But part of you already knew… it might be too late.

The rest of the day had gone by more smoothly than you expected. The initial awkwardness had faded into something calmer—comfortable, even. There were quiet stretches, soft conversation, and occasional shared glances that said this isn’t so bad without needing the words.

You’d talked a bit—about your schoolwork, the café job, the restaurant shifts, how most of your nights ended with sore feet and cold takeout. Kimi had listened more than he spoke, not in a disinterested way, but with a kind of quiet attention that felt rare. He didn’t cut you off. He didn’t pretend to know better. He just… listened.

By evening, you were both in pajamas, legs folded on the couch with a container of warm takeout between you. Something with noodles. Something comforting. Rain tapped gently at the windows while the TV played something forgettable in the background.

You set your food aside, wiping your fingers on a napkin as you grabbed your worn notebook from the table and flipped it open, pen already in hand.

“I’ll pick up some more shifts this week,” you said casually, scribbling a quick note. “Just so we’re even on bills. I don’t want you covering more than me.”

Kimi glanced over, chopsticks paused midair. “You don’t have to do that. I can pull more weight, if you need.”

You shook your head, still writing. “No. This is fifty-fifty. I’ll also get a copy of the spare key made tomorrow, just in case you come back when I’m out.”

He set his container down. “You’re going to take on extra shifts… on top of everything else?”

“Yep.” You underlined a word on your list and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“You have studies,” he pointed out, frowning slightly. “Lectures, labs, assignments—motorsports isn’t exactly light work.”

You leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly, pen still in hand. “Late turn-ins might happen. I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to understand how someone could be so… determined. Or maybe just stubborn.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not,” you replied softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m proving something to myself.”

He didn’t argue with that.

You gave a small shrug, voice growing quieter. “I want this to work. I don’t care if this is temporary. I don’t care if it’s just for a few months. I want it to feel fair while you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The light from the TV danced across his face—soft golds and blues washing over his expression.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think it’s impressive. What you’re doing.”

You blinked.

“Most people would’ve gone home by now,” he continued. “Most people do go home. You stayed. You work. You study. You make it all fit.”

Your chest ached a little, but in a different way now. It wasn’t the sharp loneliness from earlier this week—it was something gentler. Softer.

“Thanks,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

He gave a small nod, reaching for his food again. “I’ll pick up groceries tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. You can’t live off takeout forever.”

“Says the guy currently eating takeout.”

He looked over at you, a teasing glint in his eye. “Touché.”

You smiled, finally relaxing against the couch. Maybe it was the pajamas. Maybe it was the way the night had settled into something that felt like friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time in a long time someone had sat beside you and simply… stayed.

The flat was quiet, well into the night. The soft hum of city lights outside barely filtered through the windows, and the leftover scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air. You’d retreated to your room hours ago after a quick goodnight, worn out from juggling your shift and online coursework. The door clicked gently behind you, and that was that.

Kimi stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.

It wasn’t awkward—just still. Still enough to think.

He didn’t want to come off as distant or ungrateful. But truthfully, this wasn’t easy for him either. Living with someone new, especially someone he didn’t really know. Someone who clearly had their own world of weight on their shoulders. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize grit when he saw it.

And you… you carried it like armor.

He had a quiet respect for you, though he hadn’t said it yet. Not many people would’ve stayed here, held their ground, fought to keep their life afloat when it would’ve been easier to pack up and go home. And not many would’ve offered a total stranger a place to stay in the middle of that chaos.

He turned off the lights and disappeared into the spare room, the sheets still starchy from being unused, the space blank and untouched. But it didn’t feel cold—not completely. There was a softness to this place. Maybe because someone like you lived here.

The morning came with soft footsteps and the smell of faintly burnt toast.

It became a routine, surprisingly fast. Something you two practiced as soon as possible.

Within the two days there.

You were always up first, even if it was still dark outside, dragging your sleepy self into the bathroom and giving a quiet knock on his door before you passed, just in case. He appreciated that. Small things mattered.

You showed him where the towels were, left them folded on the counter. Showed him the shampoo, the toothpaste drawer, the stash of backup toothbrushes tucked behind the mirror.

“If you ever forget something or need extra, it’s all here,” you had said, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

And then you were gone—off to your early job with barely time to sip the coffee you made, leaving behind a note and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

Try to eat today.

Y/N

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the place was already quiet again, your energy gone with you. But the sandwich was warm. And the note made him smile, just a little.

Third day became comfortable to work with.

On your days off, the rhythm shifted. You were more present, still moving fast, but now he had company for breakfast, sometimes lunch, and always dinner. You cooked when you could—nothing extravagant, but warm and homemade. When you were too tired, you ordered in and refused to apologize for it.

And Kimi? He adjusted.

He took out the trash. Washed the dishes without being asked. Made you tea once when he noticed your eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. He didn’t say much, but he was paying attention.

Okay.

He could work with this.

He could fall into this groove, this quiet understanding between two people just trying to get by without falling apart. You had rules, a system, and he respected it. He wasn’t here to cause chaos. He was here to figure things out—and somehow, this… you… were a part of that now.

One week.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But as he sipped your burnt coffee with toast crumbs on his hoodie and the smell of your vanilla shampoo still clinging to the hallway…

He wasn’t so sure one week would be enough.

You had slipped into a routine almost seamlessly, like life had made space for this temporary chapter without complaint.

On the kitchen wall, a paper calendar hung—simple, handwritten, with your weekly schedule mapped out in black ink. Your shifts at the café, your online lectures, your study hours, all plotted in little boxes that dictated your time like clockwork. Kimi’s eyes had skimmed over it once or twice, and even though his own schedule didn’t quite match yours—morning workouts, sim sessions, team meetings—there was never a moment of tension. Just quiet understanding.

You didn’t hover. You didn’t pry. And neither did he.

A week. That was the plan.

Seven days to see if this could work.

But by day four, he already knew.

This wasn’t just working—this was comfortable. A still kind of comfort, something that wasn’t loud or needy, something that slipped into your bones without warning. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he did. He enjoyed the silence, the absence of pressure. The way nothing here was performative.

He came in that evening after a long workout, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie damp at the collar. The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting warm, tired light across the flat.

You were curled up on the couch, headphones in, completely unaware of him. Textbooks, printed PDFs, and sticky notes were spread out across the cushions and coffee table. Your laptop glowed in front of you, your eyes narrowed in concentration. Every now and then, you’d mumble a technical term or an answer under your breath, voice low and rhythmic like a chant.

Kimi paused at the entrance, hand on the back of his neck as he watched for a moment. You didn’t look up. You didn’t notice him.

And somehow, that made it better.

When you finally caught his presence in your peripheral vision, you pulled one earbud out, glancing up.

Your eyes met, and you gave a small, awkward wave.

He returned it—just a flick of his fingers—and nodded once before brushing past toward the hallway and into his room.

Day four.

So far, so good.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sounds of your quiet study session returned to fill the space again.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room, peeled off the hoodie, and let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. There was something about hearing you mutter suspension terms and fuel flow limits like gospel, seeing your notes taped to the table’s edge, your tired eyes lit by the glow of a laptop screen—that felt strangely grounding.

He didn’t know your whole story. Not yet. But he was starting to understand the edges of it.

You were built out of grit.

And maybe that’s what made the silence feel less empty.

He stepped back out for a moment, bare feet against the cold floor, heading into the kitchen for water. You didn’t say anything, didn’t pause your studying, but your gaze flicked up again—just briefly—as if to acknowledge him.

He filled his glass at the sink.

“I’m impressed,” he said finally, voice low.

You paused, blinking, earbud dangling from your hand. “By what?”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

You looked at your notes, then back at him with a small shrug. “Comes with the territory. Midterms are brutal.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be this… focused.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “Motorsport engineering isn’t exactly a soft degree.”

“No,” he said, sipping from his glass. “No, it’s not.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty. It sat between you comfortably, like something mutual. Something earned.

And as Kimi padded back to his room, that faint smile still lingered on your lips.

Maybe it was a small thing.

But for both of you?

It was a start.

Day five.

By now, the rhythm was second nature.

The soft knock on his door—your signal—and the faint patter of your feet across the hallway meant your day had started. It was always the same: your early morning shower, the hum of water behind the bathroom door, while Kimi moved through his own slow start to the morning. He’d pack his bag quietly, folding his team gear, checking emails from his phone, lacing his sneakers while the city was still wrapped in that soft Monaco hush.

He had a full day ahead—meetings with Mercedes, sim work, a debrief—but he didn’t mind the calm that came before it all.

You never rushed. Even when time was tight, there was a certain steadiness to the way you handled mornings.

In the bathroom, the mirror fogged as you brushed your teeth and combed through your damp hair, your internal monologue playing out as always—reminders, encouragement, quiet little pep talks. They helped you keep your shoulders squared and your head up, even on days when the exhaustion clung heavier than usual.

Once dressed and presentable, you slipped out, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag slung over one shoulder. As you stepped into the hallway, Kimi passed you without a word, offering a subtle nod, and disappeared into the bathroom in your wake.

No words. No need for them.

In the kitchen, you worked quickly, the familiar scent of eggs and toasted bread warming the small flat. You knew what he liked by now—even if he never said it out loud. The breakfast sandwich you made wasn’t anything special on paper, but you caught on to the way he always ate it first, the way he lingered at the counter longer on the days you made it fresh.

You wrapped it up carefully, not because it was fancy, but because you cared. Placed his drink beside it—just the way he liked it, not too sweet. And then came the little note.

Don’t skip breakfast. —Y/N

Same handwriting. Same casual tone. Still made him pause every time.

You grabbed your apron off the chair, looped your house key onto your wrist, and placed his key beside the sandwich. Neatly. Like clockwork.

And then, just like that, you were out the door.

Kimi stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, freshly showered, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. The scent of breakfast met him immediately, and the sight of that neat little package on the counter grounded him.

He reached for the note first, scanning the familiar handwriting. Then his eyes shifted to the calendar on the wall—your schedule for the day already penned in—knowing exactly when you’d be home and when you’d be gone.

He tucked the note into his pocket, grabbed the sandwich and drink, and then took the spare key. He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing over the countertop, like maybe he didn’t quite want to leave just yet.

The light above the stove was still on—your little habit of leaving a soft glow behind.

He turned it off before locking the door behind him.

Life was quiet.

Private.

Predictable, in a way neither of you had expected.

Something small, something stable.

But beneath all that simplicity… something else was beginning to take shape.

Something unspoken.

Something that mattered.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The soft hum of the heater and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall were the only sounds filling the flat. You’d just finished deep-cleaning—every surface wiped down, the floors swept and mopped until they glowed faintly under the warm light. The air smelled like lemon and something faintly floral. It was the kind of clean that let you breathe a little easier.

You sat on the couch, curled slightly toward Kimi, your legs tucked under you. He sat beside you, arms resting lazily on his thighs, his expression calm, even if his eyes looked a little sleepy from the long day. Comfortable. Familiar.

It had been a week.

Seven quiet days.

No lectures from your mother about how S/n’s career was thriving. No passive-aggressive remarks from your father about how much he had “invested” in you while praising your sister’s modeling contracts. No dinner table silences while your sister bragged about the next photoshoot or yacht trip. No constant comparison, no bitterness hanging in the air like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Just… this.

You. Him. Silence that wasn’t suffocating.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. And sometimes, his eyes spoke louder than any of your family’s noise ever had. Kimi had this stillness to him, a way of waiting for the right moment to speak—and when he did, it always came without judgment.

It felt right.

You reached for the paper you’d left on the coffee table—a page so carefully written it might as well have been a legal contract. You laid your pen across it and exhaled, letting the moment settle before you broke the quiet.

“Alright,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “Did you like the week here? Is it something you can actually see yourself doing until December?”

Kimi blinked slowly, thinking, then hummed in that low, thoughtful way he did. You gestured to the paper in front of you.

“If so, you can sign this.”

He leaned forward and picked it up, scanning the contents quietly. His brows furrowed slightly, reading more out of thoroughness than confusion. You explained softly, not wanting to break the gentle ease of the moment.

“It’s a rental agreement. Super basic—my version of it, at least,” you said with a dry chuckle. “I’m actually friends with the woman who owns this place. She’s old-school but sweet. She knows you’re here and told me to consider putting you on the lease. Said, ‘no freeloaders’”—you mimicked her voice and smiled faintly—“so this makes it official.”

Kimi’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Sounds fair.”

You nodded. “I can’t let you live here for free, no matter how temporary it is.”

But before you could say more, he looked up from the paper and said, “If I stay… we’ll have to make some adjustments.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been here for one week.”

He hummed in amusement, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah. And I already know this place needs help.”

You laughed under your breath. “You mean it’s bland.”

“I mean it’s lacking life. No offense, but this couch is tragic. And your curtains are basically grey bed sheets with commitment issues.”

You rolled your eyes, half-grinning. “Okay, interior designer.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, setting the paper down gently, “If I’m staying, let’s make it a place that feels like both of ours. Doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just… something that doesn’t feel like you’ve been surviving.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I know I come from money,” you admitted, your voice quieter, “but my parents are currently acting like I don’t exist. So asking for help to redo the place? Not an option.”

