#this is representative of something. To Me

[wooyoungiewritings]

Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Part 2)

Summary: You didn't think you'd find someone after your husband of 8 years suggested an open marriage. A few weeks after matching on a dating app, you find yourself swept away on a surprise getaway with none other than Seonghwa: your husband’s boss, and the man who’s been quietly turning your world upside down. The chemistry is undeniable, the tension electric, but you made a promise to be honest with your husband before things go too far. Still... what’s the harm in finding a few loop-holes? If it’s not technically sex, does it really count?

Word count: 13.1K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, a little angst, slow burn, smut (they do something so many times in this chapter lmao sorry i got carried away)

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), TEASING, dom Seonghwa, fingering, oral (male/fem receiving), grinding hard (omg i don't know how to explain it, they're literally millimeters from just going at it), lmk if I missed anything! Author's note: I'm in a good mood. And you guys are literally so sweet and supporting, I can not NOT post chapter 2 already!? so here it is! I hope you have an amazing day <3

PART 1 PART3

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

You’re not sure how it’s been two weeks.

In some ways, everything feels exactly the same. Same apartment, same unread texts from your husband, same untouched conversation that’s been looming over you like a cloud.

But then there’s Seonghwa.

And somehow, everything feels different.

You talk every day. Constant check-ins, sweet little texts, voice notes when he’s driving, memes he knows will make you laugh. Sometimes he calls at night just to hear your voice before bed. And you don't think you're imagining it, that softness in the way he says your name, the unspoken want in his pauses.

You’ve seen him a few times. Nothing dramatic, no grand dates, just… him. His space. His voice. A mug of tea pressed into your hands. A blanket he tugged tighter around your shoulders without saying a word. Quiet dinners where you talked about the stupidest things, where you teased him until he cracked up, eyes crinkling, hand squeezing your knee under the table like he couldn’t not touch you.

And still, he never pushed. Never asked for more than what you were ready to give.

But that didn’t stop you from kissing him.

You kissed him on his couch after laughing too long at something dumb he said. You kissed him in his hallway when you were saying goodbye and didn’t want to leave. You kissed him once in the middle of a sentence because you couldn’t stop yourself.

Every time, it left you both breathless.

And every time, his hands stayed respectful, cupping your cheek, holding your waist, letting you choose how far. Letting you feel safe.

You don’t think he knows how much that means.

You’re still married. You still wear your ring as a reminder. And even if that feels like a technicality at this point, you haven’t had the conversation. Not the real one. You’ve tried texting your husband more than once, saying you needed to talk. Said you weren’t okay. You meant to say more, but what’s the point when all you get back is a thumbs up or "we’ll talk soon"?

He hasn't been home. He hasn’t asked how you are. You’ve stopped waiting for him to care.

So when your phone buzzes on Friday morning with Seonghwa’s name, you unlock it fast, too fast. Already smiling before you even read it.

Seonghwa: I need you to trust me. Pack a small weekend bag. No heels. Cozy clothes. Something to sleep in. Maybe a swimsuit. Pick you up at 5.

You stare at your phone for a full minute, grinning like an idiot.

You: Is this a kidnapping?

Seonghwa: Yes. But the softest, coziest kind. With snacks.

You: …Fine. I’m in.

Your smile falters, but in the softest way. Your heart melts.

Packing is easy. The hard part is waiting.

You toss in leggings, sweaters, that shirt of his you still haven’t returned. You throw in your swimsuit, mostly because you’re curious. And maybe because you like the idea of his eyes on you. And when you zip the bag closed, you find yourself hoping the quiet weekend isn’t too quiet. That maybe you’ll get to kiss him again, this time in a place where no one else exists but the two of you.

When he picked you up, he had two coffees in a cup holder and your favorite granola bars in the passenger seat. And the second you buckled in, he turned to you, eyes warm and voice soft.

“Hi.”

That it is. Just that one word. And your whole heart melted.

The two hour drive is filled with talking, laughing, and the occasional hand on the thigh from Seonghwa. You don’t know what to expect when he starts driving outside of town and into a wooded area, but when a lovely, aesthetic cabin comes into view, your mouth drops. The inside of the cabin wraps around you like a hug, but Seonghwa’s already moving, dropping both your bags by the coat rack and stretching with a groan that makes his hoodie ride up slightly.

“I should give you the grand tour,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you with that boyish smile that makes your chest do a weird little skip. “Even though it’s not really grand.”

You follow him through the cabin as he gestures casually, left to a small but cozy guest room, across to the bathroom with a deep old tub and brass fixtures, and then finally his room at the back of the cabin.

“This is mine,” he says, flicking on the light in his bedroom. It’s simple, wooden floors, navy sheets, a stack of books on the nightstand, but it’s very him. Soft and clean, masculine without trying.

You hover by the door. “Feels weirdly like you.”

He chuckles. “That’s either a compliment or you’re calling me boring.”

“Oh, definitely a compliment,” you murmur, eyes scanning the room. “You’ve got good taste.”

“Mm, well, let’s see if that still holds up.”

You raise a brow as he turns and heads toward a door at the end of the hall. “There’s more?”

“It’s technically the basement,” he says, grabbing a light switch and flipping it on, “but it’s my favorite part.”

You follow him down the short staircase, and the moment you step off the last stair, your mouth parts slightly.

The space is warm, not just heated, but glowing. Soft lighting reflects off the water of a wide, in-ground pool, steam rising lazily above it. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and cedar, and the entire room is surrounded by smooth, stone-textured walls and plush seating tucked into corners. A wall of glass windows looks out into the forest beyond, the trees dark silhouettes in the fading light.

You turn to him, wide-eyed. “You have a pool. In your cabin.”

He shrugs a little, but the corner of his mouth pulls up. “Was kind of a present to my family. First thing I bought when things started going well.”

“Seonghwa.” You step forward and dip your fingers in the water, it’s warm and silky-soft. “We are absolutely coming back down here later,” you say.

He grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He watches you a beat longer, something unreadable behind his eyes, then says, “Gonna grab some firewood before it gets too dark. You okay here?”

You nod, but as he heads out, you drift back toward the living room, standing near the wide back windows.

He’s outside now, rolling up his sleeves as he stacks firewood like it weighs nothing. His jaw clenches when he lifts the heavier pieces, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in focus. It’s almost criminal how good he looks like this. The sky’s turning gold behind him, making his skin glow, casting a soft light through his hair. And you just… stare.

Because this is the same man who ran his fingers gently through your hair on the couch, who kissed your forehead like it meant something, who told you to pack your bag for a weekend away without ever asking for anything in return.

But damn, he’s hot.

He glances toward the window and catches you watching. Raises a brow. Smirks. Doesn’t break eye contact as he sets the last log down and brushes his hands off on his jeans, and God, you feel like your skin is warming faster than the fireplace he’s about to light.

By the time he’s back inside, shaking the cold from his clothes, you’re in the kitchen, pretending you weren’t just ogling him like a teenage crush.

“See something you like?” he says as he walks by, voice low and teasing.

You scoff. “Relax, lumberjack. Just making sure you didn’t freeze to death.”

He grins but doesn’t say anything, just slides up behind you as you start pulling ingredients out of the bag he brought. His arms wrap around your waist loosely, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“You cook, right?” you ask, leaning into him just a little.

“I survive,” he answers. “But for you, I’ll follow any recipe you give me.”

The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of chopping and the simmering of sauce, your bodies constantly brushing. He’s touchy in the most subtle ways, hand guiding your lower back as you switch places, fingers brushing yours as he hands you a spoon, lingering way too long when you try to rinse a dish and he steps in just to “help.”

At one point, you drop a piece of onion and groan, bending to pick it up, and he makes a soft, playful noise behind you.

“Dangerous territory,” he mutters.

You glance over your shoulder. “You're in my space.”

He tilts his head, impossibly smug. “It's my cabin.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, heart full in a way you didn’t expect to happen so quickly again.

And maybe he feels it too, because he kisses your temple again before stepping away to stir the pot.

But underneath it all is the quiet awareness of what hasn’t been said yet. The unspoken weight of your still-husband, and the fact that Seonghwa, for all his charm and sweetness, hasn’t pushed you to talk about it.

So the touches stay light. The kisses stay soft. Neither of you cross that line.

But once the dishes are done, and the fire crackles in the hearth, the cabin feels like a world of its own. 

The pool room is already warm when Seonghwa walks in, steam curling through the air in soft waves. The glow from the underwater lights dances on the ceiling, casting shifting shadows over the stone walls. He moves quietly, setting fresh towels on the bench, lighting a couple of the wall sconces to soften the ambiance. His t-shirt comes off first, then his sweats, revealing black swim trunks that hang low on his hips, and he paces a little, half-distracted as he runs a hand through his hair.

He’s calm until he hears footsteps on the stairs.

When you step into view, wrapped in a towel, his breath catches.

Your fingers grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. You hesitate. The bikini you’re wearing is simple, but it’s more skin than you’ve shown in months, more than your husband ever really looked at, anyway. There's a flicker of hesitation, a flare of insecurity rising uninvited. You almost say something to brush it off, to deflect, but then your eyes find Seonghwa.

And he’s staring.

Not in a way that makes you shrink, but in a way that freezes him in place. Your breath hitches. You glance down and away, trying to ignore the flush creeping up your neck, and drop the towel, stepping toward the pool. You slip into the water, letting the heat rise around your body, washing away a bit of that self-consciousness with it. Seonghwa joins you, smooth and slow, his eyes still lingering.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice smaller than usual, almost embarrassed.

“I know,” he says, not even blinking. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.” His gaze doesn’t flicker. It’s steady, reverent. Like you just knocked the air out of him.

You swim around a bit first, exchanging light, almost flirty conversation. It's relaxed, warm, his presence does that to you. Grounding you, calming that nervous swirl in your chest.

Then, eventually, you stop in the deeper end. You tread water in front of him, breathing just a little heavier than before. Your hands rest on his shoulders, tentative, and he lets you come closer.

Your legs slide around his waist. He catches you easily. Neither of you moves for a beat.

The water sloshes softly around you. His hands settle on your hips, anchoring you, but careful, not grabbing, not pulling. Just holding. You look at him and something in your chest flutters.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… haven’t worn something like this in a while. Feels weird.”

He tilts his head, fingers brushing your side gently under the water. “You look beautiful.”

You don’t answer, but you lean in, resting your head on his shoulder, enjoying how calming and safe you feel. His hands flex slightly against your hips, like it takes everything in him not to pull you closer. The tension between you simmers. Quiet, patient, but unmistakable. He smells like clean skin and chlorine, his wet hair slicked back, droplets sliding down the strong line of his neck. 

You You don’t meet his eyes at first when you speak. “Can I tell you something kinda… embarrassing?”

That gets his attention instantly. His brows lift, and he leans in slightly, voice warm and gentle. “You can tell me anything.”

You pull back to be able to look into his eyes.

“I’ve only ever been with him. My husband.” The word tastes heavy in your mouth. “I’ve never been with anyone else, and I don’t know… that feels weird to admit.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just blinks once, tilts his head a little. “It’s not weird,” he says, quieter now. “It just means you trusted someone. That’s not a bad thing.”

You bite your lip. “I guess. But now I’m here, with you, and-,” your cheeks grow hot “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know how to be good at this. What if I’m awkward? Or don’t know what you like?”

His hands squeeze lightly at your hips. “You think I’ve been touching you like this because I’m not into it?”

That makes you laugh, and he grins, leaning in just enough that his nose brushes yours. But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

You glance down at the way your chest rises and falls in your bikini top, the water gliding over your skin. “It’s been a long time since I felt wanted like this. And it’s a little scary, to want something but not be sure how to ask for it.”

Seonghwa’s voice drops, eyes tracing the droplets clinging to your collarbone. “You’re asking just fine.”

His gaze lingers on you, openly, hungrily. His hands are still on your hips, but they inch upward just slightly, thumbs brushing the skin just under the hem of your bikini top. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to want it. The rest we’ll figure out.”

Your breath catches. “I do want something.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours again. “Yeah?”

You press your lips to his cheek. Then his jaw. Then lower, teasing a line down his throat. “I’ve been thinking…” Your voice is practically a whisper now. “It doesn’t count as sex if it’s… other stuff, right?”

He groans, head tipping back. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe,” you murmur against his skin, “but I haven’t had anything in months. You expect me to behave?”

His grip tightens at your waist, and you feel it, the slow, undeniable shift in him.

“You keep grinding on me like this,” he warns, breath uneven, “and I’m not gonna be able to play nice.”

You grind a little harder.

“Oops.”

Seonghwa growls low, then turns swiftly, your back pressing against the warm tile wall of the pool. He doesn’t kiss you right away. He just looks at your parted lips, your damp lashes, the water beading on your chest.

“You’re sure?” he breathes. “No sex. Just this?”

You nod. “Loop-hole.”

He huffs a laugh against your lips, and he finally kisses you. Hungry and hot and messy in the best way. You arch into him, his hands roam freely now, one trailing down to your thigh to hold you in place, the other teasing along your side.

And then he drops lower.

He doesn’t hesitate, not even a second.

Seonghwa shifts your weight in his hands, lifting you like it’s nothing. The warm water laps at your thighs as he sets you gently on the smooth tile ledge that curves around the inner rim of the pool, half in, half out of the water. Your calves stay submerged, but the rest of you is gloriously exposed, slick with heat and nerves and want.

Your breath hitches. You’re not used to being seen like this. Vulnerable, bared, soaked in every way possible, but his eyes never leave yours.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, hands still on your thighs, thumbs stroking gently back and forth. “You tell me to stop, I’ll stop.”

Your fingers curl against the tile. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That’s all it takes.

The second you nod, breathless, trembling, your thighs already spread for him on the edge of the tile, Seonghwa dives between your legs like he’s been dying to breathe you in. He pushes your bikini bottoms to the side and when his mouth finally meets you?

It’s filthy.

A guttural groan leaves his throat the second his tongue makes contact. Dragging through your folds like he’s savoring a rare delicacy. Deep, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t just taste you; he devours. He laps at your cunt like a man starved, tongue dipping in and out with obscene precision, like he’s memorizing every part of you by feel.

Your hands shoot to the tile behind you, head falling back against the damp stone as your thighs instinctively try to close, but Seonghwa growls and grabs your thighs with a bruising grip, holding you wide open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he rasps, voice wrecked and wet. “You gave this to me. I’m gonna take all of it.”

He buries himself in you, face pressed so deep you can barely breathe from the feeling. His nose nudges your clit, tongue sliding through your soaked heat, and he groans into you like you’re feeding something dark in him. You feel the vibration all the way through your spine.

“Fuck, Seonghwa-” you gasp, your voice wrecked, barely above a whisper. “I- I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, not even pausing. “You’re gonna fucking come for me, and then I’m gonna keep going. I wanna hear how beautiful you sound.”

His hands slip beneath your ass, dragging your body closer, tilting your hips so he can really taste you, and then his mouth locks on your clit.

And he doesn’t stop.

He sucks it between his lips like he’s addicted, swirling his tongue, then flattening it, then flicking fast and filthy until your legs are shaking, your moans are spilling uncontrolled, and your fingers are desperately gripping at his wet hair.

His eyes flick up to watch you come undone, and the look on his face is wild. His mouth is soaked, his jaw flexing with how hard he’s working you, but he doesn’t stop. Not when your thighs begin to tremble. Not when your voice breaks in a moan. Not even when you cum with a sob, practically screaming his name.

He pulls back slowly, lips glistening, eyes locked on you with nothing short of adoration and something far more possessive.

“That,” he pants, voice low and full of heat, “was fucking divine.”

You’re breathless, shaking, completely undone.

And he? He just smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice smug and dark as he stands in the water, towering over you. When he kisses you, it’s slow. Deep. His hand cradles the side of your face like you’re something breakable, even after what he just did to you.

You taste yourself on his tongue, but you don’t pull away.

You kiss him back harder.

Because it’s not just filthy.

It’s intimate.

“I’m lost for words.” You say, panting and trying your best to catch your breath.

He looks deep into your eyes with a smile and says; “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.” 

***

The smell of coffee drifts into the cabin bedroom before anything else.

You stretch beneath the soft duvet, your body still humming with the aftershocks of last night. Every inch of you feels different, warm, electric, awake in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. You roll over, expecting to see him there beside you, but the space is empty. Still warm.

And then you hear him in the kitchen. The low sound of a cupboard closing, a quiet curse when something clatters, the faint hum of music from his phone. It makes your heart flutter for no good reason at all, just the image of him out there, shirtless and half-awake, trying to make breakfast like it’s something you’ve always done together.

You wrap the sheets around yourself and pad out to the kitchen.

Sure enough, he’s standing by the stove in a pair of sweatpants, hair messy and damp from a quick shower, one hand stirring something in a pan while the other scrolls his phone, probably checking a recipe.

He glances up the second he senses you. And when he sees you still wrapped in his sheets, skin kissed with leftover waterline marks and sleep in your eyes, he grins. Slow, soft, too fond for someone who’s only seen you for a few weeks.

“Mmm,” he hums, eyes trailing over you. “That’s a good look on you.”

You smile, tugging the fabric a little tighter around your chest. “So is that,” you say, gesturing at the way the waistband of his pants rides low, revealing the curve of his V-line. He doesn’t even flinch at the comment, just raises an eyebrow, like he knows what he’s doing to you.

You walk over to him, slipping behind the counter and stealing a peek into the pan. “What are we making?”

“Scrambled eggs,” he says, “but I’m winging it.”

“Dangerous,” you tease. “Let me help.”

He moves aside without protest, but not without brushing against you as he does, his bare chest ghosting your shoulder, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back. 

You make the eggs while he butters the toast. At some point, he leans in to steal a kiss at your temple. It’s sweet, until his fingers skim your hip beneath the sheet, slow and deliberate. You look up at him, your breath catching. His eyes are darker now, the atmosphere suddenly thick again.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you say quietly, “and I’ll burn the eggs.”

He only smirks. “Burn them, then.”

It doesn’t matter that you���re just making breakfast. Every second feels like foreplay. Eventually, you sit together at the kitchen island, knees brushing. He makes a show of complimenting your eggs, teasing you about how domestic this all is. The whole thing feels… too good. Too easy. And you’re both very aware of it.

At one point, he leans back in his chair and studies you, like he’s committing you to memory, like he wants to trace every line of your smile and lock it away.

“You’re different today,” he murmurs, voice soft.

You shrug, suddenly shy under his gaze. “So are you.”

He reaches over, thumb brushing your cheek. “In a good way?”

“In a really good way,” you say. And you mean it.

Because even with all the heat between you, even with how badly you want to climb onto his lap and pick up where last night left off, there’s something sweeter here, too.

Like maybe this isn’t just heat. Maybe it’s something more.

The day has been blissfully quiet, a perfect mix of soft sunlight streaming through the windows and the warm, fresh air of spring. After breakfast, you and Seonghwa take a slow walk down to the lake, the tension between you two still palpable, but there's a sense of ease too. 

Later that afternoon, you played cards on the couch. He was terrible at it. Mostly because he couldn’t concentrate.

“I think you’re cheating,” he accused, narrowing his eyes at you.

“I think you’re a sore loser,” you shot back, grinning.

He lunged for your cards, and you yelped, scrambling away, laughing. He tackled you into the cushions and tickled your ribs until you screamed. Then everything shifted. Suddenly he was on top of you, your legs tangled with his. His breath fanned across your lips. His hands, once playful, were now still. Firm. Intentional.

He looked down at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Then his voice dropped. “Kiss me.”

You did.

It wasn’t soft this time.

It was desperate.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms flat against your stomach, and you arched into him without thinking.

Your hips rocked.

His jaw clenched.

And just when it got too hot, when you were seconds away from completely unraveling again, you broke the kiss.

“Stop,” you whispered, breathless. “We can’t.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight. “I know. But god…”

You rolled onto your side, pulling him with you, your bodies still flush. “This is torture.”

“Sweetest kind,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “But I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

He always knew what to say.

The cabin is warm, the fire crackling quietly as you and Seonghwa lay tangled together on the couch. His arm is around your waist, your head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, both of you half-asleep, breathing in sync. The quiet, the closeness, it’s almost too good to be real. You feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and slow, and let your eyes drift shut.

Until your phone buzzes against the coffee table.

You freeze for a second, not wanting to move, but Seonghwa's arm loosens slightly. His eyes stay closed. Thinking he’s still asleep, you carefully slip away and pad into the kitchen, grabbing your phone.

When you see the caller ID, your stomach twist.

Husband.

You answer anyway, voice low.  "Hey… yeah, I'm gone for the entire weekend..." You lean back against the counter, glancing over your shoulder at the couch. Seonghwa hadn’t moved. "Well, how was I supposed to know that you'd be home? You didn't tell me..." you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. Light.

Seonghwa opens his eyes, sitting up slowly. He rubs his hand over his face once before pushing himself off the couch and walking quietly toward the kitchen where he hear you talking. He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame.

You don’t see him. You’re facing the counter, head bowed slightly, twirling the hem of your hoodie between your fingers as you talk.

"Alright... yeah... mhm..." Your voice is too polite. Too... detached.

He can tell it’s him.

Your husband.

Of course it is.

Seonghwa’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to be reminded. But he can’t tear himself away from the sight of you, standing there, trying to sound okay.

"Wait, really?" you say, surprise flickering in your tone. Seonghwa’s brow furrows. You give a soft laugh, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"No, I'd love to, I just, yeah..." Another pause. Another sigh. "Alright... okay... have fun... love you..." you say softly, out of habit more than anything else. Seonghwa’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

You hang up and stand there for a second, phone still in your hand, like you need to collect yourself. When you finally turn around, you’re startled a little at the sight of him. Your mouth opens, maybe to explain, maybe to apologize, but Seonghwa shakes his head lightly. No need.

You tuck your phone into your hoodie pocket and give him a weak smile. "Husband" you say, voice almost too casual.

He doesn’t move, just tilts his head, waiting.

"He... he called to tell me about the upcoming company dinner," you say. "He wants me to go with him like last year."

For a moment, Seonghwa doesn’t respond. Just blinks at you slowly, processing. You see it, how he didn’t expect that. How it threw him off.

"He does?" he finally says, his voice low, unreadable.

You nod, hugging yourself a little. "Yeah. Guess he forgot to tell me before," you joke, trying to laugh it off. "He said it’ll look good if I’m there."

Seonghwa’s heart twisted.

Look good.

Not because he misses you. Not because he wants to share the evening with you. Because it will look good.

"She’s coming too, I’m imagining" you add, tossing it out like it doesn’t matter that your husband’s girlfriend would be in the same room as you. Like it doesn’t tear something inside you open.

Seonghwa’s jaw ticked.

You hurry to fill the silence. "It’s fine. I mean-, it’s not like I didn’t expect it, right? It's just a dinner. No big deal."

But it is a big deal. And you’re a terrible liar.

You keep rambling. "Honestly, it’s probably good. It might make it easier, or whatever. Seeing them in the same room together, maybe it’ll help me... you know, feel better about everything." Your laugh cracks at the edges. You tuck your hair behind your ear, blinking hard. A moment of silence spread between you, letting you mind do horrible things to you. “Can I ask you a question?” your voice is barely above a whisper.

His voice is soft, warm with understanding. “Always.”

You don’t mean to ask it, but it slips out anyway. “Do they look good together?”

Even Seonghwa seems caught off guard. He doesn’t answer, not with words. But the way his expression falters, the way his eyes search yours… it’s enough.

Regret hits instantly. You let out a dry laugh and shake your head. “Right. Stupid question. You can’t answer that.”

You rub your hand down your face, trying to gather yourself, trying to make it easier by asking again, differently. “Do they… act like a couple at work?”

He hesitates. Thinking. Choosing words that won’t hurt more than they have to.

“Not at first,” he says, his voice measured, careful. “It was… gradual. The kind of closeness people notice but don’t talk about.”

You exhale, eyes closing.

“I didn’t want to assume anything in the beginning,” he continues. “She’s friendly with a lot of people. And I try not to get involved in anything that doesn’t concern work.”

You nod. “But it was obvious.”

He pauses. “Enough that I… thought he might’ve been single.”

Something sinks inside you, cold and heavy.

“No ring. No mention of you. He brought her to a few events at work. I didn’t ask questions.”

You swallow, not sure what hurts more. The confirmation, that he doesn’t wear his ring outside anymore or the fact that it makes sense. Of course he would act single at work. That’s part of his charm.

Seonghwa’s expression is gentle, eyes scanning yours like he’s checking for fractures he can’t see.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want to upset you. If this is too much-”

“No,” you interrupt, voice thin. “I asked. I want to know. I need to.” You stand in silence for a beat, and then you murmur with a broken smile, “But it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

"You don't have to pretend with me," Seonghwa murmured.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Trying not to let the kindness in his voice shatter you completely.

"I'm fine," you whispered.

Seonghwa watches you from across the kitchen. You’re smiling, but he knows better. He sees the way your shoulders curl inward, the way your eyes won’t quite meet his.

"You’re not," he says, just as soft. "And that’s okay."

You glance up, startled, but before you can form a response, he moves toward you, not fast, not forceful, just steady. His hands find your hips with gentle certainty, and he lifts you with ease, setting you down on the counter as if you’re something precious, not breakable.

"Seonghwa-" you start, breathless.

But he’s already there, grounding you. One hand settles gently on your thigh, the other brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His forehead touches yours, and he just breathes with you for a moment. He stays close but doesn’t move further. His forehead drops lightly to yours, his palms warm against your thighs.

"Look at me," he says, voice low, like he’s scared to spook you. His voice is soft but sure. "I don’t want you pretending you’re fine around me." He leans in. "You feel whatever you need to feel," he murmur, voice thick with emotion, “I’m here. I’ll hold you through it. For as long as it takes.”

Your fingers tremble as they clutch at the fabric of his shirt. Your voice is just a whisper. “I don’t want to fall apart.”

“Then don’t,” he says gently. “Just lean. I’ll catch the rest.”

You make a soft, broken sound before you can stop yourself. He kisses you, slow, deep, devastating. Not just because he wants you. Because he adores you.

He breaks the kiss only to press a featherlight one to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last, reverent, like he’s tracing the pieces of you he’s afraid might slip away.

"You want me to take your mind off it?" His mouth brushes just beneath your ear, not suggestive, not rushed, just offering.

You blink at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Only if you want to," he murmurs. "Only if you need it."

You nod before you could second-guess yourself, fingers curling into his shirt.

"I want you," you breathe.

Relief floods his features, softening the tension in his jaw. He kisses you like he had all the time in the world to love every part of you. His hands slide up your sides, mapping you like a man learning his favorite song by heart. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jawline, the shell of your ear, soft, worshipful kisses that leave your skin burning.

"You’re everything," he whispers, pressing his lips to your throat. "You don't even see it, do you?" He kisses a path lower, murmuring against your skin, his hands skimming down your sides to the waistband of your leggings.

He pauses, looking up at you again.

You nod, heart hammering.

Slowly, carefully, he peels them down, helping you kick them away. His palms roams back up your bare thighs, rough and warm.

His fingers trace along the seam of your underwear, teasing the edges, making you squirm. He drags a single finger up the center. Slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric.

"So fucking soft," he mutters under his breath, almost reverent. When he finally eases your panties to the side and slid two fingers through your folds, he curses under his breath. "Fuck," he groans, forehead falling against your shoulder. "You’re gonna ruin me."

He kisses your throat, your collarbone, the dip of your neck, worshiping every inch of you while his fingers find your clit, stroking it slowly and carefully. Drawing circles, light and teasing at first, just to feel you shake.

You whimper, your hips jerking toward his hand, desperate for more.

He smiles against your skin.

"Patience, my love," he whispers. "I wanna savor you." 

A slow, steady glide of his fingers, spreading your wetness, pressing a little deeper. You whimper, hips twitching, and he kisses you again, swallowing every sound like he can’t get enough of you. One finger slides inside you, stretching you deliciously, the heel of his hand rubbing steady against your clit. He moves carefully, gently, but there is a hunger beneath it.

"You have no idea how good you feel," he whispers against your throat, his voice breaking.

Another finger presses in, a little rougher this time, and your mouth falls open in a gasp, and he kisses it, swallowing every sound. He starts a slow rhythm, steady, deliberate thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, dragging sweet friction along your walls. The wet sounds fill the kitchen, obscene and beautiful.

Your head drops back, a soft moan escaping you, and he kisses your throat, licks at your pulse, holding you steady as your body starts to tremble. His fingers work deeper, faster, rougher but never cruel, like he wanted to drag every ounce of pleasure from you, like he needed to prove to you what you deserved.

You whimper, rolling your hips into his hand. He groans low in his throat, as if the pleasure you’re feeling feeds his own.

"That's it," he whispers, pressing kisses along your cheek, your temple. "Take what you need, baby. I’m right here."

He presses his thumb against your clit again, this time firmer, drawing slow, perfect circles as his fingers thrust deeper inside you. Your hands clutches at his shoulders, digging into his muscles, and he lets out a low moan, loving the way you hold onto him.

"That’s it," he says, kissing your ear. "Let go for me, baby. Give it to me."

You can’t hold it anymore. When he angles his fingers just a little differently, brushing against that devastating spot inside you, it breaks you.

Your orgasm builds like a tidal wave, overwhelming and sharp, and when it finally hits, you sob his name, shaking violently against him. He keeps fucking you with his fingers, milking every last drop of pleasure from your body, kissing you desperately the whole time.

"You’re fucking perfect," he whispers between kisses, voice raw with it.

He slowly eases his fingers out of you, kissing you breathless while his hands smoothed up and down your thighs to soothe the tremors. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t push for anything more.

He just kisses you, adores you, holds you like you were the only thing in his world. "You’re mine here," he murmurs, voice rough, mouth hot against your skin. "Only mine."

The world outside the cabin didn’t exist anymore. No husband. No company dinner. No expectations. Just Seonghwa, tasting you, touching you, worshiping you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

And you can’t get enough of him.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of soft touches and easy laughter. You don’t talk about anything serious, don’t need to. Instead, you lounge together on the couch, stealing lazy kisses. You walk barefoot through the woods behind the cabin, the air fresh and cool, your hand tucked tightly into his. When night falls, you both end up tangled under a blanket by the fire, the room warm and golden, his heartbeat steady against your ear.

Eventually, sleep starts pulling at you.

"Come on," he murmurs against your hair. "Bedtime."

