pt. 1 | hiromi higuruma thought he knew everything about his secretary.
then one phone call introduced him to her six-year-old daughter.
pairing: higuruma x f!reader
content: secretary!reader, boss!higuruma, single mom!reader, slow burn, fluff, hiromi accidentally becomes a dad, your daughter's name is harumi
hiromi is in the middle of fastening the buttons of his shirt when he receives a phone call from his secretary. he looks over the screen and sees your name. with one more firm press of a button, he reaches to the device and answers.
"good morning, attorney," you greet him as soon as the line connects. "i have a big favor i have to ask you today. my daughter's baby sitter canceled last minute, and i have no one else to watch her. would you mind if i bring her to the firm? i promise she'll stay at my desk."
hiromi blinks.
"...your daughter," he repeats, bewildered. "i was not aware you have children."
you chuckle awkwardly from the other end. "just her, attorney," you explain, "and it's just the two of us, so..."
he sets his shock and curiosity aside as he nods. "is that so? yes, you can bring her here. just make sure she won't disturb the others."
"thank you, attorney. i'm sorry for the inconvenience."
"don't apologize. i understand your circumstances."
after the line dies, hiromi stares at the caller id. for the three years he's had you as his secretary, he realized just how much he does not know you outside office walls.
you two work seamlessly together—you had all of his work affairs such as schedules and documents and the like handled before he could even lift a finger. for the longest time he's been a lawyer, only you were the one who managed to make his work easier.
when hiromi arrives at the firm an hour later, the air seems different—lighter, as if everyone just collectively forget their burdens for the day. he also notices other employees trying to look over towards your cubicle.
there, by your desk, sits a little girl no older than six years old. all her attention is on the sketchbook in front of her, drawing a pretty pink character.
hiromi slows down to a stop. for a brief moment, he simply watches. the little girl sits with remarkable patience for someone her age, legs swinging gently beneath the chair that was far too tall for her. every so often, she glances up at you before returning to her drawing, content simply being nearby.
you notice him first and immediately stand.
"mr. higuruma, good morning."
it takes a second for him to pry his eyes from the girl before turning his attention to you. "good morning," he greets back. "is this your daughter?"
at being referred to, the little girl looks up from her sketchbook, blinks her big eyes at him, and then quickly slides off the chair. she smooths her dress before giving him a polite bow.
"good morning, mr. attorney," she greets. the girl straightens up with a bright smile. "i'm harumi. i'm six years old, and i'm going to start first grade soon."
hiromi blinks once before he visibly softens up. he crouches to meet her eyes and replies, "nice to meet you, harumi. i'm hiromi higuruma, thirty-six years old, and i'm a lawyer."
you try to bite back a smile. you've never seen your boss this soft. before harumi can try anything funny, you gently take her hand.
"okay, let's leave mr. higuruma alone n—"
"—would you like to see my drawings?" the little girl asks the man excitedly, showing him her sketchbook. "i love strawberry shortcake and i draw her lots."
harumi points at a character in her sketchbook. for a six year old, hiromi thought in surprise, she draws well.
"this one is strawberry shortcake. she has lots of friends, like here—it's cherry jam and raspberry torte. she has lots more of friends but my favorite are the pink ones, so i only drew them."
you cringe inwardly as you watch hiromi nod along, afraid of inconveniencing him any further.
"apologies, attorney, we'll leave you to your work now." you tap on harumi's shoulder. "come on, mr. higuruma's busy—"
"i can spare a minute," hiromi says with a small smile. "i find her drawings interesting, anyway."
harumi visibly beams at this.
soon, your daughter becomes a regular at the firm. thanks to her pleasing personality, everyone starts looking for harumi when you don't arrive to work with her in tow.
"aww, someone else is watching her?"
"where's harumi?"
"when is she visiting again?"
even hiromi starts asking.
the next time harumi visits, hiromi insists watching her while you finish your work.
"i'm free for the next two hours," he told you. "let me watch her so you can move without worry."
so you let him. now, harumi is across his desk, talkative as ever as she draws.
"everyone at school say i'm like strawberry shortcake," she proudly says. "because i make a lot of friends and i'm nice and i fix it when my classmates fight."
hiromi hums, glancing at her from his computer. "that so?" he asks. "i don't know her, but you are a kind girl, so you must be very similar."
"i have a classmate who is like shrek, someone who is like wreck-it-ralph, someone like snow white, and lots more," harumi earnestly responds. "mr. higuruma, i can think of a character like you as well."
curious, hiromi puts his pen down. "yeah?" he smiles. "who?"
harumi thinks hard. she shuts her eyes close and starts humming.
"mm..."
after half a minute, she opens her eyes again.
"never mind," she says. "you're too weird."
hiromi coughs. he clasps his hands together in question.
"...why do you think so?"
"you're so serious," harumi immediately answers. "you always look tired. you also always talk so deeply, like this—" she talks with an exaggerated bass, "—and your eye brows are always down like this."
harumi drops her hand and goes back to smiling brightly. "but i don't think you're so scary anymore."
"yeah? what changed?"
"well... you started smiling more!" she leans in and pinches his cheek. "yay!"
that is the exact moment you walk in. you immediately grow mortified when your daughter starts kneading hiromi's cheek.
"wha—harumi!"
the little girl immediately drops her hand.
"...mama."
you stand in the doorway, equal parts horrified and apologetic.
"what are you doing?" you whisper in disbelief before hurrying over. "i'm so sorry, attorney." you gently pry harumi away from hiromi, who still looks mildly stunned. "don't i always remind you that we keep our hands to ourselves?"
harumi pouts.
"but his face looked lonely."
you look beyond appalled now. the man is your boss, and here is you daughter, being overly familiar with him.
"his face looked what?"
"it looked like it needed this!" before anyone can stop her, she reaches up once more and gently presses both of hiromi's cheeks inward.
"squish."
silence filled the room. the entire office somehow feels quieter as you silently wish for the ground to eat you. before you could apologize again, hiromi snorts out a laugh.
"...is my face no longer lonely?" he asks.
harumi beams again.
"nope!" she leans towards him. "you smile now, you don't sound like this anymore—" she mocks a deep voice, "—law, law, papers, crime, work."
"i never sounded like that," he argues.
the bickering goes back and forth, and you finally let out a laugh.
hiromi's attention shifts immediately. in the three years you've worked together, he'd heard you chuckle politely, laugh with clients, and sighed in relief after winning difficult cases.
but this? it was different. your shoulders are relaxed, your eyes crinkled with mirth—for a second, you weren't his impossibly competent secretary carrying the weight of an entire office.
you were simply... a mother laughing at her ridiculous child.
he'd always assumed your life outside the office was difficult. he just never imagined it could also be this warm. somehow, between harumi's nonstop chatter and your quiet laughter, the office no longer felt like a workplace.
it felt... lived in. warm. the kind of place you look forward to after a long day.
hiromi had spent years returning to an apartment that greeted him with nothing but silence.
tonight, for the first time, he caught himself wondering what it would be like to come home to bright giggles, scattered crayons, quiet laughter, and someone waiting to tell him about strawberry shortcake.
to have someone look up when he walked through the door and say, "welcome home."
Nanami had never considered himself a jealous man.
possessive, perhaps, in small ways. protective? certainly.
but jealousy? it was messy. the sort of thing that clouded judgement and made people act irrationally.
Nanami preferred facts.
and the fact was that you were free to spend time with anyone. the fact that your smile didn't belong to him. and the fact that he trusted you completely.
but why—why had he spent the last twenty minutes staring at his phone?
the photo on the screen was harmless for god's sake!
a group picture from a company dinner. you sat near the center, smiling oh so sweetly to the camera.
but the problem is there was a man sitting beside you.
nothing appropriate or suspicious. just a coworker. a coworker whose arm was slung casually over the back of your chair.
a coworker who seemed to appear in every photos your friend posted. a coworker whose name you had mentioned bunch of times this week without realizing it.
Nanami locked his phone and set it face down on the table.
he hated this feeling. Not because he distrusted you.
there was no reason for the knot tightening in his chest.
there is no logical explanation for why he suddenly found himself wondering whether you smiled that brightly around everyone. or whether you looked at everyone the way you looked at him.
the apartment door opened suddenly, snapping him out of his trance.
"Kento?" your voice drifted through the hallway.
you stepped into the living room, smiling when you saw him.
"There you are."
Nanami returned the smile automatically.
but as you sat beside him and started talking about your day, he found himself listening for one name. and when it finally appeared in the conversation? his jaw tightened.
your words faltered. "Kento?" you looked at him carefully.
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
then, quietly, you asked. "Is there something wrong?"
he met your gaze briefly before looking away.
the silenced stretched. not uncomfortable, just heavy. Nanami wasn't entirely sure how to answer.
you knew your husband too well to notice when something was off.
"Kento."
"Hm."
"You're doing that thing."
his brows furrowed slightly. "What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend nothing's bothering you."
you moved closer on the couch, turning toward him fully.
"Did something happen at work?"
"No."
"Did someone annoy you?"
"Not particularly."
"Are you tired?"
"Always."
your expression only softened.
your fingers reached for his hand without thinking. you interwined your fingers with his.
"C'mon, talk to me?"
you waited patiently, giving him space to speak.
Nanami hated that he was making this difficult.
eventually, he said, "Who is he?"
you blinked. "...who?"
"The coworker."
your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."
for several seconds, you said nothing.
then, "Are you jealous?"
Nanami closed his eyes briefly. "Perhaps," he sighed.
your expression softened even further.
you shifted closer until your shoulder rested against his.
"I found him annoying," you started. "He talks too much, he steals food, he's arrogant too."
the corner of Nanami's mouth twitched. you caught it immediately.
"There he is."
"I was here the entire time."
"No, you were somewhere in your own head."
you brushed your thumb over his knuckles.
"I don't smile because of him," you sighed. "I smile because i was having fun."
his gaze softened. "I know," he admitted.
"Then why are you suffering by yourself?"
a faint huff escaped him, not quite a laugh.
"Because," he pulled your joined hands closer. "I was hoping it would stop if i ignored it."
"Did it work?"
"No."
you laughed. "That was unfortunate."
he laughed along with you. "It was."
the knot in his chest began to loosen.
not because the jealousy had vanished. but because you were looking at him exactly the way you always had.
"love, no... don't go," nanami rasped, voice low still laced with sleep. his breath tickled the back of your neck as he spoke. the hold of his hand around your waist was somehow tighter, even after when you thought you couldn't possibly get any closer than this; your back on his chest without any space in between.
"let me gooo, i want to make my coffee," you whined softly, the tone made it apparent that you couldn't hold a smile at the sight of your usual collected man being so clingy. provoking him further, you once more tried to release the grasp of his hand on your stomach. the man responded with a disapproving grunt, the vibration from his lips against your skin made you shiver.
"stay, please. i'll make it for you later," he pleaded, trailing lazy kisses along your shoulder blade in hope to get you stay in bed, going as far as bringing his leg over both of yours, practically keeping you in his embrace. you chuckled.
"but i want it now," you replied, yet despite those words you couldn't help but put your hand on his cheek, seeing how the blond nuzzled closer to it, chasing the contact like a cat basking under the attention.
"not yet," he murmured, doubling down by gently turning you over, bringing you closer as you rested your head on his chest. you caved under his relentless touch, both his arms folded snugly behind your back. nanami wore a satisfied smile, like he just achieved something great. "i need another hour of this. of you."
"didn't know i'll be held hostage in some mornings when i went into this marriage," you teased, the comfort of his warm hug made you abandon the scheme you never planned to follow through. your fingers made their way to draw random patterns on the navy shirt he was wearing.
he caught your digits, planting a soft kiss at the back of your hand, "and you promised to accept me as i am in your vow, so i'm afraid you'll have to put up with this for the rest of your life."
Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
imagining how mother's day is for your family that same day your husband infamous divorce lawyer higuruma hiromi receives the most outstanding legal personnel award in the yearly firm gala and somehow, you managed to convince him to attend even when he said he didn't want to.
it was your day to celebrate, that's why he didn't want to go. he always took time off for the next week ever since you and him had your son. he wanted to make it a spectacle, to honor your sacrifices, not only as a working mother, but also everything you do to make your house a home worth having.
its why every year the three of you go to somewhere unexpected and just have fun as a family, with your two boys focusing on trying to make sure that everything was going to be fun and enjoyable to you, make you laugh and make you feel appreciated.
but this year, its a bit different. when you heard from his secretary that he was being primed for an award after years of devoted service to the firm, you were ecstatic for your husband. he has been working there near fifteen years and finally became a senior partner, his name finally on the wall on the lobby floor.
you spoke to hiromi about it, urging him to go. you were prepared to cancel any work commitment you had for that specific day. after all, its only very few times you can truly celebrate such a prestigious award like this for your husband and his efforts. but when he told you the date, that being mother's day, he immediately told you he had no intention of going.
"darling, im not going to go." he whispers to you, watching you pout. "i have plans for mothers day. we were going to lake como."
"we can move it a day late, sweetheart. its really fine—"
"no, its not." he seemed firm with it. "hiroshi is looking forward to it."
he insisted on it for a whole week, only to be told that his presence is required by his boss and he can't say no to that. in the end, your husband relented on celebrating your mother's day special week off a day early.
the venue looked less like an awards ceremony and more like the annual gathering of people who billed others by the hour. so many diferent people were around, many you were sure your husband has seen and interacted with before. there were politicians and court prosecutors, court judges. some of the firm's wealthy donors. some of the journalists that cover their cases and so on.
everyone that had come and gone, from table to table were all dressed finely, sharply in black tie and expensive watches and expressions that screamed 'i’ve definitely ruined someone’s life in court before.' all across the board.
and right in the middle of it all sat hiromi looking deeply, deeply uninterested in the fact that tonight was supposed to celebrate him and all his achievements in his long illustrious career.
because unfortunately for every single person present, the demon of the court, higuruma hiromi had become insufferable person ever, especially when it comes to you.
after all, he was your husband. and you were his wife. you were also mother of his precious little son. the person who matters to him most. which meant he now treated conversations like opportunities to bring you up against people’s will at every turn, every breath, every waking hour of every day.
“higuruma-sensei, your work on judicial reform on divorce this year was extraordinary.”
“thank you.” he replied calmly. “but my wife memorized a forty page monologue while breastfeeding our son back then, so frankly i think she deserves this more than i do.”
the judge froze. “…i see. that...that is incredible."
“would you like to see the trailer for that movie?”
"oh, i—"
"come huddle, let's watch it together."
before the poor man could escape, hiromi already had his phone out. you watched this happen from across the ballroom with the exhausted horror of someone witnessing a public safety hazard.
“oh my god, he didn't have to say that—" you whispered, lowering your head.
your manager was openly crying laughing beside you as you shook your head, making sure your son is preoccupied. it was making you flustered. because the thing was, hiromi wasn’t even acting embarrassed. that was what made it worse to you. just looking at him now, you knew that he was dead serious.
when the poor judge finally made an excuse to leave, another attorney approached him. “congratulations, higuruma-sensei. your closing statement in the watanabe case was brilliant. im glad the wife got her due."
“thank you.” he nodded once. “oh, speaking of wives, my wife actually had to perform an emotional breakdown scene immediately after our son threw up on her costume. its critcally accclaimed."
“…that sounds difficult.”
“it was. she still nailed the scene in one take.”
the attorney blinked. “i’m sorry, are we still discussing law?”
“probably not. sorry. we've got to discuss my wife. i think my wife's incredible."
"ah....i see."
that wasn't the end of it. because then somehow, somehow, it escalated further. because your son had accompanied you both tonight. and your five year old had unfortunately inherited every ounce of his father’s dramatic tendencies. which unfortunately for you meant double the trouble.
“papa, papa.” your son whispered loudly while tugging hiromi’s sleeve. “are you talking about mama again?”
hiromi looked down at him. “…yes. papa wants to talk a lot about mama today. why do you ask?"
“okay.” your son nodded solemnly. “good. because she’s very talented and really cool.”
you physically dropped your face into your hands. you were outnumbered. they were impossible. your son climbed into hiromi’s lap after that, happily eating the miniature desserts while hiromi continued showing random people behind-the-scenes photos from your film like an overinvested stan account manager.
“this was the third week of filming, my wife was incredibly so far ahead with shooting cause she can just get it in one go.” he explained to a bewildered journalist. “she had a fever here too, yet she's working. she's just so passionate."
“higuruma-sensei…why do you know the exact production timeline?”
“because i love my wife a lot enough to know.”
the journalist actually looked frightened and stunned, unsure of what to do about this entire situation. meanwhile you were debating whether divorce was still an option after years of marriage while your manager was losing it beside you and your son seemed to agree with his father.
it wasn't long since the ceremony and its program fully started but hiromi's awarding was coming up first, since the agreement was that his award was going to be early so he can get home early. which you were thankful for. it means you can put this day behind you.
the announcer’s voice echoed through the grand ballroom. “this year’s recipient for excellence in legal defense and judicial advocacy goes to higuruma hiromi-sensei!”
applause erupted immediately as hiromi’s name appeared onscreen. he sighed softly like a man being inconvenienced by his own accomplishments. he stood up and started bowing to everyone, all the while mouthing thank yous.
your son gasped dramatically beside you. “that’s papa!”
“yes, my sweet son.” you murmured. “that is unfortunately your father.”
hiromi stood, adjusted his tie, and leaned down briefly to kiss your forehead before taking the stage. “don’t say anything insane, sweetheart.” you hissed quietly. "you've tortured people enough tonight."
he looked at you over the rim of his glasses. which already meant he was absolutely going to say something insane. the audience applauded as he accepted the award, all calm and composed. you sighed as you looked at your husband's beautiful features. he looks so terrifyingly handsome. you often can't believe that hes the silly man you've married.
but everyone has some love for him too, endeared by his passion and his eccentric nature. you were certain that everyone in the country loved him because he carried himself like a man who could dismantle your entire existence in court without raising his voice once.
but then he stepped behind the microphone and immediately ruined that image, smiling all the while doing so. “hello, good evening to all of you. uh, thank you for this award, first and foremost.” he began evenly. “i prepared a speech, so ill try not to be long.”
that's good, you think to yourself as you relaxed slightly. he's behaved.
“however, i have to preface upon something.” he continued, “my wife informed me earlier that if i made this speech about her, she would ‘beat my ass publicly’ and my wife keeps her promises, so ill hold her to that.”
the entire ballroom burst into laughter as your husband shifts on the podium, smiling at you. you turn red as your manager slaps the table, his laugh coming uncontrollably. "hes so fucking funny. you married such a funny man."
you nearly choked on air. “he didn't have to say that! HIGURUMA HIROMI.”
he ignored you beautifully.
your son, meanwhile, looked thrilled.
you looked horrified.
“mama said ass.” he whispered excitedly.
“don’t repeat that, son."
“okay, mama."
"good." you stared at each other, the brief pause echoes. "son—"
“…ass.” he tries again. "ass—"
“oh my god.”
onstage, hiromi adjusted the microphone slightly. “in my defense, though, its hard.” he continued, “it’s very difficult not to talk about her when she’s significantly more impressive than i am, than i will ever be. my wife is made of stern stuff, far more than i will be able to have in this life."
you stared at him in disbelief.
he looked completely sincere.
which somehow made it worse.
“people here keep congratulating me tonight, for doing such a great job, for advocating for things i believe in, for rights, for justice.” he said, tenderly. “but i think surviving film production while raising two children deserves more recognition.”
“two?” you mouthed incredulously. "i am not pregnant—"
hiromi glanced toward you. “well its true. theres two boys in our home. our son and myself.” he said calmly. “and that in itself is already a lot of work.”
the audience laughed again. “but alongside that, being the light of our home, my wife somehow manages to memorize scripts, attend interviews, film eighteen hour days. its incredible to see. how devoted she is to her craft."
"even when she gets busy or exhausted, burnt from a long day's work, she always smiles and comes home to help our son with homework.” he paused briefly. “although admittedly his homework recently informed me that octopi apparently have three hearts.”
your son raised his hand proudly from the table. “i got a sticker for that.”
you give him a small smile. “you did.”
“and mama helped.”
“hm, she usually does.” your chest hurt a little.
which annoyed you greatly. because now you couldn’t even stay mad properly. hiromi continued speaking, voice softer now. “there are nights she comes home exhausted and still checks if our son brushed his teeth.”
“i brushed yesterday!" your son informed the table proudly.
“that is not the accomplishment you think it is.” you muttered so seriously and yet so fondly.
“there are mornings she leaves before sunrise for filming and still remembers to pack his lunch.” another pause. hiromi smiles wider this time. " but she remembers mine too. she remembers what i crave, she remembers what i enjoy, like thise cute forest animals sitting together made out of tuna and salmon."
the room collectively melted as he continued to tell these details of wbat he loves about you. you wanted to evaporate from all the eyes and attention on you, unsure what to do as your chest tightens. yet when you look at hiromi, you found yourself folding.
“people see movie stars as glamorous, i know thats always the case.” hiromi said once again. “but they don’t see her sitting on the kitchen floor at midnight helping our son build a solar system model because he forgot about the assignment until the night before.”
your son gasped. “we forgot the glitter!”
“we did forget the glitter.” you admitted.
“she also somehow convinced him that styrofoam balls are not edible.”
“they looked delicious, like cloudball candies.” your son defended.
“they absolutely did not.” both you and hiromi said at the exact same time.
the audience laughed again. and then hiromi smiled, ever so fondly, letting your eyes meet his own, the two of you sharing the same truth, the same reality, the same feeling, the same heart. so fully and so utterly hopelessly in love with one another.
“the greatest reason i am able to be the man i am here, in front of you, is because i am with her. i cannot be your lawyer if i am not her husband.” he said quietly, his dark raven yes never leaving yours.
“being married to her is the easiest thing i’ve ever done but its also the best thing ive done. i am so lucky to have done everything well because you've helped me be such a great man. i love you, more than words could describe."
you could feel yourself warmed by his loving words towards you. everyone could hear, the silence sweeping through the ballroom. everyone, especially you, can just feel every word. everyone can see why you were together mofe clearly than ever before.
everyone in the crowd can see how special you both seem to each other, how important your love is to the award he was holding in his hand, to what will be you and your husband. it was everything to behold in person, for the love palpitated in abundance.
hiromi could feel himself getting overwhelmed by all the things he's feeling for you, being so full with affection and gratitude, full of happiness he has never known in his life, happiness that comes from loving you.
then your son suddenly yelled, “PAPA CRIES WHEN MAMA’S MOVIES ARE SAD.”
the room explodes at his childish voice. it was unexpected. hiromi breaks and laughs, blinking away the tears that have formed around his eyes. the laughter of the many echoes through. you were wiping joyful tears, smiling and laughing at what your son had said.
hiromi closed his eyes briefly. “…thank you to my son, i needed that, just like everyone else.” he said flatly.
your son wasn’t finished. “and one time mama kissed another actor in a movie and papa paused the tv and stared at the wall for forty minutes.”
you slapped a hand over your mouth, turning away as you tried your hardest not to laugh. your manager was now fully sliding out of his chair. "hes the same as his dad, holy shit."
even the announcer was crying laughing. "that's higuruma-sensei's kid, alright!"
hiromi pinched the bridge of his nose. “i don’t recall this.”