Kimi nodded once, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then let me pay for it.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t let you do that. I work two jobs, I’m managing—”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone,” he cut in gently. “Let me.”

You opened your mouth, and he beat you to it.

“You work in the mornings, come home looking half-dead, then study like your future’s balanced on a wire. You barely sleep. You live off instant noodles and cold coffee. You’ve done all this on your own, and I get it, that’s who you are—but I’m not going to sit here for the next few months pretending I don’t see it.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, breath caught somewhere between protest and something softer.

Kimi leaned back a little, resting his elbow on the couch arm. “I’m not trying to buy you a gold chandelier. I’m just saying… we pick a day, go shopping, you tell me what you like, and I’ll cover it.”

You frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me for letting you stay.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “I want to do this because I can.”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t used to people offering without strings. Without guilt. Without expectation.

You looked down at the contract, the pen still sitting atop it.

Quiet filled the space again. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something unfinished. It felt like a turning point.

“You’re not going to vanish in three weeks, are you?” you asked softly, still not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Kimi replied, just as soft. “Not unless you kick me out.”

You finally looked at him, searching his face for anything false. But all you saw was that same steadiness he’d had since day one. Calm. Certain. A little sleepy, sure—but sincere.

You reached for the pen.

“Okay,” you said, pushing it toward him. “Let’s make this official."

The pen hit the paper with a soft click, sealing it—simple, final, and strangely relieving.

It was official now. You weren’t doing this alone anymore.

You took a quiet breath as Kimi signed his name, and the air in the flat felt different. Not heavier. Not tenser.

Lighter.

You picked up your phone from the coffee table and sent a quick text to Amilla.

“He signed. It’s official. Thank you—for everything.”

It didn’t take her long to reply.

“Of course. I told you—he’s not just a pretty face. Proud of you, roomie.” Followed by a row of glitter and key emojis.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Amilla always knew what to say without making it dramatic. She understood your silences, your hesitations, and your need for caution in a world that felt far too quick to invade your peace.

You glanced back at Kimi, who was watching you calmly, waiting.

"Okay," you said, folding the paper. "Just want to make one thing clear.”

He straightened slightly, giving you his full attention.

“I don’t do media. I don’t want to be posted, tagged, or casually snapped in a background photo. My sister? She lives for the spotlight. She’d swim in flashing cameras if she could. But me?” You shook your head. “I prefer privacy. I like my life to be mine. So, if we’re going to make this roommate thing work—please don’t bring attention to me.”

Kimi’s gaze didn’t waver. His brown eyes softened with something that felt close to understanding. “Of course. I post what I need to for the team, for the sport. But outside of that? I keep things quiet. You have my word, Y/n. I won’t expose anything.”

You held out your hand, pinky slightly raised like muscle memory. “Shake on it?”

He grinned a little, grasping your hand in a warm shake. “We’re friends,” you added, voice light.

“And roommates,” he added back with a small nod.

The week rolled forward, and so did the rhythm.

The routine didn’t shift much—early mornings, overlapping schedules, the quiet handoffs between your departures and his returns. But your shoulders were looser now. Work didn’t feel like a crushing weight. Studying didn’t feel like climbing uphill with a backpack full of bricks. Everything was still hard—but it was… quieter. Easier, in the smallest of ways.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone was standing beside you rather than watching from the sidelines.

The café was slow for a Monday.

You’d just finished ringing out a customer and were stepping back behind the counter to grab your notepad when the soft chime above the door rang again. You glanced up instinctively.

Kimi.

You blinked in surprise and immediately leaned over the counter, lowering your voice like it was instinct. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “I came to see you.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, but there was no real bite behind it. “Kimi…”

“I’d be a fool to let my friend work herself to the bone without checking in,” he added smoothly.

You let out a small sigh, trying not to smile. “And I’d be a fool if I let you get caught loitering and end up in a gossip column. You want the entire internet dissecting who I am?”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Fair enough.”

You turned toward the register, keying in a simple drink order. “I’ll put something in, that way you’re not technically just standing here. Plus, it gives me cover.”

“Appreciate the protection,” he teased lightly.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You handed him a receipt stub as you passed by the espresso machine.

“You’re really keeping a low profile, huh?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you said, not turning to look at him. “I like it that way. My Instagram is private, barely used. I don't share my life unless I want to. It’s the only thing that still feels like mine.”

He hummed, and part of you wondered—had he looked? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were rooming with a professional driver; you Googled him on night one.

Still, he didn’t push.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, voice casual again.

You blinked, grabbing a clean cup. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought… if you’re free, maybe we go look at some stuff for the apartment. Pick out a few things. You know, make this place feel more like a home.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. That offer again. He wasn’t letting it go.

“I’m free all morning,” you said, not looking up yet. “But I have a night shift. My other job needs extra waitresses, so I picked up the shift.”

He nodded, understanding. “Then we make it a morning thing. Quick. No pressure.”

You finally looked at him, and he was already watching you—steady, quiet, but warm.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Morning it is.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning was shared with soft conversation and quiet plans, the kind that filled the silence with something comforting instead of heavy. You sat at the small kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Your handwriting trailed across the page in your usual organized chaos—eggs, bread, frozen dumplings, oat milk, shampoo… life stuff. It felt normal.

Kimi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes casually following the motion of your hand. The morning light filtered in, casting everything in a warm hue, making your little flat feel more like a home than it ever had before.

You paused mid-word and glanced up at him, brow quirking. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a cap and sunglasses inside the apartment?”

He didn’t move, just shrugged lightly. “Habit.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re trying to go incognito at a gas station.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

You gave him a look, your tone more amused than annoyed. “There’s no one out to get you here. Just me. And I already know your face.”

He pulled the sunglasses off slowly, a sigh slipping out as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know,” he muttered. “But I’m trying here, okay? You said you didn’t want attention, media… all that. So, I figured I could at least try to be forgettable in public.”

Your pen stilled in your hand, and for a moment you just looked at him—really looked at him.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was doing it for you.

The realization bloomed in your chest like something soft and painful all at once. He wasn’t obligated to care. But he did. In his quiet, awkward way—this was his way of protecting you, of making sure you didn’t end up on someone’s Twitter thread just because he happened to walk beside you.

Your voice softened, a quiet thanks behind your words. “That’s… actually really sweet of you.”

He just hummed, like he didn’t know what to say to that. You knew him well enough by now to know that was his version of you’re welcome.

By the time you both made it to the car, you had your list folded neatly and tucked into your pocket, though you were beginning to suspect it would be completely ignored. The second you sat in the passenger seat and buckled up, you could tell—Kimi had other plans.

“So,” you began cautiously, glancing over at him as he started the engine, “we’re getting small stuff. Essentials. That’s the plan.”

He shook his head slowly, pulling into the road, eyes forward. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“We’re getting a new TV,” he said plainly. “Couch. Kitchen stuff. Bathroom. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. And for the love of everything—bedroom upgrades. Especially yours.”

You looked at him like he had just declared war on your minimal existence. “Kimi, we agreed—small stuff. Like groceries and maybe one decorative plant.”

He gave you a look, one brow raised as he turned down a quiet street.

“I’ve been living here for over a week,” he said. “Your mattress is basically an ancient fossil, your desk chair is about to lose a leg, and your closet door literally moans in pain every time you open it.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, then sighed dramatically. “Okay… fair. But still.”

“You’ve made this place work on survival mode,” he continued, more gently now. “You deserve something that feels good. Comfortable. I’m not saying go full luxury—just let it feel like a real home.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your seatbelt. “But I can’t let you buy all of that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not offering charity,” he said. “I’m offering a living space. One we both share. I can afford it. You already do everything—work, study, clean, cook. Let me cover the things I can.”

You looked over at him, the weight of those words anchoring you somewhere deep in your chest. He wasn’t pitying you. He was trying to meet you where you stood—without ego, without strings.

“…Fine,” you murmured. “But only if I get to pick the color scheme.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “As long as it’s not mustard yellow.”

You gasped. “That’s literally the color of one of the pillows we bought!”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re the worst.”

“Yet somehow, still your roommate.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest as the car rolled to a stoplight, the city opening up ahead of you.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading what came next.

You were almost… excited.

And that?

That was new.

The engine hummed softly beneath you, the city passing in a blur of stone buildings and pastel balconies as Kimi drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the air between you both was easy, like it had settled into something comfortable.

You glanced over at him, your cheek resting against your knuckles. “So… when you leave for race week, I’m gonna be that person screaming at the TV.”

Kimi glanced at you with a half-smile, not taking his eyes off the road. “You better be. I expect dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get commentary,” you said, chuckling. “But you better FaceTime me. I’m expecting updates, track gossip, paddock drama—the works.”

“I will,” he said, a little more serious now. “I’ll call you when I can. Keep the routine alive.”

You hummed at that, watching the sun filter through the windshield. “And don’t blow your cover,” you added after a beat, voice softer. “No one knows we live together. No one even knows who I am. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

He nodded once, understanding instantly. “I got you. I’ll keep it quiet.”

There was a short pause before a grin slowly tugged at your lips. “But… if you can get me something signed by Fernando Alonso—a cap, a shirt, I’m not picky—I’ll cook you pasta every night. Real pasta. Handmade if I have time.”

That made him turn his head slightly, one brow lifting with amused surprise. “Pasta every night?”

You nodded solemnly. “Every night.”

He let out a short laugh, eyes flicking back to the road as he leaned into the turn. “That’s not just a gift, that’s blackmail.”

“No, no,” you grinned. “It’s an incentive.”

He smirked, voice lower now, warm and teasing. “An offer… I don’t think a man like me can resist.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching him for a moment, the way his brown eyes were focused ahead, but still so present. You liked that about him. He was quiet, but he always listened.

“Don’t say I never gave you motivation,” you teased.

He glanced at you again with a smile that lingered just a little longer this time. “Noted.”

You ended up picking the couch. A warm, earthy-toned sectional that felt like a soft exhale—something that said home without trying too hard. Next came the dining table, a sleek but simple wooden one with enough room for two, maybe three if Amilla ever dropped by for dinner. Then you spotted it—a recliner, tucked off to the side, and you didn’t even mean to sit down, but once you did, it hugged you in such a way that your body didn’t want to leave it. Kimi noticed. So, it went on the list too.

From there, it was like watching your little flat bloom into something real. Something full of intention.

Fairy lights for the walls.

A couple of canvas prints for that one blank space you always avoided looking at.

Even the tiniest shelf with enough room for a few potted plants—or maybe books you never had time to read but liked having around anyway.

You picked out soft, neutral bedding for your room and a handful of throw pillows that didn’t match perfectly, but felt right. Kimi made a few quiet selections too—storage boxes, an extra lamp, some new towels for the bathroom that didn’t feel like sandpaper. He never said much, but you could tell he was already picturing how it would all fit together.

When the cashier rang everything up and the number flashed on the screen, your stomach dropped.

“Kimi—” you started, already reaching to pull a few items off the cart, “this is too much. Let’s take some of it back. I don’t need half of this.”

But before you could even finish your sentence, Kimi had already stepped forward, card in hand, voice calm and unfazed. “It’s fine.”

And he meant it.

He paid, like it was nothing, and the delivery team promised your furniture would arrive within the next couple days. The receipt was long, the kind that curled when it printed. You just stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the reality that someone had just… given you all of this without asking for anything in return.

When you walked out of the store, sunlight warming your face and shopping bags in hand, you were quiet. Too quiet. Until finally, you sighed.

“That cost a lot.”

Kimi gave a nonchalant hum. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it is fine,” he repeated with a small smile, eyes forward as he unlocked the car. “This is your home. I’m just helping it feel like one.”

You slid into the passenger seat, placing the smaller bags down by your feet. “I still can’t believe you’re willing to switch everything around just for me.”

He laughed under his breath as he buckled in. “I’m living there too, remember? You’re not redecorating alone anymore.”

You leaned your head against the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No guilt trip. Just quiet, genuine assurance—something you weren’t used to, but were beginning to understand might just be a part of who Kimi was.

“And next,” he added casually, “we’ll pick up supplies to patch the chipped floorboards near the wall. Something small. Just enough to make everything feel put together.”

You let out a soft laugh, half in disbelief, half in appreciation. “You’re full-on nesting in a place that isn’t even yours yet.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like it is.”

And somehow, without warning, you smiled—real, wide, warm. For the first time in a long while, things felt… settled.

Almost like home.

Kimi stuck to his word, no hesitation in sight. Every aisle you turned down, he was already ahead of you—reaching for things, checking labels, adding what was needed into the cart like it was second nature.

The cart rolled steadily through the store, now packed with the tools to build a real kitchen: a sleek new toaster, pots and pans that matched for once, an entire set of plates and matching cups, fresh utensils, and a modern coffee maker that caught your eye the second you saw it. Without needing to ask, he grabbed it.

“I figured you’d want that,” he said simply, like he could already picture you bleary-eyed at six in the morning with a mug in hand.

He got you everything—forks, spoons, knives, spatulas, even those oddly specific gadgets you didn’t think anyone ever bought: a garlic press, a lemon zester. Things you didn’t even know you’d use. You walked beside him in a slow stroll, taking it all in.

“Mugs,” you said with a little grin, glancing toward the display.