You let him lead you to the bedroom, too tired and too comfortable to protest. You don’t even bother changing, you just collapse onto the bed, pulling the covers up with a small, content sigh. Seonghwa climbs in beside you, and the moment you feel the mattress dip under his weight, you shift closer instinctively, pressing your body against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin.

He wraps his arms around you tightly (maybe tighter than he should have) but you only sigh again, relaxed and trusting in his hold. And within minutes, you’re asleep.

But Seonghwa isn’t.

He stays awake, eyes tracing the shape of your face in the dim moonlight seeping through the window. You look so soft, so beautiful, your mouth slightly parted, your brow relaxed. You have no idea. No idea what you’re doing to him. How badly he want to freeze this moment, to stay like this forever.

His fingers brush your back slowly, barely there, memorizing the feel of you. He can smell your shampoo, the faint sweetness of your skin.

You aren’t his. You’re married. Tied to a life he can’t touch, no matter how much he wants to. And he wants to. God, he wants to. He wants to steal you away, keep you tucked against him like this, safe and warm, without the weight of your sadness, without the ache of your pretending.

But he can’t.

He isn’t your husband. He isn’t your first choice. Maybe he will never be.

So he just holds you closer, selfishly. Just for tonight.

He whispers your name against your hair, so quietly you can’t hear it. He presses a kiss to your forehead, letting it linger far longer than he should have.

And when his chest tightens painfully with everything he can’t say, he closes his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like he can keep a part of you with him, even when you eventually slip away.

Because deep down, Seonghwa already knows: You aren’t his to keep.

But he would love you. Quietly, carefully, hopelessly, for as long as he’s allowed.

***

Real life came back like a wave crashing onto the sand. By Monday morning, the cabin already felt like a dream. Something you both clung to a little too long before the world tugged it from your fingers. There were alarms again. Meetings. Responsibilities. But still, he stayed. In every little way he could.

The following week became a quiet dance of stolen moments. Texts during the day, sometimes silly, sometimes tender. Late-night calls that stretched until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence. A few visits squeezed between everything else, a lunch together, a surprise appearance at your door when you least expected it. You lived in your separate worlds, but threads kept tying you back together, weaving something stronger, even if neither of you dared name it yet.

It’s Thursday afternoon when Seonghwa shows up at your work, two iced coffees in hand. He didn’t tell you he was coming. He just wants to see you.

Standing in the lobby, he catches a sight of you through the glass doors. You’re at the front desk, clipboard in hand, speaking to a group of junior employees. Except you aren’t just speaking. You’re commanding - calm, polite, but firm enough that everyone was standing straighter under your gaze.

"No, the Peterson file needs to be signed by the end of day, not tomorrow," you say firmly to one employee, then turn to another. "And double-check the Johnson numbers. I’m not sending anything out with mistakes." There’s no edge to your voice, just clear, confident authority. You’re the kind of person who expects things to get done right, and people respect you for it.

The group nodded quickly before scurrying off. You look completely in control, completely at ease, and it hits Seonghwa in a way he isn’t prepared for.

He shifts his weight, adjusting the cups in his hands, feeling the low, slow burn start in his stomach. Watching you like this; confident, a little strict, completely unbothered. It made something hot and possessive stir in his chest.

Fuck, he thought, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.

Finally, you notice him. You turn, blinking in surprise before your face lights up in a smile.

You cross the floor towards him, walk through the glass doors, your expression softening in a way that made it even harder for him to stay composed. "You," you say, stopping in front of him, a breathless little laugh escaping, "are not supposed to be here."

"Couldn't help myself," he says, offering you one of the coffees. His fingers brush yours, and it’s ridiculous how much even that made his chest tighten. "You looked like you needed rescuing."

You laugh again, bumping your shoulder lightly into his. "Thanks," you say, sipping your drink with a low, satisfied sigh that just about broke him. "Seriously. Today’s been hell."

He stares at you for a second longer than necessary. "You’re killing it, though. Watching you just now..." He lets the words trail off, his voice dipping a little lower, his eyes dragging down to your mouth before flicking back up. "You’re very…" His voice trails off, then he gives a quiet chuckle. "Efficient."

But the way he says it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly, makes it very clear that isn’t the word he is thinking.

You cock your head innocently. "You okay there?"

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. "I'm fine. Perfect." Only he doesn’t look perfect at all. 

And you definitely notice.

You sip your coffee, pretending not to see the way his eyes linger on you a beat too long. You smile sweetly. "You sure? You look a little… tense."

His mouth twitches, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. But he only hums low in his throat and says, "Busy morning." His hand tightens around his own cup for a second before he quickly hides it behind a sip.

You turn and walk away, tossing a look over your shoulder like a lure. And sure enough, Seonghwa follows. He catches up to you just as you slip through a doorway into a smaller side room, deserted this time of day.

"You shouldn't," he says, shutting the door behind him.

"Shouldn't what?" you ask, wide-eyed and fake-innocent.

"Shouldn’t look at me like that." His voice is already cracking at the edges, walking slowly towards you with dark eyes. "Shouldn't tempt me when you know exactly what you're doing."

You shrug, looking up at him like he’s speaking nonsense. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." you whisper, all wide eyes and fake innocence. You lean up, slightly tip-toeing to place the softest kiss on his lips, barely even touching him.

You smile against his mouth, slow and deliberate, feeling how tense every muscle in his body is like he’s fighting an invisible war.

“Poor thing,” you whisper teasingly, dragging your fingers lightly up his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs. “You looked so composed out there. All that self-control…”

Seonghwa lets out a low, broken sound when you roll your hips slowly against him, barely brushing where he’s hardest. His head falls back in agony, but he doesn’t touch you yet. Can’t. If he did, he knows he’d lose it.

“Don’t test me,” he grounds out, voice a low warning, but there’s no real threat behind it. Only desperation.

His breath hitches hard, his hands finally snapping up to catch your wrists and pin them lightly against the wall above your head, firm, not rough. 

His mouth crashes into yours, messy and starving, hands still holding your wrists pinned. Every movement is frantic and tender all at once, like he’s trying to show you what you do to him without crossing the line.

But somehow, he pulls back. Chest heaving. Heart pounding.

"I can't," he whispers, like it physically hurts him. "You deserve better than me losing my mind over you in some office." Seonghwa lets go of your wrists and brushes your hair back, his hands gentle now, lingering, almost reverent.

"You’re gonna be the death of me," he whispers, finally pulling back just enough to look at you properly. "I should…" he starts, voice hoarse, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I should get back soon. I have some meetings to prepare for."

You nod, pretending to sip your coffee again, trying to ignore how hard your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“So... the company dinner is on Saturday,” you say, your voice casual, but he could sense the slight tension behind your words. “I guess I’ll see you there.”

His lips quirkes in a soft smile, but his eyes stay gentle. "Yeah, I’ll see you there." He pauses for a moment, letting the silence linger between you two, before he adds, "But, I know it’s not going to be easy for you. I’ll be here, it’s up to you when you need me, yeah?”

You nod, the simple reassurance settling somewhere deep inside. 

“You’ll handle it like you always do,” he says, his voice almost like a promise. “Just…” He pauses, his words weighing a little heavier now. “If you need to talk or vent or even just distract yourself, I’m not going anywhere.”

You can feel the sincerity in his words, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to lean into them, feeling that small spark of comfort. But you also knew that Saturday will come with its own set of challenges, ones neither of you can ignore.

“Thank you,” you say softly, “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

Seonghwa hesitates before a small smile plays on his lips. “Can’t wait to see you.” He leaves a soft kiss on your lips before you both leave the room.

Seonghwa steps out of the building, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as the cool spring air hits him. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, but all he can see is the way you looked at him in that small room. The way your eyes darkened, how your lips parted ever so slightly like you were daring him to lose control.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through the weekend. Saturday was going to be fucking torture.

Seonghwa steps into the elevator, the cold glass walls reflecting his composed expression as the doors close with a soft chime. As the elevator descends, the doors suddenly open on the floor above, and in walks your husband. 

The man who had promised to love and protect you, who had chosen to disregard you for the company of another woman. Seonghwa’s jaw tightens. 

He could see right through your husband and his intentions. Why he wanted to open up your marriage. Why he convinced you seeing other people was a good idea. He was doing this for no one but himself. He didn’t care about your future together, he just wanted to screw around without feeling guilty.

Your husband’s smile is too wide, a little too confident.

"Mr. Park," your husband says, his smile a little too smug for Seonghwa’s liking. "It’s been a while."

Seonghwa nods curtly, his lips twisting into a polite, controlled smile. "Yes, it has."

The elevator jolts briefly as it continues its descent, and Seonghwa can feel the tension building between them, unspoken but thick in the air. Your husband isn’t aware, of course. He’s too wrapped up in his own world, too comfortable in his position.

"Have you been well lately?" the husband says, his voice slightly offhand but probing. "I haven’t seen you much."

Seonghwa can’t help but smirk. He can’t help but think of the way you call his name so desperately, the way your body responds to his every touch. 

Instead of responding directly to that comment, Seonghwa lets a small, knowing smile flicker across his lips. "I’ve been preoccupied," he says smoothly, his voice low. "Had a lot on my hands."

The elevator jerks slightly, making the conversation shift just a little. 

With a cool smile, Seonghwa turns toward him, his tone dripping with polite curiosity. “So, are you bringing your wife to the company dinner on Saturday?”

Your husband looks at him with a raised brow, clearly not realizing how pointed the question is. “Of course, I think she could use some time out of the house,” He gives a smug little chuckle, clearly feeling proud of himself. “My wife’s always at home,” he repeats like it was some inside joke. “I think I owe her to spend some time with her..”

Seonghwa fights back the grimace forming on his face. The way your husband speaks about you like a joke, a thing to be handled or dealt with. Seonghwa can’t stand it. 

He takes a deep breath, his hands casually resting at his sides as he turns his gaze back toward your husband, locking eyes. “Right,” Seonghwa says, his voice steady, controlled, almost too polite. “I’m sure she’ll be a sight to see.”

As the elevator doors open to Seonghwa’s floor, he takes one last glance at your husband. “I’ll see you at the dinner,” Seonghwa says, his words cold, his expression cool as he steps out.

The husband nods. “See you then, Mr. Park.”

But as the elevator doors closed behind him, Seonghwa’s mind was already back on you. On how you moan his name in the quiet of the cabin, how you came undone beneath his touch. He wonders if your husband has ever been able to make you feel that way.

Seonghwa knew the answer.

***

The ballroom is already alive with chatter and the clink of glasses when you arrive. You hold onto your husband's arm, letting him guide you through the doors, even as your stomach twisted itself into knots.

The room is elegant, bathed in warm lights that bounced off the champagne flutes and silverware. Laughter rises from different corners, easy and polished. You pass on your best smile, falling into the practiced rhythm of it all.

You mingle for a while, polite small talk with your husband's coworkers, nodding along as he introduces you around. It’s almost easy, almost. You let him guide you in, your heels clicking over the marble floors, the soft hum of chatter rising around you like a tide.

You smile easily when necessary, playing your part, his polished, perfect wife. But the second you feel a shift in the air, you know. You don’t have to look to know Seonghwa has arrived.

When you finally let yourself look, there he is. Seonghwa moves through the crowd like he owns it. His black suit is perfectly tailored, the crisp white shirt underneath open just enough at the collar to suggest he isn’t as buttoned-up as he pretends to be. His hair, artfully tousled, is just messy enough to hint at how easily he can come undone.

Your breath stutters. He’s all sharp lines and quiet fire, heartbreakingly beautiful, dangerous in the best way.

You watch him, barely breathing, as he slips through clusters of people, smiling, exchanging greetings. Until his eyes finds yours.

A second, no more. But it’s enough.

Heat licks up your spine.

You look away first, pretending to adjust the strap of your dress on your shoulder, willing the blush crawling up your neck to stay hidden. It doesn’t matter. You can still feel him watching you.

You mingle for a few more minutes, caught in some lazy conversation about vacation homes and quarterly reports, when you feel another ripple, closer now. 

Seonghwa is joining your circle.

"Mr. Park!" one of the men says warmly, reaching to clap him on the back. "Glad you made it."

Seonghwa offers a practiced smile, but when his gaze slides briefly to you again, it softens. Just a fraction, before he tucks it away.

Professional. Perfect. Lethal.

Your husband, oblivious, tugs you a little closer against his side, his hand slips familiarly over your hip.

"Babe," he says, smiling, "you remember my boss, Park Seonghwa?"

You turn, offering a smile so polite it feels like a mask. "Of course," you say lightly, extending your hand. "We met at last year’s dinner."

Seonghwa’s fingers close around yours, warm and steady. But his thumb drifts, just barely, over your knuckles. It’s the softest touch, fleeting enough to pass for nothing.

But you feel it. And he knows you do.

"I remember," he says, voice even, with just the faintest undertone that makes something low in your belly tighten. “Nice to see you again.”

He steps back politely, turning to engage someone else in conversation, and you pretend to listen in as well, nodding where appropriate. It’s almost effortless, this performance you’ve both slipped into, two people with nothing in common but a forgettable introduction at a company event. Except for the way your body is suddenly too aware of his presence. The faint scent of his cologne. The way his shoulder moves when he shifts. The tiniest curve of a smile when he senses you glance his way.

You try to be distant. Be in the moment with your husband. View Seonghwa as a polite acquaintance. But your skin tingles. Your body betrays you.

Because when you're alone with Seonghwa, there's nothing careful about him. When it’s just the two of you, he doesn’t look at you like this, distant, indifferent. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that exists. His hands aren’t steady and restrained; they’re greedy, reverent. When he touches you, it’s with purpose, with heat, with worship. He traces your collarbone with his mouth like it's a map he’s memorized. He drags his lips down your spine like he’s praying. His voice isn't calm then. It's wrecked. Raw. And it’s only for you.

The memory makes your thighs shift, pressing together subtly. You blink yourself back to the moment as he turns away to greet someone else, perfectly composed. A phantom smile plays at his lips like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

Then your husband shifts beside you again, dragging you in closer, thumb making small, familiar circles against your hip. Your spine straightens slightly, not from discomfort, but from how sharply aware you are of Seonghwa’s eyes flickering in your direction. Just for a second. Controlled, unreadable. But you know him now, too well, and you catch the subtle set of his jaw, the way his breath comes slower, steadier, like he’s keeping something under control.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. He nods at the right times, smiles when expected. But there’s something charged beneath his calm exterior. A restraint that hums quietly under every breath you both take.

No one else notices. But you do. And he knows you do.

You barely survived the first ten minutes. And the night had only just begun. 

You and your husband move through the crowd, chatting idly with some of his colleagues. It's polite, surface-level stuff, nothing that makes your heart beat faster. Your eyes keep darting to Seonghwa, who is now across the room, talking to a group of people. But it's your husband who finally draws your attention back to the situation at hand.

His voice breaks through your thoughts, an edge of casualness you don’t quite trust.

“Oh, and this is… well, you probably know her already.” He gestures towards the woman beside him, who flashes a smile that you can’t help but feel is too bright, too rehearsed.

Her. His girlfriend.

Your husband’s words hover in the air, unspoken but clear, as though it’s just a natural thing. "My girlfriend". But he doesn’t need to say it for you to understand. He doesn’t need to make it official when the meaning is already obvious in his tone, the way his hand rests a little too possessively on her lower back.

She’s taller, prettier than you would have imagined, and the first thing you notice is the way she’s looking at him. The adoration, the way her eyes soften. You feel a tug in your chest, a quiet pain that you try to ignore. But it’s there. It’s always there.

She extends a hand, and you take it, forcing a smile. "Nice to meet you." you say.

Her grip is firm. She’s confident. She’s everything your husband seems to want right now.

"Of course. I’ve heard so much about you," she says, the words warm, but the slight edge makes your stomach churn. She looks at your husband with a teasing glint in her eye, but you notice how her gaze flickers toward you, assessing.

As they stand there, chatting, you feel the smallest stir of discomfort in your chest. You want to look away, but you can’t. And maybe you’re just imagining it, but it feels like Seonghwa is watching you from across the room, his eyes fixed on you like he can sense the unease in the air.

Just as you're lost in the tension building between you, a voice calls out from behind. It's one of your husband's colleagues, reminding everyone to take their seats for dinner. As you take your seat, you instinctively glance around, seeking any form of solace in the crowd. And then, your phone buzzes in your bag, breaking through the fog of discomfort in an instant.

You glance down at the screen, your heart skipping a beat when you see the familiar name.

Seonghwa: Are you okay?

The simplicity of his message stirs something in you. Just seeing those words, knowing he's thinking of you, makes the tightness in your chest ease, just for a moment. You take a deep breath, heart hammering in your chest, but you can't help but smile at the message.

You: I'm fine. Just a little distracted.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth either. There’s a part of you that wishes you could confide more, tell him exactly what’s running through your mind, but you hold back, not wanting to let everything spill out in a text.

Just as you're about to lock your phone and tuck it away, the screen flashes with a new message from him.

Seonghwa: I’m here if you need me. Don’t forget that. ❤️

Seonghwa isn’t placed near you. Of course not. He is several tables over, seated with executives and higher-ups. But you can feel him. God, you can feel him across the room like a second heartbeat.

You catch his eyes once, mid-conversation, and it’s like the air thickens between you. His gaze dips for a split second, dragging over you before lifting again, back to his polished, unreadable facade.

You quickly look away, cheeks burning.

Dinner is served. Conversation at your table buzzing with casual energy: talk about vacations, investment portfolios, harmless gossip about coworkers. Your husband is in his element, laughing too loud, talking to a specific woman close to him and pouring more wine into his glass than he probably should.

Meanwhile, you barely hear a word.

You pick at your food, your appetite gone. Across the room, you feel the weight of his stare.

When you risk another glance, he’s watching you again. His fingers drumming lightly against the side of his glass, a slow, restless rhythm. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip as he listens to the person next to him, eyes still locked on you.

Your husband nudges you, laughing about something you hadn’t caught. You give a small, polite smile, pretending to sip your wine.

The night drags on. Courses are served. Toasts are made. The CEO stands up to make a long speech about company growth, partnership, community, all the usual talking points. You clap when appropriate. You smile when you should. But the only thing you feel is the pull.

The memory of Seonghwa. The way he looks at you across the room like he’s already planning exactly how he’d have you again the moment he can. You toy with the stem of your wineglass, letting yourself imagine, just for a second, what it would be like to slip away from this table, to find him in some quiet corner, to let him catch you.

When dessert was finally cleared and the crowd began to loosen with alcohol and relief, you catch Seonghwa rising from his table, jacket slinging lazily over one shoulder as he excused himself.

He gives you a glance. A very telling glance.

You know. You know he is giving you the chance to follow.

Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs. Your husband is mid-conversation with someone else, not even glancing your way. You set your napkin down on the table, slow and careful, pretending to smooth your dress as you stand.

You move carefully, pretending to head toward the restrooms like you had a dozen other times at events like this. No one pays you any mind. Not even your husband, still busy with a drink in his hand and a story on his lips.

But you aren’t going to the restroom.

You slip through the crowd, heart thudding so hard you can barely hear the noise around you. Your heels click softly against the polished floors as you follow the path Seonghwa has taken. Down a quiet hall. Past the coat closet. Around a corner, where the light dimmed and the buzz of the party fades into the background.

And there he is.

Waiting. Like he knew you would come to him.

He stands with his jacket slung over one shoulder, dress shirt immaculate, tie slightly loosened at the throat like he’s only barely containing himself. But it’s his eyes that stops you.

Dark. Starving. Fixed entirely, absolutely, on you.

God, the way he looks at you.

Like you’re some kind of forbidden miracle.

You can see his throat work as he swallows hard, his hand tightening slightly on the jacket. His gaze trails down your body like he couldn’t help it. From your shining eyes to your lips, to the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your waist in that dress that fit you like a secret made just for him.

“You’re too beautiful,” Seonghwa says under his breath, almost like it hurts him. 

You step closer, heart hammering against your ribs.

"You shouldn't have left," you whisper.

He gives a low, ragged laugh. "And you shouldn't have followed."

Finally talking to him after hours of pretending, after meeting your husband's girlfriend, you finally feet like you can breathe. 

A door clicks somewhere nearby and you’re startled. Seonghwa reacts faster, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the nearest door. The small conference room is empty, dim, quiet except for your heavy breathing. He closes the door behind you both, and you stand frozen in the center of the room, trembling, watching the muscles flex in his jaw.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers, voice rough, almost pained.

Slowly, Seonghwa pushes off the door and approaches you, each step measured but strained, like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

You lifted your chin slightly, daring him. You can feel it, feel the moment his control cracks. One hand reached up, brushing a lock of hair from your face with agonizing care. His fingers trail down the side of your throat, featherlight, barely touching. You shiver.

"You look like this..." His voice broke. "And you expect me to walk away?"

You smile, sweet and dangerous, tilting your head so his fingers could touch more.

It wrecks him.

With a growl low in his chest, Seonghwa cups your face and kisses you, finally. The kiss hungry and aching and furious all at once. Your hands clutch at his shirt, feeling the hard line of his chest beneath. His hips pins you against the conference table behind you, but he still keeps it controlled. Barely.

He kisses down your jaw, the column of your neck, breathing hard.

"Say the word," he rasp into your skin. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

You whimper instead and his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you easily onto the heavy table in the center of the room. The second you’re perched on the edge, he stepped between your spread legs, crowding into your space.

You cling to him, kissing him back with just as much desperation. But then you feel it: the thick, heavy press of him against your thigh, straining against his pants. You pull back just enough to look down.

The outline of him is huge and thick and impossibly hard, the shape of his cock straining at the zipper. So tempting it made your mouth go dry. You stare for a heartbeat too long, your breath catching. 

"Sweetheart," he breathes, almost warningly, but you lift your hand before he can stop you and palms him through his pants. Seonghwa chokes on a moan.

"You're so hard," you whisper, in awe. "You always take care of me," you say softly, your hand stroking him slowly, feeling how big, how impossibly hard he is for you. 

"Fuck," he groans, hips jerking slightly into your hand before he catches himself, caging you against the table with his body. "You're going to kill me."

You smile a little, emboldened by how wrecked he sounds, and kiss the side of his head tenderly.

"Let me make you feel good," you murmur against his hairline.

For a moment, it seems like he might resist, like he might be too strong. But then your fingers give a slightly firmer stroke, and Seonghwa whimpers against your throat, a raw, broken sound he can’t hold back.

You slide the zipper down carefully and push his pants down just enough.

Your breath hitches.

Seonghwa is thick, his cock straining hard against the black fabric of his briefs. A wet patch already darkening the front where he’s leaking for you.

You brush your knuckles up the length of him, feeling how hot and real he is under the thin barrier. Seonghwa’s head tips back, his throat working around a broken moan. Emboldened, aching for him, you slide your fingers under the waistband and free him. His cock springs out into your hand. Flushed deep red at the tip, thick veins running down the heavy shaft, already leaking beads of clear precum that drips onto your fingers.

You barely manage to wrap your hand around him, he’s so thick your fingers don’t even meet. Seonghwa curses under his breath, his hips twitching forward into your hand.

"Fuck, baby," he pants, watching you through half-lidded eyes, "look what you do to me."

You give a shy, wicked smile and stroke him slowly from base to tip, feeling the way he jerks in your palm. So sensitive, so desperate.

But you want more than just to touch him. You shift on the table, spreading your thighs wider.

The wet heat between your legs was unbearable. Your panties completely soaked, sticking to every contour of your cunt, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

Slowly, deliberately, you use the head of his cock to brush against your clothed folds. He hiss between his teeth as you guide him, dragging the swollen tip up and down your slit, the slick heat of you soaking through the thin barrier of lace. The contrast of the rough, leaking tip against your swollen clit made you gasp, hips bucking up into him.

Seonghwa's fingers dug into the table, muscles straining, trying so hard not to just lose control and shove into you. 

"You’re so fucking wet," he groan, his voice wrecked. "I can feel it through the fabric. God, you’re ready for me, aren’t you, my love?"

You nod, breathless, rocking your hips forward so his cock slid along the seam of your panties, right over your aching clit. Every pass made your head spin.

And then, without warning, he shifts his hips, pressing the swollen head of his cock right against your entrance.

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders.

He pushes forward just a fraction, just enough to feel the desperate clench of your body trying to pull him in, but the soaked fabric of your panties holds him back, stopping him from sinking inside. It’s so hot, so thick, stretching you in ways you’ve never felt before, and he hasn’t even really entered yet.

"Fuck," he whispers harshly, grinding himself against your entrance with slow, dangerous rolls of his hips. "You’re gonna feel so fucking good wrapped around me."

Your panties stretched taut between you, the thin barrier rubbing against your clit, your folds, trapping the thick heat of him perfectly against your neediest parts.

"You want me to tear these off and fuck you right now, don't you?" he rasp, voice wrecked with restraint. "God, I could just push a little harder, you'd open up for me so easily."

As if to prove it, he gave a slow, brutal grind of his hips, pushing the thick, leaking head of his cock right against your entrance. So firm, so hot, you could feel yourself clenching down around nothing as you moan.

"Feel that?" he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing your skin. "One more inch, baby. One fucking inch, and I'd be inside you. Filling you so deep."

You sob his name, grinding helplessly against him, the rough drag of his cock against your panties and your throbbing clit driving you insane.

Seonghwa chuckles darkly, drunk on the sight of you falling apart for him. "You like teasing yourself with it, don't you? Feel how fucking hard I am for you?"

He rocks his hips again, pressing his entire length against you, up and down, letting the thick vein along his shaft rub right over your most sensitive spot. 

"You're gonna cum just like this, aren't you?" he whispered roughly.

Seonghwa groans, thrusting against you with a little more force, letting the fat tip of his cock push the fabric deep between your folds, rubbing, pressing, teasing your clit. He pressed the tip of his cock against your panties again, and this time, he hooked a finger under the soaked fabric, dragging it aside.

You gasped, because now there was nothing between you.

Seonghwa’s cock slid along your bare, dripping folds, dragging over your clit with slow, devastating precision.

But the angle, the filthy rub of him dragging along your clit, your folds, almost pushing inside. It was dangerous. It would take nothing, nothing, for him to slam forward and bury himself balls-deep inside you.

"God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good," he growled, rubbing the swollen, leaking head of his cock directly against your clit in slow, devastating circles. "I could just, fuck-, I could slide inside you so easy right now. Fill you up so deep you'd feel me for days." 

Your thighs tremble on either side of him. He moves his hips, grinding his cockhead against your clit, dragging it up and down, side to side, filthy and raw.

"You want that, don’t you?" he whispers harshly. "You want me to split you open on this fucking table?"

But you knew you couldn’t let it happen like this. You were already dangerously close to crossing every line. You whimper, grabbing the edge of the table to stay upright, hips bucking helplessly.

"That's it," Seonghwa growles, voice dark and hungry, his cock dragging sloppily against you. "Grind on me, baby. Rub that pretty little pussy on my cock. Fuck, you feel so good."

Your thighs are trembling, muscles locking up as the rough head of him keeps hitting your clit perfectly, again and again, the thick veins of his shaft dragging over your folds, your entrance.

The noises between you are filthy, slick, messy, obscene.

You gasp, trying to pull away, scared to come and make a mess, make too much noice from this room, but Seonghwa grabs your hips and pins you against him, forcing you to take every devastating drag of his cock.

"Don't fucking run from it," he hisses against your ear. "Take it. I want you to come all over my cock, baby."

Your body locked up, and with a strangled moan, you came, hard and messy, soaking him, soaking your panties, soaking the fucking table. You cry out, clenching around nothing, hips jerking helplessly as your orgasm rip through you.

"That's it," he murmur, watching you fall apart. "Good girl. Such a good girl for me." Seonghwa hisses through his teeth, his cock twitching against you.

"You look so fucking beautiful when you cum," he buries his face against your neck, trembling with restraint. You can feel how close he is, his cock throbbing, his breathing ragged, his hips jerking forward in little, helpless thrusts against your slick center.

But then, you feel it.

The wet heat gathering against your panties, dangerously close to making a mess neither of you would be able to explain. Panic flares, but so does something brave, bold, utterly wicked inside you. Before Seonghwa can react, you slide off the table and drop to your knees in front of him.

"Fuck-, baby, what are you-"

He chokes on his words as you wrap your hand around him, guiding his slick, throbbing cock to your mouth. Seonghwa slaps a hand against the table, a broken, wrecked groan tearing from his throat as you close your lips around him.

"Jesus-, fuck," he gasp, his whole body trembling violently.

You look up at him through your lashes, hollowing your cheeks around him, and the sight makes him come undone. With a low, guttural groan, Seonghwa spills into your mouth, hot and salty and desperate. You swallow every drop.

When you finally let him go with a soft pop, Seonghwa stares down at you, eyes black with lust, lips parted, chest heaving. 

Seonghwa watches you straighten up, his gaze flicking to your lips as you wipe them, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. There’s a spark of admiration in his eyes, mixed with something darker that he can’t hide.

“Wow, ” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice rough with a hint of surprise. He takes a step closer, his tone softer but no less impressed. “That was… hot.”

Seonghwa’s gaze lingers on you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he notices your slightly flushed cheeks, the warmth of the moment still hanging in the air. He could hardly believe how effortlessly you turned everything around, and the look of awe in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

Without saying another word, he cups your face gently, his thumb brushing over your lips as if he can’t resist. His touch is tender, a stark contrast to the intensity of what just happened. Slowly, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a soft kiss. The kiss is a promise, an unspoken understanding that this isn’t over, that there’s so much more to explore between the two of you.

As he pulls away just enough to look at you, he whispers, “Thank God for loopholes.” He pulls back, his eyes lingering on you with admiration, a playful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

“I’m gonna tell him tomorrow,” You say, finally being ready to tell your husband about you dating Seonghwa, his boss, knowing he’ll be home then. “I’m going to tell my husband about you,” you say, softer now. “About us.”

You don’t say why. You don’t need to. Because you both know why you’ve been holding back saying it, and you both know how desperate you both are to get the truth out.

He nods once. “Are you sure?”

“No,” you admit with a strained smile. “But I don’t want to keep hiding this anymore when he flashes his relationship in front of me,” you look at him through your lashes. “And I don’t want to hold back from you anymore.”

He tilts his head, watching you with something that feels like awe.