“you said something papa!” your son continued proudly, almost like his father would be when he won a case.“ you said 'logically i understand acting but emotionally i am experiencing violence' and then sulked!”
you lost it completely at how much your son remembered all this but he does. and its making you laugh way too hard. you were wheezing into the tablecloth while the audience practically collapsed around you. your husband looked so flustered.
hiromi looked toward the ceiling briefly like god himself had betrayed him. then, somehow, so impossibly, he recovered. he adjusted his glasses and straightened his posture. he cleared his throat before looking directly at the audience again with complete seriousness.
“…in any case, i dont remember that. so it doesn't matter. once again, thank you for this award.” he said calmly. “please watch my wife’s new film, it comes out in japan tomorrow. she’s extraordinary. both in and out of film. darling, happy mother's day. i know its going to be a hit."
the crowd's response was deafening to say the least. people stood up, cheering and laughing, all the while clapping as he got down from the stage. and through all of it, your husband hiromi looked only at you. completely gone for you and only you.
your son tugged on your sleeve and whispered loudly. “mama?”
“…what, son?"
“papa’s obsessed with you.”
“…i know.” you say to your son as hiromi approached. you smiled. "im crazy about him too."
when hiromi finally approached the table, he puts the award on the table before wrapping his arms around you. you wrapped your arms around the small of his back, leaning against his shoulders. he smiles in contentment, kissing your cheek.
"you ridiculous man."
"i know."
"i love you, so so much."
he kisses your cheek again. "i love you too, so much, darling. you and our boy."
i loved your fic let it be so much!! i can totally see baby higu growing up and watching his mom attend premieres and award shows in stunning outfits and thinking she’s the coolest person ever while his dad is just some guy who lives with them 😭
(no but like this is so real because this is definitely how it happened and it made me laugh sitting in the bus imagining it so here's a tiny blurb about that!!!)
his son's favoritism — higuruma hiromi.
in a blink of an eye, the baby in your arms was now a toddler. the carbon copy of his father who held your smile, your vibrant nature, he meant everything to you and your husband. this baby boy, this son of yours was just three years old deep and despite being so young like this, the young boy was already deeply committed to his beliefs, which was on brand when you, a stunning, multi-faceted actress was his mother and higuruma hiromi, one of the best lawyers in the industry was his father.
besides his preference to grape juice over apple juice, his preference for bread over rice and non-negotiable playground visits, at least once a day, your son has two particular beliefs that tend to dominate his young life.
the first: his mother was the coolest person alive.
the second: his father was...just some guy who lives with them.
and its not even close.
it started the day you brought him to set. he had toddled in holding your hand, his tiny sneakers squeaking against polished floors, curls bouncing with every determined step. the crew melted instantly when they saw him, assistants crouching to greet him, makeup artists cooing over his little jacket, production staff whispering, that’s her son. that's miss [y/n] and higuruma-sensei's son!
but he barely noticed them.
but how could he notice anyone else?
he was too busy staring at you.
you were in costume, dressed sharp and elegant for the role, hair pinned perfectly, makeup flawless under the lights. when you stepped out of the trailer, script in hand, he froze in place.
“mama…” he whispered, eyes huge.
you smiled. “hi, baby.”
he gasped like you had descended from heaven. “you look SO AWESOME, mama!"
the entire crew blinked at his profession before starting to echo into laughter, clapping as though your son was the most precious gift of life that had ever come to pass. you couldn't help but feel warmth in your chest as you smiled. he was so young yet everything he does touches you immensely.
he ran straight for you, nearly tripping over his own feet, hugging your legs with all the force a three-year-old could muster. “you’re on tv mama! and movies! and posters!”
“sometimes, baby. mama does stories and they put it on telly." you said, laughing as you picked him up. "you watch some with dada, right?"
“yes! mama, that means you’re famous, and you're always cool!” he said seriously, touching your cheek. “just like superheroes.”
then he glanced over your shoulder. your husband, higuruma hiromi stood just a few feet away, carrying the diaper bag and your son’s snack container, dressed in a plain button-down with his usual unreadable expression. he had taken the time off his half day from the law firm to go and visit you on set, though of course, he was probably thinking what to cook for dinner tonight since it was his turn.
your son blinked, then pointed. “and that’s dada.”
hiromi raised a brow. “just dada, son?”
your son nodded. “yeah.”
“anything else to add to that, though?”
he considered it for a moment. “…dada, he drives. a lot. me to daycare."
"that's a lot on dada, though, son. dada has work in the morning too."
"hm, not really."
the sound that came out of your throat was somewhere between a laugh and a choke. hiromi looked at you for a moment but that made you laugh even harder than you should have.
hiromi adjusted his reading glasses. “i’ll have you know i’m one of the most feared divorce attorneys in the city, son. dada brought you to work when you were a baby."
your son stared blankly. shortly, he looked at you, confused. “what’s attorney, mama?”
"he helps people with their problems, baby." you explained softly. "dada does that for a living."
he turned back to hiromi. “so…you work in an office, dada?"
hiromi went silent for a moment. he hummed. “sometimes." he said to his son tenderly, ruffling his dark raven hair. "though dada works at the court half the time."
your son gave a polite nod the way toddlers did when deeply unimpressed. "but what court?"
"its a place where people solve their problems with rules. remember how mama has rules for you at home to keep you safe?"
your son nods. you smiled at how adorable he was. "well its the same, but more people."
“okay, that make sense."
hiromi pursed his lips tightly.
your son doesn't sound that impressed.
but you both chalk it up to him being too young.
later that month, you took him to a red carpet premiere for your movie. camera flashes went wild the second you stepped out of the car. people called your name, reporters smiled, photographers shouted for your attention. your son, dressed in the cutest tiniest suit, held your hand proudly while staring around like he had entered your kingdom.
“WOW!” he shouted excitedly, clapping. “they all know mama!”
“inside voices, son.” hiromi muttered beside him.
“why?” your son asked. “nobody yell your name.”
you nearly folded in half laughing as you heard your son say that. the formidable higuruma hiromi exhaled slowly through his nose, as he looked at your son, as though asking what would it take for him to be impressed with him.
crowd of reporters called for a family photo, and you looked at your husband who nodded and relented. you crouched to straighten your son’s tie before standing between your husband and child.
“look this way!”
your son beamed brightly at every camera. then, loud enough for half the carpet to hear, he announced “my mama is the best actress in the WHOLE WORLD!”
you gasped.
more flashes.
more laughter.
then he added, pointing at hiromi beside him. “and my daddy is here too!”
you heard several photographers burst out laughing. hiromi closed his eyes for one long moment. when he opened them, he looked down at his son. “what exactly do you think i do? didn't papa and mama explain my job?”
"i don't remember...." your child says as he tilted his head.“…you drink coffee.”
“yes, but anything else?”
“you wear nice shoes.”
you had to turn away before your laughter ruined your makeup. you pat your husband's shoulder, as though trying to comfort him, trying to make sure he's alright. he could only sigh.
"i-its okay...." you snicker in laughter.
"if you wanna laugh out loud, do it now."
and that you did, so many times.
that night, after the event, your son sat on the kitchen counter in pajamas eating strawberries while you removed your earrings and your necklace and put them back in the jewelry box. higuruma hiromi stood at the sink, loosening his tie. your son watched him quietly for a moment.
then asked, “dada, mama says you’re really smart.”
“that’s kind of her to say.”
“and scary at your job."
“less kind, but accurate.”
“and people listen to you?” your son raised a brow at his father. "do they really?"
“usually. if they work for me.” hiromi nodded. "but with clients, people make their own decisions. we can't control that."
your son thought hard but then looked at hiromi with fresh intrigue. you looked at your son. he didn't understand any of those words at all. your husband pat your son's head.
“…so you’re like mama too?”
hiromi glanced at you, then back at him. “not quite, but dada's job means speaking with people and making sure they're okay so he can help them."
"but does that mean you win all the time?"
"well—"
your son slid off the counter, marched over, and hugged his father’s leg. “it okay, dada. if you don't win and bring home money!” he said kindly. “you can still live with us. mama can make it!"
you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes, caught off guard as you undid the pins from your hair. your husband looked down at the tiny child clinging to him, expression unreadable. then he rested a hand on his son’s head. he was defeated but he can't get angry at his son at all. he loved him too much he kissed his son's forehead.
your husband hiromi never misses an anniversary—until now.
tags: higuruma x reader, husband!hiromi, gn!reader, hurt/comfort (kinda?), married life shenanigans, based on this ask
hiromi stares at the date and time on his phone.
fuck.
it's your wedding anniversary. he only realized that two minutes ago, and it's already a few minutes past eleven at night. to make things worse, he's still at the firm, still buried in cases and documents that suddenly feel meaningless in his hands.
hiromi's gaze flicks back to the screen—to your message, still unread until earlier.
are you coming home early tonight?
and his reply—too quick, too thoughtless:
still busy.
that's what he sent you. that's what you'll be reading alone.
you already bore with too much of his missed dinners, missed dates, missed breakfasts, but never a missed anniversary—not until now, at least.
shit.
hiromi exhales sharply through his nose, already standing, already gathering his things—movements efficient, practiced, automatic. but there's a tension in him now, something tighter than exhaustion, because this isn't just another late night.
it's this night.
his mind scrambles as he locks his office drawer.
flowers? everything's closed.
dinner? everything's closed.
a reservation? what a joke.
even the convenience store options feel insulting in his head.
still, he's moving. still trying, still late.
the elevator ride down feels too slow. every second stretches in a way that makes him more aware of how badly he's already failed the night.
by the time he steps into his car, his fingers are already dialing a florists he knows is open late for emergencies.
it rings—once, twice, then—
the tone flats. closed, of course.
he grips the steering wheel a little tighter.
“of course,” he grits out.
the drive home is quiet, but absolutely not peaceful. his thoughts don't let him settle into it. they keep circling back to one thing:
you were waiting, and probably still are.
you probably expected to see him beside you first thing in the morning. you probably expected flowers at your door by noon. maybe a call to a nice dinner out in the evening.
instead, you got a cold reply from him telling you he's still busy.
when he finally gets home, the house is dim. hiromi steps inside slowly, loosening his tie halfway out of habit before stopping entirely when he notices something: no warm greeting, no sound of footsteps, just... stillness.
then he sees you sitting on the couch. not asleep, but waiting, and that's somehow worse.
hiromi closes the door behind him more gently than usual.
“sweetheart,” he breathes out. “look, i'm s—”
“have you eaten?”
hiromi pauses at your interruption. he swallows down any excuses in his throat. “...i haven't,” he admits. “if you want, i can look for a res—”
“i already set aside dinner for you,” you cut in again. “i'll go to bed.”
he hastily rushes to your side. “sweetheart, thank you for dinner. have you eaten? maybe we can eat to—”
“i'm full.”
hiromi sucks in a breath. “...okay,” he whispers. “alright. come here.” he leans in to press a kiss against your cheek, but the way you tilt your head away even the slightest bit makes hims freeze.
“wow,” you chuckle humorlessly, “bold.”
“i'm sorry,” hiromi immediately says. “i remembered late. i know that's not—” he sighs, “—enough. i... got busy.”
that's when you look at him properly, and it makes him straighten up.
“i wasn't asking for the perfect night,” you say softly. “i just wanted you know you remembered it was ours.”
hiromi's jaw tightens slightly. “i did,” he says, quieter now. “just not when it mattered.”
“that's the thing, hiromi.”
he goes still at his name like that.
you continue despite it. “i keep being understanding. i keep moving things around so your life works.” you look away before adding, “and i think i stopped being something you have to make time for.”
hiromi's feet move on their own. by the next second, he's already crouched in front of you.