Kimi slowed down. “Pick one for you and one for me,” he said casually.

You stepped toward the shelf, trailing your fingers over the rows. Some were too cheesy, some too plain. Then your eyes landed on two—ceramic, slightly misshapen, one a warm rust color and the other a faded olive green. They had tiny, subtle ridges like they were handmade. Not flashy. Not perfect. But something about them felt like home.

“These,” you said quietly, turning and gently placing them into the cart like they were delicate treasures.

He looked at them, then at you, and smiled softly. “Good pick.”

The cart moved again. You strolled past more shelves, and he kept the pace. Easy. No pressure.

“Mixer,” you said aloud, stopping beside a bright red stand mixer. “Maybe… we could bake sometime. I’m not amazing at it, but it could be fun.”

Without missing a beat, Kimi reached over, lifting the box like it weighed nothing and placing it in the cart.

“Okay,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Your wish is my command.”

You shot him a look, amused. “Don’t spoil me, Antonelli.”

“Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

The moment settled in the quiet between you—something soft and certain, like the edges of a new beginning forming gently under your feet.

And for once, as you both moved through the store with a shared cart, laughter in your voices and warmth in your chest, you didn’t feel like you were doing life alone.

When you finally made it back to the flat, both of you carrying bags and boxes in hand, laughter still lingered in the air—left over from small jokes shared during checkout and the minor chaos of trying to stack everything in the trunk.

The front door closed behind you with a soft thud, and the two of you stood there for a second, surrounded by the beginning of something new. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, bags full of spices and pasta, mugs and plates waiting to be unwrapped. The flat didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like it was becoming lived in.

You let out a small breath and smiled to yourself, proud of how much you’d gotten done. Then you turned to Kimi, eyes sparkling with something that sat somewhere between gratitude and peace.

“We’ll start putting this all together once the furniture gets here,” you said, motioning toward the boxes. “One big transformation day.”

He nodded with a soft hum, watching you.

“But I’ve got work tonight,” you added with a small pout. “So the construction chaos will have to wait a little.”

You turned, heading to your room with that signature lightness in your step—almost a bounce, like you were holding onto a piece of joy and didn’t want to drop it. “I’ll see you later,” you called over your shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable without me!”

The door clicked behind you as you went to get ready, and Kimi stood still for a moment in the quiet. His gaze moved slowly over the space—the stacked bags, the half-full cart of potential, the two mismatched mugs resting near the sink.

And then, softly, his lips tugged into a smile.

You were from money, he knew that. A background like yours wasn’t exactly subtle, and yet… you didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t wear it like a badge. You were grounded, driven, and quietly carrying more weight than most people would ever realize. You worked long shifts, studied harder than you let on, and gave even when you had barely anything left for yourself.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch—the old one for now—and exhaled slowly.

There was something in him, quietly steady, that wanted to shield that goodness in you. Not because you were fragile. But because you shouldn’t have to keep doing it all alone.

And if he could be even a small part of what made this place feel like home for you?

Then yeah.

He was in.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Home.

That’s what it finally felt like.

It wasn’t just a flat anymore—it was yours and his, the quiet rhythm of two people who carved out peace together. The new furniture had arrived earlier that week, and now every corner of the flat whispered comfort. It had been a chaotic but rewarding few days of unpacking, assembling, arranging, laughing over misplaced screws and instruction manuals that made no sense.

The living room was the heart of it all—anchored by the plush, warm-toned couch you had chosen together. The fairy lights cast a soft glow above it, golden and gentle, curling along the wall like a constellation you could trace with your eyes. The throw blanket was folded neatly at one end, pillows fluffed and arranged with just enough care to make it inviting without looking staged. A soft rug sat under the coffee table, grounding the room in cozy textures. The TV was mounted on the wall, sleek and new, with shelves on either side now filled with a growing collection of plants, books, and tiny personal touches.

Even the smallest things made it feel like home—the simple wooden hanger near the door with your two keys hanging side by side, the hallway now holding canvas art that added charm without clutter. The recliner you’d fallen in love with was tucked into the perfect reading corner. The bathroom sparkled with fresh towels, little containers for soaps and lotions, and a faint citrus scent that felt crisp and clean. The dining table, small but elegant, was exactly right for the two of you—and with a third chair, a place always waiting for Amilla.

But it was the kitchen that made you smile the most. Fully stocked, full of life. Mugs on hooks. A new kettle, the mixer you insisted on getting, labeled jars for pasta and spices, the fridge humming quietly. It smelled like something warm had just been baked—or maybe it was just the scent of being settled for once. Safe.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out whatever the world was doing outside. The world could wait. In here, everything felt still. Content.

You were curled up on the couch, your legs lazily draped across Kimi’s lap, a controller in your hand. He leaned back beside you, one hand on his own controller, the other resting just behind your knees like it belonged there. The screen in front of you glowed with colors, characters zipping past each other in the chaos of Mario Kart.

“Save your shell!” you warned, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Do not use it on me.”

Kimi laughed—an actual, full laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his face. “No promises.”

You glanced at him with mock betrayal. “Kimi—”

But the moment you turned your attention back to the screen, the shell launched. Your kart spun in place. The controller dropped slightly in your lap as you looked at him, offended but smiling.

“I knew it.”

“Sorry,” he said through a grin, not sounding sorry at all.

When he won the race, you sighed dramatically, tossing your controller gently to the side as you turned to him. “Okay, you win. Champion of the living room. You pick dinner.”

He leaned his head back slightly, thinking. “How about pasta tonight? Something easy.”

You smirked. “Pasta? That’s your whole legacy, Antonelli. You better treat the dish with the honor it deserves.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, nudging your leg with his knee. “I’ll be gentle.”

There was something so easy about this. The way he kept your world private, respected your boundaries, let you breathe. You knew who he was to the world—an F1 driver, a rising star, someone who had the spotlight whether he asked for it or not. But in this space, in these quiet domestic moments, he didn’t feel like a celebrity. He felt like a person. Like someone who was kind, grounded, funny in a quiet, sarcastic way.

Like a friend.

Maybe something more, but you weren’t ready to name it yet.

The two of you wandered into the kitchen, and you pulled your favorite apron off the hook. As you held it up, Kimi stepped in behind you without a word. You stilled for just a second as his fingers grazed your waist, tying the strings neatly behind your back. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate—anchoring. His movements were careful, not rushed, not assuming. Just present.

“Alright, chef,” he said softly, his breath warm by your ear. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You turned to him, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Just remember… if I mess this up, it’s because you distracted me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

You nodded, poking his chest with a finger. “Entirely your fault.”

And with that, the two of you moved into a shared rhythm—boiling water, chopping garlic, stirring sauce. There was music playing quietly from your phone, your laughter bubbling up now and then between stories and sarcastic comments. He handed you the basil when you asked for parsley. You pretended to fire him. He offered to grate cheese and almost grated his knuckle.

By the time the pasta hit the plates, the kitchen was a mess and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

But the food was good. The company was better.

The two of you sat across from one another at the dining table, plates nearly cleared, the faint aroma of garlic and basil still clinging to the air. The candle between you flickered softly, casting a golden hue across the space that now truly felt like home.

Kimi's phone sat beside his plate, screen lighting up every few seconds with a vibration, then going dim again. It kept happening—buzz, light, pause. Over and over. But he didn’t look at it. Not once. Just kept twirling his fork idly, listening to the soft music in the background, occasionally meeting your eyes when you spoke.

But you looked at it. You noticed. And curiosity had a way of growing teeth if you didn’t feed it. So, before you could stop yourself, your mouth was already moving.

“What happened to…” you hesitated, pretending to focus on your plate for a moment. “Eliska Babickova?”

His head turned slightly, slowly—eyes meeting yours with a stillness that made your stomach flip. Not accusatory. Not angry. But surprised. As if you'd just unlocked a door you weren’t supposed to find.

“I know her,” you clarified quickly, your voice soft. “I study motorsport engineering, I follow F1 like it’s religion. I’ve seen her. At races. The photos. The beginning of the season—she was in that list of WAGs, right?”

Kimi stayed quiet for a second longer than was comfortable, and you regretted asking already. Then he hummed.

“We still talk,” he said, calmly, as he leaned back in his seat. His tone was neutral, but it didn’t soothe the way your heart twisted in your chest.

You nodded slowly, your hands folding into your lap. You hated how your voice wavered just a little next. “Are you two… still together?”

This time, his gaze met yours directly, and it wasn’t cold—it was just unreadable. He didn’t frown. Didn’t shift. Just… looked at you. Carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out, waving your hand in dismissal. “That was too personal. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean—living with a girl would be kind of a thing if you were still in a relationship, so I guess I just wondered and—”

“Sometimes,” Kimi said, interrupting gently, “some things should stay personal.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just firm. Like a closed door with a sign that read not right now.

Still, it stung.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was thick enough to notice. You laughed—too quickly, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Totally fair,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “Totally agree. Mind my business.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just shifted his focus back to the last bite on his plate.

You pushed your own food around with your fork, lips pressing together as you tried not to let the disappointment show. You’d let yourself get too comfortable, too familiar. You thought you were close enough to ask. And maybe that was the worst part—feeling like you misread the closeness that had begun to build between you.

Still, you said nothing more, and he didn’t offer further explanation.

And somehow, the candle in the center of the table flickered just a little smaller.

The plates between you were mostly cleared, the soft clinking of silverware the only sound in the apartment for a few moments. The flicker of candlelight danced across the table, and Kimi’s phone buzzed again on the table beside his plate, lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Still, he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly and exhaled, voice low. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

You glanced up at him from where you were nudging the last bit of pasta on your plate. “Race week?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You nodded too, slowly, then your eyes flicked down toward your phone. “My sister’s engagement party is coming up.” Your tone was flat, almost rehearsed. “Figured I’d go back home for it.”

His brows drew together slightly in concern. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

That question hit something deeper than expected. Your fingers tightened around your fork, then relaxed. “They’re my family, Kimi. Not wild animals.”

“I know,” he said gently, his voice calm, not challenging. “But… you’ve said it yourself, things are complicated with them. I just thought—”

“Some things should stay personal,” you snapped softly, and as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

There was a pause. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You sighed, rubbing your palm along the tablecloth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes lifted to meet his. “It just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Kimi gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “No offense taken.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, then set it down and leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want me to come with you?”

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“To the party,” he clarified. “If you send me the date and it’s after my main race day, I’ll try to make it.”

You hesitated, taken aback by the offer. “Kimi, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I will if you want me there.”

You studied his face for a moment. Calm, sincere. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his tone—just quiet support. You weren’t used to that. Especially not from someone who knew how messy your family dynamic could be.

You looked down at your hands, then back up. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t press for more.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The apartment felt different that morning—quieter, not just in sound, but in energy. You stood by the kitchen island, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, while Kimi double-checked his bag near the door.

His flight was in a couple of hours, but he was already in that focused headspace. That calm, steady rhythm he slid into whenever the track called.

“You have everything?” you asked softly, taking a small sip from your mug.

Kimi glanced over his shoulder at you, nodding. “Yeah. I packed last night. Triple-checked it this morning just to be sure.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you again. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… hoping I survive this engagement party.”

He chuckled gently, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Remember, if it gets bad, pretend you have to take an urgent call from a Formula 1 driver. Very important business.”

You snorted softly. “Right. I’ll just hold my phone upside down and dramatically whisper race terms until someone asks me to leave.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren’t ready to say goodbye, but the moment was here.

“You’ll text me?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll call when I can. FaceTime, even. I want updates. I don’t care if it’s about the party or what you had for lunch. Just… let me know how you’re doing.”

You looked up at him, something warm and strange blooming in your chest. “I will.”

Kimi reached out and squeezed your shoulder gently. “You’ve got this.”

And then he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps down the hall, silence trailing in his place.

You stood there for a while, hands still on your mug, eyes on the door. It was always harder than it should’ve been, watching him go.

The train ride home was long, but you stared out the window most of the way, earbuds in, playlist running. You barely noticed the other passengers. Your thoughts were too loud. Every bump of the train reminded you of how long it had been since you saw your family—how much longer it had been since you felt seen by them.

You checked your phone once as you pulled into your hometown’s station. A message from Kimi waited for you.

Kimi: Let me know how it goes. You’ve got this.

You smiled at the screen, then slipped it back into your pocket.

The car pulled up slowly to the gates of your childhood home—if you could even call it that. The towering black iron bars buzzed and creaked open as the driver entered the code, revealing the winding driveway and pristinely landscaped hedges that led up to the mansion.

It looked the same. It always did. White stone exterior, tall windows, a fountain in the center of the roundabout that sparkled like it was polished every other hour. The house was pristine, glossy… almost too perfect. Like it had nothing to do with love or comfort. Just… image.

You stepped out slowly, grabbing your bag from the back seat. The air was different here. Sharper. Clean, but in a suffocating way.

As you reached the large oak doors, they opened before you could knock.

“Y/n,” your father greeted, his tone clipped but polite. He wore that usual warm-but-distant smile he saved for company. “You’re early.”

“You said to come today,” you replied, stepping inside.