Still, the fear bubbles up in you. “What if he reacts badly? What if he says something at work? I don’t want to ruin things for you…” Your voice cracks at the end, and you look away. But he doesn’t let you.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Seonghwa says quietly. “Let him talk. Let him try.”  

You huff a tiny laugh, but your eyes sting.

“I’m serious,” he says, voice gentler. “If he wants to make it ugly, I’ll deal with it. But I’d rather deal with that than watch you shrink yourself to protect me.”

You bite your lip.

“If he suggests you have an open relationship, then he has to understand the consequences of it,” he tugs a piece of hair behind your hair in the most caring manner. “So tell him. Let him know you’re mine now, too.”

Your heart jumps, even though neither of you says what this really means. That he’s not just a fling. That you don’t know how to untangle yourself from what’s happening between you and that maybe… You don’t want to.

“Give me five minutes,” he murmurs, voice low and amused as he glances at the way his tie hangs messily. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

You smile despite everything, still breathless from what just happened, still burning with nerves. You nod and smooth your dress, feeling like something irreversible has just shifted.

As you open the door to leave, his voice stops you again.

“And for the record?” he says, just loud enough for only you to hear. “I’m proud to be the one you’re choosing.”

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx @lveegsoi  @vixensss  @yizhou-time  @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry @hannahstacos @tinyteezer @gold--gucciempress @zhangyi-johee @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @yunhoswrldddd @beljakovina @soso59love-blog @trivia-134340 @skzfangirl143 @spicxbnny @h0rnyp0t @mingimangomu @no-nottoday @roguesthetic @hwas-star @tsuukamori @londonbridges01 @nayutalvr @purplelady85 @lover-ofallthingspretty @awkward-fucking-thing @luvbgy @thuyting @p1ecetinyzen @eumpappasmom @marsofeight @maidens-world @girlblogger-04 @renapersa @lol-imtrash2000 @melitadala

[hrtwayne]

Guilty as Sin? || Alessia Russo

Pairing: Alessia Russo x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a stormy September night, you realize the love of your life was closer than you ever imagined.

Note: English isn’t my first language!

Warning: Mention of breakups, Alessia and Reader being completely oblivious!

Masterlist | Women's Football Masterlist

It was a little past 1:15 in the morning when you sat on the porch to watch the rain, which had intensified over the last fifteen minutes. The downpour hammered against the windows, and thunder rumbled across the dark sky, briefly illuminating the room you were sharing with Alessia that night.

You had woken up just a few minutes earlier, stirred by the storm, tossing and turning in bed as if the rain had only worsened your already terrible sleep routine. Wrapped in Alessia’s worn-out hoodie, you took a deep breath, letting the night’s cold contrast with the warmth that piece of fabric—and everything it represented—brought to your body.

There was something almost ironic about the situation. Just a few weeks ago, you had ended a relationship you once thought would last forever. Something that, in your mind, should have culminated in promises and rings. But when the tears came, when the emptiness settled in your chest, the first person you thought of wasn’t your mother, your longtime best friends, or even your team.

It was Alessia.

And Alessia, as always, showed up. Without hesitation, without question. She took the first flight from London, crossed oceans and time zones just to sit beside you on the floor, listening in silence, holding your hands as you poured your heart out between sobs. Now, in that stormy early morning, you weren’t crying anymore. But your heart was far from at peace.

Because something had changed. Or rather, something that had always been there—something you had never allowed to take shape in your thoughts—now imposed itself with an almost painful clarity. The hug before bed.

Alessia had wrapped her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if you were something precious, something she was afraid to lose. And for the first time, you had felt something different. Alessia’s touch wasn’t just comforting—it was electrifying. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her calm breathing near your ear. All of it made your heart race in a way no girlfriend ever had.

And now, alone on the porch, you finally admitted it to yourself:

I love her.

Not as a friend. Not as a sister. But in a way that terrified you—because it was intense, deep, and above all, without guarantees.

The creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"You should be sleeping, darling." Alessia’s voice was soft but laced with concern.

You turned slowly, meeting the footballer’s blue eyes, still heavy with sleep. Alessia wore nothing but a jacket draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair disheveled, as if she’d gotten up in a hurry.

"Mhm, I just needed some air." You lied, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Alessia frowned but didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and placed a hand on your shoulder—her touch so familiar and yet, now, so loaded with meaning.

"You’ll get sick standing out here in the rain." She murmured, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of the hoodie. "So that’s where my hoodie went."

You smiled, unable to muster a response.

"Come on." Alessia held out her hand. *"Let’s get you something warm to drink."

And you followed. Like you always did. Because when Alessia asked for something, you could never say no.

In the kitchen, Alessia moved with the same confidence she carried on the football pitch. As the kettle heated, she stole glances at you, leaning against the counter as you watched her.

"You should’ve woken me." Alessia said, pouring hot water over the tea bags."You know this lack of sleep is going to catch up with you eventually."

"I know, A."

Alessia sighed, recognizing the resigned tone in your voice. It was always like this when something was bothering you.

"Mhm, you’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?" Alessia changed the subject, her lips curving into a small smile. "I kinda need my good luck charm."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat faster.

"You know I am."

Alessia handed you the cup, your fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

"Then I’ll dedicate my goals to you."

You nearly choked.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know, darling." Alessia continued, her eyes gleaming with an intensity you’d never been able to decipher. "I always dedicate my goals to you."

And there, in that dimly lit kitchen, bathed in yellow light, you realized—maybe you weren’t alone in your feelings after all.

Because Alessia didn’t dedicate her goals to just anyone.

Just like you didn’t dedicate your songs to just anyone.

And suddenly, the fear felt a little smaller than the hope.

[pieandflannel]

I'm in a Jensen Ackles community, and someone posted that they wanted a fic about the reader liking Jensen's hands. I love your writing and think you could do it justice. If this isn't something you'd want to do, you can ignore this. 😊

They also said they wanna be tagged, @/deanwinchestersgirl8734

౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ veins and vows 🤞

₊⊹ ʚ ₊⊹｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡˚ ₊⊹｡ ₊⊹ ୨♡୧ ⊹₊ ｡⊹₊ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡⊹₊ ɞ ⊹₊

pairing: jensen ackles x fem!reader

summary: jensen catches you staring at his hands which gives him a cheeky little idea.

cw: 18+ smut/fluff, soft dom!jensen, sub!reader has a hand kink, teasing, praising, breast & pussy play, established relationship (married), jensen is a teasing menace.

word count: 987

julia yaps: thank you so much @multiversefanfics for thinking about me it’s so sweet and considerate of you. i didn’t get much details about what you wanted so I hope this is okay 🥺

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

“you’re staring sweetheart” said jensen with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his gaze focused on the script he was currently reading through.

you snapped out of your thoughts and went back to cutting the vegetables for dinner, your cheeks catching on a slight shade of pink, feeling flustered that he caught you staring at his hands. “sorry” you murmured.

but at least he couldn’t read your mind right? he couldn’t tell you were imagining his hands roaming all over your body in a meaningful and sensual manner, his big hand wrapped around your throat as with his other hand his fingers work you open, slowly, one finger then two, maybe three. his thumb circling your swollen clit.

he couldn’t tell you were thinking all that right?

but come on can you blame yourself? his hands are so pretty but at the same time so masculine, decorated with age, kissable freckles and veins, a watch on his wrist, tattoo on his thumb and a silver wedding band on his finger that represented his undying love and loyalty for you. you shamefully worshipped your husbands hands as if they were sculpted my michelangelo himself, and he secretly knew it despite you trying to hide it.

he glanced up from his notes and couldn’t help but smile softly as he noticed just how embarrassed you were at him catching you gawking.

an idea popped in his head, he cleared his throat, putting down all the papers onto the table and he stood up, taking his empty coffee mug and walking over to the kitchen counter. his walk was slow, almost like a predator creeping up on it’s prey.

you looked up and flashed him a smile before going back to focusing on not cutting your fingers off with the kitchen knife.

jensen put the coffee mug down by the drip machine, pressed the button to make more coffee and walked behind you, his broad physique towering over your smaller one. his front pressed up against your back.

he gently placed his hands on your hips and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another one on your neck and lastly onto your shoulder.

“babe~” you let out a giggle as his beard tickled your delicate skin, your cute little giggle making him smile. he gently squeezed your waist before snaking one of his hands up your shirt, moving higher up, just below your bra.

your breath hitched slightly as you tried to focus on slicing the vegetables and not his hand placement, but jensen made it real hard when he sneaked his hand under your lace bra to cup your breast. his hand big and warm.

his other hand gradually shifting lower and lower, his fingers playing with the waistband of your shorts. “babe wha-what are you doing?” you managed to stutter out with a smile.

he hummed in your ear, a big smug smile on his face. “nothing” he replied with an innocent tone which you didn’t fall for. “mhm sure” you chuckled and playfully rolled your eyes.

his hand softly massaged your breast, his thumb brushing against your hardening nipple which made you let out a shaky breath. you had to put the knife down in order not to hurt yourself or him by accident. your lips parted as your breathing became heavier.

“you know what i’m thinking of right now?” jensen whispered into your ear, his breath tickling your neck which sent shivers down your spine.

“n-no?” you accidentally whimpered out. he couldn’t help but smirk at how worked up you seemed to already be.

his veiny hand suddenly leaving your breast and gripping you teasingly by the throat, his fingers wrapping round you deliciously.

“having my hand wrapped round your throat as my other hand plays with your pretty little pussy” his other hand sliding into your shorts and panties, his middle and ring fingers finding their way between your folds with practiced ease. “oh would you look at that, sooo wet, already?” he teased in a slightly mocking tone as he spread your arousal with his middle finger, using it as lube.

you gasped out as he suddenly brushed against your bundle of nerves, your hands weakly grabbing a hold onto his wrists which only made him chuckle. you tilted your head back, resting it on his muscular shoulder. his facial hair brushing against your temple.

his hand teasingly tightening around your throat as his thick digits circled your clit painfully slow, a soft moan slipping your lips. your eyes closing as your back arched leading to your ass brushing against his crotch. “j-jensen..” you breathed out his name like it was some secret.

“shhh shhh it’s okay sweetheart” jensen cooed into your ear, his fingers sliding up and down your slit. “just focus on my hands, in your panties and around your neck…you’re doing so good for me sweetheart” he praised, his words making you melt right there on the spot. he gave your cheek a soft kiss and continued to play with you.

as tension was building up in the pit of your stomach, your grip on his wrists became gradually weaker. jensen could tell that you were getting close by how your body tensed up underneath his touch.

then suddenly his phone started ringing, jensen couldn’t stop the small smirk forming on his face, he was waiting for this important call for a while now, knowing damn well he will leave you waiting, on edge and unsatisfied until later.

“i gotta get that, it’s important” he whispered with a smirk before giving you another soft kiss on the cheek and slowly pulling away, reaching into his pocket for his phone with one hand and licking off your arousal from his other.

“i’m not finished with you yet” he said, giving you a cheeky little wink before picking up the call and walking away into the living room.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @bittersweetfig @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @miss-marmalade @pinksatinpanties @multiversefanfics @cupidzbunny @sunnyteume @lunaleah

𑁥౿ check out my masterlist for other works!

♡ see this post to be added to the taglist!

© pieandflannel – do not plagiarise or repost any of my work!

© reserved for photo/gif owners!

© diver by @cafekitsune <3

[solemisu]

Comic dump of some funny experiences I had while playing Roblox All characters are out of character on purpose. They’re meant to represent random players I encountered during Natural Disaster Survival. Please don’t take this seriously, it’s all for fun!

few screenshots + extras below

I don't usually join these types of servers (let alone do any roleplay) but something possessed me that day and I gave it a shot. I've never had such an unhinged, chaotic experience before. It was genuinely hilarious.

I really wish I'd taken more screenshots because so much more happened. I probably can’t even draw all of it… or maybe I can. We’ll see. 😭

Also! There were two specific players — a Pure Vanilla and a Truthless Recluse — that I kept bothering throughout the matches, basically jumping back and forth between them depending on who gave me more crumbs of attention at the time. Shoutout to both of their players for enduring my relentless pursuit. You carried the emotional arc of that fever dream session.

If you’ve made it this far- thank you! I hope to come back soon with more sketches, whether they’re more cursed moments or some work on my little AUs.

See you next time!

[the-problematic-trolley]

Actually no, “the curtains is blueing” this would be me saying the steam coming off the toast represents “hot winded politicians who speak out their ass or something. Also why was the bread so wet? Because soggy bread is undesirable, so toasting it becomes the only salvation through martyring the bread and this figure is actually the Messiah of bread.”

But without anything explicitly from the artist statement, this is bullshit.

[controld3vil]

midnight snack

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes , john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, tony masters/taskmaster (comic), alexei shokstakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader (separate)

synopsis: You’re one of the stealthiest members and they catch you making a midnight snack.

notes -> ive never written for marvel before!! tags: inaccurate characterization/take it w/ a grain of salt, i have NOT seen the film, reader is part of the thunderbolts, mentions of minor injuries; canon typical violence, reader making midnight snacks (grilled cheese w/ jam, s’mores dipped in peanut, cheesy noodles w/ cream cheese, chip sandwich, mixed cereal, ice cream w/ cookies), headcanons can be seen either platonic/romantic!

YELENA BEVOLA

-> is consciously disturbed by it. she always feared that your name, reputation, and expertise are not something to laugh about. hell, coming from her, that is enough to say you were beyond her level. however, the obscurity of seeing you making a grilled cheese… with jam? that blows her mind out of proportion.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that…” Yelena doesn’t even attempt to hide her disgusted look. What you’re doing is absurd. Even more, she has always respected your name, representing the standard of Hydra operations that they have always been proud of. She had expected to see you in the morning. Instead, she finds you leaning over the counter, cuts, bruises in all, while you were making a sandwich for yourself.

It wasn’t particularly what you were doing that startled her. Yelena has seen you make a variety of sandwiches — the simple turkey club, egg salad, tuna, and all you’ve seemed to master. You always packed pretty lunch boxes for yourself. It was a simple way to stay motivated. But the jam? The thought of combining grilled cheese with sweet strawberry syrup makes her stomach grimace.

You look at your blonde friend steadily. “I’m hungry, though.” You say, unfazed by the abomination you were making. “I didn’t know what else to make.”

“I could think of plenty of things you can make besides that,” She sneers, almost offended by what you created. You shrug, casually, not even caring about Yelena’s persistent glares.

BUCKY BARNES

-> is confused. so confused about your choice in cravings. he’s survived scarce military rations during the war. the food back then was bland and lacked nutrition, but it was all he had during those grueling days of fighting. he’s survived times when food was difficult to salvage. but you, dipping homemade s'mores into peanut butter?

He doesn’t know what to say. What the hell? No. What the fuck? Too much.

“What are you making?” Bucky questions, dragging the last part partially too long as if he was unsure if he should’ve asked or not. The whole scenario was bizarre. Because never would he, Bucky, catch you doing something like this.

You were just like the rest of them, ruthless killers with no place to call home. Yet along the way, you’ve connected and called it friendship. Bucky especially favored you, believe it or not, because of your kind-hearted spirit. 

“I was craving s’mores!” You raised your hands, holding one s’more between your fingers. “But when I bit into it, it tasted like something was missing…” It was almost comical how innocent you looked during this confrontation. You were still in your tactical suit, with your weapons and all. Your face looked vaguely exhausted, with your droopy eyes and smile.

“So you thought peanut butter could fix it?” The ex-Hydra assassin looked in disbelief, unable to piece together how the two could possibly be a good combination.

“It’s actually good if you try it.” You blink before catching Bucky slowly backing away. “Hey! It is good!”

JOHN WALKER

-> looks at you like a disappointed dad. trust me, he’s seen one too many mishaps from his son. he knows kids playing with their food is normal. how many times has he seen his kid splash spaghetti all over the table? the only difference between you is — well, you’re an adult, a very skilled assassin who could make people disappear without a trace.

“Uh— What the hell are you doing?” John walks into the kitchen with squinted eyes. The bright ceiling lights were blinding him, as his eyes were still trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Making dinner?” As you continued to stir the boiling pot of noodles you cooked up. It didn’t look out of the ordinary, you were cooking instant noodles, thinking it was the quickest meal you could make.

“Yeah, I know that,” the super-soldier points to the opened package of American cheese. “But why the hell do you need cheese?” Shortly after, he noticed the jar of cream cheese you had by the boiling pot. What?

“I saw a video online where putting cheese and sour cream in your noodles would taste better.” You explained simply. Because there was no other way to put it. John looks at you with mild disgust, with one eye scrunched and a frown beginning to form. It was as if his expression was saying, “What is wrong with you?”

“Well, does it?”

“I don’t know! So I’m going to try it.”

“You’re insane.” He doesn’t give you the pleasure of giving you a face palm, knowing you would be annoyingly satisfied with his distaste. Instead, he grumbles like any parent would when their child makes a mess. “You better clean up after yourself.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> genuinely curious what you’re up to! he may seem scared at first, but will eventually show that he is more curious, that’s all! he’s never had such a domestic conversation with you before, so don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions! will occasionally ask about your odd cravings, as if they’re not the most grotesque creations you’ve made, but more so to understand you better.

“This is…new.” Bob appears out of the corner of the island table as you grab two plain pieces of bread. He’s become used to you returning around this time, at the dead of night. Most of the time, he’s awake with his mind too occupied to fall asleep. At times, he’s afraid to walk outside his room, not wanting to disturb the rest of the team’s deep slumber. But on particular nights, when he knows you’re coming back from a grueling operation, he waits for you.

“I saw it from someone on YouTube,” you placed the two pieces of toast into the toaster, dialing the heat to medium. Once you confirmed the temperature, you walked towards the cupboard where all the dry snacks were and scanned the selection. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Sounds… good.” Bob didn’t know how to respond. He had never had this kind of experience with food before. Food was always prepared for him in a monolithic and minimalistic fashion. The same proportions and items every day. The more he thought about it, it made him feel like a prisoner, a person out of his skin.

So seeing you, being carefree about what to eat, makes him feel something. Not in a bad way, but a strange, warm feeling. Even if you don’t realize it, he’s probably more attached to you than anyone else in the team because of how relaxed you are with him. You don’t throw insults or glare his way. You just exist, treat him as a human being. Make odd-looking meals in front of him like he’s another friend witnessing one of your many creations.

When the timer runs off, you carefully pull the two pieces onto your plate and lay them next to each other. He watches as you open the bag of your preferred chips and place them neatly on one side. With the other piece of toast, you place it on top, putting pressure on the sandwich. He hears the crinkling of the chips as a few pieces fall out. 

It wasn’t the most exquisite-looking meal. But it wasn’t the worst he’s seen.

“Would you like to try?”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> the only person who tolerates your creative mind. under her tough exterior, ava cares for the people close to her. no matter how broken or messed up they are, she’ll still choose them. including you, so no matter how strange your meals were, she won’t say anything bad. out of the corner of your eye, she’ll give you a strange look, but otherwise she won’t go any further than that. 

“Whatcha got there?” Even you sometimes had to double-check the corners of the room for Ava. She was quick and could faze through walls, the perfect ability for an assassin. However, you’re glad you trusted your intuition, half-expecting her to pop up eventually. Ava does not look as tired as you expected. Rather, she looks oddly calm and relaxed in her casual wear. 

“Cereal,” You plopped one box of Toast Crunch beside you. However, you know she’s eyeing the Coco Puffs sitting next to your bowl. Do you want a sugar rush? 

“That’s a lot of sugar, don’t you think?” The ex-agent nudges playfully, choosing to sit across from you. She rests her elbow on the granite table, leaning her chin onto her palm. 

“I’m a sweet person,” You grin to yourself before momentarily letting out an agonized groan. Your friend stands up, giving you a sympathetic look. “Ah, it’s okay, I’m fine.” 

“You sure?” Ava inspects you with clean precision. The way you hold your tricep meant something more. You were hurt badly. “You may want to lay off the cereal, then. Let me help you get to the medics.” 

You shake your head, insistent on staying where you were. “It’s alright, it’s not that bad.”

“Let me at least look at it first.” She doesn’t leave you a second to refuse. Ava is swift on her toes, grabbing the emergency medical kit on the top shelf. Turning back to you, she fixes you with a gaze, firm yet gentle. “Come on, you have your cereal after I patch you up.” 

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> leaves you be. tony isn’t the type of person to barge into your business. but since getting to know you, you’re absolutely certain he’s growing to become comfortable around you. the way he walks over with quiet concern, or offers a slight nod whenever you ask a question. tony is a scarred man, yet somehow you’re able to bring out some kind of softness in him. 

You came home to a quiet kitchen. You hadn’t intended on returning so soon, but due to the nature of your work, sometimes you made choices less advantageous. You’re hurt, bleeding from your head, most likely from a concussion. The medics reaffirmed that you should rest in the meantime. Bucky would not be so pleased to see you so soon. 

You were busy, scooping the last clump of ice cream into your bowl. All day, you couldn’t stop thinking about ice cream, especially cookies and cream, topped with chunks of chocolate chip cookies and syrup. You knew it was a bit of a stretch to add cookies, but your mind was elsewhere already once you added them on top of your dessert. 

Tony was there somewhere the entire time. Whether your mind was too fuzzy or you had no intention of asking why he was standing by the doorway for so long, you didn’t care. All you wanted at that moment was to eat your ice cream in peace. 

Eventually, halfway through your meal, you finally address him. “I know you don’t speak, but you don’t have to just stand there and watch me eat like some animal.” Your eyes lock with his blank mask. You often found yourself talking aloud more around Tony because of his lack of expression. “Come sit.��� 

Tony threads out of the shadows like a predator hidden behind the bushes. His steps are intentional, short, and steady. You’ve never seen him out of his suit and mask. It was almost like he wasn’t human, never once allowing his guard down. 

You glance at him, catching the way he’s frozen mid-stepped, scanning you like he’s accessing every wound.

You rub the back of your neck, a hint of embarrassment in your gesture. “It went…bad.” His stillness urged you to go on.. “I didn’t see the bomb. The ceiling came down on me… actually, multiple floors did.” The silence in between your words made the weight of your injuries feel heavier. You glanced back at your ice cream, slowly melting away. 

You feel his hesitancy to move closer, feeling the sense of guilt and frustration through your words. 

“I got checked– they said I needed some rest, that’s all.” You gave a small smile, knowing he could see right through you. Suddenly, the simple act of eating ice cream left an uneasy twist in your stomach. The silence was almost unbearable. You felt you couldn’t look at him properly, knowing now he’s a witness to your failure– your injuries. 

You were careless. Reckless. If you had taken a second longer to search the building, you could’ve avoided the bomb from going off. The more your thoughts consume you, the more you feel bad about yourself. 

Then you spot a vial near the edge of the table, right where Tony stood. However, when you looked around, he was already gone. You pick it up, eyes scanning the bottle.

Pain relief.

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> supportive about it! he’s very caring about your well-being, so he doesn’t judge you with whatever you make. as long as you're happy eating it, he’s alright about it. but if there is any chance that he catches you, returning home in a battered state, he will 100% make you a meal. that’s just the dad in him.

“You’re back!” You bring yourself to give him a weak smile, before he engulfs you in a hug. Alexei is one of those people who are naturally affectionate and are not afraid to show it. That’s what you think, at least. 

“I thought you would be asleep by now.” You unlatch yourself from his bear-like grip. The Russian man has started to cook something, which makes you question if he knew you were coming home later tonight. 

“The rest are asleep! But me? No, I could never have you come back on an empty stomach!” Now you see the apron he’s wearing, and the faint smoke coming from the stove. You couldn’t say no now, not while Alexei put all this effort into making you dinner. You owed him big time. 

You found yourself a seat, while the Red Guardian’s back was facing you. Whatever he was making smelled good. It had a rich flavor like barbeque, but better. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until he placed a plate in front of you. 

“Thanks… Alexei. You didn’t have to.” Your stomach grumbled in protest, weak at the aroma of perfectly grilled skewers, fluffy rice, and tangy pickled vegetables. You caught your teammate’s intense gaze as you grabbed a fork and speared a piece of the meat. 

“Wow, this is good,” 

“Of course it is! I made it!” 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” You pulled the skewers free of the meat, digging in with mouthfuls of rice and tangy vegetables. The warmth settled your hunger. You’re able to sleep tonight. All thanks to Alexei. 

“I’ve been practicing!” he said with a booming laugh, wiping his hands on a clean towel. “It’s my specialty– so you don’t have to make any more of those monstrosities when you get home!”

You paused, looking up at him, surprised. “I thought you liked them!”

“I do, I do! But you know– sometimes I think it’s better to eat real, digestible food.”

[meazalykov]

out of reach

barcelona femeni x f!pugh!OC with features of platonic!alexia putellas x oc, platonic!kika nazareth x oc, and sister!mallory swanson x oc

margaret (margo) pugh breaks through world class stars to score goals. so what happens when she transfers to barcelona after knocking them out of the champions league in the previous season?

a continuation to this fiction linked here

margo’s first official day at barcelona didn’t start with the usual excitement that new players had for their favorite clubs. 

the woman was happy, but she was nervous about the unknowns that came with playing with a new club, in a new country, away from everyone she knows.

its not like she has anyone on the national team to rely on, she is the only american to ever play on the barcelona team.

she had barely slept the night before, lying awake in her temporary apartment just a short walk from the training grounds, eyes flicking between the ceiling and her phone. she wasn’t scrolling, only just staring, occasionally checking the time, and occasionally rereading the press release announcing her transfer like it hadn’t been finalized weeks ago. 

the contract is for four years, aka four seasons. this is four years in the city of her dreams, with the club that lived in the center of her childhood heart. well, its going to be four years if everything turns out like it is supposed to be.  

it was surreal. 

even as she stepped into the training facility wearing the badge on the newly black training kit, it still didn’t feel entirely real.  

she was early…of course she was…and the locker room was still mostly empty when she arrived. a few kit managers nodded at her in passing. some staff she didn’t know yet offered small smiles. 

margos blue adidas boots were already waiting at her new locker, laced neatly beside her personalized training kit. she ran a hand along the material. 

there is her last name on the back: pugh. 

the new number: 19. she kind of mourned the number 22 she had at lyon but 19 can represent something new.

the first players to filter in were friendly enough. those players being fridolina and ingrid. they gave her a quiet “hola,” despite not being spanish. margo knew of fridolina, remembering that disgusting world cup knockout game she had to go through.  

when jana and ona came in next, they greeted her in english with wide grins, and light hugs. this caught margo by surprise, since she didn’t expect to be in the physical touch stage for a while. 

after margo went to adjust the laces on her boots, she saw someone join the room from her peripheral vision. she didn’t think much of it until their figure sat directly beside her.

“so,” vicky called out, half-laughing as she tugged her sweatshirt off and tossed it into her locker beside yours, “you better help us win this year, superstar.”  

the tone was light, but the words landed heavier than expected.  

margo blinked, caught off guard. there was a split second where she wasn’t sure how to take it. 

is this a joke? a challenge? was she already being resented for the spotlight that followed her here?  

before she could find a response, salma stepped in beside her, speaking quickly and with a soft touch to margo’s arm.  

“she jokes,” salma said in her accented english, words slow but intentional. 

“vicky always say things like that. she… how do you say? teases.”  

salma smiled gently, almost apologetic, and margo felt her heartbeat slow.  

“oh, okay,” she breathed out, finally letting her shoulders drop. 

“good. because i was ready to throw hands, and i haven’t even stretched yet.”  

salma giggled at that, her laugh quiet and sweet.  

margo turned to vicky again, this time with a smirk of her own. 

“i’m not a hero. you all have already won everything without me. i’m just trying not to get in the way.”  

vicky laughed, waving her off. 

“relax, i’m just hazing you. all love. but seriously, i can speak for all of us when i say that we’re glad you’re here.”  

the tension dissolved with that, and as more players filtered in, the space started to feel less intimidating. 

as margo stands up and heads outside of the locker rooms to go stretch outside, she felt a hand rest of her shoulders. 

“so,” esmee said casually, “do you miss the french press yet? or were you ready to be grilled in spanish this time around?”  

there was no need for an introduction or some “nice to meet you”s between margo and esmee. the two already had an established friendship long before margo’s move to barcelona. 

one of margo’s close friends played at PSV, overlapping with esmee’s time at the dutch club. well, that girl who was esmee’s psv teammate wasn’t just a friend… but things didn’t work out in the end. 

margo remembers when they were introduced casually, initially bonding over the shared sport. what started as a polite introduction quickly turned into social media exchanges, and playful banter that carried on even while they played in different leagues.

for margo, having esmee around might make this transition smoother. something steady in the middle of all the change.

margo snorted. 

“i miss not understanding what the reporters were saying, honestly. ignorance was bliss.”  

kika chimed in, “don’t worry, we’ll get you caught up fast. or you’ll just learn by accident like everyone else here.”  

they all laughed, and it was natural. 

however, margo realized that she forgot her water bottle inside of the locker room. she let esmee and kika continue to walk outside to the sunny pitch while she turned around. 

the american jogged, ignoring the few looks from the players in the locker room as margo sat down on her bench to grab her water bottle from her gym bag.

however, as margo grabbed the bottle and zipped her bag up… the room’s energy shifted. the quiet ripple of presence rolled through the space as alexia walked in. 

something about alexia’s aura was undeniable… even to you. she had achievements equivalent to mallory’s. 

ale placed her things gently on her spot before turning around, walking straight to margo with a calm curiosity. margo looked at ale with a bit of anxiety as the catalan stopped right in front of her.  

“its finally nice to meet you margo,” alexia said, her accented voice smooth, “i’m glad you came to join us.”  

margo stood quickly, nerves spiking again. she took the offered handshake.  

“yeah,” she replied, “its nice to meet you too.”  

alexia tilted her head slightly, a smile tugging at her mouth. 

“you were a pain in the ass last season.”  

margo chuckled, eyes flicking down, then back up. 

“i used to watch you when i was a kid. wore a barça kit with your number on it. my sister used to say how embarrassing it was. i got detention once for wearing it under my school jersey, and even tried to convince my parents to let mal and i join la masia but they said no...”  

alexia blinked. something about that made her pause. 

“seriously?”  

“always loved barça,” margo said quietly, “lyon was just the first door that opened.”  

there was a flicker of something in alexia’s eyes. 

surprise, maybe. respect. 

then, a smile.  