“tell me what you need,” he says quietly. “...please, sweetheart. i'll do anything, just... don't shut me out.”
the next morning, you wake up alone. you blink up at the ceiling, thoughts drifting off to last night. with a heavy chest, you drag yourself off to bed before heading out to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast.
just when you step out of the room, you freeze at the sound of dishes clinking. your eyes flicker to the wall clock nearby—it's already nine in the morning, hiromi should be out by now. when you reach the kitchen, you find him in there, setting the table.
hiromi glances up when he hears you.
“...good morning,” he greets.
he doesn't approach, doesn't reach out, doesn't initiate anything. instead, he gestures at the table and says, “i made breakfast.”
you don't argue, but you don't thank him either.
later that day, you're baffled to see him still at home. you're so used to him leaving early to the firm that the sight of him at his home office is unusual.
“...you're not going in?” you ask.
hiromi doesn't look up from the document in his hands.
“i called in,” he simply responds.
you blink. “you never do that.”
“i know.” hiromi sets the file down. “i wanted to be here.”
not for work, not because he had nothing to do, just... here. with you. still, you don't respond, but you don't tell him to leave, either.
the next day, hiromi's still trying. not loudly, just consistently. he offers you snacks he knows you like while you review your own paperwork. he keeps the house quieter than usual, doesn't bring cases home this time. he, without a fail, checks on you without hovering too much.
still, the distance is obvious. you talk, but it's surface-level. you respond, but you don't soften.
and it's starting to get to him.
it happens in the evening. you're folding laundry without a word, the tv showing some soap opera from years ago. hiromi's been watching you for a while now—quiet, hesitant, like he's been building up to something.
“are you still upset with me?” he asks.
you don't look up. “you know i am.”
“i do.” a pause. “...i just don't know if it's getting any better.”
that makes your hand still. you finally look at him, and you finally see how tired your husband looks. not from work, from this. from not knowing where he stands with you.
“i don't know how to do this part,” he admits quietly.
that's new. hiromi higuruma always knows what to do. but somehow, not this.
“i can argue cases,” he continues, voice low. “i can fix problems when i understand them.” he steps closer. “but i don't know how to fix hurting you like this.”
hiromi crouches in front of you again. slowly, he lowers his head until his forehead rests on your thighs.
“i'm trying,” he weakly says. “sweetheart, i've been trying since that night.”
he presses himself closer to the warmth of your skin.
“i just don't know if you can see it.”
your chest tightens slightly. your hands fist the shirt you're holding just to stop yourself from forgiving him too quickly and pulling him up for an embrace. you were hurt, too.
“sweetheart,” hiromi murmurs, almost in a whimper, “you're staying too far away from me.”
your breath hitches. you hate that tone—not because it annoys you, but because it gets to you. every. time. still, you don't move.
hiromi almost whines from your lack of reaction. the famous atty. higuruma, feared and revered all the same, reduced to this mess. he can't complain—he brought it upon himself.
“...sweetheart,” he murmurs hoarsely. “please talk to me.”
“what do you want me to say, hiromi?” you ask quietly. that makes him freeze. there's no anger in your voice, just pure exhaustion, and that scares him.
hiromi swallows. “anything,” he admits. “just... anything that isn't silence.” his hand shifts slightly against your leg, like he's grounding himself there.
your hand tightens around the fabric in your hands. “i'm trying not to give in too easily,” you admit weakly. “to you, to this. because if i do, then it feels like what happened didn't matter as much as it did.”
“it mattered,” he says immediately. “it still does. sweetheart, please. i'm sorry.”
for a moment, there is silence again. his shoulders droop a little. then, slowly, you shift. your hand moves, hesitant at first, before resting lightly against the back of his head. your fingers thread through his hair as he keeps his face buried on your thighs.
“you're making this hard,” you murmur.
he lets out a quiet, almost breathless sound, a poor attempt at a chuckle.
“i know,” he whispers. “i'm sorry.”
your thumb brushes faintly against the crown of his head.
“i waited for you,” you say, voice soft. “i kept checking the time, telling myself you'd walk in any second.” your voice dips. “i even reheated dinner twice.”
that breaks him. you see it in the was his shoulders drop completely this time, in the way his hand presses more firmly against your leg like he needed something to hold on to.
“i'm sorry,” hiromi says again, but it's different now. quieter, heavier. “i'm so sorry.” his hands lift from your legs before gently resting at your waist.
“can i try again?” he asks softly. “not the day. i know i can't redo that.” he moves his face from your thighs to your stomach, still kneeling on the floor. “can i try again with you?”
your heart stutters. if there's one thing you know hiromi doesn't like, it's quick fixes. you just know he's being genuine. still, you two have a long way to go.
you study him for a second second longer before humming, “you already are.”
a/n: ermm didn't know what to do with the ending, so i made it (kinda) open... i love writing begging hiromi it just fits him so well
taglist : @sunkssedhayamee @plasticsheepponycollector @alebrasil0101 @r1ova @mischivana @icyshadewhisper thank you for the support! ꒰ ᐢ . . ᐢ ꒱
it was nights like this that made you want to jump off a cliff.
the clock glared 2:49AM at the bottom corner of your bright computer screen. your neuroanatomy textbook lay open in front of you, spine cracked and pages heavy with ink. you tiredly skimmed through the text, glancing back and forth from the book to the screen like you were trying to stitch the information directly into your brain.
the words wouldn’t stick.
the motor cortex. descending tracts. decussation at the pyramids.
it all felt slippery.
your desk lamp carved out a lonely circle of light in the dark bedroom. everything outside of it blurred into soft shadows. your dresser, the laundry basket you hadn’t folded, the faint outline of the bed behind you.
and him.
higuruma as asleep.
you could hear it in the steady rise and fall of his breathing. slow and even. peaceful in a way that almost irritated you. one arm was tucked under his pillow, the other draped lazily across the empty half of the mattress where you should have been.
second year law school had wrung him out lately. hours of reading that made your eyes ache just looking at the books stacked on his side of the room. case briefs, outlines, lectures that twisted into arguments and counterarguments until even his sharp mind needed rest.
but he slept when he needed to.
you didn’t.
you dragged your hand down your face and leaned closer to the page. your third year of neuroscience was supposed to feel empowering. one year closer to med school. one year closer to the thing you’d been working toward since first year labs made you fall in love with synapses and stained slides.
instead, it felt like standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying.
one bad semester. one GPA drop. one weak application. potentially failing boards.
you swallowed hard.
you reread the same paragraph for the fourth time.
nothing.
the mattress shifted softly behind you.
a quiet inhale. then, rough with sleep—
“…you’re still up.”
you closed your eyes briefly. “go back to sleep.”
there was a pause. fabric rustled. “love, what time is it?”
you glanced at your screen. “2:49.”
another pause.
“that’s not a real time.”
you almost smiled despite yourself. “it is.”
he exhaled slowly, like he was surfacing from somewhere deep. you heard him push himself up, the faint creak of the bed familiar in the silence.
you didn’t turn around. if you looked at him, you might fold.
“quiz?” he asked gently.
“mm.”
“on?”
“motor pathways. brainstem nuclei.” your voice sounded thin to your own ears.
he was quiet for a few seconds, and you could feel his gaze on you even without seeing it. higuruma always observed before he spoke. it was part of him, the careful processing, the way he gathered information like he was preparing for cross-examination.
“have you been at it all night?” he asked.
“no.”
another pause.
“have you been at it most of the night?”
you didn’t answer.
the bed shifted again. you felt the subtle change in air as he stood and padded across the room. he didn’t turn on any lights. just moved toward you in the dim glow of your desk lamp.
you felt him stop behind your chair.
for a moment, he didn’t say anything. his hand came to rest lightly on the back of your chair. warm. steady.
“hey,” he said quietly.
that word alone nearly undid you.
you blinked rapidly at the page. “i’m fine.”
“i know.”
it wasn’t agreement. it was acknowledgment.
“but you’re also exhausted.”
you pressed your lips together. “i can’t fall behind.”
his brows furrowed slightly. “you’re not behind.”
“you don’t know that.”
he stepped closer. you felt his fingers brush your shoulder, sliding down your arm until his hand covered yours where it rested on the textbook. his touch was gentle, never demanding.
“talk to me,” he murmured.
the words spilled out before you could stop them.
“if i mess up this semester, it tanks my GPA. if my GPA tanks, med schools won’t even look at me. everyone else in my program is smarter than me. they don’t need three hours to understand a single tract. they’re not sitting here at almost three in the morning feeling like their brain is leaking out of their ears.”
your voice cracked at the end. you hated that.
he didn’t flinch.
“you think i don’t sit up thinking the same thing?” he asked quietly.
you turned in your chair then, finally looking at him.
his hair was messy, glasses absent, eyes still heavy with sleep, but fully focused on you now.
“law school is built on comparison,” he continued. “every class, every grade curve. there’s always someone who sounds more articulate. more confident. someone who seems like they were born to argue in front of a judge.”
he leaned down slightly so you didn’t have to crane your neck.
“you know what that means?” he asked.
you shook your head faintly.
“it means we’re both in rooms full of brilliant people. that’s not evidence you don’t belong. it’s evidence you made it there.”
your chest tightened.
he slid your highlighter from your fingers and set it on the desk. then he gently closed your laptop halfway, not fully, just enough to dim the glare.
“you’re shaking,” he said softly.
you hadn’t noticed. but now that he said it, you could feel it. a faint tremor in your hands, in your ribs.
“that’s not how learning works,” he added. “that’s stress.”
you stared at the cover of your textbook. “i just… i want this so badly.”
“i know.”
he crouched slightly so he was eye level with you. his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs resting just under your eyes.
“you are going to make it to medical school,” he said, calm and certain. not dramatic. not loud. just sure. “not because you torture yourself into it. but because you’re disciplined and curious and stubborn in the best way.”
a shaky laugh left you. “stubborn?”
“painfully.”
you sniffed.
he brushed his thumb under your eye where a tear had escaped without permission. “you don’t have to prove your worth at almost three in the morning”
silence stretched between you, soft and fragile.
“explain one thing to me,” he said after a moment. “just one. if you can teach it, you know it.”
you hesitated, then nodded weakly.
“okay,” you whispered. “the corticospinal tract originates in the motor cortex…”
he listened. really listened. nodding occasionally, asking small questions that weren’t challenging, just curious.
as you spoke, your voice steadied. the fog in your mind thinned. the pathways lined up again in a way that made sense.
when you finished, he tilted his head slightly. “so if there’s a lesion above the pyramidal decussation…”
“contralateral weakness,” you answered immediately.
a small smile touched his mouth. “and below?”
“ipsilateral.”
“sounds like you understand it.”
you blinked.
you did.
your shoulders sagged, but this time from relief instead of tension.
he stood and held his hand out to you.
“come to bed,” he said gently.
you looked at your desk. at the book. at the clock now blinking 2:57AM.
then you took his hand.
he turned off the lamp, and the room fell into soft darkness. when you slid under the blankets, the sheets were still warm from where he’d been lying.
he followed, pulling you against his chest. one arm wrapped around your waist, the other resting beneath your head. in a way it felt grounding.
“set an alarm,” you murmured.
“already did.”
of course he had.
his fingers traced slow circles along your forearm. slow and steady.