The foyer was massive. The floors shined so bright they reflected the chandelier overhead. Expensive artwork lined the hallway. You hated how you could still name each piece—your mother had made sure of it growing up.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the punctuality. Leave your bag with Marta. She’ll have it taken to your room,” he said, gesturing to one of the housekeepers who approached silently.

You hesitated, keeping your grip on the handle for just a second longer before letting it go.

He clapped his hands once. “Right, we’ve got quite a schedule ahead. The engagement party is Friday evening, obviously. But until then—tomorrow is the spa day. Your mother and S/n planned it. Girls only.” He gave you a pointed look, as if daring you to protest. “Thursday, we have the formal dinner with the groom’s family. You’re expected to attend. Friday morning, there’ll be a brunch, then hair and makeup appointments in the afternoon before the party.”

You nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“Good,” he said, and just as he was about to turn away, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Well, well. Look who finally came crawling back.”

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakably smug.

“Damon,” you said flatly, turning to face your sister’s fiancé.

Damon was exactly as you remembered—clean-shaven, smug grin, cologne heavy in the air around him. He stood there like he owned the place already, hands in the pockets of his slacks, blazer slightly too sharp for a casual day at home.

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you said under your breath.

He chuckled, catching the words but pretending not to. “Well, it’ll be… interesting to have you around. Try not to ruin too many photo ops.”

You forced a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll try not to stand in your spotlight. Wouldn’t want to overshadow your hair gel.”

Your father cleared his throat, annoyed. “Let’s keep things civil, both of you.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Just get through it. Get through the week, get through the party, and go home.

Damon walked past you, shoulder brushing yours a little too hard to be accidental.

“Your room’s been made up the same as before,” your father said, walking ahead. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Your mother will want to see you before then.”

You followed him quietly, eyes scanning the walls as you walked down the hallway. The same family portraits hung—S/n front and center in every one. You were there too… off to the side. A ghost in the background.

Still, you said nothing.

Just one more week. Then you could go back to the place that felt like home. Back to Kimi, back to peace. Because this house, no matter how grand it looked, never gave you that.

You can stick it out, you believed it.

Tried to believe it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the grand dining room, where the long oak table was perfectly set for four. The chandelier overhead sparkled against the early sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows, bouncing off crystal glasses and untouched butter knives. You sat near the end, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, the edges of your toast untouched on the porcelain plate in front of you.

Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, while your mother idly stirred her tea. Your sister, across from you, chewed thoughtfully on a piece of melon, legs crossed and posture flawless, like every part of her was curated for a camera that wasn’t even there.

“So,” your father began, voice calm but distant, “how is Monaco?”

You looked up, surprised he was even addressing you directly.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, setting the cup down. “Busy. But manageable.”

He nodded once. “And after next month? Any plans for where you’ll go?”

You blinked, heartbeat skipping as you tried to gather the words, but before you could even breathe them out, your sister’s voice cut through.

“Well, it’s not her fault, Daddy,” she began with a syrupy sweet tone, “that you had to cut her off. Weddings are expensive, and mine will be... well, unforgettable. So I get it.” She smiled across the table at you like she’d just offered you a compliment. “But hey—who says you need money, or a plan? You don’t even need a man. Not a good one, anyway.”

You tilted your head, lips pressed into a tight line.

She wasn’t finished.

“I mean... there’s always some guy out there who wants the quiet, weird ones,” she said, waving her hand airily. “The engineer types, motorsport whatever girls... you know the ones. Nerdy, socially average. Dorky. Harmless. Basically invisible.”

You flinched but kept your expression flat. You stabbed at your eggs with the fork, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Monaco’s been good,” you tried again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Amilla. We’ve been hanging out more lately.”

She gave a laugh, sharp and polished. “One friend. In a whole country. That’s... tragic.”

You said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t want to model,” she continued with a mock frown. “You could’ve had everything. The travel, the outfits, the name. Instead, you picked... online college and being poor.” She smiled again, then sipped her juice.

Your mother glanced at her briefly but said nothing. Your father didn’t even look up from his plate.

“And let’s be honest,” she added. “You’ll never get the business anyway. That’s mine. Everyone knows that. You’re just...” She paused, searching for the word, eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. “Laying on the ground, like a dog. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever be to something real. To something... elevated.”

You stared at your plate, your jaw tightening.

Not one word from your parents.

Not even a disapproving look.

Your stomach twisted, not just from the insult, but from their silence. That had always been the loudest part.

She sat back, satisfied. Like it had been a game and she’d won.

You closed your eyes for half a second, imagining your flat in Monaco. The fairy lights. The new couch. The coffee mugs. The smell of fresh pasta.

Kimi.

His silence had more warmth than this whole table did. His quiet glances held more value than all your father’s hollow compliments to her.

You swallowed thickly and pushed your chair back just slightly.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you. Not that you expected them to.

Because they never did.

Outside, the sun poured down like warm silk across your skin, the stone patio heated beneath your bare feet as you sat tucked beneath one of the garden umbrellas. The distant sound of sprinklers clicking to life blended with the chirping of birds, the scene almost peaceful—almost.

Your phone rested in your palm, thumb hesitating just above the call icon beneath Kimi’s name. The longer you stared at it, the more uncertain you felt. You wanted to hear his voice. Something steady. Familiar. Something that didn’t belong to this house or the people inside it.

But then, a buzz. A message. From Amilla.

Your chest tightened the moment you saw the preview.

“This the guy you live with, right?”

Brows furrowing, you tapped it open.

A photo.

It didn’t even need a caption. Your stomach dropped before you could stop the spiral from beginning.

There he was.

Kimi. Dressed casually. Sunglasses on. Hand in hand with her.

Eliška Babickova. Long legs, perfect smile, soft curls bouncing around her shoulders. She looked effortless, like she always did in magazines. Even her stride beside him looked... matched. Like they belonged there, walking down that sun-drenched street, hand in hand.

Your heart twisted in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So they were still together.

You stared at the photo for a long moment, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling suffocating, pressing down against your chest like gravity itself was conspiring to crush you.

A small voice inside you tried to rationalize it—They talk, he told you that. He never lied... you just never asked again. But another voice, the one you’d been quieting all week, whispered something harsher: You let yourself believe it meant something. That the dinners, the laughs, the way he looked at you—it was different. That maybe he stayed for more than just a couch.

Your finger hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding.

You wanted to call him. Ask. Demand clarity. Cry.

But instead, you just sighed. A deep, bitter sigh.

You typed a short reply to Amilla:

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Then you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket.

No call. No message.

You would sit this one out. Because getting attached was your mistake. And the price of that mistake… was swallowing this silence.

Alone.

The day dragged on, the sun high above the manicured estate as if mocking you from its place in the sky. You sat quietly between your mother and sister inside the serene spa lounge, draped in a robe, legs crossed, warm steam brushing against your skin. But even surrounded by luxury, lavender-scented towels, and softly humming music—you felt suffocated.

Their laughter floated through the air like perfume—light, shallow, rehearsed. Your mother talked about floral arrangements for the engagement party while your sister chimed in about designer gowns and imported champagne, their voices rising and falling like a song you could no longer sing along to.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even try.

You were just... there. A body filling space.

No one noticed how your smile never reached your eyes, how your fingers dug into the plush arm of the spa chair whenever your sister said something smug. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well and left—but even the idea of going back to that mansion, alone in that too-big guest room, felt worse.

You kept thinking of Monaco. Of the cozy flat. Of quiet mornings and shared coffee. Of Kimi.

And then the weight would drop into your stomach again.

Because that picture was proof.

You were never more than a placeholder.

The thought ate at you as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the steam doing nothing to ease the chill crawling into your chest. You had finally started to feel beautiful there, next to him. Valuable. And now you were back here—fitting like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Meanwhile, across the channel, in the dim hum of the Mercedes garage, Kimi stood silently, gaze fixed on the setup in front of him. Mechanics worked around him, voices buzzing in the background, but his mind had wandered. He barely flinched when a pair of lips brushed behind his ear.

“Can you not?” he muttered, stepping to the side with a quiet exhale.

Eliška laughed softly behind him, brushing a hand down his arm. “Relax. I’m just loving on you,” she said, her voice all sugar and shine.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair. “I get that we have PR appearances, but that doesn’t mean crossing every boundary.”

She pouted, arms folding. “Since when did you become so... distant?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brown eyes scanned the monitors, but his mind wasn't registering the data.

He saw you. In pajamas, arguing over whose turn it was to pick dinner. Sitting across from him in soft lighting, eyes lit with ambition and stories. Mumbling formulas under your breath, tucked in a corner with a pencil between your fingers.

You never asked him for anything. Never expected anything more than honesty. And he missed that honesty now, the quiet safety of your presence.

“I just don’t want to overplay what this PR thing is,” he finally said, voice low.

Eli rolled her eyes. “You used to be more fun.”

Yeah, I used to be more lost, too.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because he still hadn’t figured out why that photo—why your silence since—had felt so damn heavy.

And maybe, across the ocean, you were feeling the same. Buried in wealth, surrounded by everything that glittered—but nothing that meant something.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You had told yourself you could survive this week. You could manage the rehearsed smiles, the endless small talk, the suffocating luxury. But when Friday night came, it hit you like a wave crashing against sharp rocks. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, the hum of classical music swirling through the grand ballroom — all of it was a reminder of how far you felt from belonging.

You stood there, lost among the well-dressed crowd, eyes darting over polished faces that smiled politely but never truly saw you. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the ache of loneliness and a love you couldn’t reach. You had missed yesterday’s race, unable to tear yourself away from the crushing sorrow that wrapped around you like a shroud.

Suddenly, your sister’s voice cut through the murmurs, demanding attention.

“I would like to speak!” she declared, stepping forward with a confident smile that didn’t reach her eyes but captivated the room nonetheless.

“My fiancé and I are so grateful you all could join us tonight,” she began, glancing toward your parents, who beamed with pride. “Growing up, I always knew I was the special one—the important one. The daughter in love, soon to be married, destined to carry the family name forward. I have done everything to earn my place beside Mom and Dad.”

Her words were sharp, deliberate.

“And then there’s Y/n,” she continued, sweeping a glance in your direction, “who chose to leave us behind for Monaco. And here she is tonight... without a date, without a boyfriend, without anyone to console her.”

A hush fell over the room.

“You will have your moment to shine,” she promised sweetly, “just like me. When the time is right.”

You met her gaze, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

She didn’t stop.

“One day, you’ll come back home to us,” she said, voice dripping with false kindness. “You’ll realize just how cruel the world really is. That luxury and wealth are all you really have. Outside this family, your name means nothing—no one knows you unless you claim us.”

Her words were knives twisting in your chest.

“May love find you, Y/n,” she said softly, a cruel smile flickering across her lips. “And if it doesn’t, may money be enough. Maybe you can live in the fairytale of your motorsports dreams, but it will never amount to what I can do.”

That was the final straw.

Without thinking, without pause, something inside you snapped.

You lunged toward her, your vision blurred by tears and rage. Gasps and startled cries filled the room as chaos erupted.

Your mother’s hand was suddenly on your cheek, harsh and unforgiving.

“Y/n!” she hissed. “Enough! Can’t you see what you’re ruining tonight?”

Your father’s voice boomed next, filled with frustration and anger.

“I cut your funds for one reason! Just to focus on her! And you can’t even live without it?”

You were burning inside, every word stinging like acid.

“It’s not about your money!” you spat, brushing past the stunned faces, heart pounding wildly as you fled the mansion.

Outside, the cold night air bit into your skin, but you didn’t care.

Kimi’s fingers tapped nervously against his phone as he stared at the screen, the call to you still ringing unanswered. Each unanswered ring felt like a weight sinking deeper in his chest. He couldn’t shake the knot of worry growing inside him, an ache he hated but couldn’t ignore.

“Come on...” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with concern. “Say something to me, Amore...” His voice cracked slightly, barely audible in the quiet apartment. He began pacing the small living room, restless, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Finally, he gave up on trying you directly and dialed Amilla’s number, hoping she might have heard from you.

“Hey,” she answered, her tone cautious.

“Have you heard from Y/n?” Kimi asked quickly, trying to keep calm but failing to mask the tension in his voice.

Amilla sighed softly on the other end. “No, not really. She’s barely messaged me since she left—just once.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”

“I think her train’s tomorrow,” Amilla replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Kimi frowned, his brow knitting in worry. “Okay... I’ll wait for her.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Late into the night, the train finally pulled into the station, its screech echoing through the empty platform. You stepped off, heavy with exhaustion and a dull ache deep inside your chest that you couldn't shake, no matter how far the distance from your family. Your phone buzzed incessantly—calls and texts from your mother and father—but you ignored every one. Tonight, you needed silence more than anything else.

At the door of your flat, your keys jingled softly as you slid them onto the hook by the entrance. You paused, eyes catching the other set of keys hanging there—Kimi’s. He was home.

Before you could move forward, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close. His face buried gently in your hair, he whispered, voice thick with relief, “You’re okay... you’re really okay.” He breathed in your scent as if to confirm you were truly there.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t pick up my calls or texts. Please, don’t ever do that again, Cuore mio. Don’t leave me to worry like that.” His grip tightened just a little, like holding onto you anchored him.

You stood frozen, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness that contradicted everything you’d been feeling from your family lately. You expected him to pull away, to give you space—but he didn’t.