“well,” she said, letting go of margo’s hand, “welcome home.”

it was still her first day, but already, margo was beginning to feel the weight of everything that came with playing for one of the best clubs in the world. this shouldn’t be new, since she played for lyon. however, the factor of being with the club of her childhood dreams put a bit of pressure on her.

also, there is new pressure with the everyday stuff. margo had to now navigate a locker room where everyone spoke two languages, and neither of them were english.

back at lyon, the american learned french quickly with the help of selma and wendie. however, there were many english speakers in the club.

margo had been briefed ahead of time about barcelona requiring all non-spanish-speaking players to take both spanish and catalan classes as part of their integration into the club. it was part of what made barça… barça since identity mattered. 

the club provided the classes, scheduled around training and recovery. two classes a week are mandatory, but four are recommended if she wants to be fluent by the end of the season. the woman’s agent made it clear how necessary this was, since it will make her experience easier.

margo didn’t mind since she wanted to learn. still, being in that room overtime where she was hearing jokes fly around in catalan she couldn’t catch, watching conversations flow between teammates like fast-moving water while she stood just outside it… it was a little overwhelming. even for someone as confident as her.

there was an hour break from training because of lunch, and margo found herself alone near the back corner of the locker room, tying her laces. 

cata approached and sat down next to her, in vicky’s locker spot. margo had seen her earlier, had smiled politely, but hadn’t had a chance to say anything. she thought it might’ve been awkward since she scored many goals past cata’s fingers. 

now that they were face to face, she stood, brushing her hands off on her training shorts.

“hi,” margo said warmly while holding out her hand, “i’m margo.”

cata returned the smile, clasping her hand briefly. 

“hola.”

a pause.

margo hesitated, then tried again, slower. 

“my name is margaret… but just call me margo. it’s nice to meet you.”

cata’s brow furrowed slightly, trying to process the english. she caught the gist…margo could tell…but didn’t respond right away. instead, she pointed to herself. 

“cata,” she said simply. 

after a beat, added with a soft smile, “nice to meet you.”

without another word, she leaned in and gave margo a hug.

completely unexpected.

margo blinked, her body freezing for half a second before instinct took over and she hugged back. it was quick, warm, and genuine, and when cata pulled away, she gave a shy nod before moving back toward her own locker.

margo stood there for a second, slightly stunned. she hadn’t expected such a sweet gesture from someone who couldn’t speak much english to her. the hug said more than words could’ve, and somehow, that made her feel more at ease than anything else that morning.

she scanned the room, looking for the one person who might understand what she was feeling.

alexia was by the lockers, chatting with irene. 

margo approached, waiting for a lull in the conversation before gently tapping alexia’s shoulder.

“hey,” she said, “quick question.”

alexia turned while her expression curious,  “yeah?”

margo glanced around before leaning in a little. 

“so… my catalan is basically nonexistent and my spanish is decent enough to survive in a café but not… here.” she paused. 

“do i sound completely lost?”

alexia laughed, a quick, familiar sound. 

“absolutely.”

margo groaned. 

“great. love that for me.”

“don’t worry,” alexia said and her voice is warm now, “everyone knows you’re new. esmee and fridolina still struggle. however, we all appreciate you learning. barça’s classes actually help and they’re good. they won’t throw you into a group of strangers either…it’s just us.”

margo nodded, already feeling a little better. 

“okay. that’s manageable.”

“plus,” alexia added with a knowing look, “cata might not say much, but she’s one of the most affectionate people here. the hug means she already likes you.”

“i got that vibe,” margo laughed, “i was mid-sentence and suddenly in a hug. didn’t even have time to panic.”

alexia smiled, “that’s her way of saying ‘welcome.’”

margo exhaled, “well, she speaks hug better than i speak spanish.”

“you’ll get there,” alexia assured her, “by december you’ll be dreaming in catalan.”

“or swearing in it,” margo muttered.

“pina will make sure of that,” alexia grinned, “she teaches the good stuff first.”

margo smirked, “perfect. swear words and football terms. that’s all i need for now.”

“and maybe how to ask for coffee,” alexia said, raising a brow.

“right,” margo nodded, “priorities.”

the sun was hot and stronger than what margo had gotten used to in france. barcelona’s training grounds were massive, open, and quiet in the kind of way that made sound travel far. every whistle felt sharper, every footfall over the grass more deliberate. 

this was her first session after the lunch break. this was not the casual kick-around or warm-ups from earlier, but the real drills. 

today, she was paired with kika.

new signings stuck together, it made sense after all. kika had only arrived a few days before margo did, both of them thrown into a system that had been functioning like a well-oiled machine for years. 

it wasn’t about proving themselves since both had already done that to get here, but more about syncing up with the culture. it might be easier for kika, since she is fluent in spanish and the portuguese culture isn’t too far off from spain. 

however, margo was starting to feel nervous due to the unfamiliarity. 

barça’s way of playing was distinct. 

kika nudged margo with her elbow, pointing to the first cone. 

“ready to embarrass ourselves?”

margo snorted. 

“speak for yourself.”

kika grinned. 

“i’ll trip first, don’t worry.”

they started off clean with solid passes, and tight turns. it was only a minute in when kika asked, breath steady despite the movement, “so… how’s america?”

margo shrugged while keeping her eyes on the ball, “it’s okay. to be honest it is nothing too special.”

kika glanced at her with eyebrows lifting, “really? i thought americans were, you know… super patriotic.”

margo laughed under her breath, sending the ball through the next set of cones. 

“some are. most are. not all of us, though.”

“you’re not?”

“not really,” margo said honestly, “i mean, i love some things about home but I don't feel… attached to it, you know? not in that way.”

kika nodded slowly, catching the pass cleanly with her left foot. 

“interesting.”

margo gave her a quick look. 

“why, are you super patriotic about portugal?”

kika smiled, eyes softening. 

“i love portugal but i don’t think that means i owe it everything.”

margo liked that answer.

after a few more rounds of passing, their coach whistled for the next variation: cone runs with sprints and one-touch layoffs. it picked up the pace fast. they jogged to the line side by side, sweat already building on their brows.

“you played at benfica, right?” margo asked between breaths.

“yeah.” kika nodded, “just last season.”

“did you like it?”

kika tilted her head, thinking. 

“i did. it was home but after a while, i started to feel like i was missing out on other opportunities even though i was close to my family. i wanted something new.”

margo looked ahead while nodding, “i get that.”

“france was good to you, no?”

“yeah. lyon was amazing but it never felt like my club or somewhere that i wanted to stay at forever. it felt like… the place where I could've proved myself on the highest level.”

they exchanged a look, aka mutual understanding. 

as they started their sprints, kika glanced sideways, clearly debating whether to ask something.

“so,” she said, a little out of breath, “i overheard ona say that you have a sister in football?”

margo let out a small laugh. 

“yeah. mallory.”

“mallory…” kika said, squinting slightly. 

“mallory swanson?”

“yep.”

“ohhh,” kika said with realization. 

“i know the name. don’t think i’ve played against her though.”

“she plays in chicago, my brother in law is a baseball player there too and i guess married couples have to stay together. i'm surprised you haven’t played against her yet..” 

“ah.” kika nodded while understanding, “i’ve definitely played against you, though.”

margo grinned, “same.”

they shared a knowing look.

“i don’t want to talk about it,” kika muttered suddenly, and margo burst into a laugh, already knowing what she meant.

“that world cup match?”

“yes,” kika groaned, “last group stage game. 0-0.”

“ugh,” margo said while her face twisting, “don’t remind me.”

“we needed one goal,” kika said, “just one.”

“you nearly got it.”

“don’t say that,” kika grinned bitterly, “we got knocked out because of that game.”

“we barely made it through, and we played like garbage,” margo admitted, jogging back to the line with her hands on her hips, “it was tense.”

“i remember marking you.”

“i remember being pissed off the whole time,” margo joked.

kika laughed again, “same.”

for a few minutes, they ran in silence, just the steady beat of their shoes against grass and the calls from romeu cutting through the air. margo could feel the tightness in her legs starting to build. 

she wasn’t out of shape, but this kind of training was intense. 

margo liked it. i

finally, after one last full-field sprint, the whistle blew, and they slowed to a walk, breath coming hard and heavy.

“we survive?” kika asked.

“barely,” margo puffed out, “but yeah.”

as they walked back toward the group, margo looked around at the drills being cleaned up, at the girls passing balls and chatting with ease in the center circle. this team wasn’t just good, they were close. 

“you think we’ll get subbed out of 3v3 for not knowing catalan?” margo asked, only half-joking.

“no chance,” kika smirked, “we’re the test run. if we mess up, they’ll blame it on transition.”

margo laughed, bumping shoulders with her. 

“good. i need at least a month of excuses before they expect me to be fluent.”

“deal,” kika grinned.

they jogged to rejoin the others.

the week before national break had been better than smooth. margo was settling into barcelona’s system faster than expected, bonding with her teammates, learning the rhythm of life both on and off the pitch. 

she was absorbing, adjusting, growing. 

when the national break rolled around, she was ready to put that momentum to use.

it was the olympics. 

in france.

margo had not expected to go.

at first, she was just an alternate…named to the squad but not included in the official 18-player game roster. she traveled, trained, stayed sharp, but deep down, she knew how rare the call would be unless something drastic happened.

it happened.

catarina had to pull out for an irritation in her bad knee. it was heartbreaking for cat, and for the team… but the moment the call came, margo didn’t hesitate. 

she was on the 18-player roster. 

suddenly, the olympics were hers too.

the best part?

she got to play alongside mallory again.

“can’t believe they finally put us on the same damn roster,” mallory said one evening in the locker room before a match, towel tight around her body, hair still damp.

margo laughed, leaning against the bench across from her. 

“yeah, they finally figured out we work better together than apart.”

mallory grinned. 

“i missed you, sister.”

“missed you too. it’s weird not being around each other all the time anymore.”

“it’s weird not hearing you complain about my playlists.”

“because your playlists are ass,” margo teased, and mallory chucked a full water bottle at her.

they both laughed, the kind of laugh you could only share with someone who had known your game since it started in backyard practices and open garage doors.

there was trinity too, margo’s best friend on the national team. she knew every version of margo. every mood swing, every post-game rant, every low and every high. playing with her older sister and bestfriend on the biggest stage in the world felt like some twisted miracle, like the universe finally gave them something just for them.

“you ready?” trinity asked before the gold medal match, bouncing on her toes beside margo in the tunnel.

margo nodded. 

“more than ever.”

“don’t go stealing my goals though,” trinity smirked.

“no promises.”

the stadium in paris was packed.the gold medal match was the moment everyone waited for. 

the opponent? brazil.

brazil played angry. their pressing was suffocating, and by halftime, no goals had come. margo had been stopped more than a few times… or intercepted, and muscled off, and double-teamed the second she got too close to the box. 

the u.s. wasn’t breaking either. 

defensively, they were locked in.

halftime came with red cheeks and heaving chests. in the locker room, everyone refocused. they weren’t panicking. this was what they did…suffocate, frustrate, and then, when the cracks formed, capitalize.

the break worked.

in the 57th minute, it was mallory who broke. she drifted into space off the left side, took a brilliant diagonal ball from em fox, and fired low across goal. 

the net rippled, and mallory threw her hands up in the air, sprinting to the sideline in a rush of joy. margo was the first to her…arms flung wide, yelling at the top of her lungs before tackling her sister in a hug.

“you still got it, swanson!” she yelled.

mallory laughed, breathless. 

“had to remind ‘em.”

the next four minutes felt like a blur.

margo stayed high. waited. when the ball came to horan in the midfield, margo was already peeling away, finding the half-space, screaming for it with her eyes. 

lindsey delivered the perfect through ball…low, fast, threaded like a needle.

margo took one touch, and another, then she buried it.

a left-footed shot, far post. the keeper dove too late.

2-0.

as the crowd erupted, something hilarious happened.

a chant broke out, echoing across the stadium.

“PUGH! PUGH! PUGH!”

a clear, enthusiastic star wars reference, unmistakable. mallory used to have the chant before she got married to margo’s brother-in-law. the woman wanted to laugh but didn’t due to her excitement running in her veins.

margo dropped to her knees, sliding across the pitch in one of her classic celebratory styles…arms stretched, head tossed back. when she stood, trinity was already mid-sprint, tackling her into a hug that knocked them both off balance. 

sam followed next, arms around both of them, and lindsey jumped in too. 

once everyone broke away, mallory jumped on margo’s back.

“this is so unfair,” mallory grinned, clinging to her sister from behind. 

“you’re stealing all the attention.”

“shut uppp you’re still dad’s favorite,” margo laughed.

in the 90th minute em fox sent a ball into the box…high, curling, perfect. margo timed her run flawlessly. she rose above angelina, connected clean with her forehead, and smashed the ball into the top corner.

this time, she didn’t knee-slide.

margo ran to the sideline, dropped into a fake golf stance, and mimicked swinging an imaginary club at the crowd.

3-0, which secured the gold medal.

margaret pugh, barcelona’s new signing, america’s rising force, the younger sister of mallory swanson… she established that she was her own unstoppable player.

the players, well just lindsey and lynn, lifted margo on their shoulders. 

after the ceremony, the medal hung heavy, but her smile was even heavier. 

margo wasn’t just coming.  

she was already here and thriving. 

masterlist

[daargraves]

Talking about tma again, this time about the ✨️different flavours✨️ of Jon x Martin ship names because it's hilarious.

JonMartin - uncreative, a bit bland, literally just their names combined

JMart - funny as hell, sounds like a supermarket, still kinda just their name combined but a bit more creative (poor Jon only have a J tho, at least make it JoMart or something /jk)

Teaholding - adorable, the two things that represent them, underrated really

LonelyEyes 2.0 - fucking hilarious, no one ever use this, it's an insult really to compare these two to the toxic-old-men-yaoi-serial-divorcees

Bonus thought:

If you ever asked the S1 archival crew "would you still love me if I was a worm?", they would have a varying degree of "no." and that's so hilarious.

- 💻

[oikarma]

sometimes the fall kills you 𝜗𝜚 ln4, mv1

navigation / masterlist

summary: (19k) it begins the winter of ‘28. you know this is how ghost stories start. a season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something.

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

notes: this ended up so much longer than i expected, so this is part one only ☹️ freaking tumblr would not let me post my 1000+ blocks. max is literally not in this, sorry for the clickbait, but reading this is important to understanding the next part where he comes in.

lando is a manipulative and unstable person in this fic. his and yn’s relationship might seem romantic or alluring, to have someone so attached to you, but it’s not healthy at all. from what i’ve seen lando is a sweet person and speaks out about mental health, this fic does not claim to represent him in any way. his behavior here is a figment of my imagination.

anyway, this is the first fic i wrote in google docs, i bled, sweat, and teared my way through it, please be nice. i’m sorry in advance. hope you enjoy!

18+... fingering, blowjob, half-choking, unprotected sex, suggestions of oral (smut is in a specific section, i've marked it in bold, please scroll past if you're a minor)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Most days, you feel like the shittest boot-licking piece of trash ever thrown away. It stems from your phone, what all the preaching psychoanalysts tell schoolchildren. Don’t compare yourself. Humans weren’t meant to see their own faces. Fuck that. Mirrors are an age-old invention. Every goddamn thing on this planet is a comparison. You know what they won’t admit: the problem is you, in every lifetime.

So. There’s you, and there’s Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, certified ladies’ man since his early twenties and maybe the owner of the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, right down to his perfect nose. There is no overlap in your venn diagrams, save for the fact that you carved out a piece of him and fit yourself there, like you were born to. You didn’t mean it. But, like you already said, you were born to.

It begins the winter of ‘28. You know this is how ghost stories start. A season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something. The death of what, exactly?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. 29 is hardly old—it doesn’t show on Norris’s face, not yet. It is too early to say “middle-aged,” contrary to popular belief. It is also too early to become a sugar daddy. Then again, standards don’t apply to him. He’s 29 and rolling in cash. It would not be a stretch to say he’s in his prime.

This is not how you find him in the winter of ‘28. The man slumped over a table at a dingy bar in Bristol is nothing like the Lando Norris the world knows. You don’t even recognize him when he’s a bit more sober, only noting that bleary-eyed and slurring somehow suits him. He’s well into the two-digit rounds when your shift begins. Your co-worker shrugs helplessly, tells you to keep an eye on this one (poor thing, drunk out of his mind), and drops the keys into your dumbfounded hands. Consolation has never been your strong suit. You’re allergic to pity, incapable of giving it or swallowing it quietly. The only move you make to help him is to water down each passing drink, more and more, before the ratio is unmissable. By that point, you’re not sure if he can tell the difference between piss and what he’s ordered. Maybe he can, but he’s not drinking anymore.

Now he’s slumped forward, forehead pressed to the sticky wood. His fingers are loose around a glass he’s forgotten how to lift.

“Hey,” you call, leaning over with the rag in hand. “We’re closing soon.”

Nothing.

You sigh and toss the rag on the counter. When you get closer, the smell hits you. Maybe you weren’t close enough, before, in your attempts to stay out of his single-minded drinking. You catch expensive cologne, drowned under sweat and whiskey. Up close, he’s younger than you thought. Late thirties? You might know that face.

“Hey, man.” You tap his wrist, careful not to provoke any sudden movements. Fuck, you’re tired and you don’t want an angry, stubborn man to start a bar fight now. “Time to go.”

His head lifts slowly. It’s too heavy for his neck. This is the first time you see those ridiculous eyelashes, the sharp jaw softened by stubble, the mouth parted. He’s halfway between a laugh and a cry. You’ll get very familiar with those features, in the months to come.

“Where’d she go?” he slurs, blinking up at you like you have the answer. “Where the fuck did she go?”

You freeze for a second. No, this is bad. A sleepy man is okay, as long as he’s not causing trouble. A crazy, inebriated man is a little more than you can take right now. “Who?”

He lets out this bitter little laugh. “My mum,” he mutters, keeling back over and miraculously not splitting his skull in half. “Dead. Just gone. S’fucked, yeah?”

You exhale. The bar is empty. It’s just you and a guy with a dead mom fraying on your counter.

“Okay.” You walk around, crouch slightly, resting a light hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

He flinches under your touch but doesn’t pull away. Just mumbles, “did you know…did you know she kept every helmet I ever…” His words dissolve into a dry laugh. They then evaporate into silence. You manage to get his arm around your frame, hoisting him up with more effort than you thought you would need. He leans into you, a sandbag with no intention of helping, murmuring nonsense as you steer him toward the door.

“C’mon, champ,” you mutter under your breath, only half-mocking. You’re not cruel.

Outside, the cold air hits his face. It must be enough to jolt his senses a little. He sways, blinking hard at the streetlights like they’ve just been invented.

“Where—” he starts, before bursting into more giggles. “Where am I supposed to go?”

You exhale. This man, half-draped over you, a stranger whose grief is soaking through your clothes, a spilled drink of something you shouldn’t know about. You don’t know yet that his name is Lando Norris. You don’t know yet that—no, you’re getting ahead of yourself again. At this moment, your priority is not having a dead man and a murder investigation in your name.

At this moment, all you know is you need to get him into a cab before he collapses on your doorstep.

“Home,” you say, and hope to God he remembers where that is.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Two nights later, he walks in, a reassurance that, yes, he did remember where home was.

He’s so different that you almost don’t recognize him, if not for the same cologne, honey and saffron that wafts into the air. It oozes confidence and allure, just the way the man that wears it does. He does now, at least, with a crisp white shirt (loose, but precise enough to show that it’s been tailored) and a watch that probably costs more than all your student debt combined.

You watch him from behind the counter, heart sinking into your shoes. Of course. Because God forbid one night of decency go unpunished.

He slides onto a stool (right in front of you, of course) and leans in with this easy, practiced charm that makes you want to punch something. It’s so fake, so unlike everything you know about him. He has no right being able to compose himself. You hate rich douchebags who act like they have no problems; this man’s signature is halfway onto that list.

“Evening,” he says. “Miss me?”

You snort before you can help it. The audacity. It’s a wonder he remembers your face, considering he’d forgotten what lamps looked like. You think he’s pathetic. Pity, as you’ve already said, isn’t in your dictionary. He’s a poser who pretends he’s not sad.

“Wow,” you deadpan, draping the rag over your shoulder. “Back to slum it with the peasants so soon? We’re honored.”

He smiles with all his face, from his mouth to his eyes, from his laugh lines to his immaculately set teeth. There are no canine fangs in this man’s mouth, but his grin still comes off sharp and pleased. He was hoping you’d bite.

“You’re quick. I like that.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want, fancy boy? Another blackout? You know, I usually charge extra for babysitting drunks, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

He smiles again, this time with a laugh. You hate the way you notice the way his fingers through his hair, the effortless grace of it.

“Came to settle my tab.” He reaches into his pocket—wallet? You don’t see clearly—and places a black card on the counter. To him, it’s nothing. “And maybe buy the bartender a drink for her trouble.”

You glance at the card, then back at him. You know how to look helpless, how to mold yourself to what a customer wants. You also know how to look unimpressed, in an attempt to ward off this preening pretty boy. “I think you’re overestimating how much I care about your conscience.”

Not once does his smile falter. “Oh, I’m not here to clear my conscience.” His eyes flick over you. Not in that greasy, leering way you’re used to. It’s as if he’s cataloging you for future use, pulling you apart in his head. “I just don’t like owing people.”

You push the card back toward him. Your fingers tap the bar once. “Then consider us square. You lived, I didn’t get vomit on my shoes. We both win.”

You see his eyes widen, just for a moment—you’ve surprised him—and then the grin snaps back into place, looser now. This is a game he’s decided he wants to play.

He leans back on the stool, thumb brushing his bottom lip. He’s savoring something. You don’t know what. “Alright,” he says to himself. “Square, then.”

You nod once, already turning away.

“See you around, bartender.”

You don’t look back. You won’t look back. You’re walking away, carried by your feet and better judgement. There’s a hook under your skin. You know, with a sinking in your chest, that he’ll be back. You don’t even know his name, but you know that much. Not because he owes you, not because he should.

Now, you’re interesting. And men like him never let interesting go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through a paper when your laptop freezes. You stare at the spinning cursor. It’s the montage people talk of when they’re about to die. It is, in its own right, a death sentence.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, fingers hammering at the keys. Please, please, let it save you. The library around you is packed. Someone two tables over is crying, not-so-quietly, into their sleeve.

You drag your hands through your hair, tug hard at the roots, blink down the burn in your eyes. Coffee-stained hoodie, cracked phone screen, empty energy drink cans rattling in your bag—who’s going to give in first, your body or your mind?

Understandably, you’re a little too occupied to care about who’s around you. They’re all tired and equally as demotivated, so you think. Your chest gives a sick lurch to inform you otherwise.

Leaning against the archway across the room is the devil, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He wears a dark jacket and a faint smirk.

No, you think wildly, almost laughing. What the fuck? This is not happening.

But it is. Your drunken spoils, in the flesh. He pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. You still don’t know his name.

“Didn’t peg you for the overachieving type,” he says when he reaches your table, voice pitched low enough it curls right under your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, slamming your laptop shut. It’s already broken, might as well end its misery now. “Are you following me now?”

He raises both hands. “Relax. I’m giving a talk here.” He tips his head toward the auditorium doors down the hall. “Motivation, hard work, all that crap they pay me for. But you,” he adds, eyes flicking over the mess of your table, “you’re making us all look bad.”

Your chest is tight, your breathing ragged. You’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or exhaustion laced in your bones. Probably all three. “Look,” you snap, shoving papers into your bag, “why don’t you stick daddy’s money up your ass and find your way home. Go harass someone who gives a shit. Maybe someone with money, so they’ll be more sympathetic than me.”

When you lurch to your feet, he’s suddenly right in front of you. You see the lashes again, long and tantalizing, about to pull you to your death. You’re going to suffocate on his cologne.

“Burning out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s no mockery in his voice now. “You should pace yourself.”

You shove past him hard enough your shoulder clips his arm. Asshole. You hope he trips down the stairs and chips his veneers. You know exactly why he’s here—it’s not the first time you’ve seen a man cracked open and raw on that barstool, trying to drown themselves in grief and whiskey. Men like him don’t let anyone keep hold of that kind of power. So yeah, you’re overworked, underpaid, and too close to your deadlines.

He’s going to be pulling on that string for a while. He’s going to enjoy dragging out your inevitable unraveling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next day at work, it’s quiet. You’re restocking glasses behind the bar. Your eyes are gritty from no sleep, brain still fried. Right now, you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to make this month’s rent. Bartending is great when people give good tips. Today it’s hell.

Your manager taps your shoulder, frowning. “Hey, someone left this for you.” You turn and take what’s in his hands, an envelope with your first name on it. It’s handwritten, a surprising gesture of humility compared to the numbers on the check inside.

You stare at it for a long, long time. Long enough that your hands start to go numb. It’s made out to you. Enough to clear everything. Rent, loans, student debt…fuck, it’s enough to buy you a new car, too.

There’s no note or explanation. Although you’ve never seen his handwriting before—from Lando Norris, the check says, and this is how you finally get his name—you know somewhere across the city, Lando Norris is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You find him outside a hotel, and obviously, it’s the most expensive one in town. You did a little research on him when you got his name. He’s from here. So he has a house, probably, and he’s at a hotel anyway because the cash burning his pocket is oh-too-much to bear. He’s stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed into his hair, scrolling lazily through his phone. The world doesn’t touch him. He practically tosses his keys at you.

“What the fuck, man?” you burst out, voice sharp enough to turn a few heads.

Lando looks up. “Afternoon to you, too. I thought you were the valet.”

You stop in front of him and jab the envelope toward his chest. “You’re not a mafia boss, you know that, right? You can’t just—you can’t just throw money at people like they’re strays and then disappear.”

His brows lift slightly. “Didn’t realize helping was a crime.”

“Helping?” You bite back a laugh. “I know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white. “You want me to owe you. You want me tied to you. You think if you pull hard enough, I’ll snap, and—and what? You’ll own me?”

You see his eyes darken at the suggestion.

“Sweetheart,” he says. He’s talking to a scared cat, pushing off the car, closing the distance between you in one easy step, “you already owe me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.” 

He grins again, now with all his teeth, and says it so casually it makes your head spin: “I want you to be my sugar baby.”

“You’re insane,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You’re insane. They need to put you in a psych ward. You can’t say that to people you barely know—”

Lando tips his head slightly. He’s a cat watching the mouse try to run. “Why not? I always say what I want. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just buy people. You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in smoothly, like he always does. He seems advertent to letting you finish your sentences. “Help you? Save you some time? Give you a way out before you collapse in that library corner you’ve been camping in for weeks?”

You glare at him, but your chest is tight and you can’t force the words out.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, smile slipping softer now, almost gentle. “What people are willing to let me buy.”

For one furious, helpless second, you want to slap him. Or start crying. Or do something, something that’ll make him feel out of control. What you do is step back, trying to muster venom, voice cracking on the words: “Go to hell, Norris.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.” He winks and hands the actual valet, who’s snuck up behind you two, a nice wad of money. “You’ll come around.”

The check burns in your fist, even as he vanishes between the golden hotel doors.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You crash through your apartment door at midnight, still tasting the metallic buzz of panic on your tongue. It might also be blood. You have a nasty habit of opening cuts on your lips.

The envelope goes on the counter, torn halfway open, the check peeking out, mocking you, taunting you. You slap a hand over your face and groan into your palm. What the actual hell is happening?

Your phone buzzes.

mara(malade) holy fuck

mara(malade) u alive? shift was hell

You practically sag with relief. Mara, your coworker—ex-roommate (now she’s got a bit more money of her own), bartender, chaos magnet, saint. You fire back a desperate come over please bring wine before you can overthink it. Twenty minutes later, she’s on your couch, a bottle of grocery store rosé cradled like it’s a baby.

“So,” she says, fumbling around for a bottle-opener, “what’s the emergency? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or committed tax fraud.”

You shove the check at her. She squints at it, reads the amount, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Who’d you rob?”

“Lando Norris,” you blurt, and immediately regret it.

“You wish.” You don’t laugh, a sign something’s wrong and this is not a joke. She looks up, finger pointing accusingly. “Fuck me. Lando Norris as in Formula 1 driver, millionaire, owns-half-of-Monte-Carlo Lando Norris?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know about all the rest, but yes, Lando Norris!”

Mara lets out a snort of disbelief. “Okay, back up. Why is Lando Norris writing you a check that could wipe my student loans and buy me a new liver? Did you save his life or something?”

“I—” You collapse onto the couch, pressing your knuckles to your mouth. “He was drunk at the bar. Like, blackout. I stopped him from, I don’t know, choking on his own tongue? And now he thinks I’m some charity case or—”

Mara raises both brows, an impressed little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Babe, respectfully…why you?”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“I love you. Don’t get me wrong,” Mara says, hands raised, “but he’s…him. And you’re.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re, like, you. You’re brilliant and broke and working three jobs and I know you, and no offense, but you have no chill. What do you have on him? Are you blackmailing him? Did you see him cry in the bathroom?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, useless. 

“Oh my God,” Mara cackles. “You did.”

You groan, dragging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nightmare? This is the plot of every bad Netflix movie I’ve ever binged.” Mara unleashes the rosé with a nice pop. Hardly one for decorum, she takes a sip right out of the bottle. “So. Are you gonna cash it?”

You think of Lando’s smile—smug, that’s the best way to describe it—and the way he looked at you. To him, you were a puzzle he adored having his hands on. You think of the way your stomach twisted when he leaned in close. He already knew how you’d break.

“I don’t know.”

Mara’s grin fades. “Careful, babe. Guys like that, they don’t just give. They take.”

You know. God, you know. 

You spend the next hour pacing the apartment, a lunatic. Mara refreshes your instagram every other minute. She says it’s bad for you, but in your state, maybe she should be doing it instead. The current report: “Nothing. No messages, no tags, no random follows.”

You check the bar’s security footage on your phone and it’s just his blurry back slipping into a car.

You Google him (why did you Google him, why, it was normal the first time and now it’s dangerously close to stalking) and end up falling into a YouTube spiral. Lando’s podium interviews, Lando’s champagne-soaked parties, Lando’s Monaco apartment tour, and Lando’s something with his trainer that makes your stomach do an ugly little flip. Somewhere between the videos, Mara falls asleep on the couch, too tired to be your better judgement. But his number? His email? A way in? You have nothing. Now you’re the desperate one. You should stop, really.