“you’re not behind,” he whispered into your hair. “you’re building something.”
you let your eyes close.
your mind still buzzed faintly with pathways and nuclei, but they no longer felt like threats. just information. manageable.
his breathing evened out again, warm against your temple.
you matched it.
and for the first time that night, the edge you’d been standing on didn’t feel so close.
dare i say, divorce lawyer!higuruma who becomes infatuated by you, a client, who hires him to divorce her husband— nanami kento. dare i??
the first time you see higuruma, it’s across a polished mahogany table that smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old paper.
the office is too quiet; so quiet, in fact, that it makes you hyperaware of your own breathing, the subtle rustle of fabric when you shift in your chair, the distant hum of traffic filtered through sealed windows.
he sits there in his dark suit, sleeves crisp and precisely cuffed, his tie knotted with geometric perfection, hands folded on the table before him like a man about to pass judgment rather than ask questions. hiromi higuruma isn’t smiling. you get the sense he rarely does, you don’t expect him to, but you do wonder what he would look like if he did.
his eyes are sharp, dissecting you the way a surgeon studies an incision site before making the first cut. there’s something in the set of his mouth that suggests he’s already forming conclusions about you, filing them away in that orderly mind of his.
you tell him your name, your voice steadier than you expected. you tell him you want a divorce from nanami kento, your husband of 5 years.
his expression remains perfectly neutral as he writes something down, the scratch of his pen steady and controlled, each letter formed with deliberate precision. when he finally looks up, his gaze meets yours without any change. “and why?” he asks, his voice even and measured. there’s no judgment in it, no curiosity beyond what the case requires.
why do you want to divorce nanami?
because loving nanami feels like loving something immovable, something solid and dependable that will never surprise you again. because you are exhausted in ways that sleep cannot fix, tired of reaching across a table and finding nothing but polite conversation where passion used to live. because somewhere along the way, marriage transformed into routine and routine hardened into silence, and now you cannot remember the last time you laughed together, really laughed, the kind that leaves you breathless and tear-eyed. because you still love him, god, you do, but it feels like drowning in warm water, too gentle to fight against, too suffocating to survive in much longer.
you don’t say any of that, instead, very carefully, you say, “we grew apart.”
higuruma watches you for a long moment, and in that silence you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. he notices the tremor in your fingers where they rest on the arm of the chair. he notices the way your eyes glass over but don’t spill, how you’re fighting to maintain composure. he notices, too, the way you don’t wear your ring anymore, though there’s a faint indentation on your skin where it used to sit, a ghost of commitment that hasn’t quite faded.
“does he know?” he asks quietly. “that you’re considering this?”
you shake your head, unable to use words.
he nods once, makes another note, and continues with the next question. he is professional, indeed, very detached. the way a good lawyer should be.
nanami finds out a week later.
he doesn’t shout when the papers arrive. that would be easier somehow, cleaner, something you could point to as justification. he doesn’t accuse you of anything, doesn’t beg, not at first anyway.
he just stands there in the living room of the house you picked together three years ago, the one with the windows you both fell in love with and the kitchen you planned to renovate someday, his tie loosened from work, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose the way they always do when he’s tired. he stares at the file like it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand, like if he reads it enough times the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating.
“you already hired a lawyer,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question.
you can’t look at him. you focus instead on the slight crack in the corner of the window frame, the one he’s been meaning to fix for months.
“is there someone else?” he asks after a long pause.
the question is calm, too calm, uttered with the controlled composure that comes from years of practice keeping emotions in check. and it makes something inside you fracture, because you recognize that control, you’ve always recognized it, it’s the very thing that’s been slowly suffocating you. you hated it about him the most.
“no,” you whisper, and your voice breaks on the word. “there isn’t.”
that part, at least, is true.
. . . but there is something else, something you can’t quite name, something that begins to grow in the spaces between meetings with higuruma.
because the more time you spend with him, discussing assets and timelines and the cold logistics of dismantling a life you built with someone you still love, the more you notice things about him.
the way he listens without interrupting, letting your words settle before responding. the way his voice drops slightly when you look overwhelmed, softening around the edges without losing its professional quality. the way he pours you tea during consultations like it’s the most natural thing in the world and attending to your comfort is simply part of his responsibility.
he doesn’t flirt with you. he never oversteps, never says anything that could be construed as unprofessional. his behavior is impeccable, precisely what you’d expect from someone with his reputation.
but sometimes, when you’re speaking, you catch him staring. not at your body, not at your lips, but at your face, at your eyes, and when you pause, confused, he looks away immediately, returning to his notes with perfect composure that you’ve come to hate on anyone.
“you’re still in love with him,” he says one evening, late in a consultation that’s run past office hours. you’ve just admitted that nanami asked you to reconsider, that he’s been making efforts to change, to see you, to bridge the distance you’ve been feeling for a while.
you laugh weakly, surprised by the observation. “that’s not very helpful legal advice, higuruma-san.”
“i’m not speaking as your lawyer,” he replies, and the less guarded appearance of his voice surprises you.
silence settles between you, thick and charged.
“i can request a different attorney,” he adds after a moment, his tone shifting back toward formality. “if you believe my involvement has become… compromised in any way.”
your heart stutters in your chest. you understand what he’s saying, what he’s asking without quite asking.
“has it?” you ask softly and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. it almost feels like watching yourself from the sidelines.
for the first time since you met him, higuruma hesitates. you watch him war with himself, watch the conflict play out across features usually so controlled and the sight is almost startling in its humanity.
“yes,” he says finally, the word hanging heavy between you.
you mutter something about proceeding with him and he nods, regret flashing in his eyes.
. . . and nanami doesn’t make the process easy, despite the papers moving forward.
he begins coming home earlier than usual, leaving work at reasonable hours for the first time in years. he cooks your favorite meals, the ones he learned to make early in your marriage when you were both still figuring out how to share a kitchen. he fixes small things around the house you hadn’t even realized were broken, the squeaky hinge on the bathroom cabinet, the loose drawer pull in the kitchen, the light that’s been flickering in the hallway for months.
he doesn’t plead on his knees or make grand romantic gestures; that’s not who he is, and you both know it. instead he stands tall and composed, going about these small acts of service with quiet determination, but there’s desperation in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his eyes follow you around rooms. like he longs to say something but he doesn’t know what.
“tell me what i did,” he says one night, finding you in the kitchen long after dinner. his voice is low, rougher than usual. “tell me what to fix, and i’ll fix it. i’ll do anything.”
you want to scream at him that he didn’t do anything wrong, that’s the problem. he’s steady and reliable and safe, and you have felt yourself slowly shrinking inside that safety, like a plant kept in shade too long, still alive but pale, reaching toward light it can’t quite find. there’s no villain in this story, no clear antagonist, and somehow that makes it worse.
“i don’t feel seen,” you finally admit, the words escaping before you can stop them.
nanami’s expression crumbles, an unexpected crack in that carefully maintained composure. “i see you. you’re my wife,” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused, genuinely hurt. you feel bad for him, for hurting him, but you can’t bring yourself to stop.
“you look at me,” you correct, and now the tears are slipping free, hot and humiliating. “but you don’t see me. not anymore. not the way you used to.”
he steps forward, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll curl into yourself if he touches you too firmly. you can feel the warmth of his hands almost touching you and it feels like too much.
“i love you,” he says, “i have always loved you. i will always love you.”
the absolute worst part is that you believe him completely, staring firmly onto the place on his shirt where his heart is supposed to be as you let him hold you close and cradle the back of your head like he’s always done when you needed him. it’s a shame that he has to do it in these circumstances.
—
higuruma shouldn’t meet you outside the office.
he knows that. you know that. every professional instinct, every ethical guideline, every rational thought screams that this is a terrible idea.
but when you call him late one night, voice shaking after another devastating conversation with nanami, he comes anyway.
you meet at a quiet bar on the edge of the city, somewhere neither of you is likely to be recognized. dim lights reflect off glassware arranged behind the counter, casting shadows across his face that make him look older, wearier, more human than you’ve ever seen him. he sits close to you, closer than appropriate, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but he doesn’t touch you.
you talk and he talks, you drink and he drinks. you don’t relax and he doesn’t either.
“this is unethical,” he murmurs after a bit. you can hear the self-recrimination in his voice.
“then leave,” you whisper. “no one’s stopping you.”
he doesn’t move.
you don’t know who leans in first. maybe it’s mutual, a collision of loneliness and want and tension that’s been building for months, years, lifetimes.
his hand cups your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s testing whether you’re real, whether this is actually happening. when he kisses you, it’s restrained hunger finally snapping loose, years of discipline crumbling in a single moment. there’s something desperate in the way his mouth moves against yours, something that speaks of wanting things he’s never allowed himself to want.
it feels different from nanami’s kisses. nanami kisses like a promise, like a vow renewed each time. higuruma kisses like a confession, like he’s telling you secrets with his mouth that he could never put into words.
you pull away first, breath unsteady, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. everything just feels wrong.
“i’m still married,” it comes out like an apology when you say it, the shame of your realisation flooding you.
“i know.”
“you’re my lawyer.” or you were. or something. the lines have blurred beyond recognition.
“i know.” he rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel him breathing, can feel the effort it takes for him to maintain control. when he speaks again, his voice drops even lower. “and i have thought about you in ways that are inexcusable. in ways that violate every professional boundary i’ve ever maintained.”
your pulse roars in your ears. “then excuse yourself,” you challenge, though your fingers are gripping his jacket like you might fall without something to hold onto.
he laughs, low and humorless, a sound without any real amusement in it. “if i were a better man,” he says quietly. “if i were the man i’m supposed to be.”
you pull away and let go of his jacket as if burned. that evening you can barely look nanami in the eye and shame still courses through you when you throw your clothes into the washing machine and wash yourself until your skin is irritated, unable to clean away the dirty feeling.
the divorce proceedings become complicated after that.
higuruma requests to formally transfer your case to a colleague, citing a conflict of interest. the transition is seamless on paper, handled with the same precision he brings to everything.
nanami notices the change immediately.
“why the switch?” he asks during mediation, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“conflict of interest,” higuruma answers smoothly, not meeting anyone’s gaze directly.
nanami’s eyes flick between you and him, and you watch suspicion dawn slowly across his features. nanami is perceptive, always has been. it’s one of the things you loved about him once, the way he noticed small details, the way he could read you without words. now that perceptiveness feels like a threat.
later, outside the building, he corners you gently. he’s never rough with you, never cruel, even now. but he’s firm, insistent, his hand catching your elbow to stop your retreat.
“did he touch you?” he asks. the question is quiet, almost gentle, but it cuts through you like a blade.
you don’t answer. you can’t.
nanami exhales sharply. you watch pain flash across his face, raw and immediate before he manages to contain it. “i’m still fighting for you,” he says, his voice cracking uncharacteristically. “i haven’t stopped fighting. i won’t stop. but i need to know, are you already gone?”
are you?
you don’t know the answer to that question.
because with nanami, you have history stretching back years. you have comfort and familiarity and a love that feels like an anchor, heavy and secure and impossible to escape. with higuruma, you have intensity, sharp edges, the terrifying possibility of being understood in ways you didn’t even know you needed. one offers safety. the other offers revelation.
that night, nanami doesn’t sleep in the bedroom. he sits on the couch instead, lights off, staring into the darkness with the same expression he wore when he first read those divorce papers. you watch him from the hallway, hidden in shadow, and your heart aches with a pain that feels physical.
higuruma stops contacting you after the case transfer.
outside of necessary legal updates forwarded through his colleague, you hear nothing from him. he draws a line, firm and final, and retreats behind it completely.
you miss him immediately, but the realization shames you.
you miss the way he challenged you, the way he never accepted your easy answers without pushing deeper. you miss the way he looked at you like you were something rare and breakable and dangerous all at once. you miss the tension between you, the heat that existed in every room you shared, the knowledge that something unspoken was building between you.
but when you look at nanami, still cooking your favorite meals, still fixing things around the house, still trying so hard to reach you, guilt floods your veins like poison. he doesn’t deserve this. he never deserved any of this. you don’t deserve any of this.