“Just stay here... don’t move,” he said softly, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself you were safe now. He kissed the top of your head, lingering, then finally pulled back to look at your face.

His eyes darkened with concern at the sight of your glossy, tear-filled eyes, the smudged makeup tracing down your cheeks, and the faint imprint of your sister’s slap still visible on your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he said gently, voice thick. “I would’ve been there for you. Always.”

You hummed quietly, biting back the truth simmering in your chest, the feelings that went beyond friendship. “You’re a good friend...” you whispered, fragile.

Kimi’s lips pressed together, his eyes softening. “The best,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I try... only for you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That moment felt like a delicate pause in time — everything you’d built together in the apartment, every quiet laugh, every shared meal, every late night spent unwinding side by side, suddenly seemed to weigh heavy. Kimi moved around, folding the last bits of clothing into a taped-up box, the soft rustle of packing paper filling the silence. You held a small, taped box yourself and set it down gently.

“You’re leaving... and I’m leaving,” you said softly, forcing a light chuckle, trying to mask the sting beneath. He hummed thoughtfully, looking around the now bare room.

“Luxury homes…” he began with a half-smile, “and the beautiful life in Monaco.”

You shook your head with a bittersweet smile. “Back home I go… and your life in Monaco keeps going.” Your voice was quieter now, almost lost to the stillness around you.

He met your eyes and simply said, “Yeah…”

Silence settled like a thick blanket between you two. The comfort of your shared home was boxed up, every laugh, every gentle touch, every moment of peace—packed away and stacked in the corners. The raw ache of it felt dull and heavy, like losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t live without.

Kimi broke the quiet, a playful glint in his eye as he pointed at you. “You better be my engineer in the future.”

You smiled, nodding with conviction. “I am. I’m going to be.”

He grinned wider. “And be a good friend to others. Especially Amilla.”

You nodded, thinking of your best friend. “Oh, she’ll get on a train just to come see me—and you better do the same.”

His nod was firm, sincere.

Home — this space you��d shared — was being folded away, soon to be just a memory. The comfort, the routine, the little world you built together, was slipping through your fingers as you both prepared to part ways.

Suddenly, a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. You opened it to see Amilla standing there, her eyes glossy, a small hopeful smile playing on her lips. Both you and Kimi looked at her, surprised by the emotion in her face.

“I’m really going to miss you two living together,” she said, pulling you both into a warm group hug.

“Amilla! You’re being dramatic,” you teased, though your smile faltered a bit.

She sniffled, not letting go. “I don’t care! I’m going to miss monopoly nights, video games, and overcooked pasta!”

Kimi huffed, a mock offense clear in his tone. “My pasta is not overcooked—”

“Shut up, dumbass!” Amilla laughed, and you couldn’t help but chuckle too.

In that moment, despite the impending goodbyes, the warmth between the three of you lingered, reminding you that some things—friendship, laughter, memories—would never truly be boxed away.

The air in the flat shifted the moment Kimi spoke.

"I have to get my stuff out. I’ll be the first to leave," he said, voice quiet but firm, trying to hold steady against the growing weight in his chest.

Amilla finally let go of you both, wiping her cheeks with a dramatic sniff. You hummed, eyes falling to the floor before flicking back up to Kimi. “Good luck! And you better handle everything with Eli.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head. “Huh?”

Amilla, ever the bold one, sighed. “You’re good friends, Kimi. Don’t play dumb.” She crossed her arms before confessing, “I sent her the photo. The one of you and Eliska—Eli—holding hands. It popped up online when she was with her parents. You probably should’ve told her you were still dating her. Must’ve felt weird, living with Y/n all this time.”

Kimi’s eyes widened in disbelief, the realization crashing down like a wave. “Oh…” he breathed, heart thudding.

You gave a tight, brittle smile, masking everything boiling under the surface. “But it’s okay, Kimi. We’re friends,” you said with a tone that tried to be casual. Tried. “I’ll find me a nice, handsome man back home.” Your lips trembled slightly. “You continue living the best of your life.”

Before either of them could stop you, you turned and walked down the hallway, voice faint as you added, “I have to get my closet packed.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Kimi stared after you for a beat too long, the words you said burning into his chest like embers. Then Amilla stepped into his line of sight, her expression unreadable.

“Eliska and I are exes,” he said quickly, like it was something he should’ve shouted a long time ago. “That photo? That was PR. Nothing real. I haven’t been with her in a long time.”

Amilla raised a brow. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you sent her the picture,” Kimi snapped, though his voice was still soft, weighed down with guilt. “And now she thinks—she thinks I don’t care.”

Amilla blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, as if something clicked. “Wait... are you correcting me because... you like her?”

Kimi exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I love her,” he admitted, finally, the truth slipping out in a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Are you kidding me? We’ve lived together for months. I’ve never felt this grounded before. I love her. And no wonder she’s been acting strange—keeping her distance, being quiet.”

Amilla watched him for a long second, her lips slowly curling into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Now she’s going back home to live in her sister’s shadow, in that big mansion that makes her feel like she’s nothing.”

Kimi’s gaze dropped to the floor. The ache in his chest spread further, like roots digging deep into regret. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder. He had to get moving, had to clear out his things. He took one last look around the flat, the space that held all their memories—every breakfast, every laugh, every late night—and quietly gathered what remained of his belongings.

Without another word, he stepped out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.

But even as he left, a part of him stayed behind—with you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Months of studying, of long nights and longer days under the weight of family expectations, had finally brought you here—to the Grand Prix weekend. The crowd buzzed around you, excited voices and camera flashes filling the air, but nothing could shake the weight that followed behind you like a shadow.

Your mother, father, and sister trailed just a few steps behind. They hadn’t wanted to come. They didn’t care about motorsports, about your dreams, but they showed up anyway—if only to say they did.

"This is what you’re working toward? Honestly, it’s pathetic," your sister scoffed behind you, flipping her perfectly styled hair. You didn’t even flinch at the jab, too used to the tone, the sharp edge of her voice. Your father and mother didn’t bother saying anything, their silence more cutting than words.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself, eyes scanning the track layout, the pit boards, the energy alive in every turn. “The race was amazing,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Kimi got pole…”

Your mother sighed impatiently. “Who?”

You frowned. “A driver.”

Before you could brace for more disinterest or mockery, a sudden voice broke through the noise.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!”

You barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around you and lifted you into the air, spinning you in a blur of laughter and warmth.

“Kimi!” you gasped, laughing as your heart leapt with surprise and relief.

“If it isn’t Antonelli,” you teased as he set you down, his grin lighting up his entire face. “My best friend,” you added with a soft smile.

“I saw your text!” he said. “You said you were coming—figured I’d find you eventually.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught your parents staring, clearly stunned by the interaction. But Kimi didn’t give them another glance—he only had eyes for you.

“I want to show you something,” he said quickly, grabbing your hand before you could say anything else. He pulled you away from them, your fingers wrapped in his as he led you straight into the heartbeat of the circuit: the Mercedes garage.

You looked around in awe, the energy of the team, the mechanics, the machines—everything. “It’s… incredible,” you breathed, eyes wide. “You’ve been busy, huh? All these months. Ahead. Super busy.”

But he didn’t answer.

You turned around, only to find him already staring at you. His face softened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks beneath the harsh garage lights.

“I have something for you tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you the location. Just… meet me?”

You nodded, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah. I will.”

—

The night air was cool, carrying the salty breeze of the coast as you sat beside him in the passenger seat of his car. The streets of the city felt quieter than usual, or maybe it was just the way your heart was pounding.

Kimi hadn’t said much during the drive, but his hand sat close to yours on the center console, and you swore you could feel the weight of what he wanted to say.

He finally pulled into a quiet overlook, the lights of the city below flickering like stars scattered across the earth. He turned off the engine, but didn’t get out. Instead, he turned toward you, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then he sighed—deep, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“You know,” he started, voice low, “not a second went by that I didn’t think of you.”

You glanced at him, your breath caught in your throat. “I’m just the best friend in the whole world, right?”

He gave a sad, quiet chuckle. “God, no. That’s not what you are. You’re so much more than that.”

Your eyes locked. His were glassy, earnest.

“I’ve been in love with you, Y/n,” he said finally, like the words had been burning him alive from the inside. “I loved you the entire time we lived together. Every time you made breakfast, or tied your hair up before class. The way you left notes next to my coffee. The way you always had my towel ready in the mornings. I came back from the track looking forward to the silence we shared. To you just… being there.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he continued. “And then I saw what you went through with your family, how you kept pushing anyway. You were never just a friend. You were my peace.”

He looked down, rubbing his palm nervously against his thigh. “And that photo Amilla sent you—me and Eli? That was PR. Just PR. We broke up a long time ago. Mercedes needed something for the cameras, for the headlines. I let them run with it because I thought it was harmless. But it wasn’t. Not to you. And I hate myself for that.”

You stared at him, lips trembling slightly. His voice cracked with the next words.

“I wish we still lived together. I miss it. I miss you. And I understand if you don’t want to be with me, or if this makes things worse. But I had to tell you. Because the thought of letting you go back to that life—thinking you were just my roommate—kills me.”

He reached for your hand. “If you don’t feel the same, I’ll take it. I’ll keep being your friend, if that’s all you’ll let me be. But if there’s even a small part of you that feels the same… just tell me. Because I love you. Not just the memories of you. Not just the comfort of having you there. I love you—your dreams, your fire, the way you walk into a room and make it warmer. I love all of it.”

He paused, breath trembling.

“And I need you to know that.”

The car was silent but for the soft hum of the wind outside.

And in that stillness, you realized—this was the moment. The one you had been waiting for.

Your eyes softened as your fingers laced with his.

“I was always yours, Kimi. You just never asked.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

And so, on a beautiful day—some golden, breezy Monaco afternoon—you sat curled up on the soft couch, laughter in your chest, sun spilling in through the sheer curtains. The scent of sea salt drifted in with the breeze, light catching the waves outside the window. Next to you, Kimi lounged comfortably, his knee touching yours, both of you surrounded by pens, cards, and open envelopes scattered like confetti across the coffee table. Wedding invitations. Futures written in ink.

"Hey! Don’t scribble with crayon on those!" you exclaimed, nudging him with your elbow as he held up a childish doodle across the back of one invitation.

“Oh come on,” he grinned with faux innocence, holding the crayon like a trophy. “Adds personality!”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, the kind of smile only he could pull from you so effortlessly. "Who are we even sending these to?" you mumbled, glancing over the list, your tone softening. “My family and I… we don’t talk. I cut ties, remember? Like you said I should. You were right. No calls, no fake apologies, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.”

He looked over at you gently, his smile no longer teasing. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud of you,” he said. “You chose yourself. That matters.”

You nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before he tapped his pen on the table and gestured toward his side of the list. “So we’re sending mine out. My family, my team, the good ones. Oh, and don’t forget to add something personal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who customized these invites again?”

“You,” he said quickly, pointing at you. “But who paid for them?”

“Hmm, let me guess—Kimi Antonelli, my soon-to-be husband?” you teased.

He smirked. “Exactly. As your fiancé, it’s my duty.”

The flat you now shared—a stunning, sea-facing luxury apartment—held pieces of both of you. His racing memorabilia mingled with your books and plants. The cozy throw blankets, the mugs you picked out together, the gentle clutter of two people who had built something together. It wasn’t just his anymore. It was yours. Your home. Your safe place.

“You are so lucky I love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes as he leaned closer.

“Oh yes, I am the lucky one,” he said with a crooked grin. “Living with you, waking up to that face every day... What could be better?”

“Keep flirting and I’ll leave you with the rest of these invites,” you warned, picking up the box playfully. “Let’s see if you can figure out who gets which one.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you were already on your feet, laughing, bolting toward the hallway. He chased after you, laughter filling the walls of the apartment, just like it used to in the old place—but now louder, warmer, brighter.

The flat was new, upgraded, sleek and modern—but it was filled with the same love that bloomed back in that small two-bedroom you once shared. Back when everything felt uncertain but full of possibility.

That little flat was where it started. The morning coffees, the midnight talks, the study nights, the pasta dinners, the Mario Kart battles, the long hugs, the slow-burn love. That flat gave you both your beginning.

Now here you were—living together, planning forever, engaged to a man who loved you without condition. The sea was yours to wake up to. The world, yours to build together.

No nagging father, no brooding mother, no spiteful sister, just you, Kimi, and your growing home from here.

He tackled you on the shared bed playfully, your laughter filling the large and luxurious space.

And tucked inside a sleek white envelope, scattered across your coffee table, was an invitation to a future signed:

Mr. & Mrs. Antonelli.

[hansungie01]

PERV!JISUNG

Word count: 2.1k words

Contains: Basically jisung is a little perv and starts fantasizing about his best friend. This was a drabble but i don't know that 2.1k words really counts lol. Anyways enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung had always been a good friend to you. You had called him to show off a few outfits you had bought that day at the mall, which included some new lingerie.

You and Jisung were close, so these kinds of things weren't typically awkward. You had flipped the camera towards the mirror while you showed off some particularly revealing lingerie, rambling about how much you love the way it fit you and how it looked.