“God, you coward. You can just drop a check on someone’s life and walk away? What are you, Batman? What am I supposed to do with this, frame it?”

You curl forward, forehead pressed to your knees. You laugh under your breath in that shaky, half-hysterical way that’s closer to a cry. You’re not even sure what’s eating you alive more—the fact that he did this, or the fact that some awful part of you wants him to show up again, wants him to walk back through the bar doors like it was just some normal Tuesday, like this hasn’t cracked open something huge and stupid and terrifying inside you.

He doesn’t, in that infuriating way of his, and you can’t find him.

When you fall asleep on the couch at four in the morning, the check is still there on the table, its stupid smooth paper whispering you’re already in too deep, sweetheart, every time you roll over.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando doesn’t plan on showing up again, that’s the thing.

He tells himself it’s done. Box checked, debt cleared, one good deed in a life otherwise soaked in champagne and carbon fiber and a mile-long string of bad decisions. Hey, he’s a marginally less shitty asshole. He’s sitting on the balcony of his hotel suite when it starts gnawing at him. 

You didn’t cash the check.

He knows because his assistant flagged it. That’s the kind of man he is now—detached, insulated, always three degrees removed from the mess he makes. He sends the money, someone else watches. He screws up, someone else cleans it. But you didn’t play the part.

He hasn’t gotten a thank-you (you told him to go to hell, actually) letter. He hasn’t gotten any gratitude, not even for the money (you told him to stick it up his ass). You didn’t even try to contact him. He leans back in the chair, tipping his head toward the sky. He lets out a slow exhale. There’s a bitter curl of something in his chest, and it has nothing to do with grief or guilt. It’s irritation.

He can’t stand that you saw him wrecked, sprawled across that bar, drunk out of his mind, cracked open and human. He can’t stand that you walked away. Now you’re out there, a loose thread in his neatly stitched life, and it’s driving him fucking insane. So yeah, he’s going to give it a few more days and then he’s going to go back. He hasn’t any intentions of apologizing or explaining. This is for him only. Lando Norris has never been the type to walk away without solving the goddamn puzzle.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

His patience pays itself over in gold.

You cashed the check. Of course you did.

He knows the exact day, in fact. His assistant texts him with a one-line update (“it cleared this morning”) while he’s halfway through an espresso and a team meeting he hasn’t listened to in twenty minutes. For a moment, Lando just sits there, thumb running along the rim of his cup, that devilish smile peeking out. You finally cracked.

Now he gives it three days before he shows up. He does it quietly, just him at the edge of the bar.

Your head jerks up when you see him, eyes wide. Lando feels it like a hit of adrenaline, clean down his spine.

“You.”

“Me,” he agrees. “Been a while, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re rattled. “I didn’t—I only cashed it because—”

“Relax. No strings, remember?”

Your jaw works, teeth catching on the inside of your cheek. “Why are you here?”

His smile tilts with his head, so lopsided it might seem innocent. “To see you.”

“You don’t even know me, asshole.”

“But I know enough,” Lando says, lowering his voice. He knows your name, he knows your situation—well, he cleared all that—, and he knows you’re nervous. You’re breathing too fast. He leans on the bar, eyes half-lidded. He loves watching you scramble for ground. “You’re working two jobs. You’re barely sleeping. You think you can handle everything by yourself, and you hate that you can’t. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day you cashed that check.”

He hears you gulp. He waits a bit longer, two heartbeats, maybe.

And then, with a wicked little grin, he says, “So. How about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Lando says again. You’re sharing a secret. “You eat, don’t you?”

You flounder. When you get riled up, it wakes something inside him. Maybe that’s why he’s been coming back, not just because he needs to do charity, but because you entice him.

“I’m not your little project,” you snap. “You wanted me to take the money, I took the money, will you please just leave me alone instead of trying to…” You don’t want to finish the sentence. You can’t even find your arsenal of vulgarity.

“Seduce you?” Lando supplies lightly. “Mmm. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Before you can throw another insult, before you can spit him out, he’s sliding a card across the counter, tapping it once with his finger. You’ve seen this film before. You know what you should do next: push him aside, push all of this down so you don’t think about it. You’ve done it before, can’t you do it again?

“Tonight. Seven. Wear something dangerous.”

Like the shitbag he is, he just walks away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He came back and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. In your defense, it’s only been a few hours. Your shift ends and you half-stumble home. You shut the door to your apartment, sag against it, and press your fists to your eyes, hoping you can squeeze Lando Norris out of your skull.

You’re not a project. You’re not his charity case. You’re not going to whore it out for more money. Greed is dangerous. You’re satisfied. Do this one thing and let it go.

Your bank account is whole for the first time in a year. The past-due notices are gone. The constant panic is still there, but now it’s now less mechanical notices and more an unspeakable Brit.

Mara’s on your couch when you finally topple over. She’s digging into a bag of chips.

“You’re a mess,” she announces. “Also, is it true Lando Norris tipped you a down payment on a house?”

“Not a house. Not—” you’re muffled by the pillow that your face sinks into.

“Babe,” she says through a mouthful of salt and vinegar, “do you have any idea how hot, rich, and deeply emotionally unavailable that man is? He must really hate what you saw.”

“I don’t know!” you groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—”

You don’t tell Mara about the card he left. You don’t tell her that it’s still in your jeans pocket. You don’t take it out. If you do, you’re worried it’ll manifest into a contract with the devil, one you are a little too eager to sign.

You shouldn’t have worried so much, in retrospect. Now you’re face-to-face with Lando, your fear of the card is replaced by a constant need to fidget with the napkin. It’s brutally wrinkled. You’ve been twisting it in your fists since the appetizers.

Lando, of course, looks completely at ease. The glass turns slowly in his hand. You’re half-convinced he’s heard your every thought and is simply waiting for you to confess them.

“I can’t believe I came,” you mutter.

“You say that like I put a gun to your head.”

You scowl. No one’s looking at you, but you still feel eyes crawling over your skin. Maybe it’s just him. “You left me a check.”

“Mm. So I did.”

“Enough to clear my loans. Rent. Half my fucking soul.”

He leans in across the table, his halfway unbuttoned shirt dipping down in a way that strains you to keep your eyes up. “You’re welcome.”

You bristle. “You think this is charming? Is this how you get girls? Buy their dignity and then flash them a smile like they should be grateful?”

Lando’s brow arches. It’s not in surprise, because he was waiting for that, too. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” His mouth twitches. “Darling, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have picked the most hostile bartender in Bristol. You think you’re the first woman who’s ever told me to fuck off?”

It stings. “So why me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Right. Like a bug.”

“No. Like a puzzle. One I want to take apart with my teeth.”

What the fuck? For a second, all you can hear is the soft click of silverware, someone laughing across the room. Did he just say he wanted to take me apart with his teeth? You were stupid for coming here. You’re going to beat yourself up about it later.

“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap. “I’m a person. A tired one. Who works too many hours and hasn’t taken a proper day off in months. You don’t get to walk in and play white knight just because you’re bored.”

“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me that night.”

You go still. “That night,” you say carefully, “you were a wreck. You were just another wreck. I had no idea who you were.”

He smiles, almost genuinely this time. “Exactly.”

You pick at the edge of your plate, push around your roasted carrots. They’ve offended you.

“I don’t want to owe you,” you say finally.

“Like I said before, you already do.”

He doesn’t smile. “You cashed the check. You came to dinner. And you’re still here. With me. Which means a part of you wants to know what happens next.”

You’re going to choke on all of this. “What do you want from me?”

All his smiles are wicked. This one is particularly knowing. “Honesty? Time. Your attention. Eventually, your mouth. But I’m patient.”

Egotistical, much? Demanding, much? You’re compiling a list of unflattering words to describe him in your head. It makes the issue feel a bit more manageable. He stretches out like a man completely at home, and says, “you think I’m dangerous. You’re not running. Either you’re stupid or you’re curious.”

You don’t have an answer. At least, not one you can say out loud. You finish your drink in one long, burning swallow and stare at the man across the table who just might end your entire life and make you beg for it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now, the flowers. You come home from work, fingers raw with cold. Your shoes are damp with spilled beer—another asshole; this one couldn’t even tip well—only to trip over a box sitting outside your apartment door. You stare at it for a full minute before crouching down. It’s ridiculous, a bouquet four times the size of your head and more colorful than any plants you’ve seen in your life. You think they might all be roses, but you don’t know your flowers very well.

The card is small, white, blank except for a few words:

For the tired girl.—L

You know that handwriting. You’ve seen it on the envelope that decided your fate. You don’t take them inside. You leave them in the stairwell, daring the universe to care.

The next night, he’s waiting. Not at your door, no, that would be obvious. He’s at the bar, same corner stool.

“Figured you’d show up.” Your voice is flat.

“Did you?”

You slam a glass into the rack a little too hard. “Didn’t figure you were the type to stalk.”

“I’m not.” Lando’s long legs kick under the bar. His designer coat is thrown over the adjacent stool. To him, it’s nothing. Probably sent for free, for exposure. “You left the flowers outside.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like wasting effort.”

At least he’s honest. “So what? You’re here to monitor your investment?”

“I’m here,” Lando murmurs, “because you’re the first person in months who hasn’t wanted something from me. Well, until you cashed the check.”

“Fuck you.”

He says, “careful. You might make me fall in love.”

You whirl on him. “Why me? You could have anyone. Any rich little hanger-on, any girl looking for a payday. Why this?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve already had this conversation. What are you drinking after your shift?”

You shake your head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is bad news. You are bad news.”

“And yet here we are.”

Lando Norris loves giving things, like they might buy your interest. First the card, then the check, then the card again—fuck, you shouldn’t have used it—and now a piece of folded paper. What now, marriage papers?

No. On it is a string of numbers. His number.

He tugs on his coat. The smile he flashes you a smile so uncaring it makes your knees weak.

“Call me. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you soon.”

You don’t touch the note for the rest of the night. When you lock up hours later, it’s gone. You know exactly where it is: folded in the bottom of your bag.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you you’re fucking insane

Delivered. Read.

Lando and you kept the number

You bite down on a curse, drop your head back against the fridge. Why the fuck did you text him? You’re crazy and deserving of whatever comes next, that’s what you are.

you what do you want

Lando a lot of things

Lando you’re at the top of the list

You huff under your breath, disgust growing under your ribs. You should end this here. You should block him, delete the number, set your phone on fire for good measure. But it won’t do anything, you decide. If he truly means to mess with you, it will do absolutely no good. He’ll show up at your job. He’ll do something about the very generous amount of money he gave you, even if he said “no strings attached.” You owe him, that’s the ugly truth.

you go bother someone else

Lando a few things, sweetheart

Lando you texted me first you’re so much fun when you’re madand besides. no one else keeps me entertained like you.

you i’m not your fidget toy

Lando not yet

You actually breathe when you hear he’s gone. Thank god for that millionare job he’s got, driving in circles. It’ll keep him out of your hair for a good amount of time, according to the information you’ve got online. Racing is a very demanding schedule, and now winter’s drawing to an end, he can’t afford to waste his time on you.

You work the bar in peace. You go home in peace. You wake up, no trace of him in the corner booth or at your barstool or leaning against your car with that maddening smirk. You’ve only seen Lando Norris a few times, yet every time you do, your heartbeat goes up like you’re about to die.

Of course, good things never last. His texts start coming a few days after he’s left your life.

Lando do you miss me yet

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

you i didn’t even notice you were gone

Lando liar

You toss the phone facedown on the couch. The next morning, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, there’s a courier with a fucking bouquet. It’s the second one, somehow larger, more obnoxious. There’s no card this time.

You snap a photo and send it to him.

you seriously?

Lando what kind of asshole would i be if i left you alone completely

The next night, it’s a box, no flowers this time, just expensive chocolate you would never buy yourself. You don’t even like sweets. You text him anyway.

you stop

Lando make me

You grind your teeth. You tell yourself not to engage, but you can’t resist sending a:

you you know, i really wish i could

You don’t mean it with any connotation. You just wish he’d shut up and fall off a cliff or something. Then all your debt would be miraculously cleared. 

By day four, you’re jumpy, checking your phone when you swore you wouldn’t. Waiting for a message that makes you want to scream.

Like clockwork:

Lando you thinking about me? be honest

You flop down on your bed and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a week. You’re not supposed to want this. You hate him, you really do, and you know that’s true to a certain degree. When he comes by, your fists clench and you try to look anywhere by him. His name brings irritation, gets under your skin, and then it turns into something else. You heard someone say once that hate and love aren’t very different things. Bullshit. Hate and want, more so. That feeling, that despisement, is intoxicating.

Lando i’ll be back soon, sweetheart

You scream into your hands.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara nudges you. You don’t need to look up. He’s back.

This time, you have a response prepared. You smile coquettishly, the way you do when you need good tips. You aren’t privy to swaying your hips a little, maybe angling yourself so the curves of your waist are more enunciated. “Did you cry on the plane or after you landed?”

Oh, he’s glaring. You love that. It makes it easy to maintain your perfect picture of innocence, so eager to be happy. “Oh, sorry. Did you not want anyone mentioning Monaco?”

“Funny.”

You reach for another glass. “Did Oscar at least send you a thank-you basket for letting him win?”

Lando’s jaw flexes, a tiny tic. “You keeping up with the races now, sweetheart? Or just the standings?”

You grin. “Just the losses. Yours, specifically.”

Every inch of him is coiled tight. His shirt is rumpled and the sleeves shoved up. You notice how his throat his exposed, like he dressed in a rush, like he couldn’t stand being away from this city another second. Away from you. You’re flattering yourself. Maybe Monaco really did suck and he was so, so, sad he had to live in a million-dollar penthouse that he came back to this city. 

“You know,” he says, “I could’ve stayed in Monaco. Big party tomorrow. But no. I flew home.” His eyes flick over your face, unapologetic. “Guess why.”

Dry as sandpaper, you say, “miss your favorite bartender?”

“You make a mean whiskey sour.”

“I also make a mean ‘get out of my bar, you gosh-darned cunt.’”

He chuckles under his breath, but the sound isn’t fully natural. Lando’s holding something back “You’re good, you know that? Gosh-darned cunt, really?”

“At what?”

You see his knee bounce. “At getting under my skin. You rile me up like you’re trying to start something.”

“Maybe I am,” you say.

“Careful.”

“Is this the part where you try to scare me?”

“No.” His composure is back. He knows something—at the very least, he thinks he knows something. “This is the part where I wonder how long you’re going to pretend you don’t want me.”

Heat licks up your spine. You hate him. You hate how good he is at this. What would it be like, you wonder for a moment, to be rich and good looking and cocky as a man with a two-inch dick.

“You’re right, Lando. I want you so bad I’m shaking,” you say, voice husky. You let your eyelids lower, as if you’re staring at him in a post-orgasmic haze.

His expression changes.

Then you smile a toothy grin. “For a restraining order.” The snort that bursts out of him might be a little impressed.

“You’re insufferable,” Lando mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“And you’re still here,” you shoot back.

He slouches back on the barstool.

“Fuck, you drive me insane.”

You turn so he can’t see you biting your lip to keep from smiling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The texts are still a thing, something to keep your wits sharp while Lando’s out of town. Getting to bicker and not having to see his face? The gods made this arrangement just for you. To be fair, you haven’t asked for anything aside from what he gives you of his own free will. He never says the words “sugar baby” anymore, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he pays. You can afford some of it, sure, but investments are better. You still have the rest of your life to spend money.

Your phone lights up on the counter. For one second, you consider ignoring it, you really do.

Then you swipe, anyway.

“Hello,” you say, with that voice you only use with him, like you’re about to fall asleep from how dull he is.

“Thought you’d never pick up.”

It’s great he can’t see your face. Your stomach dips, traitorous, and you are absolutely not bored by him.

“What do you want?” you mutter, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scrub harder at the countertop.

“Relax,” Lando says. “I’m not asking for your soul.”

“I think I already signed it away,” you quip.

There’s a pause. You can hear the faint sound of city traffic behind him, the rustle of fabric as he moves. You can picture it too clearly: his fingers at his collar, half-distracted, grinning to himself because to him, this is all a game.

“I need a favor,” he allows.

Your laugh is mean.  “Oh, do you.”

“Don’t get excited, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of favor.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

You often send him chuckling, as he does now. “You’re really something.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near your little circus. Whatever it is, I’m sure you have a dozen girls on speed dial who’d jump at the chance.”

“Sure,” Lando says smoothly. “But they’re not you.” Too cheesy. You won’t give it to him. Still, that lands somewhere you don’t want to admit. You pace behind the bar.

“Look, I’m not some accessory. I thought we already agreed on this. Fuck it. Dinner, okay. If you want to text me, I guess you can have that, asshole. If you have to show up at work, okay, but anything aside from that…”

“Calm down.” His voice dips, completely unriled which only makes you angrier. “It’s just an event. Monaco. Black tie. Tomorrow night.”

You stop pacing. “Tomorrow? Monaco, like, France? Which son of a bitch crashed into your car and gave you a concussion?”

“Mm,” he says. You can hear him smile. “It’s a shame you’re going to say no. Especially since I already had the dress sent over.”

“You what?”

“Check the door.”

You lunge for it, yank it open, and there’s a hotel courier on the stoop of your bar. The garment bag in their hand, something out of a fever dream. You whip back around, phone still pressed to your ear. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you’re still on the line, sweetheart. I had my assistant email the plane tickets.”

“My god. This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.

“Of course not. See you tomorrow.”

You wave away the courier weakly (they say no need for tip, it’s been covered) and toss the garment bag onto the barstool like it’s radioactive. Mara looks up from her ramen, mouth full, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “Is that a dress? Please tell me that’s not a dress. Shit, that bag looks expensive.”

“It’s a dress. Kill me.”

Mara sets her wrinkled noodle cup down. “Okay, back up. Shit. You’re going to have to explain. You had a couture gown delivered to your workplace?”

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I, fuck, I don’t even know what I said. He just called. I guess he knew I was still at work and sent it here instead.”

“Oh, he called.” Mara clearly wasn’t listening. It was valid, because you would’ve been very invested in your noodles too. “And you picked up. Shocking.”

“I was caught off guard, okay?”

Mara leans back, arms crossed. She’s settling in for a show. “Mm-hm. Off guard, even though you have his contact. And what exactly did our emotionally unstable sugar daddy.”

“He’s not my—whatever, he wants me to go with him. To this stupid black-tie thing. In Monaco—Mara, I’ve never been outside the country, and he wants me to meet more pissy millionaire with egos just like his? Goddamnit, I’m a blasted idiot. I should’ve hung up.”

“And now you’re here,” Mara finishes, “having a full-on meltdown over a man you keep calling a pissy millionaire, but whose name you’ve Googled so much your phone probably thinks you’re a fan account.”

You shoot her a betrayed look.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Just, are you sure you’re not into him? I don’t know, if you really hated it, you’d be gone.”

You throw a dirty, soaking towel at her. She catches it easily and puts it down. “Fine, fine. But listen, babe. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think he’s hot.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mara says, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “But you are going to text me photos once you get dressed. If you’re going to dance with the devil, baby, you might as well look smoking doing it.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

At some point, after pacing the suite, after staring too long at the ocean view, after wondering what the hell you were even doing in Monaco, the dress ended up on your skin. Now you’re cursing again, fingers fumbling at the clasp behind your neck. It’s a bit worrying how well the dress fits you. You’d be more worried if you had a spare thought. Currently, you’re occupied with trying to get this fucking clasp doe.

There’s a knock at the door. You wonder who it could be, because the hotel people usually announce themselves. One culprit.

“Lando, if you come in here—”

The door swings open. How the fuck does he have a key?

“Relax,” he drawls, stepping inside like it’s his suite, his eyes sweeping over you in one slow, sinfully amused pass. Well, he did order the room. Maybe he had a spare he didn’t bother letting you know about. “I knocked.”

You scowl. “Get out.”

But your hands are still twisted up at the clasp and he sees it. 

“Need help, sweetheart?”

You spin halfway, trying to yank the zipper yourself, but it only slips lower, baring more skin, making you hiss under your breath. “No. Go away.”

He’s already crossing the room. There it is, that cologne, honey and saffron, so inebriating you almost close your eyes to savor the smell. It makes your pulse spike. You know that body heat amplifies the notes. Lando Norris is warm and right next to you.

“Stay still,” he says. His fingers brush yours, gentle yet firm, easing you out of the way. His knuckles graze your nape and your breath hitches before you can bite it back.

“I hate you,” you mutter, as his fingers work the clasp. You wonder if he’s done this many times before. The answer is probably yes.

“Mm,” Lando hums, mouth too close to your ear. “You keep saying that.”

He lingers, too long, his thumb ghosting over your bare skin. Your chest tightens; your hands flex at your sides.

“You think this is charming? Bursting into my room when I’m trying to change?” you snap, half-turning toward him. “Is this how you—”

He cuts you off, his eyes flicking down. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

“Not yet.” Lando smirks. His voice is gasoline, about to set your insides—everything, really—on fire. You shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, but the contact jolts both of you. One hand is still on your back, holding you like he’s about to dance.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whisper.

“Guilty.” He lets go then. “I’ll wait downstairs. Ten minutes. Though I think you look ready.”

“And if I don’t come?”

Lando’s already at the door. “Oh, you’ll come.” His voice is absolutely certain.

You tell yourself you’re only going down because you need to tell him to his face you’re not doing this. That’s it. That’s the only reason. When you step into the elevator, your palms sweaty, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

The car is waiting outside (probably his, judging from the custom initials ‘LN’) with, you note, tinted windows. Lando’s hair is raked back. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical little flourish.

“Fucking wanker,” you say. There’s no malice behind it.

The door closes with a soft, expensive thunk. You press yourself against the far side of the seat. You can still feel the heat of him even across the car, the subtle glance he steals when you cross your legs, the way his hand ‘accidentally’ finds your thigh instead of the gear shift. 

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You want to wipe that smirk of this face. “Like I can’t decide if I want to ruin you or worship you?”

There’s a thought you have often when it comes to Lando Norris. What the fuck? You, who cusses every other sentence, have more decorum than this man. And he’s saying all this with a straight face. It might be sincere, if you didn’t know him any better. You dig your nails into your palm. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”

Lando looks away from the road. He’s way too confident to be driving safely. “Maybe. But you’re still in my car, wearing my dress, going to my party. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, sweetheart, but you already chose.”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the glittering coastline smear past in a blur of gold, watch it turn into a cathedral of money and ego. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, women in dresses you’d need a mortgage to afford. Well, now you have a willing bankroller, maybe you don’t.

Lando doesn’t so much escort you as claim you. His hand remains at the small of your back, hot breath brushing your ear as he murmurs names you don’t recognize, introductions you don’t want. You slip away from him the moment he’s distracted by some sponsor, ducking toward the balcony again for air. As it turns out, you’re not alone.

“Big crowd, huh?”

You turn, startled, and find a brunette against the railing, glass of water in hand. His tie’s loose, hair slightly mussed like someone’s been messing with it all night. His smile is easy, genuine, the kind that makes your shoulders drop without meaning to. You let out a breath. Lando gets you all tense.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a lot.”

Alex chuckles. “First one?”

“Does it show?” 

“Only a little.” He grins. “But you’re doing fine. Better than I did my first one. I tripped over a server. Champagne everywhere.” 

Your laugh is genuine, this time. That makes the first nice person you’ve met all evening.

“I’m Alex, by the way.” He offers his hand and you shake it, thankful for the small, normal gesture in a night that’s felt anything but.

You introduce yourself and he brightens. “Oh, you’re with Lando tonight?” he asks lightly, with only curiosity. “How’d you two meet?”

You freeze for half a second—how do you even explain that? That he crashed into your life like a hurricane, arrogant and infuriating, with a check big enough to clear your debts and a smirk that’s been haunting your sleep ever since?

“Long story,” you hedge, a little helpless. “Sort of accidental.”

Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “He’s not all bad, you know. A menace, sure, but not all bad.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice.”

“Well, someone has to balance him out. You okay, though?”

Hell no, you want to say. Your mouths are already forming the words, before you smell that goddamn cologne. It’s like the electrical smell that precedes a storm, a warning. You turn and there’s Lando. 

His eyes flick to Alex, then to you. “Making friends without me, sweetheart?”

Alex winks. “Just keeping her company, mate.”

Lando’s mouth falls into a frown, before he catches himself. “Right.” His gaze cuts to you. “Come dance,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You glance at Alex, completely helpless. He just squeezes your arm gently. “Go on. He’s useless without you.”

He leads you into the throng of people, fingers pressing into the silk at your hip. “Why’ve you been hiding?”

You twist, glaring up at him. “I wasn’t hiding. You dumped me for the wolves.”

“I was making the rounds.”

“And now what, you want a medal?” you snap. God, your heart is about to give out, as his thumb strokes a slow, deliberate line against your side. He spins you into him, just like that, the room tipping for half a second. His chest brushes yours. You feel the hard line of his arm at your back.

“Tell me,” Lando says, “how many of them have come over tonight? Kimi, Charles, George…they’re all wondering what you’re doing with me.”

“Makes sense,” you mutter, “so am I.”

“You’re not a model. You’re not anyone’s plus-one. You’re not chasing some influencer deal.” He lists them, all while keeping his eyes on you. “And you’re the only one in this room who actually wants me to fuck off all of the time.”

“Where’s this going, Norris?”

The edge of his thumb grazes your jaw. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t see you looking? You think I don’t know why you stayed?”

You snap, “I stayed because you booked me a goddamn plane ticket. And you keep showing up. And you don’t let people walk away.”

He leans in until there’s barely any air between you. You can’t breathe without inhaling every bit of him. “Neither do you. Couldn’t leave me without getting the last word, could you?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I know. You like to tell me that a lot.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Inside the suite, it’s all hush and gold.  You sigh, dig your thumbs under the straps of your heels, and nearly groan when they drop to the floor. God, why did you tolerate them? Your feet are crying with relief. 

He clears his throat.

Lando.

He has one hand braced above his head, elbow to the doorframe, watching you with a kind of feigned indifference. You can tell it’s fake because his searching eyes are anything but lazy. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, from champagne or the night air or maybe just arrogance. His curls are mussed in that artful, infuriating way that makes you want to bury your hands in them and tug until he curses, letting out a guttural sound in spite of himself.

Fucking hell. It’s obscene, really, how beautiful he is. How sculpted his mouth is, the flash of gold at his throat, though gold isn’t the right word when you look at his tan skin. You should not be noticing any of this. You should not be noticing how his shoulders fill out that jacket or how his chest looks under the thin black shirt or how his lips parted, just slightly, when you caught his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

He pouts. “Missed you.”

“You barely even know me.”

He pushes off the door, saunters in. “That’s the thing. Don’t know you, but I do know you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.”

You shake your head. “‘Course not. Trophy’s a little too nice to describe you.”

“You’ve been pulling away.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No I haven’t.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“You can’t just fly me to Monaco, drop me in a five-star hotel, and expect me to—”

“To what?” His voice drops. “Want me?”

Your throat clicks when you swallow.

“Don’t.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t get it, do you? You walk into a room and it bends around you, like you’re a fucking messiah. I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”

And then he’s in front of you, crouching, one hand on your knee. Lando’s always had beautiful eyelashes. You’ve known since you first saw them that they would be the end of you. Now, they frame his eyes, those mesmerizing pools of light. They never stay one color. They might actually be clear, only reflecting what you want to see in them. He looks at you like you’re the moon, the stars, the sun. 

His fingers are warm. Solid. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you stopped fighting this, if you leaned in, if you let him win.

“I don’t want you to keep your head on straight. Not with me.”

“Maybe I should’ve been nicer to you.”

The adoration lingers in his eyes, but there’s a glint. “Oh, I like you mean.”

God help you, you want to kiss him. You want to shove him back on the bed, crawl into his lap, see if his mouth tastes like champagne or heat or both. You want to know if his hands shake when they touch skin or if he’s always this sure of himself.

All you can do is whisper, “Are you staying?”

His fingers curl a little tighter around your knee.

“Unless you tell me to go.”

You’ve never seen him so compliant to your wants. It does something to you. You’ve been demanding to him, always swearing, always telling him to go fuck himself. Still, he’s patient in a way that makes you ache, beautiful in a way that makes you furious. 

You might owe him a moment. Just one, you swear to yourself. Just this once.

You pull him by the collar. He’s shocked, lips forming a perfect circle before they crash into yours with the urgency of someone who has waited far too long. Honey and saffron. Honey and saffron. You’ve associated it with him so long you’re certain someone wearing the same cologne is enough to make your knees buckle in public. His mouth is soft and prying, bringing out a soundless intake of breath from you. His mouth melds to yours.

Lando’s lips part, his tongue teasing against yours. You pull back, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows, his lips trailing down your jaw, then your neck. It’s like he can’t get enough.

You grip his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. It’s useless. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling you back in. You see him in his euphoric haze, his lowered eyelids. He makes a noise like a whine when you leave, as if he physically cannot bear being separated from you, and you think you might actually drown in want. 

“Lando,” you whisper. God, your senses. Your head feels light, dizzy with the taste of him.

“Mm, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just once, you told yourself. Just once. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re still half-wrapped in the robe you swore you’d only wear for five minutes after your shower, hair damp, skin bare and a little too aware of itself. But it’s so comfy, like being wrapped in a cloud, and you really can’t bear to take it off.

The door flies open once more, only seconds after you hear the buzz of an accepted keycard. Lando Norris is hardly a gentleman. He doesn’t even knock! 

What he is, however, is a vision of casual, expensive sin—white tee hugging his shoulders, curls damp like he’s only just come from his own shower—okay, those are places your thoughts absolutely should not be going. He smiles. He knows exactly how pretty he looks standing in your suite.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”

Lando gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug. “You looked like you might sleep all day. Figured I’d save you from the crushing boredom.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Why did you even book the hotel for longer? The event is over.”

For a second, you swear he’s surprised you noticed. “I wanted to show you around. Monaco’s wasted on you if all you’re seeing is room service menus and the inside of a suite.”

You fold your arms tighter, suspicion prickling up your spine. “Are you serious? You could have just texted.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Your pulse jumps. Stupid, traitorous heart. You still need to talk to him about that whole kiss last night. Is now a good time?

He pushes off the doorframe. “You coming or not?”

Once more, the everlasting train of no, I really shouldn’t, what the fuck? You should remind him you’re not some prize to be paraded around, not some girl in his endless rotation of models and influencers. You’ve done that many times now. But it doesn’t matter. The real problem is, he knows you’re not, and it’s why you’re still standing here.