—
weeks pass. the days blur together in a haze of paperwork and meetings with the new lawyer and conversations with nanami that circle the same territory without ever reaching resolution.
the papers finalize. the house is to be sold, the assets divided, the life you built together dismantled piece by piece.
and on the last day, when you both sign the final documents in the mediator’s office, nanami’s hand trembles just slightly as he sets down the pen. you notice because you’re watching him, because you’ve always watched him, because some habits don’t die even when everything else does.
“if you walk out that door,” he says quietly, not looking at you, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, “i won’t stop you.”
it’s not a threat. it’s not manipulation, not some last-ditch attempt to guilt you into staying. it’s resignation, pure and simple, the surrender of someone who has fought and fought and finally accepted that fighting isn’t enough.
you feel the weight of every shared morning, every quiet night, every soft kiss pressed to your forehead when you were half asleep. you feel the memory of safety, of belonging, of coming home to someone who knew you completely.
and you feel the echo of higuruma’s mouth against yours, the spark, the danger, the way he said he wasn’t a better man but looked at you like you might make him want to be one anyway.
you stand there in that sterile office, suspended between past and possibility, between the love you’ve known and the love you might still find.
nanami finally looks up at you, and his eyes are raw, exposed, all the carefully constructed composure stripped away. love is still there, painfully, impossibly alive inside them despite everything.
“do you still love me?” he asks.
your answer catches in your throat, trapped somewhere between truth and fear and the impossibility of the question itself.
because the truth is, you do love him. you love him in ways that will probably never fade, love him like scar tissue, love him like muscle memory.
and you don’t know if that’s enough anymore. you don’t know if love alone can bridge the distance that’s grown between you, if it can fill the silences, if it can make you feel seen instead of simply looked at. you don’t know if the kind of love that anchors you can also set you free, or if anchors are meant to hold you in place forever.
outside, beyond the closed door, the world is waiting. somewhere in it, hiromi higuruma is living his careful, controlled life, probably regretting every moment of weakness he showed you, probably rebuilding the walls you helped him tear down.
and here, in this room, nanami is waiting for your answer, still loving you, still hoping, still fighting even as he says he won’t fight anymore.
you open your mouth to speak.
for a long moment, even you don’t know what’s going to come out.
[ an. this could have been a long one shot full of angst but i don’t have time or energy so im feeding this bullshit to you guys i hope you dont hate it ]
Summary : Bucky Barnes’s secret girlfriend has a secret of her own.
Pairing : New Avengers! Bucky Barnes x Artist! Heiress! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower Fic-ish! Fluff!!! Reader is an heiress, sex is implied, cursing Mention of food. Long-ish hair bucky! Set after Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 10k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : Hi all! My first request fic in a while, so enjoy!
Bucky Barnes had a secret.
That secret was you, the artist who lived in a quirky one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that looked like a thrift store had fallen in love with a gallery and the two decided to raise a family together.
Your apartment always smelled like coffee, vanilla candles, and fresh paint. Sunlight streamed through mismatched curtains, landing on canvases stacked against walls and jars of brushes that somehow made the clutter charming. Bucky adored it. He adored you in it, more than anything.
But it all started in the art shop.
He was standing in the third aisle from the right, holding a stress-relief colouring book, flipping it back and forth like he was trying to decode enemy transmissions. He looked painfully out of place. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a henley that should’ve been illegal, hair tied back in a loose man-bun, and trying to (poorly) disguise his metal arm under a glove.
You noticed him because he looked… lost.
And completely unaware of the attention he drew simply by existing.
“Deep undercover mission?” you teased, nodding at the book he was holding.
He startled, glancing up at you like you’d caught him violating an NDA. “It’s, uh… for stress.”
So you walked up to him, tilted your head, and said, “Planning to take up fine art?”
“I…” he hesitated for a second, “Something like that.”
And then, because you had zero shame and he was outrageously handsome, you stepped closer. “Want a tip?”
“Sure.”
“Coloring pages are fine, but you’ve got a great face,” you smiled. “You should try being the art instead.”
“You… want to paint me?”
You nodded, “If you’re interested.”
No one had ever said something like that to him. Not so casually. Not like it was obvious. Not like he was someone worth studying, worth capturing in charcoal.
And so, he agreed before he knew he was agreeing.
—
He came to your studio the next day, where dust floated in sunbeams and the hum of your tiny space heater working way too hard made the place feel whole.
You placed him in front of the window. He watched you set up your easel, tucking hair behind your ear, smudging color on your cheek unknowingly.
You began sketching.
He tried not to stare at the way your lips pursed in concentration, and you returned in kind by trying not to get distracted at the way his muscles shifted when he adjusted his position.
“You can relax,” you murmured, lifting your pencil.
“I haven’t relaxed since 1943,” he chuckled.
You laughed. And he realised right then and there, that he wanted to hear that sound again. And again. And again.
So he came back the next week. And the next. You painted him, drew him, made him laugh until he snorted, which he swore never happened.
Eventually, he fixed a broken cabinet door in your kitchen after you brushed paint off his chin with your thumb. Eventually, he stayed for tea, and a week later, for dinner.
And at the end of dinner, he asked you out on a proper date.
One date became two.
Two became three.
Three became stolen kisses in your cluttered studio, your hands in his hair, his breath warm against your neck.
And before either of you fully understood how fast you’d fallen, he was stumbling with you into your tiny one-bedroom apartment, knocking over a stack of sketchbooks, laughing into your mouth, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrapped around him. You tugged him down to your bed, sheets twisting, paint-blackened fingernails scratching lightly down his back.
It was supposed to be casual, until suddenly it wasn’t anymore.
But still, Bucky told no one. Not his teammates, not even Sam. He decided that your life was going to remain untouched by his.
After all, his work with the New Avengers meant that he was frequently under scrutiny, circled by reporters, and received very real threats.
And he can’t possibly be selfish enough to thrust you under the same spotlight. So, he’s keeping you a secret because he loved you more than he’d like to admit, even to himself.
—
Today, Bucky woke up in your bed after a particularly heated night. You were draped across him like you belonged there, hair a messy halo across the pillow, and the sunlight catching in strands that smelled faintly of wax pigments and shampoo.
Your sheets were a mess, your muscles were sore, because you didn’t have the benefit of having the supersoldier serum running through your vein. As soon as he realised you were awake, his mouth was on your neck, your shoulder, tracing kisses that made you shiver.
“Morning,” you giggled, curling into him, molding your body closer so that every curve pressed against him.
“Mornin’, babe,” he managed, voice still rough with sleep, his lips lingering along your shoulder before drifting up to press against your cheekbones.
As much as you loved lazy mornings, your eyes couldn’t help but flick to the clock on the nightstand. The numbers glared back at you, and that was when you realised it much later than either of you had intended. His brows furrowed just slightly, noticing the little frown playing on your lips.
“Shit, Bucky,” you said, brushing your fingers over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin before fiddling with his dog tags, “you need to start getting ready for work.”
“Mm,” he dismissed as his lips found your shoulder again, hot and feather-light. “I… need a break from work.”
You stroked your fingers through his hair, still tangled from where your hands had been fisted in it just hours earlier. “Do you?” you teased.
He nuzzled your throat, making you shudder. “A nice long one.”
“And what does that look like?”
“I’d love to spend the holidays with you,” he whispered, kissing your neck up to your jaw. “Just us. No missions. No one bothering us.”
You smiled sadly, sighing your answer out. “I have… family matters to attend to.”
He lifted his head, eyes narrowing adorably. “What, I can’t meet your family? What about your dad? I’m great with dads. We can go out fishing or whatever dads do nowadays.”
You laughed. “I just don’t think I’m ready for my family to meet my super-secret super-soldier boyfriend who is, like… eighty-something years older than me.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes. “You gotta stop saying it like that.”
“I will not.”
He kissed you again, deeper now, hands sliding up your bare sides in a way that made it very clear he wasn’t ready for the morning to start.
But when you whispered, softer, “I can’t, Bucky. Really. Family events are a big thing in my circle,” he decided to drop it.
Because he cared too much to push.
“Okay,” he said against your lips. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You kissed him back, holding his face in your hands, wishing you were ready.
—
Bucky should’ve been out the door fifteen minutes ago.
But instead, he was sitting at the edge of your bed, half-dressed, boots sitting on the floor where he’d kicked them off in a hurry the night before.
Morning light spilled across the edge of your collarbone, illuminating the faint marks he’d left there. The ones you hadn’t bothered to hide. You stretched.
“You’re killing me,” he said it like a curse under his breath.
You smiled, almost wicked. “You need to go.”
“Fuck,” he said, scooting closer. “I swear. I’m trying.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He leaned down, bracing a hand beside your head, the other slipping beneath your chin to tilt your face up to his. His lips tasted yours, and you felt his body tightening just from the smallest contact.
“Baby…” he whispered, lips grazing yours again. “If I kiss you properly, I’m not leaving this room for another hour.”
You kissed him anyway.
And, embarrassingly, he broke immediately, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into his heat, his mouth hungry and full of need, kissing you like he wanted to make up for every hour he’d spend away from you. Your legs slid around his hips on instinct, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth.
It took everything in him to tear away, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.
“I have to go,” he said, voice hoarse. “The Watchtower briefing is in—” He glanced at your alarm clock. “—ten minutes. Ten. Minutes.”
“I know, baby.” You ran a teasing finger down his chest. “You’re very late.”
He collapsed beside you on the bed with a dramatic groan, burying his face in your shoulder. “You’re supposed to help me be responsible.”
“I never agreed to that,” you laughed.
He kissed your collarbone, open-mouthed. “This is your fault.”
You cupped his face, guiding his eyes to yours. His eyes were desperate.
You hated that you had to break this news to him, but that was when you said it. “You’ll see me in January, okay?”
He froze, sitting up with half a jolt, eyes snapping to yours in disbelief. “What?” His voice cracked like a whip. “Sweetheart—that’s two weeks.”
“I know.”
He sat back on his heels, running a frustrated hand through his already-ruined hair. “Baby, c’mon, that’s—” He gestured helplessly at the bed, at you, at the marks he’d left on your neck. “Do you know what two weeks feels like after that?”
“Bucky,” you sighed, almost scolding.
“Two weeks,” he groaned. “How am I supposed to go that long?”
You smirked. “Text me.”
“Text you?” He stared at you like you were dangerous. “Sweets, texting you is the problem. You send one picture of you in my shirt and I’m going to break every traffic law in the state to get back here.”
“I know,” You pushed the blankets down just enough to tease him. “But I’m so, so, so busy this week,” you said softly, running a hand down his arm. “And you told me you have a full team schedule until the 2nd.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to tell you he’d make time, he’d skip sleep, he’d bend every rule just to keep you close. But you pressed a hand to his chest.
“And,” you added, “aren’t you still late for your meeting?”
He blinked before letting out a strangled noise. “Aren’t I—? Yes! Yes, I’m late!”
He slipped his shoes on muttering curses that sounded like prayers and complaints at the same time.
He paused at the bedroom door, chest heaving, hair tousled, shirt still unbuttoned wrong.
Then his eyes dragged back to you. Before he could think, he went back a couple of steps, unfastened his dog tags and draped them around your neck, letting the cold metal rest against your warm skin. His lips brushed your temple as he whispered, voice rough and low, “Until we see each other again, okay?”
You touched the dog tags with your fingers, feeling the weight of him against your chest, and smiled.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, then finally straightened, swearing under his breath as he grabbed his jacket. “I have to go now,” he frowned. “Meeting. Watchtower. Everything.”
You reached for him, letting your fingers brush his hand, just enough to keep the connection alive. “I’ll be counting the minutes, Bucky.”
He grinned, that half-smile that made you melt every single time. “You better be,” he said, then leaned in for one last kiss.
Then, with a final glance, he turned and made his way out of your small apartment, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, stupid New Year, why is it so far away?