Meanwhile, Jisung could only nod his head and part his lips as he looked at you in the mirror on his computer screen. You were stunning; he'd seen you a thousand times before, but this time was different. He couldn't quite understand why. The way you flipped the camera over each time you tried on a new set, displaying your body for him and running your hands over your body, describing the way it felt and bragging about all the good deals you got while shopping.

At least he was pretty sure that's what you were saying. He could feel pressure in his lower half, and the waistband in his pants was suddenly noticebly tight. He was harder than he'd been in a long time. He was almost mad at himself for being turned on by this, because you were his best friend, and best friends don't generally get each other hard like this.

But what irritated him the most was the fact that he was genuinely enjoying himself. No, he was loving this. Watching your body on the screen, imagining how fucking beautiful you would look naked, underneath him, on top of him, anywhere. He was ashamed of how fucking hot this was - thinking about all the dirty things he could do to you, and you had no idea. You’d probably call him a perv or a freak, and he wouldn’t mind that. He was, he couldn’t deny that this was so, so wrong of him.

But the only reason he hadn't ended the phone call was because 1) he physically couldn't look away from your body and 2) what he was doing wasn't that bad, as long as you didn’t know, right?

So Jisung took one of his hands off his phone, dragging it down all the way down to his pants. He shifted his position in his bed, so that it looked like he was just adjusting and not that he was about to touch himself.

His breath hitched as his palm came into contact with the bulge in his pants, thankfully able to conceal his reaction by biting his lower lip and nodding at something you were saying.

He wasn't sure what you said, or if you had said anything at all - his eyes were glued to the curve of your body in that lingerie and the way it made your chest look. God he loved your chest.

Slowly, as if he were trying to test to see if you'd notice, he started to move his hand back and forth, reliving some of the discomfort his hard-on had caused. He couldn't help but start to imagine it being your hand - with you sitting on top of him, rubbing down on his length from the outside of his jeans, smiling at how easily turned on he was.

You’d call him a perv, and make fun of the fact that he was already spilling precum onto your hand.

His hips began to buck forward as the idea of you teasing him for being a perv was turned him on even more. Soon enough, the feeling of his hand wasn't enough anymore, and he needed more. He was watching you closely, spinning your body in the mirror, showing off every stitch of that damn lingerie that you could, unaware of how much it was affecting your best friend.

"Fuck", he jumped. He hadn't even realized he had now stuck his hand in his pants, and the contact of his hand against his dick through his boxers had snapped him back to reality for a moment.

"What was that Ji?", you asked, looking back up at your phone, eye brows raised, mouth opened slightly, concerned that he had hurt himself.

"Nothing, I almost dropped my phone from my hand. Don't worry, I'm fine”

He wasn't fine. Not at all. He'd saved himself that time, but soon enough, he could feel himself getting closer as time went on. He glanced up at the top of the screen to see the time, it had only been about five minutes. His pants had become soaked with his precum, he was starting to feel the warmth of it on his hands. He was hoping you wouldn't hear the sounds of his low grunting, the sounds he wished you were making with your pussy riding his cock instead.

He thought to himself, he couldn't finish in his pants, right? He was already embarrassed that he had gotten this far, and he knew he'd had to wash his pants immediately after anyway. He also knew it would feel so much better if he just unzipped his pants, enough for him to fully indulge in his dirty thoughts, enough to touch himself and finish on his hands. That way, he could just wash himself without making much of a mess.

And so very carefully, he reached to unzip his pants completely, feeling his throbbing length in the palm of his hands. Impulsively, he let out a deep groan, one that was quiet enough so that he could play it off as a cough.

He began to jerk himself off as his thumb rubbed along his tip every now and then, trying his hardest not to let out any indication that he had been jerking off to you, his best friend.

"Ji?", he heard your voice on the other end of the phone, and his actions froze. Well, at least most of them. He couldn't help but to keep bucking his hips into his hands, eager to finish even now.

"Yeah?", Jisung said, his voice rather shaky. He was starting to get nervous, there was no way you hadn't suspected anything by now. But he couldn’t help himself, the feeling was becoming addictive and there was no way he was stopping now.

"Do you like this one, or the last one I wore more?", you asked. Jisung sighed as his hand relaxed, relieved that you hadn't caught on to his shameful actions on the other end of the phone. He quickly answered with "the last one", not even sure which one he was referring to. The way that each piece of clothing fit your body made him think about how nicely his hands would fit in the curves of your skin instead.

His hands were rubbing up and down his length at a quick pace now, and he found it harder and harder to control himself. His hips were twitching uncontrollably, lifting off of the bed so that he could thrust into his hand even harder. He glanced down at his length, and the thought of you riding him crossed his mind. Your legs placed on both sides of his hips, your hips rolling against his while you made yourself cum on his cock. He bite his lip harshly, enough to draw blood. He didn't care. In that moment, he wished so fucking badly that he could replace his hand with the feeling of you. That he could watch you on top of him, hear you moan out his name, see you shake as your orgasm washed over you.

He'd imagine how good you'd look with the head thrown back, your hands on his chest, hips stuttering. He'd reach his hand down to rub your clit, the other gripping your hip so hard as if you'd fall if he let go. His tounge sticking out the side of his mouth, his eyes watching your chest, then your face, and down to your pussy. He wouldn't need to watch his movement, he's sure he'd be a pro at touching you just the way you liked. You were his best friend, and he knew you so well, so there's no way in hell he'd have a hard time getting to know your body as well. God, he could cum just looking at you, but the idea of you using his body to cum would drive him mad.

He wouldn't even care that his hair was messy, his sweat sticking to his skin, he wouldn't care how dirty he looked. All he'd care about is you.

Jisung tightened his grip around his length slightly with the fantasy.

And that was all it took for him to lose it.

He knew that if he continued like this, you'd find out what he was doing. Snapping back to reality once more, he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Uh hang on , y/n. I gotta mute for a second", he said, and without waiting for your response, he had muted himself and tossed the phone across the bed he had been laying on.

Finally, he could cum without worrying about what you might say, what you might think of him if you knew he was getting off to his best friend. He shuffled down so his head was now on the pillow, just like in his fantasy.

But what he didn't expect, was for his orgasm to hit him the moment he began to think about the possibility of you finding him like this. He started to moan to himself, calling himself a perv and imagining it was you. He could imagine how you’d sound, with your cocky tone and a smug look on your face. “You’re such a perv”, you’d say as you rode his cock. “I bet you like being called that, hm?”

"Oh fuck, yes", he groaned, speaking as though you were right there. “Fuck, baby, just like that. Make me fucking cum.”

With one last thrust toward his palm, his hips stilled as his head rocked back into his pillow, the images of your body on his phone screen and the fantasy of you riding him still etched in his head.

His release coated his hand, dripping down to his balls and falling onto the bedsheets. Usually he'd grab a towel, but he had no time. His head was dizzy; he couldn't remember the last time he experienced an orgasm that hard. It took him a few moments to regain his strength before he lifted his head, looking down at his phone across the bed.

“What the fuck”, he said. He soon realized he had nothing to clean up with, at least not here. For now, he’d have to leave it, just long enough for him to hang up the phone. He reached over to his bed side table to grab some napkins he had left for, you know, special occasions. At least he was prepared in that sense.

A black screen. The call had been ended. Had he accidentally hung up the phone when he was trying to mute?

He sent a quick message to you, apologizing for hanging up. He couldn’t call you back, not when his hand were coated in his own cum and his breath was still heavy. He almost dozed off, not noticing the time passing by.

And suddenly, the door bell rang.

“Fucking hell”, he jumped, tossing the bed sheets over and getting up to grab the hem of his pants. He shouldn’t even be answering the door in this state, but on the off chance that it was Chan or Changbin, he figured he better. He ran to the bathroom, washing off his own cum and adjusting his clothing. It wasn't perfect, but at least they wouldn't be able to guess what he was just doing.

He still couldn’t believe this was all from you, how he couldn’t control himself long enough to hold a fucking phone call with you.

Whatever, he thought. As long as you would never find out, he could keep it a secret.

He walked over to the door, and to his shock, there you were, standing in doorway with a smile on your lips.

“Fucking perv”, you smiled, stepping into the room. He stood, confused. When did you..?

“Learn how to mute your phone before you go jerk off to your best friend”

His heart stopped as you reached over to grab onto his shirt, pulling his closer into a kiss. He couldn’t respond, due to the pure shock he was in and because of the fact that your lips were pressed against his, preventing him from talking.

He’d get to live out his fantasies from just moments prior, and he’d love every second of it.

[donvampiro]

headcannons for seducing law? in a flirtatious way <3 can be pre-established relationship/feelings or not, whatever you choose !!

hello @jkthiighs ! hope you're doing good. oh, seducing Law, you say? sounds like an arduous task... i see that you like challenges >:) thanks for your request, and hopefully these HCs will live up to your expectations! Love <3

MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

Seducing him

Trafalgar D. Water Law x gn!reader HCs

man you’re in for an adventure bc i feel like this dude can be the most perceptive just like he can be the most oblivious to your flirting

buckle up!

is he interested in you? bro you’d never know. at least, not very explicitly.

but if that’s the case, he may be the type to send you discreet signals, through things that might differ from his daily behavior. i.e, sharing with you moments he usually prefers to spend alone, opening up a little more about his interests or his thoughts in general. but he would always do it with the same flat tone and expressions as usual lol.

he'd never be openly flirtatious, so it’s up to you to pick up on these signals so that you can send them back to him and let him know that you’re into him too :P

indeed, Law isn’t really the most interested in a relationship at first. at worst, he thinks he doesn’t have time for this or that it’s not for him. at best, he contemplates the idea with curiosity; and perhaps longing as he watches you go about your business with that endearing smile and gentle look of yours — uhm, well, that’s how he interprets it at least. but he’s not much of a man of feelings, he guesses.

he’d rather wait for you to take the lead when it comes to initiating flirting, if not a relationship. so that’s good if you want to seduce him ig (¯\_(ツ)_/¯). Law is a shell that is far from empty, but nonetheless struggles to open easily — and can close off at any moment if things seem too confusing.

it’s an art. a game of subtlety while knowing how to be direct enough for him to understand your intentions. otherwise, it will often fall flat.

‘isn’t it a little bit too hot here?’, he’d ask, frowning as he waves his hand.

— ‘maybe it’s because of a certain person…’, you’d mouth coyly.

— ‘why are you blaming me. it’s not my fault if the AC is broken.’

— ‘Law–’

Law’s not that oblivious though, he’d figure you out at some point. but bro would also get a certain amount of pleasure out of driving you crazy lol

still, to really seduce him, you’d have to prove your determination and, above all, your honesty in your feelings, and this over the long term. Law’s not interested in playing cat and mouse with you if he’s not certain that you are playing this game fairly and sincerely, by which he means, that you too actually want what can happen as a result of the said game.

but how to seduce him? well, imo he’s not a complicated man in that respect: be yourself. yes, really.

be sincere with him, don’t hesitate to give your opinion, even when you disagree with him — especially when you disagree with him. Law is interested in people with a different point of view and who challenge his thinking.

‘... and that’s why we’re going to proceed this way’, Law concluded, before lazily looking up at the crew. ‘any questions?’

— ‘i don’t think it’s a good idea. like, s’not the right logic to adopt.’, your voice echoed in the room, and his eyes, attentive, turned towards you. 

— ‘oh, really?’, he smirked, crossing his arms against his chest as he leaned slightly against the wall, waiting for your answer with more impatience than he cared to admit. ‘and what should we do then, professor (y/n)?’

— ‘just you wait’, you grinned back, and your gaze had this glint of challenge that always made a slight shover of determination run down Law’s spine. ‘don’t worry, i’m getting to my explanation.’

don’t be afraid to share your interests, or at least to embrace them completely, without worrying about what others think. Law has no prejudices about people’s hobbies overall. the worst he can do is tease you, but he never really means any harm, he’s just trying to get a reaction from you. on the contrary, i think Law has a thing for people who embrace their hobbies and he might even be the type to geek out a bit about your interests so he can have a conversation with you.

be kind and patient. he knows that he’s not always a very nice person, rude even sometimes; and i think that while Law could certainly appreciate a person with a slightly similar personality to his, he wouldn’t actually date them. he’d be seduced by your ability to adapt to people and act accordingly, by the smile you manage to draw on their lips almost automatically — just like with him. you’re an attentive and understanding person, and Law likes this a lot. it’s one of the various traits he admires in you. it’s the one that flusters him the most too 🤭

[oh-no-its-bird]

Actually so attached to the mental image of team ro Tenzo, Shisui and Itachi trailing after team captain Kakashi like a trio of lost ducks.

Tbf, it's mostly Tenzo and Itachi projecting the lost duck energy, but Shisui also delights in being there. So it's like,

Itachi and Tenzo: Genuinely trailing behind Kakashi like lost puppies.

Shisui: Trailing behind Itachi and Tenzo projecting the same aura but mostly because he thinks this is the funniest thing ever

Kakashi: Denying to his dying breath that these guys are wet eyed ducklings trailing behind him like he's their mother (except Shisui, who he will occasionally acknowledge the behavior of only because he KNOWS Shisui is doing it to fuck with him. However he knows the other two are serious about it and will thus refuse to admit this is his reality ever.)