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. There’s probably some sunscreen (expired, years old, from the last time you saw the light of the sun) and a water bottle in there. “But if you start acting like you own the place, I’m leaving you on the yacht or whatever ridiculous thing you have planned.”

“I’ll do my best. Deal.”

As you brush past him to the closet, you feel his fingers ghost lightly over your back. It’s nothing overt, just enough to set your skin humming, a sensation that’s only amplified when he pulls away.

“By the way, you look good in that robe.”

You nearly trip on the marble floor. Fuck. And he’s gone, before you can have him answer any of your other questions.

The café he drives you to is perched on the edge of the cliffs, all whitewashed stone and trailing flowers. Below, the sea stretches blue and endless. It’s so stupidly picturesque you almost laugh when you get out of the car.

He notices. “Yeah, yeah,” Lando says with a crooked grin. “I’m disgustingly good at this.”

“You? No, you probably have an assistant on speed dial for this kind of thing.”

He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I need help to be this charming?”

Inside, you settle at a little table by the window. He orders for you without asking (of course he does) and the worst part is, he gets it right. When the waiter leaves, his eyes flicker to yours.

“So. About that kiss.”

You busy yourself unwrapping the sugar packet. Hey, you were going to ask about it. He keeps beating you to the punch. Fucker. God, you want to punch him. “It wasn’t a thing.”

“Oh, wasn’t it? Didn’t feel like nothing to me. Actually, didn’t sound like nothing to me either.”

You flush, scowl at your coffee. There’s a foam design on it, swirling hearts, little stars, and you have an itching suspicion that’s not the way they make all the coffees. “I was, well, I don’t fucking know, man. I was tired, it was late, you were being—”

“Devastatingly handsome? I recall being on my knees for you, too, if that helps.”

“A pain in the ass.”

Lando’s grin widens. He sets his foot against yours under the table, light and shameless. “You know, you can just admit you like me. We’re past pretending, sweetheart. You’ve already travelled the globe just to be with me.”

You kick at his ankle half-heartedly, to which he recoils, then returns. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, you have no idea what’s in my dreams.” His voice drops. You have to look away because, honestly, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep making rational decisions.

“You’re such a fucking menace.”

Lando’s foot nudges yours again under the table, a teasing little tap that makes you jolt. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

“You’re lucky this is good coffee, or I’d have thrown it in your face by now.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You like me like this.”

“Fuck off.” You kick his ankle harder, but it’s not much of a deterrent. His leg just shifts, stretching out under the table, and now the toe of his shoe is tracing up your calf. “Christ, Lando.” You squirm in your seat, swatting at his knee under the table. That’ll stop him. No, it doesn’t. It only enhances that shit-eating grin.

“What?” he says innocently. “Just stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them in your own damn space,” you hiss. There’s no bite in it, not really, not when your skin feels hot where his foot brushes yours, not when he’s watching you like that.

“Tell me you didn’t think about it last night.”

You scowl. “Bullshit.”

“Mm.” His foot hooks lightly around your ankle. “Didn’t deny it, though.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. “For fuck’s sake, you are relentless.”

“You’re cute when you swear at me.”

You flip him off without lifting your head.

“Adorable,” he says, chuckling.

After you have another cup of coffee (it really is that good, you wish you could bring it back to Bristol), he finally gets you to leave. “So, tell me. You’re wearing all this, and we’re on a beach in Monaco. Aren’t you hot in that?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, though you can already feel the heat creeping up your neck.

“I mean, that dress. You’re practically suffocating in it. You should’ve gone for something lighter. You know, something a little more practical for the heat.”

His gaze traces over every inch of you. “It’s a fucking dress, not a snowsuit, Norris,” you say, feeling that faint heat rise between your legs from his words alone. 

Lando steps closer to you, matching your pace, his shoulder brushing against yours. You want to push him away, to keep some distance. “I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve got all these layers on. Don’t you want to take them off?”

The way he says it, so casually, so confident…you freeze.

Lando sees you hesitate. “What, you can’t handle the heat? I could help you cool down, you know.”

“No, we are not shagging in a public space.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and his hand brushes yours. “Who said anything about shagging? You’re not fooling me. I can see it in the way you’re walking.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

“What? Don’t what? Don’t call you out for being so hot and bothered? You’re practically begging me to notice.”

You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, not when his words are like a drug running straight through you. You step away from him slightly. Like all the other attempts you’ve made to clear yourself of his presence, it’s futile. He’s there, his voice in your mind, the ghost of his touch on your skin. He’s still right there. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You trail behind Lando as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You already bumped into two other drivers, one you don’t know, the other who looked like he belonged in a museum. Some French name, you forget. His girlfriend was also exceedingly pretty.

You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe sleek bachelor minimalism or cold, show-off money. But it’s surprisingly cozy. There are a few race helmets. The scent hits you next, nice laundry detergent layered with leather, engine oil, and beneath it all, unmistakably him. Sweet like honey.

Lando drops his keys into a bowl, sauntering off toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your eyes wander. There’s the massive racing simulator near the window. It’s absurdly expensive, obviously. Framed photos of him on podiums, some with friends you half recognize (Max, you think his name is, Lando’s best mate.) Some are just his grinning face in a champagne shower. Photos, photos, trophies…a small handbag, perched on the back of the couch.

Next to it, delicate sunglasses, definitely not his. They’re too small to cover his face. And a hair clip, one of those pearly ones, girly and pink, resting on the coffee table like it belongs here.

You frown, fingers brushing the edge of the bag without thinking. “Uh…Lando?”

“Yeah?” 

You pick up the clip, turning it over in your fingers. “Whose stuff is this?”

For the first time, there’s a pause. He stills in his movements. Then, “Oh, uh, Magui’s.”

You blink. You repeat, “Magwee?” 

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. “She’s a friend.” Lando’s tone is light, breezy. “Mostly PR.”

“Mostly?” you repeat.

“Why? You jealous, sweetheart?”

You scoff, dropping the clip back onto the table. “No.”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.” 

The handbag. The sunglasses. That hair clip. Now it’s flipped onto the other side, you see gems spelling out ‘Magui.’ Magui. Who the hell is Magui? More accurately, what the hell is Magui? Who even names their kid Magui? Is it short for something? Marguerite? Magnolia? Some cool European thing?

You watch Lando move casually back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter as he opens the water. You cross your arms, aiming for indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re a thing anyway.”

His brow twitches. You almost miss it, because then he’s sauntering toward you. “Not a thing, huh?” he murmurs.

“Exactly.”

“Hmm. Funny.”

“What’s funny?” You glare at him.

“That you care so much for someone who’s not a thing.”

You answer, too quickly to seem casual, “I don’t care.”

“Sure, sweetheart. That’s why you’re glaring at a hair clip like it killed your cat.”

You open your mouth, splutter, “I don’t even have a cat—”

Lando plucks the clip from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “She’s just a friend,” he says, “we have fun at events. She knows the game.”

The game. Right. You know exactly what game. And yet, the thought of him with someone else—all golden skin and quiet smiles and easy laughs, God, you can imagine her already—punches straight through your stomach.

“Good for you.”

“You know, she always said I should bring someone to the next Grand Prix.”

“So?”

“So…” He flashes a slow grin. “Guess I already have someone, don’t I?”

“Lando, I have a job. A real one. With hours and a boss and everything.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need a job. You have me.”

Your heart trips, stumbles, tries to right itself. “No, not really.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a cut slice of abs, just to be a menace. “When’s the last time you took a real break? You deserve one.”

“When is it even?”

“Miami. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Hell no. I already followed you to Monaco. I got to go back, I have assignments due. Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he drawls, sinking onto the couch and one knee brushing yours. “You’d look so good on my arm. You can do your work when we get back to the hotel, baby. It’s not all day.”

You try not to feel your insides go liquid. “I hate eagles.”

“What?”

“Miami. Eagles. I don’t know.”

His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “You would’ve loved Logan.”

You pull a cushion onto your lap, hugging it to your chest. “Is there another one? Somewhere…less Miami?”

“There’s always another one. But you might have to stay longer.”

“Whatever. Okay. This one.”

His whole face lights up. “Yay,” he says, and it’s so cute your heartbeat picks up. He brushes his fingers over your wrist like he can’t help himself. You hope he doesn’t realize.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Baby.”

You ignore him.

“Baby.”

You click aggressively on your document. It’s crazy that planes have WiFi. Thank god Lando’s rich, you can’t imagine how much it must cost to get this good of a connection.

“Sweetheart.”

You sigh, yanking one headphone out. “What, Lando?”

He’s sprawled across the leather seat across from you. He has one socked foot propped on the table and his hoodie looks very comfy. You’ve been working for two hours. Come nap with me.”

“Some of us have to pass our classes.”

“Some of us are world champions.”

You roll your eyes. “Go flex that on someone else.”

He does, apparently. Miami hits you like a slap in the face, like it’s annoyed you’re taking up so much of its mistress’s time, the mistress being Lando. You can tell he loves this place. You do not. You’re not going to miss the heat, the flashing cameras, the chaos outside the airport. Lando’s security team pushes through the crowd as reporters yell his name. 

“Who’s this? Lando, is this your girlfriend?”

“Miss, what’s your name? Are you coming to the paddock, too?”

You’re stunned into silence. Lando’s arm finds itself around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says coolly. He wears a practiced smile as he steers you through the crowd. He’s probably done this thousands of times. You barely remember how you get to the car. 

“Breathe,” Lando coos, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You shoot him a flat look. “You owe me so much coffee for this.”

So, you’ve never watched Formula One—aside from that one time Mara sent you a video of someone passing Lando—but this looks a lot more stressful than that clip. Speaking of Mara, you pick up your phone and dash a quick message:

you bloody hell i hate this place

She doesn’t see it. She’s still sleeping, which is much nicer than your current situation. Cameras flash in your face. Women with glossy hair and model-long legs float past in designer dresses and tiny heels that shouldn’t work on gravel but somehow do. You grip the pass hanging from your lanyard so tight your fingers ache.

Lando’s hand is still on your lower back, an anchor you can’t leave. To be honest, you don’t want to. He’s the least irritating thing at the moment.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re with the coolest guy here.”

“That is so debatable. We walked past Florence Pugh five minutes ago.”

“I said guy.” He grins, one-handedly signing a cap handed to him, posing for a photo, laughing with a sponsor. Lando looks perfectly at ease here. The attention craves him.

You just want to disappear.

“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. You turn and nearly crash into Alex Albon, beaming, casual in his shirt. “Hey, hey. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” There’s a gorgeous woman next to him, who he gestures at and says, “This is Lily.”

“Hi Lily, hi Alex.”

You hear someone say “Babe!” and it’s sure as hell not Lily, because her mouth hasn’t even opened yet. Your head snaps up. A girl with sun-streaked hair and model cheekbones walks up and kisses Lando’s cheek.

“I’m Magui,” she purrs, eyes flicking over you dismissively. She’s already decided you aren’t a threat.

“Oh. Hi,” you say, because what else is there? You hear yourself, how flat and awkward you sound, and you want to punch a wall.

Lando glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know Magui. Magui, careful, this one tends to cuss.”

This one. Not your name. Not even a soft tease. Just…this one. Magui laughs like she’s heard this joke before and tucks herself closer to him. You’re going to lose your mind.

When the clock ticks closer to the start of the race, you’re left largely to your own devices. There’s no Lando to latch onto now.You try not to look for Magui—you try—but your eyes keep flicking toward where she disappeared into the swarm of PR people. The lights go out.

It’s chaos into Turn 1. Lando’s there, starting in fourth (or something, maybe you heard wrong) carving his way through like a man possessed. P3 by lap 10, P2 by lap 25, and you can hear his engineer crackling through the headset:

“Let’s bring this home.”

Lap 40. P1.

P1.

You know, it would be a lot more interesting if you understood this a little more. P1 is at the front, you know. Everyone’s glued to the screens, to the track. You’re just worried he’s going to crash. Fuck, these cars are loud. And fast, but you already knew that. By the last ten laps, the whole McLaren garage is on its feet, the mechanics shouting, banging on the pit wall. 

When the checkered flag waves, it’s like the world explodes. The crowd is screaming. The McLaren crew goes ballistic and you’re just frozen, stunned, chest so tight it hurts.

P1. Miami winner. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The champagne is still stuck to him after the podium spray. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his throat’s raw from shouting over the team radio (“fuck yeah, well done, team!” Or, more accurately ‘f***yeah, well done team!) because the FIA censors everything. You know, he almost slipped in a few more expletives, thanks to your bad influence), and there’s only one thing that could make his day better. Lando’s eyes dart through the crowd. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone but you.

Where the hell are you?

A hand wraps around his arm. “Lando! Oh my god, you were insane out there!” Her arms are around his neck, perfume sugary-sweet. She presses a kiss to his cheek, laughing for the cameras, pulling him in like she belongs in this moment. He stiffens.

“Magui,” he says quietly, trying to peel her off. He’s still looking for you and she’s blocking half of his line of sight. “Not now.”

She just giggles and loops her arm tighter. She’s basking in the spotlight, it’s too late to get her to snap out of it. Lando’s patience snaps like a wire.

“Magui,” he barks. It’s sharp enough that she flinches. “Did you say something to her?”

Her eyes go wide, faux-innocent. “What? Who?”

“You know who. Where the fuck is she? Did you say something to her? Did you screw this up?”

Magui’s lips part in a little gasp, that wounded look she pulls out when it’s convenient. Hell, the cameras are going to love this. “Lando, I didn’t—”

He swears under his breath, before yanking her limbs off him. He twists on his heel to scan the crowd again. The garage. Check. The gates. Check. The pit lane. Check. All the people chanting his name, all the cameras flashing. Normally, he loves it. Right now, none of it matters. None of it means a damn thing if you’re not here.

I just won Miami. Why the fuck aren’t you here?

He kicks at the ground.

“Maybe she left,” Magui suggests from behind him. Her voice irritates him, a little stab between his ribs.

His fingers twitch. Is he panicking, right now? His breath shallows, oppressed by the noise. His mind is a whirl. Did you see something? Did Magui corner you? Did you think you weren’t wanted here? That you didn’t matter? He can’t breathe, it’s like your presence is the only thing keeping the rock off his chest, and now you’re gone its plunging, weighing him down and—

You. His whole body kicks into motion before his brain can catch up.

There you are.

He hears someone yell his name, probably for an interview, maybe for a photo, and he ignores it, almost knocking over a cameraman.

He only wants you.

You looked pretty overwhelmed, shoved forward by the crowd but still somehow trying to disappear. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms. Lando buries his face in your hair, the scent of you cutting through all the smoke. His fingers tremble a little where they clutch at you. He was going insane looking for you. “I couldn’t fucking find you. Jesus, you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His large hands cradle your jaw. 

“I just won Miami,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “And the only thing I could think was where the hell is she—” Lando surges forward, hungry, desperate. All these people and he just wants you to anchor him. 

You flinch back, hands on his chest.

“Lando,” you whisper, lips just brushing his. “no. Not here. I don’t want…”

He readjusts, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Okay. Okay. Not here.”

“Mate!” You’re not seriously leaving, are you?” He hears Max holler. You back off instinctively.

“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at his best friend, then at you. “My girl—”

Max whistles low, “Didn’t know we were calling her that yet.”

Lando flips him off half-heartedly, before pulling him into a quick hug. “Shut up.”

He side steps toward you, but you beat him to it, pushing off the wall, sliding in beside him, and you’re trying so hard to be relaxed but he can read it all over your face: the tight shoulders, the too-wide eyes, the quiet little “ugh” under your breath when another cluster of reporters swarms over. “Hey, hey.” Lando ducks his head to you. “You good?”

You sigh. “Fucking hell, man. Sure. Let’s go. I’m a bartender, I’ll make drinks for your cocky ass or something.” You wave a hand. Your eyes flick to the cameras and your mouth pulls tight again.

“That’s why I keep you around, sweetheart.” Before Lando can say more, the media hits.

“Lando! One quick word!”

“Lando, what changed after quali?”

“Who’s the mystery girl, Lando?”

“Will you be celebrating together tonight?”

“Is this your girlfriend? Are you confirming?”

You freeze. You’re plastered to his side. Lando leans into the mic with a smirk, his arm around you. “You’ll have to wait for the documentary, mate.” He’s still grinning when he steers you out of the crush. Obviously, a win brings a hell lot of adrenaline; but this, this right here, with your fingers knotting nervously into the hem of his sleeve?

This is what’s making him dizzy.

Lando’s enamored with how you lean on him, how your trust in him is something sacred. It’s something earned, something he has carved slowly with every word and every action. From pity to hatred to tolerance to…well, you kissed him, didn’t you? There’s a sweetness in the way you depend on him now, even if you can’t do it without cursing him and his mother, too. 

He doesn’t want you to slip away, to ever feel like you could. It’s simple, really. Lando just wants to keep you close and needing him. Because you don’t, not all the time, not like all the others. He’s earned this. 

To hell if he’s going to let it go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

There’s plenty for him to focus on at the club, with bodies packed tight. There’s bass rattling his chest and too many drinks being passed around. Lando’s friends are out there, hollering, getting wasted, but he can’t look at anything but you.

You in that dress, that little black thing that glimmers every time you move. It rides scandalously high on your thighs, straps slipping just barely off your shoulders like they’re exhausted from the fight to stay up. Your skin practically glows under the club lights. You’re flushed from dancing, laughing, drinking. God, the way you laugh with your head tipped back. Lando swears it’s rewiring his brain. He’s never seen you so carefree before. Usually, you’re all sweet behind the bar, testy when its necessary, but that’s all to make the customers happy. You’re happy right now and its out of duty to no one.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando mutters, eyes glued to you. He doesn’t even hear Max at first.

“Mate.” Max elbows him. “You coming or just gonna stand here having a religious experience?”

“Fuck off,” he says jokingly. His eyes never leave you.

He’s not even drunk, not really. He’s had one, maybe two drinks, something shoved into his hand after the podium. And there was another raised in a messy toast when Max pulled him into a corner, but Lando feels wrecked.

Every inch of his skin is hot. He can’t stop touching you, can’t stop following you with his eyes. It’s like his body has locked onto yours, marking his territory. As usual, a palm on the small of your back. His fingers like to graze your wrist when you reach for a drink, almost like a nice bracelet. The way you fit under his arm, the way you lean into his space without even thinking about it, it’s all setting him on fire.

His mind is a mess:

You smell like vanilla and summer.

You feel like absolute sin pressed up against him.

He wants to ruin you. Desperately wants to pull you into a dark corner and shove you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on your throat, hips pressed so tight you’ll feel him in your bones. He wants to peel you out of that dress, watch it pool at your feet while you look at him. Wants to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, leave marks no one else can touch, can claim. He wants to leave them there for the whole world to see.

But more than that, more terrifying, is this ache in his chest. It’s not just lust, unfortunately. Lust is easy to deal with. If he just wanted to get in your pants, it would’ve ended that second time you met, when he was sober and at the bar. He wouldn’t have bothered to keep hounding you.

It’s the way you look at him like he’s just Lando, not the man on every billboard. It’s the way you call him out on his bullshit, the way you refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way you chew on your straw when you’re tipsy and overthinking. It’s the way you make him feel seventeen again, half-drunk on adrenaline and dizzy with wanting. The way he turns clumsy and nervous and utterly gone for someone who could shatter him with a word.

And when you come back from the bathroom, eyes lost until they land on him, when you light up like the fucking sun just because he’s looking at you…Lando feels his knees damn near buckle.

“There you are,” you tease, somewhat out of breath from dancing, “thought you were supposed to be the life of the party. Disappointing.”

“Yeah? You gonna dance with me, sweetheart, or just torture me from across the room all night?”

Your mouth comes dangerously close to his ear. “You look thirsty.” You press your drink into his hand. “Try not to choke.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I really do.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” His fingers trail up your spine, making you shiver. “How fast I could get you out of this dress. How good you’d sound falling apart for me. How bad I want you right now.”

He feels your body react to the words. “Lando,” you warn, “behave.”

“Not a chance, baby.”

Max whistles as he passes, wiggling his eyebrows. “You two gonna come to the afters, or are you skipping straight to dessert?”

“I’m a bartender, Max, I am the afters,” you laugh, shaking your head. Then, lower, so Max doesn’t hear, “c’mon. I owe you a dance.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(SMUT STARTS HERE)

You step into the elevator, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Lando follows, eyes hungry, already deprived of what he’s been begging for the entire car ride. You know you’re going to regret holding him off. Well, it’s going to be enjoyable on your part.

“Did you plan this, or are you just cruel by nature?”

You turned your head away, as not to distract him from the road. Who’s flustered now?”

His fingers slid a little bit higher. “You want me dead? Well, you’ll get your wish if you keep acting like this.”

The car jolted forward. Lando’s hand tightened instinctively on your thigh. God, his hands were too close to your core. You meant to shift away. If he knew how wet you are, it’d be the end of your ego and dignity. 

“Lando.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, “I know, I know.” But his hand was still there, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against your skin.

The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal the plush hallway. It doesn’t matter that you’re not inside the suite yet. Lando’s decided it’s close enough to get started, plump lips on yours. He tastes like the last drink you mixed for him and you feel a flush of pride at that. He’s what you make him, isn’t he?

Your arrogance doesn’t last very long, because he smirks against your mouth when he draws out a lewd moan. Fucking hell. Lando’s hands roam your body, shoving you against the walls as the two of you stumble to the door. Hopefully, you’re not causing too much of a commotion for the neighbors. 

“Lando—” you choke out. He has a special reaction to his name, a brief moment of lucidity, and the door is finally open. He spins you around, pushing you against the door in order to close it.

His fingers find the hem of your dress, hiking it up to reveal your bare thighs. 

“Lando!” you hiss again, “what are you doing?”

There are no more questions out of you, though, because you’re rendered to brief whimpers as his fingers brush against your entrance. He’s shoved your panties aside in the haste to get to you. Almost as an afterthought, he loops two fingers around each side and pulls them down your legs. You step out of them and allow him to resume.

He’s back at your folds, fingers sliding up and down the wetness, almost in preparation. Having collected enough lubricant, he dips inside, curling up to hit that sweet spot. It’s astounding, really, how easily he did so. As if he knows you already, inside and out. You sigh, your head falling back against the door, gaze falling away from him. In, out, in, out. You hear nothing but your own ragged breaths and the sound of his fingers pumping against your slick.

He doesn’t like that. Lando's other hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He angles his hand so he grasps you under the jaw. You can only keep your head up now. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers picking up pace. 

Your hips buck against his hand, body begging for more. 

"Such…a fucking asshole," you pant.

Lando chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and drawing his name, over and over, like that’s enough to bring you to exaltation. 

Then he stops, the cruel thing he is. Lando pulls out his hand, leaving you empty, legs bare to the air around you. His fingers are dripping, and he makes sure you watch him as he takes a taste. “Mm. Sweet. Well, come on, sweetheart. Can’t have our first time be against a bloody door.”

God, you’re trembling. You have to hold your thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to be where he once was. He’s ridiculously calm about all of this. You’re the one panting for more, he’s the one in control.

Lando watches as you stand before him, your body flushed with arousal. You know he can see your nipples, hardening under the dress’s sheer fabric. You didn’t wear a bra tonight. Bold choice. He’s noticing now, by the growing bulge in his pants.

"Clothes off," he commands. “I want to see you."

You hesitate for a moment, then your fingers fumble for the dress and yank down the flimsy material in one go. Lando's gaze never leaves you. He sits on the edge of the bed expectantly.

"Come here.”

You obey. You look at him, swollen lips, dark eyes, and wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.

“On your knees.”

Oh.

The words sink in. Want tightens, low in your belly. You drop, hands brushing the floor for balance, a shiver curling up your back as the cool air hits your skin. 

How long has it even been since you’ve given a blowjob? You can barely remember, and that sharp flicker of panic slices through your arousal. What if it’s not good enough? What if this isn’t enough to hold him here?

No. You can’t have that. Now that you’ve finally let yourself give in, you’re going to make the most of it. Make him happy. Make him stay. God knows what you’d do without him, now you’ve gotten used to him. It’d be like trying to give up an addiction once you’re already useless without it.

You lift your eyes, fingers brushing lightly over his waistband. The way he looks at you—half-wild, like you’ve undone something inside him—makes the nerves fade a little. You work his belt loose, the sound of leather sliding through metal too much to bear. It only makes you think about what that belt would sound like against your skin. Stop daydreaming. He’s right there.

Above you, Lando’s breath hitches. When you glance up through your lashes, his hand is flexing at his side as a way of holding himself.

“Fuck…” he grunts, “baby, get on with it. Please.” His eyes are pinned to you, disbelieving. Like your mouth on his cock is something he’s wanted too long, and can’t quite believe he’s finally getting. You ease him free, feeling the weight of him in your hand. Bigger than what you’ve had before, definitely. You’d say six and a half, seven? Seven and a half? It’s hard to compare when your mind is so foggy.

“Look at you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth and prying open. “So fucking pretty like this.”

The praise hits you hard. Wetness pools again. Fuck. Such a tease. You let him guide your pretty mouth to his hardened erection, and lick at it, just a bit. You his breath punch out a muttered curse, his hips jerking just slightly.

“Jesus—”

You move slowly at first, widening your mouth and taking in him, bit by bit. You find your rhythm, your tongue tracing delicate patterns, learning every twitch of his body. Every choked-off sound that spills from his throat is a sign that you’re doing good, a beautiful sound you’re going to be replaying the next time you’re alone in your room. His fingers thread into your hair, tight enough to sting. For a second you wonder if he’s going to pull you back, but he just holds you there. 

You try something new. You lick a slow line along the underside, feeling him twitch in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you, the muscles jumping as he swears again. 

“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his hair teased with sweat that trickles down his neck. He’s golden, even now, a god in your palm. All yours to toy with. You have no doubt that if you asked for anything right now, he’d give it. His chest heaves, a flushed pink creeping down his body. He’s not even undressed yet and you can only dream about what’s under that shirt.

When you take him deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his whole body jolts. You hear a choked sound breaking out of him. The sound reverberates through his whole body, and in turn, through yours. 

“Look at you,” he pants. You’re drooling a little from his sheer girth and he wipes it away. “So good for me, fuck! So good, baby.” You bob your head up and down, ignoring the urge to gag, trying to take his whole length. That does it.

“Shit—shit—baby—” His fingers yank hard on your head, wanting even more of you, wanting to fill you all the way, so nothing can ever come between you two. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—wait—”

He comes in your mouth, hot and salty. You have to move your head back so you don’t choke on all of him. You’re sure some of it makes it out of your mouth, drips onto your chin. He doesn’t mind. Lando drags you up roughly.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him. On the taste of him in your mouth, on the way his hands grip your hips like he’ll die if you move even an inch away, on the broken sounds that slip out of him like he’s never been this unmade.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice shaking, mouth grazing your jaw, your cheek, your temple like he’s blessing you with every kiss. “No one’s ever—”

And you realize it’s not even about sex, not anymore. This arrangement? Fuck, all the little details are lost in every moment you spend with him. He murmurs mine, mine, mine between half-kisses like a prayer.

“God.” Lando says, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. Really, it’s mixed with his, the culmination of whatever the hell this is. “You’ve fucking ruined me.”

You’re ruined right alongside him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs weak, lips parted. This hasn’t even started yet. No desperate, gasping stretch of bodies fitting together. You’ve only gotten the slightest taste of him, he only the slightest of you. There’s so much you don’t know yet, so much to discover.

“Come here. You’re mine, yeah? Say you’re mine.”

Your hands clutch at his shirt. “Yours.”

The sound he makes at that nearly undoes you both.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now it’s hours later. You’ve lost track of time. His shirt’s somewhere near the minibar, your dress is long discarded. The sheets are twisted, dirty, pulled halfway off the bed. Lando’s asleep. His arm is locked tight around your waist. Unconsciously, his head is still in the crook of your neck. You can feel him, his breath hot against your skin, and judging by how ragged he sounds, someone’s having fun in his dreams.

His fingers keep sliding over your skin, as if the act calms him.

“Baby, baby,” you whisper. You can’t do this either. Might as well get him up, let him have the real thing. “Baby.” You turn around and the loss of contact is enough to wake him. His eyes flutter open, dazed, beautifully clear.

He croaks your name, the one thing he’s certain of. His lips graze yours, then your shoulder. 

You’re drunk on him. The warmth of his skin, the way his hands know exactly where to go, the softness under all that cocky charm. You haven’t left the room in days. Neither has he. You reach back, threading your fingers through his messy curls, and Lando groans, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck. 

There’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, blinking at each other. You’ve forgotten anyone else exists.

“I’ll—I’ll get it,” he says, voice hoarse. Lando scrambles into sweatpants, hair sticking up wildly. You admire the view, the way his chest peeks out under the hastily buttoned shirt. He opens the door just enough to grab the tray, mumbling something to the waiter you can’t hear, and then he’s kicking the door shut again. He’s grinning like an idiot.

“Saved the day,” he says, collapsing onto the bed beside you. “Hero.”

The food goes mostly ignored. Fries are stolen between kisses; champagne is knocked over onto the carpet, bubbling and forgotten. He feeds you a piece of a burger with his fingers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, asking for permission. You allow him, swallow the food, and yet his thumb lingers. His eyes are wide and pleading.

God, you’d do anything for him.

You glance up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Hours after his last orgasm, his pupils are once again blown wide, lips parted slightly. Slowly, you part your lips and let his thumb slip inside, just a little, your tongue barely grazing the pad.

The sound Lando makes is low in his throat, instant. His free hand fists the sheets, knuckles going white.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “Sweetheart…”

You pull his thumb deeper, hollow your cheeks a little, tongue brushing lazy circles over the tip. Your teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch and tighten his grip on the bed. You know exactly what it’s doing to him.

“So pretty for me, all for me.” he says. When you finally release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, his control snaps. His hands are on you in an instant, dragging you into his lap, kissing you open-mouthed, messy.

You can feel him, hard and aching beneath you. Lando’s not the only eager one here. You roll your hips, trying to find the right feeling. You rise up just enough to tug his sweats down, both of you breathless with laughter and gasps, trembling with how bad you need this, need each other. He’s perfect, red and angry, glistening with pre-cum.