—
Bucky stumbled into the Watchtower conference room, the sliding door hissing shut behind him.
“Ah,” Val’s voice rang out, perfectly pitched with her usual mix of amusement and exasperation. “Your leader is finally here.”
Bucky didn’t even look up from tugging off his jacket. “Morning,” he greeted, sliding into the nearest chair.
Yelena raised her eyebrows out of curiosity. “Where have you been?”
“None of your business,” Bucky said casually, though the corner of his mouth twitched. She wasn’t going to let it drop, but he wasn’t going to feed it either.
John, Ava, Alexei, and Bob were also already seated, scattered around the table with tablets, schematics, and half-empty mugs of coffee. Everyone glanced up for a moment, but quickly returned to whatever they were obsessing over.
Most of the meeting was… tedious. Recon missions. Drone surveillance. Patrolling certain sectors. Nothing that made him feel alive. Nothing that made him feel like he wasn’t somewhere else entirely, his skin against yours, imagining your body curled against his chest, and the dog tags he’d left on your neck this morning kissing your breasts.
So, naturally, he zoned out for most of it. John was rambling about logistics. Alexei was muttering under his breath about his “awkward recon scan.” Bob was scrolling through his tablet, probably secretly reading a book. Yelena and Ava were intermittently throwing glances his way, but that could have meant anything.
Then Val cleared her throat, and Bucky’s attention snapped back.
“Anyway,” she said, “before we get too bogged down in these, frankly, boring reports, there’s something we need to talk about— you will all be attending a holiday party next week.”
Val’s words landed like a dropped glass.
“A party?” Ava repeated, one brow arching. “You mean… like dresses and small talk and pretending we enjoy ourselves?”
“Exactly like that,” Val said brightly.
Alexei leaned back in his chair, already grinning. “Ah. A glamour mission. I shine at these. I have many jackets.”
“This is a joke, right?” John frowned. “You’re pulling us out of rotation for, what, cocktail hour?”
“It’s called relationship-building,” Val replied coolly. “Orbital is one of the largest private cybersecurity firms in the country. Their CEO has expressed personal interest in funding the New Avengers. It will help with a lot of things. Infrastructure, intelligence, resources. Things you all like having.”
Bucky felt his stomach drop just a little.
“And if we don’t go?” Ava asked.
Val finally looked up. “Then he invests elsewhere. And we lose a powerful ally who could keep your systems from being hacked by a teenager with a laptop and a grudge.”
Yelena crossed her arms. “So we’re bait.”
Val smiled without warmth. “You’re the investment.”
Alexei tsked, nudging Bucky with his elbow and whispering, “Capitalism strikes again, huh?” Which was rich, considering that he was the most branded New Avenger.
Bob finally looked up from his tablet. “Is there… food?”
“Yes, Bob. There will be food.”
John sighed, mumbling something like, “Hate rich people.”
“You love rich people,” Alexei countered. “They have vodka.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, already not looking forward to this. Two weeks without you already felt unbearable… and now this.
He cleared his throat. “What kind of mission does this fall under?”
Val didn’t even hesitate. “Securing assets.”
Ugh.
Securing assets, my ass.
All Bucky Barnes wanted—all he wanted—was to be back in your apartment, sunlight through mismatched curtains, coffee on the stove, your laugh echoing off the walls while the rest of the world ignored the two of you.
–
By midweek, the distance had turned feral.
As promised, you and Bucky texted constantly between meetings, between missions, and irresponsibly, between sunset and sunrise.
It started innocent enough: Did you eat? You still alive? I hate this schedule.
Then it very much wasn’t.
His messages came late at night, rough around the edges. Can’t sleep, still thinking about you.
You replied with zero mercy.
Little comments slipped in between updates about family dinners and errands you didn’t remember agreeing to, and these ones drove him insane. Wish you were here, you’d hate how bored I am.
A particularly memorable message, though, came to him out of the blue.
What’re you doing? You messaged. I’m thinking bout you <3
That’s dangerous, he chuckled under his breath, typing while trying to make sure no one sees his phone under the desk. I’m in a meeting.
You smiled to yourself and sent another message anyway. Good. Pay attention.
You were lying back against the bed when you took the photo. The lighting was low, golden from a lamp that hadn’t moved since you were sixteen. You were wearing one of his too-big shirts, sleeves falling past your wrists, bare legs stretched out beneath it, sheets rumpled.
Before you could think too much of it, you sent a photo, showing just enough skin to make it unfair, to make it intimate. Nothing explicit, just enough thigh, just enough collarbone, his dog tags around your neck.
His response was immediate. You’re killing me.
But then, another text buzzed off your phone.
Wait, that’s not your bed, Bucky followed up.
You laughed quietly, rolling onto your side. Still got it, detective.
I know every inch of your apartment, he texted back. Where are you?.
You bit your lip, thumbs flying. It’s my old bedroom at my parents’ place.
There was a longer pause this time.
That makes sense, he finally replied.
You stared at the ceiling you’d memorized years ago. Yeah. Same posters in the closet. Same stupid dresser. Everything smells like my mom’s laundry detergent.
You didn’t receive a text until five minutes later: You okay?
You hesitated, then typed honestly. It’s just a lot, Buck. A bit suffocating, but nothing I can’t handle.
His reply came carefully this time. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish I was there. I’d get you out of there in a second if I could.
You smiled sadly and sent another picture, closer this time. Hey, if you were gonna be angsty again, might as well make it fun, right?
The shot you sent was his shirt slipping lower on your shoulder, your fingers curled in the fabric like you were holding onto him instead.
You’re making this very hard, he wrote.
Good, you teased. I’m miserable. You should be too.
A second later, he sent, You sure I can’t come see you? I’d behave. Then, almost immediately, he backtracked. That was a lie. I wouldn’t behave at all.
Your chest tightened in that familiar aching way. You wanted him. God, you wanted him here. His weight, his heat, the way he always looked at you like the world narrowed down to just the two of you.
But still.
You typed it anyway. Not yet, Bucky.
Then he answered, I’ll wait as long as I have to.
You curled onto your side, phone pressed to your chest. Across the city, Bucky stared at his screen, heart pulling him in a hundred directions.
These last few weeks of the year were dragging on forever. And neither of you was handling it particularly well.
—
The day of the holiday party finally came.
It was hosted in the CEO’s upstate mansion, and it was obscene in the way only old money could manage. It was meticulously designed glass and steel, acres of manicured snow-dusted grounds pretending to be subtle.
The New Avengers arrived together, looking every bit like a team worth investing in. Val swept ahead of them, already schmoozing, already smiling like this night had been hers.
Bucky followed with the rest.
“Well,” Alexei said, tugging at the cuff of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the vaulted ceilings, “if this man does not invest in us, I am stealing a vase.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Val scolded.
The moment he stepped in the main hall, he noticed the art.
It was everywhere.
Large-scale pieces lined the soaring walls. There were oil paintings, mixed media, sculptures that looked like they’d been commissioned just to fill space. Some of these abstracts probably cost more than his first apartment. Minimalist pieces with little plaques beneath them bearing artists’ names.
“If I break something,” Yelena muttered. “Do I go to jail, or just die?”
John let out a low whistle. “Someone paid real money for that?” He gestured vaguely at a slab of metal mounted to the wall.
“It’s conceptual,” Ava deadpanned. “Concept is: rich man buys nonsense.”
They kept moving…. until Bucky froze in his tracks.
“…Buck?” Bob said, glancing back. “You good?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
He was staring at a piece halfway down the hall, tucked between two loud, colorful abstracts. This one was quieter. Darker. Intimate in a way that didn’t demand attention but pulled it anyway.
He squinted.
His stomach dropped as he stepped closer.
The subject was seated sideways, bare back to the viewer, muscles relaxed, unguarded. A strip of fabric cut diagonally across the frame, obscuring where a metal arm would be without ever revealing it. The man’s head was turned just enough to show the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, and lashes shadowing his cheek.
It was your work.
And the person on the canvas was him.
“Oh my god,” Bob whispered behind him. “Is that—”
“No,” Bucky said quickly, too quickly, thankful that Bob was the only one whoever noticed the resemblance. “It’s not.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s… very you-shaped.”
“But it’s not.”
Thankfully, Bob let it go quickly, wandering away when Yelena called to him about how “good the shrimp cocktail was.”
Bucky swallowed, looking back at the picture.
He remembered sitting on the stool in your apartment, the way the heater rattled in protest, the smell of coffee and paint in the air. Bucky remembered the creak of the stool in your apartment, the way you’d told him to “hold that” while you adjusted the light, the concentration on your face as you sketched. I was before you started officially dating, right after you said you wanted him to be your muse.
No one had ever seen him like that but you.
And no one here, except the ever-observant Bob, apparently, would have no reason to think it was him.
To anyone else, it was just a beautiful, anonymous study of a body. Tasteful, obscured, intimately resembling him, but no one would know for sure.
But to him, the signature on the right side of the portrait didn’t lie. Bucky pulled his phone out, snapping a picture. Then, grinning to himself, he texted you.
Can’t believe you sold this to a millionaire, sweets. Keep this up and I’ll be a kept man.
A second later, he added, You didn’t even tell me this one sold.
He stayed there a moment longer, letting the noise of the party fade into the background, chest warm with pride longing.
Of all the places he expected to find you tonight, he never thought it’d be here.
—
The rest of the party was… fine.
That was the best word Bucky had for it.
Fine in the way expensive things often were. The party was smooth, polished, vaguely disorienting.
He lost track almost immediately of who was a member of the hosting family and who was just there for the night. Everyone looked like they belonged in a sea of tailored suits and cold smiles. Servers drifted through the rooms like ghosts with champagne flutes. Somewhere, a pianist was playing Bach..
Bucky immediately reverted his body language back to his congressman-type PR training. He nodded when appropriate. He smiled when required, shook hands he didn’t remember five minutes later.
He spotted a couple of celebrities: an actor he’d seen Sam binge-watch once, a tech guy whose face was always attached to articles about AI saving society (it was not), and a singer Joaquin definitely had a crush on.
Alexei, meanwhile, whispered commentary under his breath like it was a sporting event.
“That one definitely cheats on taxes,” he whispered, pointing.
Yelena elbowed him. “Stop talking, dad!”
Bucky’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it immediately, and as he expected, it was you.
Where are you???
His mouth tilted up despite himself.
In some rich prick’s house, he typed back.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Oh.
And then… nothing.
Which was weird. You had no follow-up, or joke? No teasing photo, no miss yous?
That was… interesting.
Bucky stared at the screen longer than he meant to before locking it and sliding it back into his pocket. It was out of character, but he told himself you were busy, maybe overstimulated, stuck in that house that didn’t feel like yours anymore.
The night continued seamlessly. Val navigated conversations like she was born to it. John stayed stiff but polite. Ava drifted in and out of sight. Bob and Yelena found a tray of miniature desserts and looked genuinely happy for the first time all evening. Alexei charmed anyone who made the mistake of standing near him for more than thirty seconds.
Bucky tried to focus.
But twice, no, three times, he could’ve sworn he saw you.
The first time, it was just a silhouette at the edge of the room, standing near a massive abstract sculpture, arms folded loosely, but then he turned fully—
Nothing.
The second time, it was a familiar laugh that sounded exactly like you, not loud enough to echo, but distinct enough for him to recognise it. He scanned faces—
Gone.
The third time, he saw the back of a head, disappearing through a doorway like they didn’t want to be seen.
Before he could think better of himself, he followed, taking three steps. Then stopped himself.
Get it together, he thought bitterly. You’re losing it. He rubbed a hand over his face. Fuck. I miss her so much I’m starting to imagine things.
Near the end of the evening, Val gathered them like a shepherd and steered them toward the host.