I think when they hang out or train out of masks together, it's in secluded or private places (probably in compliance with whatever ANBU privacy/subtlety rules have to exist about what context teams can hang out together under) So very few people have the proper context of seeing them all together. Especially bc, during this time, Kakashi is in that 16-18 year old doom spiral. He's starting to ease out of the depression, but his title of Friend Killer Kakashi still follows him, and he works overtime to avoid people and crowds.

So anyways that means no one really knows ab his little entourage, which means funny realization moments when people DO see them in public together.

(Someone remind me later to do a '5 times someone realized Kakashi had become a teen mother + 1 time Kakashi realized himself' fic later, that'd be so fucking funny)

The only one to be fully aware of Kakashi's little ducklings is Gai, who's been lucky enough to spot them all together more than once (mostly bc he's one of the only people Kakashi will willingly exist around for more than 10 minutes at a time when out of uniform) Otherwise, there's a handful of people who know of team Ro's attitude towards KKS (separately) Like Genma (subject to Shisui and Tenzo) and Kurenai (subject to Itachi)

"Kakashi," Kurenai asked. "Why are you hanging out with a toddler?"

Kakashi cocked his head. "I don't know. Itachi, why am I hanging out with a toddler?"

"Mother asked you to give me advice on working with my elder teammates." Itachi responded without missing a beat, and Kakashi nodded in approval.

"There you have it."

In general, I think Kakashi is probably spotted with Tenzo the most out of anyone on the team. He's like, basically his handler once he's out of ROOT, very invested in his personhood and general existence for several (political and personal) reasons, and has taken to trying to teach him how to be a real boy and whatnot now that he's in the real world. They're also close in age, and unlike Shisui (who's also close in age), Tenzo is very quiet and genuine in his respect for Kakashi. So Kakashi can genuinely just enjoy existing near Tenzo in silence without worry.

Tenzo is probably the lowkey favorite, which Itachi and Shisui are NOT bitter about, they promise.

(Shisui is actually p ok w that, he thinks Tenzo deserves it after all the shit he's been through and is happy for the clear comfort Kakashi brings to his life.

Itachi refuses to admit he's jealous ever, but years later when he is an actual, literal terrorist who hasn't seen his teammates in years, when he sees Tenzo again, he will hit him extra hard w a genjutsu special with a vague sense of satisfaction and the specific thoughts of, 'being captains favorite won't save you now, will it.')

Anyways the entire point of this post was that I want someone (possibly Genma) to refer to the members of team ro as "Kakashi's ducklings" because it'd would be funny to me personally.

That's it, end of post. Thank u for ur time.

[vyainide]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤcome get the body that loves youㅤㅤ＼ㅤace, his devil fruit, falling in loveㅤㅤ𖥟

♡ㅤ𓎟𓎟𓎟ㅤㅤ፧ㅤㅤ ͟🀢͟ ͟ ͟  sabo ver (11 jul) ㅤ𓇬ㅤluffy ver (wip) ＼

火拳の၇⃪⃖ꪆ୧ㅤ𝒑. ace x fem! readerㅤ 𓊉 ㅤ~𝟤𝟩𝟢𝟢𝗐𝖼ㅤ───drabble, not beta'd, canon compliant, (un)requited love, yearning, feelings, fuck ton of other stuff to make a girl's sunday feel religious, his dick makes an appearance and probably not in the way you guys want..., crack throughout᭮ ━─⠀ ❤︎ ㅤ2025©vyainide ㅤㅤ︶ིྀᩧㅤ1864lib

vyon's mouthpiece. i got carried away with this... it was meant to be an asl drabble but i realised halfway through sabo's that they're too long for drabbles and no one's gna read em all in one sitting on tumblr so i think i'm going to post them separately

Burning is not new for Ace.

He's always been the skin for a match to find its flame: goosebump flesh, scarred and scuffed, rough around every corner of his body, dry 'round the contact spots that make you shiver when he touches, calloused skin that always cracked from the burn of a sun no one else sees. A catch and brush against his flesh is always pregnant with the scorch.

Before he ate his devil fruit, he was little more than spitting of embers crackling for resuscitation. It was always a low feeling in his stomach, a shift that never quite sat quite right, a hollowness so chronic that it mimicked the heavy of fullness. Ace had always been made for the burn. When the fire came, he remembered his younger life at Foosa in its scarlet, fighting with Sabo and Luffy over meat, over prey, over the blanket they shared, over the miniscule things.

Something about it felt right. Ace was always the hearth of a home for flames— burning was always in his blood.

"You run cold," is the first thing you tell Ace. An observation that everyone's always made, leaking with its tepid surprise. He can tell you're hesitant about making that comment, as if it betrays the notion of careful observation you've been keeping reserved for him.

Ace merely grins, sees himself flicker on the hues of fire on your cheek with the lamps dotted 'round the quiet Moby Dick and agrees, "sure do!"

He realised two days into your sudden stay that you're the pirate from Whitey Bay's crew that Izou was always talking to, had been providing general crew expansion updates for. He recognises your voice, the intonation that betrays your hailing from the east. Izou's doomed Ace though, talked enough about Ace that you've picked up an awful misconception that Ace was going to kill Whitebeard. It's not his fault— Ace considers himself a new man, a phoenix from the ashes of his multiple failed attempts to kill a dying man, but all you see is a squawking chicken running around headless.

Your brows furrow and you don't look fairly impressed. In fact, you are so unamused that it wins over your curiosity and suspicion of Ace, so your next move is to stretch out your foot and continue walking to where you were previously heading before Ace barged into you.

The flare warps, stretches out with the short toss of wind that your body kicks up when it passes him and follows after the shape of you— snaps away from the safety of his chest and then disperses like it'd never been his in the first place. Ace frowns after you, confused at best.

You're still around after that, dotted in between crew members that Ace hasn't quite gotten close to, joking around with the sterner division leaders who are always beating him up in guise of 'training', and scolding Whitebeard on behalf of your own captain. Ace doesn't exactly know why you're there, but it's easy to find you since Whitebeard's crew is namely full of men.

You talk a couple more times after that and Ace knows that you're still testing him, checking to see where his loyalties lie with every passing conversation.

Unfortunately, you don't seem to take to his charm like the Whitebeard pirates have so easily, who saw something endearing about him trying to kill their father— he remembers something about Dadan saying that women are so much better than men at detecting bullshit. That only serves to confuse Ace though, 'cause as far as he's concerned, he's accepted his role as Whitebeard's son.

He makes up his mind to ask you about it after a particularly stern staring contest that gave him indigestion, but you're gone the next day.

"She don't like me much." He stirs the spoon 'round the soup that he's left long enough for it to draw a film over the top. He's only musing to himself, speaking it aloud to see if it makes much sense— Ace thinks that it does, but he ain't too sure why he feels weird about it.

Haruta frowns at his cooling soup, judging him probably. "Why'd you think that?" The twist of his face only deepens when Ace uses his spoon to bring the clump of film up to his lips, eating it without care.

Ace looks at Haruta like he's stupid, the way the twelfth division leader is already looking at him, "did'ya not see the way she was looking at me?"

Haruta kicks Ace under the table, so hard that it rattles his bowl of soup— luckily, Ace manages to stabilise it in time and when he offers some look of betrayal at the man, Haruta's already looking at him weird. "Don't be mean; that's just her face. She's insecure about it."

That's the only thing that Ace really takes away from the conversation, that and the fact that Haruta is a liar; no woman glares like that unless she fully well means to do so. It was intentional.

Ace doesn't see you again until Marco has the scare of his life as Whitebeard has a bad reaction to some new medicine that he's administrated. It's lucky that Marco's devil fruit essentially makes him immortal, otherwise he'd have lost half the years of his own life taking care of Whitebeard's.

The closer of the fleets loiter around their father's ship, even as his stats come back to normal; unfortunately for Ace, Whitey Bay is one of those. That gives you an excuse to linger around odd corners, watching him like he's the reason that Whitebeard had taken his pills with alcohol (like he always does behind Marco's back) and that was— unsurprisingly— a horrible idea.

He's mature enough to ignore it, years with Luffy had nurtured him into the bigger person so he's pretty good at tolerating the weird stuff. That is, of course, until you accost him tucking himself back into his pants after a piss.

He'd like to say he's proficient with his devil fruit now— and not just as an excuse to get out of devil fruit mastery training with Marco— and moments where a sudden jerk or an unexpected scare makes him burst into flames have been scarce and far between, but you get it out of him. Manage to coax out that hypnic jerk, make the fire explode through the pyre laid beneath his chest first before swallowing whole up to his neck and he feels hot, but he knows it's not the fire but the embarrassment.

"What the hell are you doing—!"

"Oh," you blink, pinching off the fried crisps of your bangs, "it's hot."

Ace baulks, he feels like he's talking to Luffy about something that should be common sense. "Of course it's hot! It's fire!" He fumbles with the zipper of his shorts, turning his front away from your view, he remembers Luffy again for some reason— very specifically his stupid face with a finger up his nose— and then a dreadful realisation comes dawning upon him. "Is this the reason why you've been glaring at me?"

You seem almost upset by the accusation, "I haven't been glaring— plus, you're cold."

With his pants no longer at risk of dropping to his ankles, Ace finally spins back around to face you. "What?"

"You're cold, but you're made up of flames." You carefully explain to him— the way that Makino used to talk to him and the brothers when they were younger, "don't you think that there's something wrong with you?"

"I don't want to hear that from a gal who walked in whilst my dick was out!"

"Don't worry, it doesn't look like there was much to see."

He ends up yelling at you— which has been a lot of conclusions to his conversations with Luffy actually so it gives him a strange sense of deja vu, makes him miss Luffy even more. It really ain't the time to think about it though because he's got you by the shoulders, pushing you out of the men's bathroom when Thatch stops at the corner down the hall, blinks, and then just very carefully takes a step backwards and continues away.

Though he's mortified and his pride is irreversibly damaged and some of the division leaders are clapping him on the back and giving him congratulations and unnecessary advice on keeping women happy, you manage to get somewhat closer. You've got a dry kind of humour, a cut–throat habit of speaking before thinking, a childish kind of thought process that Ace can't help but find endearing sometimes. He thinks it's those moments where he can draw out the similarities of your personality and Luffy's or Sabo's; being around you reminds him of the fire.

And not only because your question gave him some kind of identity crisis (because why is he cold when he's literally fire?), but because you stoke the flames. It's the way you want to test whatever unreliable theory you've formed up in your head about his diametric body temperature and his logia; how easy it is for you to sweep your hands over him, part away the flames through your fingers like you're cutting through wisps of his hair to remind yourself it was hot. Then, press your palm against his bicep, curl your fingers around the 'a' of his tattoo and then drag down until you're at 'e', palm prickling with the frostbite as you do.

You're at his side often. The Whitebeards think you guys are in your honeymoon phase. Ace knows that he's merely a lab rat, even when Vista whistles lowly when you intentionally sit close enough to have your arms pressed against Ace's. Bare skin against his tattooed arm, warm and smooth against his cold and prickly, scritching, tickling. Then, like it doesn't matter, you'll touch with your fingers— feel it all out.

"Have you always been cold? I mean, before the devil fruit too?"

You're not shy about these things.

"Yeah. Always." Luffy and Sabo complained when they had to sleep next to him.

Ace ain't the kind of guy to flush and fumble over some light touching either but what you're doing feels light years away from what he's trying to rationalise it to be.

No one's ever been the kind of person to touch like you do— to caress and linger; Luffy was always big on touching, but that's only because he ain't ever learnt any better. He's the kind that smothers, chokes Ace out and leaves him as a heap of grey ash and black smoke. Your touch is the tending kind. Treading carefully, dropping another body onto the pyre, feeding the hollow with blood and flesh, keeping him a weighty full.

The next time you come 'round to the Moby Dick, it only seems natural that Ace feels the fire burn through his flesh, accelerating with a revv and leaving him with the sensation of skidding against carpet. A full body friction burn.

It's an immature thing: when you draw close, it excites the hearth, spitting out specks of broken coal and wisps of flames, threatens to melt all the calcium in him. Then, there's the cold after it, where Ace feels himself ooze back into his own skin, solidify against the cold of his flesh when you're far. The collapse of a star: the rapid energy that swirls into an intoxicating roast, spins itself round 'til it catches smoke, edges frayed and lighting up into bright hues of citrus until it's shot out as flecks of cool greys, goes around, comes around, goes and then comes, goes, then gone.

Haunting him is not the fire. Not the way you brush past him, dig your finger in and scrape your calloused print against the fold of his nape; not the way you don't stop; not the way you continue to walk off, talking to Whitey Bay about your provisions, what you got, what you don't. It's your back when he turns to follow, seeing you getting further away, feeling the warmth of your fingers fade away, fuzzy and carious and thoughtless. It's the cold after that haunts. The thought that comes to him after the frown, the soft, nagging insecurity that leaves him confused.

The day after, Whitey Bay has plans to set sail so Whitebeard makes it an excuse to celebrate, to have a drink.

Pirate parties are always the same kind of chaos.

Ace settles in front of all the food, never strays too far from the feast and lets himself be laughed at when he slumps face–first into his plate. Whenever he glances up to try and find you, you've moved. Weaseled your way into conversations with fleet members of other crews that he assumes you don't get to see often.