Of course, this is no longer the first time. Your bodies know each other, have found the map to ecstasy. You sink onto him in one smooth plunge, swallowing him whole. Lando curses low and sharp, head falling back against the pillows. 

You move slowly at first, a teasing roll of your hips. You spell his name, starting with the ‘L,’ a long roll downwards, then jerking to the side. It has him nearly sobbing beneath you, but you can’t stay slow for long. He bucks up into you, chasing every drag and slide. You hear his skin on yours, a slapping noise that reverberates around the room, his voice underneath you, pleading, praising, cursing. You bounce in his lap, legs on both sides of him.

And when it’s over, when you’re both boneless and shaking in the sheets, Lando’s hand slides lazily up your spine, caging you close. He starts, “oh, sweetheart, you’re—” but the words fall away. 

You’re both still catching your breath when his phone, forgotten on the nightstand, starts to buzz insistently. 

Lando groans, trying to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing.

Finally, he gives up and blindly grabs for it.

“Hello?” He winces. “Oh. Hi, yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You watch him, propped on one elbow, smiling as you stroke a hand down his chest. You draw little hearts on his abdomen, watching him breathe sharply with every ticklish sensation. He shoots you a helpless look as your hand wanders lower.

He says again into the phone, “I know I can’t stay in Miami forever…yeah, okay, okay, I promise.” Lando throws the phone to the side. “I can’t, technically, but I can bring you around, yeah?”

“Don’t talk about work,” you feign a yawn. “It’s boring me.”

“Oh yeah? Does this bore you?” he drawls, before shifting further away from you, towards the end of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going, before he pulls one of your legs across him, sitting you firmly on his face. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His tongue laps at you and you squeal.

(SMUT ENDS HERE)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re hunched over your laptop on the hotel balcony, knees tucked to your chest. The blue glow of the screen painting your face. Hot air sticks to your skin, plastering your hair across your forehead. Your inbox is overflowing, your Google doc blinking a half-finished sentence back at you, and every five minutes your school portal pings another notification. One of your professors has flagged your last assignment as ‘significantly late.’ You close the tab fast. That might make it less real.

Inside, the room is still dark. Although it’s nearly noon, blackout curtains are drawn shut. Lando’s sprawled across the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single deadline to his name. He probably doesn’t.

“Come back to bed,” he calls, not looking up.

You shake your head. “I need to finish this. I’m behind.”

Then: “Behind on what? You’re on vacation, sweetheart. You’re with me.”

“I still have work,” you say, and a little bit of temper makes its way through to your voice. “Just because you hauled me off to another country doesn’t mean my life disappeared.”

You hear the sheets rustle. Then he’s there, barefoot and warm behind you, crouching down so his chin rests on your shoulder. He kisses just below your jaw, softly, and the resulting absence only deepens your craving.

Lando murmurs, “you’re always working. Even when you’re with me.”

You stiffen. “That’s because I have a degree I need to get. I can’t afford to screw this up, Lando.”

His arms slip down, under your arms, around your waist, and he nudges the laptop closed with one finger.

“Hey,” he says, “no one’s asking you to screw anything up. But you’ve been so stressed. You haven’t smiled properly in days.” His lips brush your collarbone. “Don’t you want to just breathe for a second?”

You hesitate. You want to say no, because breathing for a second is not going to help you get anything done. You want to say this is important. But Lando has a voice of silk, wrapping around your ribs, and the laptop is already closed. He shifts so he’s in front of you, and now his hands are warm on your thighs, slowly maneuvering upwards, upwards.

“I can help you. Just take a break. Come lay down with me. We’ll get someone to handle whatever you’re behind on. I’ll make some calls. Easy.”

“You can’t just make calls to fix my classes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lando says. It’s a joke, but not really. “Baby, you don’t need to kill yourself over a few grades. You have me now.”

“I like working,” you say. It sounds weak.

He kisses you again, on your cheek. Both your hands are in his. “You like overthinking.”

“Come on. Ten minutes. No school. No stress. Just me.”

Ten minutes of heaven. Ten minutes turn into twenty, thirty, and you’re in Lando’s bed for at least an hour before you check the clock, maybe longer. He’s in the shower. Your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you.

mara(malade) babe you can’t be dying on me

mara(malade) hellloooo?

mara(malade) ANSWER MY FT

You answer, flipping the camera up too fast, revealing the luxurious headboard and the messy room behind you. There’s evidence of room service on the nightstand, a folded tablecloth under unused cutlery. Mara clocks it immediately.

“No. Are you in his hotel room again?”

You push your hair out of your face. “Yeah, just for a bit.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m writing,” you lie, moving the laptop slightly to show the open doc, never mind that it’s been untouched for hours. “I’m almost done.”

“Dan told me you missed discussion again. Twice.” Dan is Mara’s boyfriend, a few years younger, and he’s in your class. What a snitch. You didn’t think he’d be watching your every action.

“I’ve been traveling. It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up—”

Mara frowns. A little crease forms between her brows. “Babe, you said that last week. I’m just worried.”

You shift, tugging the blanket up higher even though it’s not cold. “I’m fine. I’m going home after this one. Just this race.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m not going to drop everything for some guy, okay?”

You hate how Mara looks at you. She doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are tired, emphasized by the smudged eyeliner she likes to wear, like she’s already mourning something you haven’t lost yet.

Behind you, the bathroom door clicks open. Lando walks out, a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls out around him. He sees you on the phone and mouths who is it?

You wave him off and turn back to Mara. “I’ve got to go. We’re leaving for the track soon.”

Mara’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more resigned. “Okay. Text me tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. Lando’s standing at the end of the bed now, rubbing his hair dry with another towel, bare chest still damp.

“Everything good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just Mara being dramatic.”

“Come here,” he says. “Come here.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara’s voice had been calm on the phone, but her words weren’t. “Just come back for a little. A week. You’re slipping, and I don’t mean your mental state—God, I don’t even want to touch on that. Babe, please. You’re scared to check your grades, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer that part. You just sighed and said, “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a few days.”

When you told Lando, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a while, not moving, and you were a little scared why you couldn’t read him. Then he nodded, real slowly. “Right. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s just a week.”

“Sure.”

You tried to kiss him before you left and he let you. His hands stayed in his pockets, though, and he turned away before you got into the car.

You feel it as soon as you land. A few hours pass with no text from him. No morning check-in, no “you up?” not even a dumb joke. You text him first. He replies and it’s short.

lan have fun with your school thing

You stare at your phone, heat prickling the back of your neck. Is he mad? He said it was okay. You try again later, sending a photo of the library, something neutral. This time, he doesn’t reply.

You lie awake that night wondering if you should’ve just stayed. If this means he’s over it. Over you.

You check your phone again. Still nothing. And you’re cold in your own bed, wondering when your own life started to feel less like yours and more like something you borrowed from him.

From your manager:

“Hope your break was fun. Let me know how many extra days you’ll be taking. If you’ll be back.”

You sit frozen in your desk chair, rereading the line over and over. You hadn’t even realized how many days you were gone. You think of Miami and Emilia Romagna as a blur of cameras, hotel sheets, and Lando’s breath against your skin. You think of how quiet it is now. How he hasn’t even texted today.

From your professor:

“Please come by office hours ASAP. I’m concerned about your last two assignments.”

You close the laptop. Everything feels loud. Your room looks like someone else’s now, dust on untouched things, half-opened drawers. You haven’t unpacked. You haven’t even told your friends much—ha! Aren’t you a regular comedian, what friends are you talking about? Mara? And maybe that one other co-worker who kept getting the same shifts as you, Lils? Mara, Mara, who has been so good to you. Mara keeps sending messages, checking in. You brush her off, saying it’s okay. You’re not sure if you believe that.

Lando hasn’t called. It’s worse without him here, without the promise that he can make it go away with a little wave of his finger. No. Fuck him. If he can’t even call, he can go with Magui and make her problems go away. You can do this. You haven’t needed him up until now—why does it have to change?

You show up to Professor Wilk’s office five minutes early. You tap your fingers against your folder, trying to remember what it feels like to be someone who’s on top of her work. Her door creaks open before you knock. “Come in,” she says. Her voice reveals nothing, but you know she’s already seen your grades. You sit down stiffly across from her desk.

“I’ll get right to it. You’ve been slipping.”

You open your mouth. No excuse comes. Nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous, at least. Sorry, I was off on vacation with my sugar daddy. Sorry, he said he would solve it and I believed him. At least until I realized the problem was big enough and maybe I should take care of it myself instead of crawling back into his bed. Sorry.

“I know the beginning of the term was strong,” she continues, looking at your file. “You wrote one of the best first essays I’ve read this year. And now you’re missing half your citations. You left a whole section blank.”

You swallow. All she’s saying is true. “I’ve been dealing with some things.”

Professor Wilk nods. “We all do. I’m not here to punish you. But I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

You hesitate. You think of telling her that you flew across the world with a man who called you sweetheart before he called you anything else, who you knew first as a wreck that couldn’t get himself out of a pub. That you forgot what day it was because he kissed you like it was the end of the world, like there was nothing else he had to do. That your job is probably gone and your friends are worried and you haven’t had a proper thought to yourself in weeks. That it’s all been Lando this and Lando that and Lando please come back.

You tell her, “I’ve been distracted.”

“I can see that. I’m going to offer you a rewrite. A clean slate for your last essay. But I want to see you in my office every week until finals. Deal?”

You nod. “Deal.” Already, you’re wondering how you’re going to manage this. Lando’s not going to fly you back every week, is he? There must be limits to even his abilities.

She watches you for a moment longer. Gently, she says, “Don’t lose yourself for someone else. You’re too smart for that.”

You wonder if she knows. Not exactly who, maybe, unless she’s seen the tabloids. After all, Lando Norris isn’t exactly nobody in Bristol. But the way you look right now, tired, expensive sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you, the faint shadow of a bruise under your collar…maybe she doesn’t have to know everything to know enough.

You leave the office quietly.

lan everything okay

You pause and stare at the singular message. There are no question marks, even though he’s asking things. And this is the first time he’s texted. Maybe three days since he responded. What does he want now?

you she offered me a rewrite

lan great

you but i have to meet w her every week

The read receipt pops up almost immediately. No reply, though, and you know what this means. He only confirms it.

lan so you’re staying longer?

you only a few more days i want to get things under control

lan ok then, sweetheartdon’t let them stress you out yk you don’t have to prove anything to them

you i know

lan come back when you’re ready

lan or just come back now

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: part 1! i have beef with tumblr, why did it make me split my beautiful story into two parts.

[pignk]

Did you base Mer Starscream off of an Oarfish? The long body and single top fin made me think of em immediately

Yes! I like the fact that their main colors are bluish gray and red, and mr.Oarfish did got the long head fin so I think I can use him to represent my boy Starscream as well.

And I think i might have read something like oarfish is the fish who brings deadly disaster when he appears on the shallow water, makes me think of Starscream because the guy also brings chaos wherever he goes!

[wooyoungiewritings]

Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Part 3)

Summary: You try to be honest and tell your husband about your relationship with Seonghwa, but it doesn't quite go after plan. But you've had enough of playing nice, so you break the rules and give in to your hunger for Seonghwa. But what happens when it all comes crashing down when it's all perfect, and your husband gives you an ultimatum?

Word count: 9.8K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, angst, DRAMA (u might cry), slow burn, smut (YAAAALLLL THIS IS FILTHYYYYY IM SO SORRY MOM AND DAD)

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), TEASINGGG omg, DOM Seonghwa, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking, spitting, LOTS of dirtytalk, creampie, aftercare (<3), heartbreak (?), lmk if I missed anything!

PART2

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

The day after the annual company dinner, you're home alone again, waiting for your husband to be home. The quiet pressing in like a weighted blanket. You’ve opened the same text thread with your husband three times, thumb hovering over a message you never send. The words feel too heavy for a screen. Too fragile to survive being read without your voice wrapped around them.

So you wait. He said he’d be home all Sunday, but there’s no sight of him.

You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, hands twisted together in your lap. You’re picking at a hangnail, teeth digging into your bottom lip, while the clock on the wall ticks out its judgment in slow, steady seconds. Every imagined version of the conversation plays through your head, ten different openings, twelve different ways to admit you’ve been falling into something deep and real with someone else. With Seonghwa. With his boss.

But every sentence feels like a betrayal. Too guilty. Too selfish. Too bold. And too late to take back.

You don’t even hear the front door open until it bangs shut behind him with the kind of energy that says he’s already somewhere else in his head.

“Babe! Babe, I’m just grabbing a charger, and have you seen my blue striped shirt?” His voice echoes down the hallway, fast and distracted. You hear his shoes hit the floor one after the other, the thud of his bag against the wall.

You blink, your body lurching upright from the couch. “You’re home late.”

“Yeah, had to grab some things, heading over to her place,” he calls back casually, like it’s not a blade between your ribs.

You follow the sound of his voice, your bare feet quiet against the floor. Your pulse is already climbing, fast and hot in your neck. He’s in the bedroom, already yanking open drawers like it’s a routine he’s done a hundred times. Maybe he has.

His shirt’s only half buttoned, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at you as he moves.

You stop in the doorway. Hover. “I-, can we talk for a second?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, talk while I pack,” he says, like it’s all so simple. “You always catch me at the last minute, you know that? It’s like your special skill or something.”

You watch him toss a pair of jeans into the bag, roll up a hoodie, cram it in too tight. The sleeves are sticking out. He doesn’t care.

“I have something important to say.”

“Hit me,” he says, not even looking up. “As long as it’s not about the gas bill, I paid it. And hey, guess what? Jen and Caleb broke up. You totally called that, didn’t you?”

You open your mouth, close it. “I-”

“Also,” he goes on, now moving around the room with a momentum you can’t stop, “We’re going to this wine cabin thing next weekend with her friends. Fancy place, hot tub, the works. Kinda insane. You’d hate it.” He laughs, like he hasn’t left you alone for months while you tried to convince yourself this arrangement wasn’t breaking you.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” you say, loud enough that it forces him to pause.

Only for a second. Then he zips the side pocket of his bag and straightens. “Really?” He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. “Finally! Thank God. I was starting to think you were gonna fossilize in front of that dumb dating show you like.”

Your stomach turns. “I-”

“No, seriously, I’m glad,” he says, swinging the bag onto both shoulders like the conversation is a warm-up for something more interesting. “This is the whole point, right? Open and honest. No secrets. No drama. This is growth. Proud of you.” He gives you a joking little salute. “So? Who is he? Mystery man from the supermarket? Did you fall for a barista? Actually-, don’t tell me. Keep it spicy.”

You try again. Your voice is trembling now, no matter how hard you try to sound steady. “I think you should know. It’s-”

He cuts you off, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Babe, I’m happy for you. Really. You needed this. You’ve been so... closed off. Like you forgot how to flirt. It’s good for you to feel wanted again.”

The words land like a slap. He’s still talking, but all you hear is the echo of that condescending tone. Like you’re broken. Like you’re someone he’s left behind without ever saying goodbye.

“It’s Seonghwa,” you say.

But he’s already back to packing, muttering, “Shit, where’s my charger?” as he digs through the mess on the desk. He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does and chooses not to react.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you can barely hear yourself breathe.

He finds the charger, tucks it into his bag, and strides over to you. Kiss your cheek like everything’s fine. Like you’re still just his wife waiting around for him to come and go.

“Maybe this means we should keep the open thing going, huh?” he says with a grin. “Not just a year. Could be a lifestyle. You know, modern love and all that.”

You can’t even speak. Your throat’s too tight, your mouth too dry. Everything inside you is screaming, but all you do is stare.

“I gotta go,” he says. “She’s waiting. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after.”

And then he’s gone. The door closes with a click.

You don’t move.

Not right away.

You just stand there in the hallway, trembling, your chest tight with something worse than hurt, disbelief. He didn’t care. Not even a little. You gave him the opening. You handed him your honesty. And he brushed right past it like it was a grocery list.

You had waited to be fair. Waited to be honest. Made yourself wait. Made Seonghwa wait. Waited until your heart couldn’t hold back anymore. Let the tension simmer, even when it hurt. You held Seonghwa at arm’s length for this?

You don’t even realize you’ve stood there for ten whole minutes until your legs start to ache. The door’s been shut. The apartment is silent. He’s gone. Again. And you’re still holding words that no one wanted to hear.

Something in you snaps.

You tried. You tried to do this the right way. You held yourself back for months, swallowed every urge, every look, every breathless pause between you and Seonghwa. You gave your husband time. Honesty. Respect. And it meant nothing.

Your hands shake as you grab your phone. No texts. No calls. No warning.

You just type in the address and call the cab.

The ride there is a blur. The driver makes small talk; you barely nod. Your knee bounces the whole way, fingers clenching in your lap like you can hold yourself together for just a few more minutes. Your heart is loud. Your mouth dry. Your body humming like it already knows.

You need him.

You need Seonghwa.

The second the cab pulls up to his building, you’re out. You don’t even wait for the receipt. You take the stairs because the elevator’s too slow. Every step feels like shedding.

Guilt, fear, hesitation. Gone. Gone. Gone.

You’re done waiting.

You knock, hard. Then again. You don’t even know if he’s home, don’t care what time it is, don’t care if you’re supposed to be polite.

When the door swings open, he’s there.

Soft shirt, loose belted pants, hair a little messy, like you caught him mid-evening routine. There’s music playing low in the background, some warm jazz tune, and the apartment smells like ginger and something sweet.

He blinks at first, surprised, but the second he sees your face, his expression shifts. 

Gentle. Open.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful. “Are you-?”

You don’t let him finish.

You grab the collar of his shirt, pull him down, and kiss him like you’ve been drowning for weeks. It’s messy. Desperate. His lips part with a soft sound of surprise, and then he’s kissing you back just as hard.

Your fingers thread into his hair. His hands find your waist, steadying you, grounding you, but you don’t want to be steady. You want to fall. Into him. Onto him. Through him.

His hands find your waist, but you’re already pressing forward, and your back hits the door with a quiet thud. Your hands slide beneath his sweatshirt, nails dragging across the bare skin of his stomach. His breath shudders.

“Wait,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “Did you-, how did it-”

“Shut up,” you whisper, breathless, half-wild. You drag your mouth along his jaw, nip at his skin until he swallows hard. “Just fuck me. Now.”

His hands tighten at your waist. There’s a beat of stunned silence, like you just shattered whatever calm he had left.

Seonghwa’s smirk is all heat and mischief, but behind it, fire. “Yes ma’am.”

He lifts you in one fluid motion, arms firm beneath your thighs, and your breath catches as your back leaves the door. You wrap your legs around him instantly, clinging to the only thing that feels steady right now, him. His lips find yours again, hungry and claiming, as he carries you down the hall like he’s memorized the way blind.

You’re both breathing hard when the door swings open, when he walks you inside like he can’t afford to stop. And he can’t. He places you on the edge of the bed like you’re breakable, his last moment of gentleness, and your back hits the bed. He hovers over you, eyes devouring every inch of your face, your body, like he doesn’t know where to start because he wants everything at once. 

Seonghwa doesn’t speak right away. His fingers trail up your thighs, slow and rough, like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t have you like this.

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a soft whimper when his fingers curl around your hips, tugging you closer so your thighs frame his waist. He leans in, mouth brushing your jaw as his hand slides up, fingers splaying over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, but letting you feel the pressure. The control.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “You have no idea what you just started.” his fingers wrap around your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. He leans in closer until his mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your lips, but doesn’t kiss you. 

Not yet.

“Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me I can have you. Tell me you’re mine tonight.”

You whisper, trembling, “I’m yours. All of me.”

He lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s dark and aching. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s nothing sweet there now. Just heat. Possession.

His hand slides down your stomach, slow and firm, and your hips arch before he even reaches the edge of your pants.

Your thighs press tighter around him. “Please,” you whisper, already breathless.

He laughs softly, low and cruel and utterly delighted. "That’s cute. But I haven’t even started." He tilts your head back by your throat and presses his mouth to yours, hot and slow, tongue sliding in with a groan like he’s starving.

He doesn’t take you right away.

Not like you expected. Not like you begged for.

He could. God, he wants to. He’s hard already, pulsing against you through his clothes, and every brush of your thighs makes him twitch with the effort it takes to hold back. But he doesn’t move fast. He just watches you for a long moment, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“I should make you wait,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “After all the things you’ve done.”

You’re panting, your chest rising with every breath, but you still manage a small, confused sound. “What things?”

He smiles, slow and dark. “Coming to my home in your little dresses, teasing me when you knew I couldn’t do anything. Sitting across from me at dinner like you weren’t soaking wet under the table. You think I didn’t notice?”

You whimper.

He dips his head lower, nose trailing your throat, and inhales. “You wanted me to lose control.”

You try to speak, but his hand slides up your inner thigh and all you can do is gasp.

“You wanted me to break. To forget I’m your husband’s boss. To drag you into a room and fuck you like you were mine already.” His lips brush your ear. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper, almost ashamed, but you shouldn’t be. Not with the way he growls low in his throat at your answer, like your honesty just made him hungrier.

“But I didn’t,” he says. “I was good.” His eyes roam your body, and there’s heat, awe, and vengeance all at once. “Now?” His hands slide to your hips, fingers curling tight. “Now I’m not going to be good.”

His shirt is unbuttoned now, but still on. His belt is still tight around his waist. Your breath catches, lips swollen, thighs pressed together as you chase after his mouth. He chuckles darkly, dragging his eyes over you as if deciding what he’s going to do to you first.

“You’re shaking already,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles slowly along your jaw. “What happened to the girl who liked to tease me until I couldn’t speak?”

His fingers trace the hem of your top, moving so slow it’s maddening. He drags it up, inch by inch, until your skin is on display, but he doesn’t touch. He just looks.

“Take it off for me.”

Your hands shake as you pull it over your head. His eyes never leave yours.

“Good girl.”

You shiver.

He pulls your jeans down slowly, deliberately, like every inch of exposed skin is something he needs to memorize. His fingers trail down the insides of your thighs as he goes, mouth following with kisses that are too soft, too slow, because he knows it drives you crazy.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, almost reverent, almost. Because then he grins. Sharp. Dangerous. “So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”

You whimper, hips tilting toward him, needing him to do something, anything, and he just tuts like you’re a misbehaving student.

“Nuh-uh.” His palms flatten against your inner thighs, pushing you down, keeping you there. “You don’t get to be greedy. Not tonight. You made me wait, sweetheart. Now it’s your turn.” He leans down slowly, lips ghosting across your skin, from the inside of your knee to your hipbone. Not kissing where you need him, not yet, just tracing. Breathing. Teasing.

And when you try to move your hips again, chasing his mouth, he just pins you harder.

“I said wait.”

The growl in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He kisses up your stomach instead. Licks between your breasts. Sinks back to press one single kiss just above your underwear. And stops there.

He leans in close, lips barely brushing your soaked heat through the fabric.

“Say please.”

You’re wrecked already, panting, trembling. “Please.”

He smiles. “Not yet.”

Then he spits. A slow trail between your legs that soaks into the thin fabric, and finally drags his tongue up the damp center, just once.

You sob.

He grins and pushes your panties to the side. He slides a single, thick finger between your folds, and yes.

You’re soaked.

He moans softly against your skin, lips trailing lower. “Fuck-, listen to that,” he hisses, dragging his finger up and down slowly, gathering the slick. “You’re dripping for me.”

“Seonghwa,” you gasp, back arching.

He pushes the finger in. Slowly. Torturously. “You think one’s enough for you?” he asks, curling it just so. “Or are you gonna be a greedy little thing and ask for more?”

You’re already moaning his name, eyes wet, hands trembling. He adds a second finger without warning, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit in lazy, teasing swipes.

“Every time you begged and bit your lip and walked away like a good girl, this is what I imagined,” he growls. Then his fingers leave you completely. 

His fingers withdraw slowly from your dripping heat, and he chuckles darkly when your hips lift off the bed, chasing him. “No. No, no,” he tuts, dragging his slick fingers up your stomach, up to your lips. “You don’t get to grind up against my hand like some needy little brat.”

He presses those soaked fingers into your mouth, firm and controlling. “Suck.”

You do. You’re eager, moaning around his fingers as your tongue swirls over the taste of yourself, cheeks hollowing like it’s instinct. And it is. Because you’re hungry. Starved. And he’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“God, sweetheart” he groans, his jaw tight as he watches. “You don’t even know how fucking perfect you are like this. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You know he’s teasing you. You know he’s making you wait for him to fill you up but, gosh. Somehow you never want this to end. Him touching you, tasting you, teasing you. It’s all worth it.

“Get back,” he says lowly, voice a dark command as he stands at the foot of the bed. “Hands above your head. Keep them there.”

You obey instantly. He watches you for a moment, clothed from the waist down while you're half-naked and trembling beneath his gaze.

He tosses the belt to the side with a quiet thud, then removes his shirt completely. His chest rises with each breath, toned and golden under the warm lighting, his veins prominent down his arms, jaw tight from restraint.

“You know how long I’ve wanted this?” he mutters, voice rougher now, his control thinning. “Weeks. Weeks of you crawling into my lap, whispering pretty little things, looking up at me with those eyes like you had no idea what you were doing.” He steps back between your legs. “And I didn’t touch you. Because I respected your rules. I waited.”

“But now look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Finally laid out the way I’ve wanted you. Needy, soaking, begging for me.” He starts undoing his jeans, slow and deliberate, making a show of it. 

You whimper his name, thighs instinctively rubbing together for friction.

He sees it. “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You freeze. He smirks.

Jeans open, he slides them down his hips, leaving only his black briefs, soaked at the tip, the outline of his cock pressed tight against the fabric. And he takes his time climbing back onto the bed, crawling over your body until he’s hovering over you.

“You want me inside you?” he whispers, voice low like a secret. “You think you’ve earned that?”

You nod quickly, lips parted. “Yes-, yes, please-”

His hand shoots out, wrapping firmly around your throat again, thumb pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

“You ready?” he asks, voice deeper, ruined. “You ready for me to fuck you like I should’ve the first night?”

“Yes, please Seonghwa-”

He cuts you off with a hard kiss, tongue claiming your mouth again. But when he pulls back, he goes to place kisses everywhere he can. Your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, below your ear, your neck. In the midst of his dominance, he still takes time to worship you, make you feel safe. Feel loved.

“Holy fuck,” he growls. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

He kisses you all the way down your stomach. And then, finally, he slides one hand between your legs again, pushing your panties aside, and spits down on your cunt, slow and filthy, fingers immediately spreading the mess over your clit in deep, slow circles.

You cry out, body jerking, but his free hand slams down on your hip to hold you in place.

You’re a wreck. Sweat slicking your skin. Lips parted. Nails digging into the sheets as if that’s the only thing keeping you on this plane of existence.

“You want me to ruin you, my love?” he whispers, finally dragging his tongue over your clit, once, slow, cruelly gentle. “Want me to fuck you like you’ve always belonged to me?”

“Yes,” you cry, high and broken and wrecked. “Please, Seonghwa-, I’m yours, I’m yours, I swear-, just take me, take me-”

He watches you squirm beneath him, the heel of his palm rolling slow, relentless circles over your clit while his fingers just barely dip between your folds.

“You like this?” he whispers, voice like silk over gravel.

You whimper. It’s not even a yes, it’s just sound now, your body too wound up to form words.

And he knows it. His fingers are relentless but never fast, just deep, slow pressure, teasing you right up to the edge.

And then stopping.

Again.

“Seonghwa-, please-” You’re full-on begging now, thighs shaking.

He grinds his cock slowly against your skin, still clothed, letting you feel how hard he is.

Your moan cracks into a sob as his fingers slip away again, leaving you soaked, trembling, and painfully empty. And Seonghwa just smiles.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Beg like that. You’ve been making me suffer for so long, baby. Do you know how many nights I lay in bed with your taste still on my lips and my cock in my hand?”

He drags two fingers along your thigh, smearing spit and slick in slow, idle patterns.

“You'd text me goodnight like nothing happened,” he growls, eyes flicking to yours. “Pretending you didn’t grind on me till you came. Acting like I wouldn’t have ripped those panties off if I had half a chance.”

His voice is slipping now. Rougher, lower, needier.

“Look at me.”

You do. Wide-eyed. Drenched.

“Open your legs.”

You obey without thinking, and he grins. 

“Good fucking girl.”

He rises to his knees, finally shoving his briefs down and off. His cock springs free, hard, heavy, flushed at the tip. And your body arches before you even realize it, your thighs shaking at the sheer sight of him.

But still, he pauses.

Gripping his cock at the base, he strokes it slow, dragging his palm up and letting his spit drip onto the head before working it down again.

“You want this?” he says through gritted teeth. “Want me to fuck you till you forget your own name?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes-, God, yes, Seonghwa, please-”

He grabs your hips, drags you down the bed toward him. You feel the head of his cock press between your folds, finally, finally there. He rocks forward, just enough to sink in a little—

And then stops. Not even halfway.

You scream. “Seonghwa-!”

He leans down, mouth by your ear. “You’re mine.”

And then, without warning, he slams the rest of the way in.

Your cry breaks into a choked gasp, back arching hard off the bed. He’s deep, impossibly deep, and already moving, dragging out slowly, then slamming back in, harder. Again. And again.

“Is this what you’ve been teasing me for? Driving me crazy, wearing those tight little jeans, grinding on my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing?”

Your words come out in broken moans. “Yes, yes-please, don’t stop-”

“Oh, baby.” His hand wraps around your throat again. “I’m not stopping.”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you like he owns you, filthy, hard, punishingly slow at times just to make you sob.

But the whole time, he’s in control.

Grinning when you beg.

Groaning when your body clenches down.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of reverence, as if he’s worshipping you even in this moment. He pulls out just enough to make you whine, only to slam back in with a force that makes you see stars. 

“Seonghwa, please… please…” you cry out, desperate for release, your voice breaking with need. “I need you-, please, don’t stop…”

Seonghwa doesn't waste another second. He moves with a kind of urgency, yet his every action is precise, deliberate. He pulls you into him again, lips crashing against yours in a deep, desperate kiss. His hands are everywhere, tracing every curve of your body like he's memorizing it, every touch stoking the flames of your need.

His hand doesn’t leave your throat as he shifts you, rough but careful, guiding you down with an edge of possessiveness that leaves you dizzy. "Turn over," he growls against your ear, voice dark, ragged. “Face down. Now.”

You obey, breath catching, and he helps you onto your stomach. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, dragging your body back to him, not even giving you a second to fully settle before he’s inside you again, thick, hot and unrelenting.

“He might be your husband on paper” Seonghwa murmurs, dragging his palm up your back, nails grazing your skin. “But you’re mine in every other way.”

He grinds his hips slow, purposefully, just to feel your reaction. You let out a needy sound and he chuckles darkly. His hand grabs your wrist and pins it to the mattress. Then the other. His palm presses down between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he places kisses on your back. “You don’t have to do anything. Just lie back and let me worship you like you deserve.”

He pulls out so slowly you want to scream, the stretch of him leaving you hollow, empty, until he slams back in.

“Fuck, Seonghwa-, you’re so good-”

“You like when I fuck you like this, huh? When I can't get enough of you?” he pants, voice right at your ear now, body flush to yours, pinning you down completely. Then his free hand snakes around your throat again, tight and possessive. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words ragged, broken, desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls, pace shifting again, slow, torturous, dragging every inch of himself out before slamming back in. “You fucking are.”

And god, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. The sound of skin meeting skin, the slick, messy wetness of it all, it’s obscene. He’s filthy, ruthless, a man starved, and finally allowed to feast. And yet… through all the roughness, there’s something deeper, rawer.

His pace becomes more erratic, more frantic, as though he can’t hold back any longer. His hands are everywhere now, gripping, squeezing, marking. Each movement is purposeful, designed to make you feel owned, cherished, in the most deliciously painful way.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he grinds out, his voice a low rasp. Your body is trembling beneath him, your breath coming in desperate gasps, and he watches, enraptured by the way you fall apart for him, piece by piece.

You can feel your release building, so close. “Please,” you gasp, barely able to keep your eyes open. “Seonghwa… please… I’m so close.”

He chuckles, dark and low, as if he’s savoring every second of your desperation. “That’s it, that’s my girl. So good for me. Always so good for me.”

He drives into you again, deeper than before, the words setting you off completely. Your body goes rigid with the force of it, your back arching into him, every inch of you trembling.

And that’s when he finally, finally, lets go.

He pulls you into him, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand back on your throat, guiding you through your release as his own crashes over him. His grip tightens on your skin, marking you, holding you there, as if he never wants to let you go.

Your body trembles beneath him, legs weak, breath coming in stuttering waves as the final crash of pleasure still echoes through you. Seonghwa is barely holding himself together, buried deep, groaning low and broken against your skin as he spills inside you, gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality. His whole body is tense, desperate, surrendering.

But the second it’s over, the shift is immediate.

He exhales shakily and gently lowers himself down, his weight easing over you like a warm blanket. His arms come around you instantly, protective, careful, not a single trace of that merciless dominance left in his touch now. He kisses your shoulder, your back, your spine, all soft, slow, reverent. Like you're something sacred.

He eases out of you with utmost care, kissing the center of your spine before whispering, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, my love.”

The bed shifts as he leaves, and you lie there, boneless, dazed, heart thudding against your ribs, not just from the intensity, but from the weight of the moment. This meant something. It always did.

When Seonghwa returns, his touch is impossibly tender. He kneels beside you and gently rolls you onto your back, using a warm cloth to clean you, every movement slow, soothing, reverent. Not a word is spoken, but his eyes never leave yours, and they say everything.

You reach up to touch his face, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it, then your palm, then each fingertip.

“I’m sorry I was rough,” he whispers, like the thought alone tortures him.

You shake your head. “You weren’t… not in a bad way. You knew what I needed.”

His arms tighten. “Still… I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you now.”

He finishes cleaning you up and disappears for a moment again. When he returns, he climbs under the covers and pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, your body cradled tight against his chest. He wraps himself around you like he’s trying to protect you from the rest of the world. Like maybe if he holds you tight enough, time will stop.

“I’ll remember this,” he whispers. “All of it. Every second.”

“I will too.”

There’s silence. Soft, heavy, laced with emotion too big for words. His hands roam your back in slow, calming motions. He kisses your hair, your forehead, your cheek.

“I wanted to be good,” he says. “Wanted to respect your boundaries. Your marriage. But every time you looked at me like that... I knew I’d never be the same.”

Your chest aches. You can’t help it, you curl closer.

“I don’t know how to be without you anymore,” you confess.

His arms tighten. “Then don’t be. Even if it’s just like this. Even if we’re pretending the world doesn’t exist.”

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. You don’t let them fall. Not tonight.

Because tonight isn’t for sorrow.

It’s for his hands, gentle as they explore your skin like a prayer. It’s for his voice, low and warm, humming soft nothings into your ear. It’s for his heart, beating steady beneath your cheek, a rhythm you’ll remember long after this ends.

It’s for the way he kisses you like you’re his whole world, even if he can’t keep you.

Even if he never could.

***

It had been a month since you finally caved. A month of living in the quiet space between reality and fantasy. Of pretending that time didn’t matter, that hearts couldn’t break if you just held each other tightly enough.

You and Seonghwa had taken that idea and run with it.

You’d spent almost every free moment in his orbit—lazy mornings tangled in sheets, late-night drives just to hold hands in silence, dinners you cooked together with music playing in the background and wine glasses left forgotten. You found parts of yourself again in his arms. Laughed like you used to. Kissed like you were starving. And Seonghwa, he loved you with the patience of a man who knew he might not get to love you forever.

Neither of you said it out loud. But you both knew.

You were still married, after all. Technically. Legally. Logistically. 

And you found yourself, for the first time in a long time, wanting to go somewhere just to see someone’s face light up when you walked through the door.

That’s what led you here.

Late afternoon, just cool enough to wear a sweater, coffee cups warm in your hands as you step into Seonghwa’s office building. You haven’t told him you’re coming. You don’t want to give him a chance to say no. You just want to see him. To remind him that, even in the middle of his workday, he’s wanted. Missed. Thought about.

Of course you know the risk of seeing your husband here, but he usually leaves work before this time. The messages from your husband has grown sparse. Short check-ins about rent, reminders about trash day or Wi-Fi bills. He doesn’t ask where you were. Doesn’t seem to care. He’s always at her place, anyway.

So you stopped telling him where you were going.

You step into the elevator, heart thudding, watching the floors tick up one by one. You know which office is his.

You reach his office door and hesitate for a second, the smell of roasted beans curling up with the nerves in your chest. In one hand, the folder he forgot, left on the nightstand in the rush of morning kisses and whispered promises not to be late. In the other, two coffees from the little place you always stop at together. His favorite, made just the way he likes it.

The door to his office is cracked just slightly open. You push it gently, peeking your head inside.

He’s standing near the window, phone to his ear, one hand in his pocket as he speaks with that low, composed voice he uses when he is working. His jacket is gone, his tie loose, a few buttons undone. You watch him a second too long, how could you not?

He glances up mid-sentence and freezes when he sees you.

His eyes widen, then softens in that familiar way that always makes your stomach flip. A little stunned, then flooded with something warm and unspoken. He gives a quick, murmured goodbye into the phone, hanging up fast before taking a step toward you.

“You’re here,” he says, surprised, voice breaking into a grin. “What-”

“You forgot these,” you lift the folder. “Found them on the dresser. Figured you’d need them.”

“And I couldn’t resist bringing this,” you add, offering one of the coffees. “Because I’m incredibly generous. And also maybe I missed you.”

His laugh is soft, delighted, boyish. “You spoil me.”

“Only a little.”

Seonghwa steps forward, takes the coffee from your hand, but it’s your wrist he holds onto just a second longer than necessary, eyes lingering on your face like he can’t decide whether to speak or kiss you.

“I thought about you all day,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “Kept thinking about this morning.”

“Me too,” you say, your tone just as soft.

His thumb strokes your wrist gently. “Close the door for me?”

The moment it clicks shut behind you, it’s like gravity pulls you straight into him. You don’t even think, your body moves on instinct, reaching for him just as he steps into you, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling your cheek as his lips find yours.

The kiss is slow, but only for a second. Then it grows deeper. Needy, familiar, warm. His mouth opens against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you all over again, his hand tightening at your waist as you lean into him, letting your coffee press into his chest so your other arm could wrap around his neck.

“You should get back to work.” you whisper against his lips, breathless.

“You know how I feel when you’re playing the boss-card,” he murmurs, chasing your mouth again, lips brushing yours between words. “It’s dangerous territory.”

You giggle softly, tilting your head as he nuzzles into your neck, kissing the skin there like it was his favorite secret. His hands roam gently, still careful even as his mouth betrays just how much he has missed you.

“I shouldn’t stay long,” you whisper, not meaning a word of it.

“Then let me be quick,” he teases, breath hot against your jaw.

“You never are,” you whisper, tugging him closer.

But when he finally pulls back, there’s something lingering in his gaze. A shift. A decision.

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa says softly.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m done for the day.” He sets his coffee aside, already reaching for his suit jacket. “I’ve been working non-stop. I miss you. Let’s get early dinner.”

Your heart flutters. “Are you sure?”

He shoots you a smile over his shoulder. “I’m the boss, remember?”

You laugh, watching him tidy a few files with one hand while he slips his watch back on with the other. Within minutes, he has everything locked down. Then he comes to you, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature.

“Ready, my love?”

You nod, warmth blooming in your chest as he opens the office door.

You walk down the hall together, hand in hand, every step light and quiet like the world belongs to you both for just a little longer. But when the elevator dings, and you stand waiting for it to arrive, Seonghwa turns toward you again.

His hand slips to your waist, the other brushing your cheek as he leans in. This kiss is different. Slower, deeper, something molten in the way his mouth lingers on yours. It curls your toes, sends a hum through your chest, and leaves you dizzy.

And then…

“Y/N?”

The voice cuts through the air like glass.

You freeze.

Seonghwa’s lips are still brushing yours when your eyes fly open and see your husband standing several feet away.

He’s alone. No colleagues in sight, no buffer. Just him… and the truth he had clearly just walked in on. His gaze flickers between your face and Seonghwa’s. Down to your hands. Back to your lips. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

He clearly didn't expect this.

You step back instinctively, like space might soften the blow. “I-”

“That’s him?” he cuts in, voice sharp. “That’s who you’re seeing?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. You can’t find your voice. You haven’t prepared for this, this collision of both your lives, here, now, in the open.

His eyes widens, expression laced with disbelief. “You’re dating him?” He asks again. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. My boss? You’re screwing my boss?”

“Watch your tone.” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the tension like steel. He steps forward slightly. Not aggressive, but protective. Firm.

Your husband’s eyes snap to him. “You know she’s married.”

“I do.” Seonghwa’s expression didn’t waver. “I also know she’s in an open marriage. A situation you created.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to speak, but no words come. You can’t do this here, not like this.

Seonghwa turns and sees the way you’re frozen. Hands shaking, eyes glossy, lips parted like they wants to move but can’t.

“We’re leaving,” he says simply, gently tugging your hand.

Your husband looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. Not as Seonghwa leads you into the elevator, wraps you under his arm protectively, and hits the button.

The doors slide shut, and just like that, you’re gone.

The door shuts behind you both with a soft click, muffled by the sheer stillness of the apartment. It should feel safe, it usually does, but now the silence only makes your thoughts louder.

You step in a few paces, drop your bag on the floor, and turn around like you don't know where to go next.

“I messed everything up,” you say in a breath, voice shaky. “I didn’t even say a word, I just stood there,- God, his face, Seonghwa, he knows.”

Your fingers tremble at your sides. You can’t stand still. The panic keeps bubbling up, sharp and sudden, and you drag a hand through your hair like that would slow your racing mind.

Seonghwa says nothing at first. He simply watches you for a moment, letting you unravel, but stays close.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” you whisper. “We were careful. We-, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. What if-, what if he tells someone? What if it-”

He reaches for you before you can spiral further, large hands settling on your shoulders with calm, grounding weight. “Hey,” he says gently. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Your eyes are glossy, your chest rising and falling in quick bursts.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you into him.

Your hands curl into the fabric of his coat without thinking. His warmth surrounds you, steady and quiet. His touch isn’t desperate, it’s reassuring. Calm.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says into your hair, rubbing a hand down your back. “But you didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”

You say nothing, only shake your head into his chest.

“What if he doesn’t approve of this?” you whisper. “Of you. Of you being the one I’m seeing.”

His hand pauses for half a second, then resumes its slow strokes down your spine. “I don’t know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull back enough to check the screen.

Husband: Can we please talk?

Seonghwa doesn’t ask questions when you read the text aloud to him, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I have to go,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I need to talk to him.”

He nods once, the motion slow. Measured. “I know.”

You shift your weight, swallowing thickly. “I’m,-” The words tangle in your throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Seonghwa says gently. “This was always something you had to do.”

You step closer, eyes searching his face. “I hate that this is how it’s happening.”

“I know,” he says again, quieter this time. “But you’re not alone.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with the softest touch, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. His thumb grazes your cheek like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you before he lets you go.

“Do you want me to take you?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You hesitate, then nod.

You want to tell him he’s done enough, that you shouldn’t drag him deeper into this, but you can’t. Because a part of you wants that last moment. Wants to feel him close before you walk back into the house you’ve been slowly drifting away from.

The ride is quiet, headlights casting golden stripes across your face as the city rolls by. You feel like your heart is caged behind your ribs, thrashing to get out.

Seonghwa’s hand rests near the gearshift, close enough to touch. And for a moment, it brushes yours. Not by accident. His pinky hooks lightly with yours, just enough to say I’m here.

You don’t speak the rest of the way. But somehow, you feel everything. When the house comes into view, your breath catches. The porch light is on. His car is in the driveway.

Seonghwa pulls up without a word, letting the engine hum quietly as you sit frozen in place.

“You want me to stay here?” he asks gently, breaking the silence.

You look at him, hesitating for a moment. “I think I’m okay.”

“Good” he says, offering you the faintest smile, soft and sad and full of love he won’t say out loud. “But if you need me, I’ll be back before you can even unlock your phone. Okay?”

Your throat tightens. You can only nod.

Then, without thinking, you lean across the console and press your lips to his. Brief, but full of every unspoken thing between you. It’s not goodbye. It can’t be. Not yet.

You pull back, and he’s still looking at you like you’re the only reason he knows how to breathe.

“Go,” he murmurs, voice tender. “Do what you have to do.”

You step out into the fading light, the front door looming ahead, your heart thudding with every step. As you reach the front door, you look back as Seonghwa one last time before entering your home. The home you’ve shared with your husband of 8 years. The door closes behind you and there he is.

Your husband is standing there. Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable.

But his eyes, his eyes were full of questions.

You stand in the hallway, your fingers still curled around the handle, your heart pounding so hard it almost drowns out the silence.

You don’t know what to expect. An argument, questions, maybe even cold indifference. But what you don’t expect is him suddenly kneeling to the ground, helpless, in the middle of the floor, shoulders slumped, hands clasped like he doesn’t even know how else to hold himself. It’s like he’s unraveling right there, like pride means nothing anymore.

You stare, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, more breath than sound. “For everything.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if it’s anger or sadness, or the crushing weight of what this moment might mean.

“I never should’ve asked for an open marriage,” he continues. “It was stupid. So fucking stupid. I-, I thought I wanted space. I thought maybe we could be happier that way, that I was giving us a better chance by letting things feel… open.”

His voice cracks. He lifts his gaze and it guts you.

“When I saw you with him today and I-” His breath shudders. “I didn’t know it would be him,”

He shifts forward slightly on his knees, reaching out like he wants to touch your hand but doesn’t dare.

“Please,” he whispers. “Let me try again. I’ll end things with her. I’ll be the husband I should’ve been. I’ll do anything. Just don’t walk away from me.”

And god, part of you wants to fall into his arms. He’s your husband. The man you’ve loved for 8 years. The one who now looks more broken than you’ve ever seen him.

But another part of you aches for what this means.

Because Seonghwa’s face flashes in your mind. His voice. His touch. The way he looks at you like you hung the stars, like he’s trying to memorize every second you give him because he knows you were never his to keep.

Your husband is still kneeling. Still waiting. Desperate. Tear-streaked.

You bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“I…” you begin, voice trembling. “I need time. Time to think”

A pause. Then a small nod from him, like he’s afraid to ask for anything more.

But in your chest, something stirs. Something terrifying.

Because no matter what you choose… someone’s heart is going to break.

And maybe it’ll be your own.

***

The house feels hollow. The evening's darkness is casting over your house like the feelings inside of you.

Your husband is still asleep on the couch. Or maybe he’s just pretending. You don’t ask.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. Just laid there in your bed, the one that used to be yours and his, but also once, without your permission, became hers too. The silence between you and him was unbearable. He offered the bedroom like it was a gesture of goodwill.

Your chest still feels tight as you stand in the hallway now, jacket in hand, shoes barely laced. You write a note. Nothing dramatic. Just I need some air. I’ll be back later.

You don’t know when “later” is. You just know where you need to be.

Seonghwa opens the door before you even knock. It’s like he knew.

You’re met with the smell of tea, the warmth of his apartment, and his eyes, dark with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice like a balm. “You okay?”

You nod once.

Then your lip trembles.

And he knows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs, stepping forward just as your breath hitches.

You try to stay composed. You really do. But then his arms are around you, pulling you into his chest, and the weight of everything presses down so hard it feels like your knees might give out.

You collapse into him, arms locked around his waist, fingers fisting into the back of his shirt. His hand cups the back of your head, the other smoothing down your spine.

“I-I tried to be strong,” you manage, voice thick. “I wanted to be okay, but he-, he was on his knees, Seonghwa. He begged me.”

You feel him tense slightly, but he says nothing. Just holds you tighter.

“He said he’d end things with her. That he made a mistake. That I’m still his wife and he wants me back and-” You pull back just enough to look at Seonghwa, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “And I wanted to feel good hearing it. I did. But all I could think about was you.”

Something flickers in his gaze. Hope, maybe. Pain too. But he doesn’t speak. He just listens.

You sniff, trying to hold yourself together. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you. I know I’m hurting you by not knowing what I want and I hate it-”

“Hey,” he cuts in gently, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “Stop. I told you, I don’t want anything from you that hurts you to give.”

“But you-”

“I want you,” he says simply. “In whatever way you can give me. Even if that means just this. Being here, telling me what you’re feeling.”

Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s not just from sadness. It’s because of how safe you feel with him. How seen. How loved, even if he’s never said the words. You press your forehead to his chest and he just sways you gently in his arms, fingers tracing slow patterns along your back.

“I’m so lost, Seonghwa.” you whisper.

He exhales against your hair. “Then stay here. Just for a little while.”

And god, you’re tired of choosing. Tired of being torn.

But as his hand slips into yours and he leads you to the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, tucking you in close like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held, you know this much:

This man… this love… is real.

You don’t remember when the tears stopped. Or what time it is. Or how long you’ve been sitting here. The two of you sit curled into his couch like you’ve done so many times before. But this time, everything feels sharper. He’s cradling you with a kind of care that’s almost reverent, your legs stretched across his lap, your face tucked beneath his chin. You can hear his heart beneath your ear, slow and steady. He hasn’t moved since you sat down. He doesn't dare to.

His fingers are laced with yours, your thumb tracing a trembling path over the back of his hand. The blanket wrapped around your bodies makes it feel like the world outside has stopped. Like you're suspended in a fragile little moment where time can’t touch you. And yet... you know it will.

It’s you who speaks first. Your voice is hushed, barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Seonghwa sighs gently through his nose, resting his chin on top of your head.

“I know,” he says. Just two words. No judgment. No bitterness. Just a quiet truth, laced with understanding.

You shift slightly so you can see his face, and he’s already looking at you, those dark eyes as warm and soft as ever, even now. You can see it in them: how much he adores you. How much this is killing him.

But you also see something else. A kind of resolve. One that terrifies you.

He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Then another. Then he just lingers there, lips resting against your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he knows this might be the last time.

And then, barely above a whisper, he says it.

“You should go back to him.”

The words slice through the quiet like ice water, and you freeze.

“What?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. He’s staring down at your joined hands like it’s the only way he’ll get through this.

“You’re married.” he says slowly. “And he’s... trying. Maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s not. And I see you struggling to choose. I see it all over you.“

You swallow thickly, your chest cracking open.

His hand tightens just slightly around yours. “I don’t want you to look back one day and wonder if you made the wrong choice. If you left too soon. If I was just an escape.” 

Your hearts drops.

“So let me make it for you,” he whispers, finally meeting your eyes. “Let me be the one who walks away. Let me be the bad guy, if that’s what it takes. Because I’d rather be the one who lets go than make you carry the guilt of choosing.”

You pull your hand from his, suddenly feeling cold. “Are you trying to push me away?”

“No.” His voice cracks, and it breaks everything inside you. “I’m trying to let you go before it hurts you more to stay.”

You hate how reasonable he sounds. You hate how selfless he is. You hate that he means it.

You shake your head, desperate. “Seonghwa, please-”

He smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that feels like the beginning of a goodbye.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t supposed to be more than a brief chapter in your life. And I was okay with that. I was. Because even if I couldn’t be forever, I still got you shortly. And I would do it all again, even knowing it would end.”

His voice cracks. But he keeps going.

Your throat burns. Your vision blurs.

“I let myself dream about it, you know,” he says softly, an empty laugh escaping his lips. “About what it would’ve been like if you met me first. If there wasn’t already a ring on your finger. But I know this isn’t about what I want. It never was.”

He brings your hand to his lips again, presses a trembling kiss to your fingers.

“So go back to him,” he murmurs. “You deserve a chance to fix what you had. To see if there’s still love waiting for you there. And if there is… don’t look back. Don’t wonder. Just go.”

You finally whisper, “But why-”

“Because I love you,” he says, cutting through everything.

It’s the first time he’s said it.

The first time you’ve heard it.

His voice wavers, just a little, but he doesn’t look away.

“I love you,” he says again, softer. “And I know I’m being incredibly selfish by saying that to you right now, because I don’t wanna make things harder for you. But I do. I didn't want to confuse you, or make you feel like you owed me anything. But I need you to know.”

His eyes shine, but he’s still holding it together. Just barely.

“I love you,” He leans his forehead gently against yours. “And I would give anything to be the one you stay with. But if I really love you… then I have to do what’s best for you. Even if it breaks me.”

Tears prick at your eyes, sharp and sudden. He gives you a faint smile, and it’s the saddest thing you’ve ever seen. 

“Why does this feel like punishment?” your voice cracks.

His eyes soften even more, somehow. “Because loving someone you can’t keep always does.” his thumb drags over your cheek, removing a tear from your eye.

And the silence that follows is unbearable. A crushing, yawning void between your heart and his. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to disappear into his arms and never have to come back to the reality that waits for you outside this room.

You want a world where you don’t have to choose.

But that world doesn’t exist.

Not for you.

Not for him.

“I don’t know if I can say goodbye to you,” you whisper, barely audible.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His hand lingers on your cheek like it’s memorizing every line. Every softness. Every trace of the life you almost had.

And then, without a word, because words don’t work anymore, you lean in.

And so does he.

Your lips meet in the quietest, saddest kiss of your life.

His lips move like he’s trying to tell you everything one last time. Like he’s writing all his unsaid I love yous into your skin. Like this moment has to hold every second he’ll never get.

You fall into him, legs curled up tighter, arms around his neck like a lifeline. His fingers thread into your hair as if he can anchor you there, just a little longer. Like maybe if he kisses you softly enough, sweetly enough, the universe will change its mind.

But the universe doesn’t.

And he knows it.

And when you finally pull back, just enough to look at him. He’s crying, quietly.

Still holding your face like you’re something precious.

Still loving you as you let him go.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he says, barely audible. “Even when you forget the sound of my voice. Even when he holds your hand. When he gets to fall asleep next to you. When your life goes on…”

Your breath shatters.

You’re sobbing now, silently. Your chest aches. Your whole body aches.

He presses the softest kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your forehead, like he’s saying goodbye to every part of you, one last time.

“I hope he knows,” Seonghwa whispers, voice broken. “I hope he knows he gets to keep the heart I would’ve spent my whole life protecting.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just lets you go.

Because he loves you too much to make you choose.

And that’s what real heartbreak sounds like.

Silence.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx

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[starbuck]

yes, I had a feeling that we agreed. it’s a simple matter of you not understanding my phrasing, which is fine. my post was intended for my own followers, who understood what I meant because they’ve been following me for years, not 11k strangers whose primary frame of reference for tMG is No Children and This Year (which are great songs but do not represent the majority of their discography).

i did not theorize about your personal situation, I simply said that i don’t know what is going on with you that makes you think it is okay to be rude to strangers online, which you did, even if you don’t realize it. no one on tumblr is just a random “op,” they are people who were not expecting their post to blow up. something to consider going forward.

also, to clear up remaining misunderstanding, the songs i was discussing having no understanding of their meaning were songs like Papagallo. if you would like to explain to me what you think Papagallo is about (literally, metaphorically, emotionally, however you like), i am all ears. i personally find it to be a very abstract song which is nevertheless enjoyable and relatable, which is fun for me.

so many bands write songs about “relatable issues” that don’t resonate while the mountain goats write songs about issues no one has ever experienced before that are universal

[katabay]

RESERVING JUDGEMENTS IS A MATTER OF INFINITE HOPE

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.

-The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

I've been rotating through some ideas for visuals, rattling around thoughts about voyeuristic claustrophobia. idk, summer weather is here and it's got me thinking about gatsby! it's a summer re-read book for me. almost an annual tradition at this point ngl

[askoverkill]

ooc: maybe its just me but like. I read your FAQ, and your Siffrin introductions, and like. It's so obvious to me ISATfrin is the Director? The 'stardust' slipup, yeah, but also: that they puppeteer Euphrasie. That xe and Loop have a 'history.' That the Change God hates Dawn (because all Siffrins represent the refusal of change to them!)

Anyway, my thoughts: During Act 5, Siffrin wasn't stopped by Odile. They broke down further, and ended up accumulating enough power and experience with Wishcraft that he could become a minor diety themself, and then oust the King (possibly Wishing to not be a part of this story anymore? Thus no longer an actor, but the director.) The world's been ending for a while for Dawn, so I imagine it's still breaking apart from ISAT. La danse macabre, until the heat death of the universe. Or something.

Anyway loving this AU so much <3

// i don't blame people for missing it (they could have missed the FAQ, or have just caught up reading and didn't piece together all the clues) or some other reason

// but yeah, thank you for reading!

[griddleharker]

One theory(?) I do not see often, surprisingly, about tlt is how Harrow never actually thought she was in love with the body.

I see it often discussed as 'she confused worship and love.' But I think her never being in love with the body is just as believable.

The first time it is assumed, it was by Gideon, who never felt strongly about religion. Harrow does not confirm it, and pushes Gideon in the pool, and often time, refusal to speak upon an assumption or strong denial means it is the truth. However, right before Gideon assumes the nature of Harrow's love is romantic, it is framed like a kiss between Harrow and Gideon is going to happen. And Harrow clearly is expecting it to happen as well. Imagine your crush is leaning in, as if to kiss you, only to ask if you're in love with Jesus Chirst and you're a devout Christian. I believe that pushing off your crush in the pool out of embarrassment and frustration is only fair then.

Then, there is the entirety of Harrow The Ninth. This time it's different, it is not an outsider believing Harrow is in love with a corpse/religious symbol, it's Harrow herself. And while it sounds just like I'm disproving my own theory, we have to remember in what state Harrow was in, and what we know of her. Harrow spends a good two-thirds of the book trying desperately to fill a blank. She does not know what the blank is, but she knows it's there and not right. All of the instances where she is shown to be infatuated with the body could be read as her taking the one thing she feels is closest to what she lost, and shoving it in that place to replace it. No, she could not have filled the blank with Ianthe, she has not known her long enough for her to fill the earlier blanks. It needed to be something that had a very strong presence in her early life. I believe the end of Harrow The Ninth goes very well with this interpretation as well. She finds out the truth, and what represents the thing she stuffed into the 'blank' is filled with what was originally the blank.

Then, the epilogue of Nona The Ninth. Again, we don't have Harrow's thoughts on what happens, and she seemingly does not have a lovestruck reaction to it. 'Why are you not appeased?' an easy answer would be that it is not what she actually wanted. Nona's really good at reading people's body language, and it does kind of disproves that point, I'll admit. But still, the thought can be entertained that Alecto misinterpreted Harrow's fervor, or that as Alecto, she is less great at reading people. She is too big an unknown for me to be sure.

Either way both theories are very fun to me, I just think this one should be considered more !

[heresmyfiddlestick]

so so so so so i watched The Interstellar Song Contest this morning before heading to two birthday parties and have been fizzing all day because

Susan

The Rani

and beyond that, the first episode written by an openly trans writer, with a complex political message that is talking about real-world genocides (plural- please see this link shared by rowanthestrange) and their erasure, and this shit is airing in the UK and on Disney+!! the absolute guts on this production team to unashamedly put something out like this. anyone claiming this is something as simple as Zionist propaganda is not reading deeply enough

i have to be honest, i wasn't a fan of Doctor Who Redacted, so going into Dawson's first TV episode i was hesitant. but i was really delighted by the big swings she took and the freedom she was given to be outspoken, and i thought there was good mix of the political, the fun, and the fucking horrifying. much has been said of the shot of the audience being sucked into space, and rightly so. if this shit had aired in the 70s, Mary Whitehouse would have had a heart attack

it's very fun to see Belinda down for an alien adventure for once, and it's nice for the two of them to have some downtime to hang out. i love how this is literally just a space future continuation of Eurovision, but they never say the definitely super copyrighted name

Dugga Doo was perfect in the Eurovision of it all

wait i completely missed that Cora was representing Trion. show me old man Turlough.

okay so the Rani is back which is, as the Doctor says, camp, first and foremost. why exactly is Mrs. Flood the Rani? because it's utterly delightful, that's why. i don't think we need to expect too much from the reasoning in these last two episodes. she bigenerates and immediately slots herselves into archetypal archvillain and toady underling roles, she is having a blast!

the Rani being back makes me remember fondly the improvised Doctor Who show i saw at Edinburgh Fringe in 2019, where the villain who had been turning people into weird creatures turned out to be the Rani, because of course she did. i do of course consider that canon and will be looking for references to it in these next appearances of the stunning Archie Panjabi and the fucking devious Anita Dobson. what a fun pair

this continues to be a great season, in my estimation, and i'm relieved and thrilled the show is not shying away from strongly political topics-- even if the politics of the episodes take a bit more to unpack than some people on this site seem to be willing to give them