You'd started the night out by his side with your usual routine of checking the temperature of his flesh with your hands, assessing him carefully. Appraising his skin without even looking up to glance at him, leaving him with only the view of the top of your head— he wonders if you've got that glare on, the thoughtful one that makes him think you don't like him. He'd fallen asleep wondering that and when he woke up, you were gone. Must've not been too long since you left though, 'cause he can still feel an impression of the burn you left, fingers at the top of his shoulder, curling around to reach his collarbones before you've dragged your hand— fingers, palm, fuck, maybe even the shy of your wrist, all of it, intimate— down the curve of his slumped back.

You ain't come back since.

It's the third time that Ace has fallen asleep mid–chew. It's not as funny as it was the first time but there's still some splattering of laughter, a fuzzy noise over the tankards of beers and glasses of wine. Ace wipes the grease and spit from the corner of his mouth with an arm, yawning loudly to get air to kick start his brain and his bleary eyes wander around the beach of the stray island that they'd docked at.

He's chewing the meat that was already in his mouth when Thatch starts a second round of stir–fried something in front of him, the oil he pours into the fire revvs it alive, kicking and roaring to a metre of a man and a monolith of life until he slams a pan over it. The fire splits and breaks apart, when it parts over the edges of burnt steel, Ace sees you.

Mid–laugh, you are, lips curled back thin and your cheeks full, lava spluttering out of the dimples, warmed from the fire in front of you. A laugh that's so evident with the fire splitting through rakes of leaves and branches. Shoulders stuttering up, down; body shaking; drink sloshing out of your glass with the shake; foot stomping a rhythm against the ground that slaps and twangs loud in his skull— the flames smother, spread out even and he feels his flesh warm just beneath the skin. Your hair bulges with the hues of the campfire that crackles, billowing with the sweet lick of a sunrise dawn, melting into all the strands at the low of your chin. Violent and fond: Ace can see how the fire stirs at your feet, encroaching so carefully as not to alarm. He knows how it works, more intimate with the flames than you, so he can almost know how quickly it'll burn through your lens, taking the world down with it until it's a calm, quiet landscape with only the fact that you won't want to acknowledge.

Whatever he feels though— whatever stands in that clear landscape across from him comes and goes, quick because it's a blink of his eyes and then he's falling asleep again, with that image of the bright, supernova you: haunting.

Like always, you're gone before the fire is smothered; in the cold of your absence, Ace shrinks back into his skin and scratches along the paths that your hands took in its careful observations and studying.

[why-rock-look-tasty-if-no-eat]

That man gives no fucks, he can and will ruin a criminals day and is willing to get information by almost every means necessary. I say almost because there's like one things the man won't do, kill someone. That's literally one of the few things that he won't do. Dick has been shown torturing someone and that's still canon, he's fought against the Greek Pantheon and won in a planetary wide war he shouldn't have. He was willing to hunt down and kill the man who murdered his parents when he was eight. He's called the Batman of his generation for a reason. Nightwing handles Bludhaven, a city with a worse crime rate than Gotham, alone and mostly without any type of support. He's strong enough to fight a werewolf Batman underwater, win, and drag both of them out of a river. IRL physics wise he had enough strength to break someone's back when he was eight because of the amount of kinetic energy he gathered during the quad. As a preteen he could punch holes into concrete without breaking or fracturing anything. Dick Grayson has been on the hero/vigilante scene longer than some of the first generation of JL heroes (19 years of hero work depending on the run). Dick is also the first of three deaths needed to kick off Injustice, he's literally called the Multiversal Constant for a good reason and his happiness in a universe is what's measured on how fucked it is (as of a run where a Superman asks a Batman for help that would end up merging their two universes, and he refuses after finding out that Dick wasn't happy in that universe). The man walked through the Sahara Desert with a very literal newborn (like ten days old by the time they got out of it) for ten days straight, and they had run out of water some days back. The guy was also world famous when in the single digits because of how good he is at gymnastics. He's immune to fear gas

Those are just the ones I can think of the top of my head too

It's crazy that people say Dick Grayson is the polite or goofy one as if he's dumb, incapable of being serious, or like some kind of father-ish figure...baby that's Dick Grayson. He's not dumb or incapable of seriousness, he was the first Robin for Christ sake you fucking asshat. I am begging you people to read literally any Dick Grayson comic it doesn't even have to be specifically him just have him in there. The shit he's capable of, the shit he's done?? Shit he still out here doing??? So fucking insane. It's as if none of you know anything canon about this mf. Like yeah he IS the polite one. That's the problem.

[bewitched-hours]

ok so wait i have like evil fluff fantasies so you can ignore this one but like, idea: killers are so out of it that in the middle of a match they give up and seek out reader for comfort and affection and act completely out of character (maybe theyre like supa sick and delirious or smth? idk man up to you)

(dont whip me pls 🙏)

Dw, I love evil fluff too, it's delicious- (I say as I get dragged off the stage) Idk if you wanted headcanons or a oneshot so I hope headcanons will be enough (And if you want a oneshot for any of them or multiple, I'll be happy to fulfil that request as well~)

Let's give the reader They/Them for this!

1x1x1x1

It was... Weird to say the least.

What you thought would be a chase to the death turned into a cuddle session in a small building besides an already done generator...

You knew better than to question it and hesitantly tried to ask what was wrong. Turns out 1x has been sick... Somehow...

Now you were stuck serving as some sort of hugging pillow while she quietly complains about his current state... Just keep running your hands through her hair and hopefully he'll forget about the round?

You ended up being threatened not to tell anyone about this and of course, you're too terrified to go against her wishes...

But by the end you were so confused while the other survivors questioned where you were and how 1x was somehow gone.

Somehow, you managed to lie your way out of it and they actually believed you managed to keep the killer occupied. You were a sentinel with a self-healing ability so it wasn't too unrealistic...

C00lkidd

At first you thought he was gonna chase you but you took note of his unusually sluggish behaviour...

Despite your better judgement, you decided to get close and ask if he's okay.

He collapses into you almost immediately, crying about his head hurting and wanting his dad... Who wasn't chosen for this round but you figured there was a chance 007 could see what was happening, even if that might not be such a good thing...

You immediately go into some sort of parental mode, gently patting his head and assuring him everything would be fine. You even promised him that it'll go away. Probably just a fever anyways...

You somehow manage to stop him from crying and let him fall asleep in your arms... How adorable!

Although... Now you can't move because he was holding onto you so tightly... at least you could reposition yourself to sit down and have him sleep in your lap while you continued to pat his head.

And just like you thought, 007 saw it all and thanked you at the end of the round for caring about his kid. Maybe you'll be getting closer to him soon!

Bluudud

Just like with C00lkidd, you were convinced you were gonna die but noticed he sounded more sickly...

You calmly and quietly led him to one of the abandoned buildings and had him lay down on top of you to see what was up.

Surprisingly, he listened to you and grumbled about everything being too loud and hurting his head. Probably another fever like C00lkidd...

Regardless, you listen patiently and pat his head for comfort. He only groans in response and tells you he's not a baby but he doesn't pull away or attack either...

He actually ends up falling asleep on his own, mumbling something about not needing to be babied but the way he clung to you made you think otherwise.

When the round was done, you openly told the other survivors what happened but made sure they knew not to expect Bluudud to just be friendly for everyone.

At least you knew he saw you as a person of comfort now...

Pr3typriincess

You were pretty much cornered and thought you were gonna die but... You got her hugging you for comfort instead.

Like Bluudud, she complained... A lot...

But either way, you somehow convinced her to find a quiet spot to let her handle whatever pains her with you gently reassuring her that everything will be fine.

She falls asleep the fastest, although mumbling about you being much better at this than the other killers which... Yeah, you could see why...

You end up muttering praises to her to help her sleep easier and you could've sworn you heard her call you "Mama" at one point.

You could've just about exploded... But you luckily didn't.

When the round was over, you made sure the other survivors knew to go easy on her. Because after that whole fiasco... You might've felt a sense of protectiveness wash over you and now needed to speak with 007 and Guest to see if this was really some parental feeling or if you were just acting like this because you remembered she's a kid... Of course it's option 1.

Azure

He caught you while you were working on a generator and while pleading with him, you noticed he couldn't seem to get anything comprehensible out.

Surprisingly, he didn't kill you, just dragged you off to a quiet spot where he could just use you as a living pillow.

You were confused but the tentacles holding you in his grip and his unusually high temperature told you all you needed to know before you started massaging his scalp and quietly telling him to take it easy.

What wasn't surprising was how dramatic he acted about it...

He was full-on telling you he's dying and shit while you're just over here trying to comfort him with his hat long discarded to avoid its annoying screeching.

The way he asks you not to tell anyone was simply too adorable to refuse, making you question how this is the same killer that made you fear death just a minute ago.

Once the round ends, you refuse to talk about what you were doing at all and accepting the suspicions of the other survivors... Why tho-

John Doe

You knew immediately something was wrong when he wasn't using his spikes like normal.

You decided to call Jane over, being close enough to her to know they've been married.

She has you look for a quiet spot before leading John over there. Not like that was particularly hard.

Surprisingly, you both end up in a firm but not really painful hold, like he needed two pillows instead of just one.

He can't really get a thought out but Jane just guessed it was a simple fever and began instructing you to help her comfort him...

Was it weird that you enjoyed this? Nah, you'd probably be the only one thinking that...

But Jane was just happy for a moment like this and you didn't want to take that from her... She more than deserved it...

She's slightly disappointed when the round ends but thanks you for the help and you two proceed to talk about her past again by the docks.

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[writingjourney]

Kind of following on from the last ask 👀 which papa would you say is the best at what in the bedroom? (I'm enjoying these papa competition shenanigans far too much)

i did have to think about this for a while and i think I strayed a bit here and there but here goes (under read more for veeeery 18+ themes, all gender-neutral):

Primo: His strength is that he surprises you, really. He has more stamina than you expect, is more intense than you expect, and even if he lets you get on top to be easier on his poor joints he has an easy dominance over you. That control is less by force and more so an energy he just exudes, a respect he commands with nothing more than a look. He is the best at disarming you completely, if you are into letting someone have his way with you for hours, giving up any sort of rational thinking and control, he is ideal for you, and he does not even need to use his canonically huge cock for that, no. That's just the eventual bonus.

Secondo: He makes your dreams come true. Whatever you are into, he makes it happen one way or another. There are few limits with him, really, and those are regarding mostly what he'd let you do to him, but not the other way around. He's proficient at most pracitices because he has a lot of experience but as to more standard things – he's very good at fingering. That is my ultimate HC and you'll melt if you have a thing for hands/gloves (you will never forget the smell of them, he takes very good care of his leather). Before he ever puts his dick inside he'll have you squirming, coming, crying out around his fingers and he's smug about the fact that it doesn't take more than his hands to make you come apart. Also very good at dirty talk, no matter if you prefer praise, degradation, if you like it soft or rough. He's got you covered, as long as you let him do his thing he'll find his pleasure in it.

Terzo: He has insane foreplay skills, absolutely crazy. He has you wet/hard with a kiss and an intense look from underneath his dark eyelashes. His hands fall into reverant worship the moment they touch you, soft and rough in an intoxicating combination that'll catch you off guard, and the act of undressing alone is sensual enough to make your mind black out. He is generally very attentive, always watching for your tells, and therefore also really good at oral of all kind. When he has his mouth on you and looks up with that heavy gaze it takes you apart before anything has really happened and when he gets going you'll be busy for a long time because he doesn't do things half-heartedly. It really is that combination of sensuality, passion and attention that is unbeatable and his intensity only grows the more into you he is.

Copia: He makes you feel SO safe, even when he's mindlessly fucking your brains out. There is something about him, no matter how he acts outwardly, that craves intimacy more than anything. If he can get away with it he'll mumble the sweetest or dirtiest words, makes the lewdest sounds, and yes, I think he is good at talking you through it but not in the classic dirty talk sense but in the way that he's so honest with it and can't hold back what he's thinking in the moment. People can call him a pervert all they want for talking about sex a lot but it's less that he's obsessed in general and more that he's craving that connection and physical release with someone. He's very unfiltered when passion finally takes over and feels it intensely. That's exactly what makes you feel safe and cherished, he is real in that moment. I think he is also very good at oral, no matter if you prefer to be more dominant or submissive in these scenarios, because he gets lost in sensations very easily and adapts to the energy you bring. Lots and lots of cuddles after whatever it is you do because he needs a lot of aftercare and is very good at it.

V: Anything that has to do with pain and sensation play is where he excels, I'd say. It's the trust of it, the deep connection it requires to give your body into the hands of someone else and rely on them to handle it with care. Receiving or giving, both suits him, but having you at his mercy is just so so special. It could be temperature play, it could be blindfolding, being tied up in various ways, it could be biting and marking or any other creative ways to bring new sensations into the mix. He likes it intense and passionate and unfiltered, no matter how messy it gets. And he likes to tease and torture and see just how far he can take it in the safety of what you have in each other. It brings such an intense intimacy, that's what he craves at the end of it all. He also offers very good aftercare because he needs it just as much after that, knowing there is this safety between you.