The CEO of Orbital was exactly what Bucky expected. He was in his late fifties, maybe mid-sixties. He had silver hair and calm eyes as he shook hands one by one, his grip confident but not aggressive.
“Glad you all made it,” he said. “It means a great deal.”
“We clean up nice,” Alexei offered.
The man chuckled politely. “Investing in the New Avengers was actually my daughter’s idea.”
That got the group’s attention.
“She’s followed your work closely,” the CEO continued. “She’d done a lot of research on your recon operations and humanitarian response unit. Clearly, you impressed her.”
Val smiled thinly.
“Have you met her?” the man asked.
They exchanged glances.
“No,” Val said. “Not really.”
“That’s strange,” he tilted his head, scanning the room. His brow furrowed slightly. “She was here earlier.”
Bob did something like a shrug.
“Well,” the CEO said lightly, forcing a smile, “she has a habit of disappearing when things get boring. I’ll send her your way if I see her.”
The conversation moved on. Business cards changed hands, promises were made.
As they left the mansion later, he pulled his phone out again.
Still no new messages.
He stared at the dark screen, snow crunching beneath his boots, and wondered why the night felt unfinished.
—
You didn’t text for two days.
What killed him was that you didn’t even send a throwaway message, not a heart emoji, not a “sorry, busy.”
It was just… radio silence, so uncharacteristic and unsettling in a way Bucky couldn’t quite reason himself out of.
At first, he told himself it was fine. You’d warned him that your family holidays were loud and demanding and exhausting, and he knew what it was like to disappear into obligations you didn’t choose. He tried to be patient, tried to be the version of himself who didn’t panic when life felt out of his control.
But patience had never been his strength.
By the end of the first night, he was checking his phone more often than he wanted to admit. By the second morning, the lack of your name felt like a bruise. He replayed your last conversation again and again, searching for a mistake he did and might’ve missed.
He sent one message the first night.
You okay, sweetheart?
No reply.
The next morning, after staring at his phone for a solid minute before hitting send, he sent, Just checking in. Miss you.
Nothing.
That was when logic stopped working the way he wanted it to. You weren’t someone who vanished without a word. Even overwhelmed, even buried under family expectations, you always reached out.
So, that evening, he stopped pacing around it and just called.
It rang twice.
“Hey,” you said, breathless, like he’d caught you mid-step. “Hi. I’m— I’m so sorry.”
The relief hit him immediately, knocking the air from his lungs. He sat down on the edge of his bed, one hand braced against the mattress. “Hey,” he said, careful not to stutter. “It’s okay. I just… I wanted to hear your voice.”
There was movement on your end of the line. Dishes, maybe, and voices in the background.
“I swear I’m okay,” you rushed through the phone. “Everything’s just been so so busy. We’re okay. You and me. I’m not mad at you, or trying to ghost you, not even a little. It’s just… family stuff.”
“Alright,” he said gently.
You took a breath. “I’ve been helping my dad, and helping mom run the house.”
“Running the house?” he echoed, head tilting a little.
You hesitated. “I mean… holiday hosting. You know. The usual.”
He did know. And he also knew the sound of someone choosing the simplest explanation possible. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said, looking down. “I just missed you.”
“Me too,” you said, your voice now worn thin at the edges.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, imagining you somewhere that didn’t feel like home anymore. “I should tell you,” he added reluctantly, “I’m heading out on a security mission tomorrow for a couple of days. Comms’ll be spotty.”
“Oh,” you breathed. “Okay.”
“So if I go quiet,” he continued, “that’s why. I didn’t want you thinking I was… pulling away.”
“I get it,” you said. “I just… I’m glad you called.”
“Me too,” he admitted. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” you replied.
He was already preparing himself to hang up, to let you go back to the chaos, when your voice cut in quickly. “Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“I have the day off on Saturday, in the New Year,” you said, like the words were a promise. “You could… come to mine?”
His answer came instinctively. “How about you come to the Tower?”
“What?” You sounded surprised.
“I want you to meet the team,” he said, earnest and sincere. “We’ve been doing this for a couple months now. You matter to me, and… want them to know that.”
The silence that followed sounded… thoughtful.
“I…” you started, then stopped. When you spoke again, your voice was careful. “I think I’d like that.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. Though he could hear the slightest bit of hesitation, he chose to ignore it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
—
Bucky came back to the Tower just after midnight on New Year’s Day, boots tracking melted snow across the hangar floor, sweat clinging to him like a second skin.
The mission had been okay. Boring, even. It should’ve been a relief, but all he could think about the entire time was where he wasn’t. He should’ve been counting down with you, should’ve been kissing you at midnight in your tiny apartment while fireworks echoed far away. Instead, he rang in the new year in tactical gear, watching the clock flip over from the inside of a transport.
For lack of a better word, it sucked.
Still, he told himself he understood. Family was complicated, mission timing was bad. After all, life didn’t pause just because he wanted it to. He repeated that to himself like a mantra as he stripped off his jacket and headed to his room, his metal arm plates fidgeting from strain.
He didn’t even bother unpacking.
He showered, changed, and sat on the edge of his bed staring at his phone, thumb hovering like it had a mind of its own.
Then it buzzed.
Your name lit up; it was a video call.
He answered instantly.
Your face filled the screen, dim in the light of your childhood bedroom. You were curled up under blankets, hair loose, eyes tired but bright when you saw him.
“There you are,” you said quietly, fiddling with his dog tags.
“There you are,” he echoed, relief in his chest.
You talked about nothing and everything. About resolutions. About how the mission dragged on. About how strange it felt to start a new year apart. At some point you angled the phone just right so he could see you properly, and he caught himself smiling like an idiot.
“You look exhausted,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But this helps.”
Neither of you said goodnight. The call just… stayed. Your breathing evened out first, lashes resting against your cheeks. He watched you for a long time, thumb brushing the edge of the screen like he could feel you through it. Somewhere along the way, his own eyes closed.
You fell asleep like that, still connected.
—
Finally, Saturday came.
Bucky was pacing the Tower lobby like a man waiting for deployment, adjusting his jacket, checking the doors every few seconds. It was deserted, and none of the tower staff were expected to return to work until next week. It was great, actually— it meant you could come into the tower without any civilian posting a picture of you on Reddit, theorising who you might be.
The moment you stepped inside, bundled up against the cold, his whole demeanor eased like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
When he reached you, his hands were on you. His metal arm slid around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you into his chest, his dog tags still rattling between you. You had no intention of giving it back right now, and he had no intention of taking it away either. It felt like it already belonged to you the way he did.
“Hey,” he breathed into your hair.
“Hey,” you smiled, face already tucked against him.
He held you like he’d been deprived of oxygen and you were the first full breath he’d taken in a long time. He had no awareness of the space around you. Just you and him, his chin resting against the top of your head, his hand splayed wide against your back like he needed to feel you there to believe it.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face like he was checking for injuries, like you might vanish into thin air if he didn’t keep track of you. His thumb brushed under your eye, then along your cheek, then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, utterly unconcerned with who might see.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Nervous. But good.”
“Good,” he said, immediately kissing your temple, then your cheek again, then your forehead. “I missed you.”
“I know,” you smiled. “You’re being very obvious about it.”
“Don’t care,” he replied without hesitation, tightening his hold.
Only then did he glance back toward the massive glass doors just in time to see a sleek black car pulling away from the curb.
He squinted. “How’d you get here?”
“Got a cab,” you said casually.
“That was not a yellow New York cab,” He looked back at you, then back at the car disappearing down the drive. “That was a damn fancy chauffeur service."
You squeezed his hands, and could only shrug.
To be fair, as long as you got here, he did not care. He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “I haven’t seen you in too long.”
It showed.
He couldn’t stop touching you, thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles, arm firm around your waist, shoulder angling toward you protectively as if the Tower itself might try to steal you away. Every few steps, he found another excuse to pull you close again, brushing his lips against your hair, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
“You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest, and leaned into him without thinking. He adjusted like it was second nature, like holding you was exactly where he was meant to be.
“C’mon,” he said , fingers tightening in yours. “I wanna show you around.”
And he didn’t let go, not even for a second, as he walked you further into the Tower.
—
Bucky, in his rare excitement, completely forgot one very important detail.
He never told the team you were coming.
Which meant that when he walked you into the common area with his human hand firmly clasped in yours, the New Avengers were absolutely not prepared for this.
They were scattered around the room in various states of downtime. Ava was leaning over a table, phone in hand. John was nursing a protein shake, looking like he was questioning his life choices. Yelena was upside down on a couch, boots hooked over the armrest. Alexei was, inexplicably, telling Bob a story with wild hand gestures. Val wasn’t there, thank god.
The room was loud, until it wasn’t.
Because Bucky Barnes did not walk in holding hands with people.
Conversation stuttered, before dying completely.
Then, every head turned.
Bucky stopped mid-step, glanced around, then down at you, wincing just slightly.
“Oh,” he mumbled under his breath. “Uh.”
You leaned closer, whispering teasingly, “You didn’t tell them, did you?”
“…No.”
Your smile widened. “Wow. Okay.”
Before he could recover, Yelena righted herself on the couch, eyes sharp and immediately interested. “Who is this?” she asked, voice bright.
Alexei blinked once before breaking into a grin. “A civilian?”
John raised his eyebrows. “Why is a civilian wearing dog tags?”
Ava’s gaze flicked from your intertwined fingers up to Bucky’s face, then back to you. Slowly, she smiled. “Oh. This explains everything.”
Bucky cleared his throat, ears already turning pink. He didn’t let go of you. “Well, I, uh… guy,” he said, a little stiff but unmistakably proud, “this is—”
You saved him.
“Hi,” you said cheerfully, waving a little with your free hand. “Sorry. Surprise, I guess.”
There was a second of stunned silence.
Then Yelena hopped to her feet and walked a circle around you, openly appraising. “You’re real,” she decided.
“Yelena,” Bucky warned.
“What? He has been smiling lately. It was suspicious.”
Bob clapped his hands together once, delighted. “I knew it! This man does not suddenly become emotionally stable alone!”
Bucky groaned.
“Well,” John took a gulp of his shake, “tell us about yourself, then.”
You laughed, nerves easing as you took them in. “I’m—uh—I’m an artist,” you added, glancing up at Bucky before looking back at them. “I live in Brooklyn. And… yeah. We’ve been dating for a couple of months.”
That did it.
“A couple of months?” Alexei repeated. “And we’re only now hearing about this?”
“It’s because he’s a cryptid,” Ava said dryly.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face.
“Mmm,” Yelena hummed, stepping closer to you now. “You seem nice.” She glanced back at Bucky. “How did this happen?”
You shrugged. “He wandered into an art shop looking very lost.”
Bob gasped. “Art shop?”
He huffed, but there was no heat in it. His arm slid around your waist, hand resting there like it belonged. “Now that you know,” he said, finally, clearly, like he wanted them all to hear it. “Please be nice to my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend.
This… was the first time he said it to a room that wasn’t just you.
You knew it, of course. But hearing it out loud… felt… good.
“Of course,” Bob said, smiling. “Welcome.”
Yelena nodded. “Yes. You are under our protection now.”
Ava leaned in conspiratorially. “If he hurts you, we will destroy him.”
“Hey—” Bucky protested.
You laughed. “Good to know.”
They asked you everything after that. Well, mostly everything. What kind of art you made. How you managed to deal with him. You answered as best you could, leaning into Bucky whenever the attention got overwhelming. Every time you did, his hand would rub slow circles at your side.
He didn’t leave your side once.
Not when Yelena dragged you to sit. Not when Alexei insisted on showing you the weapons room. Not when Ava offered you coffee.
—
Bucky’s room at the Tower wasn’t cold, like most people would expect. It was lived-in with a neatly made bed, a chair with a jacket draped over it, and a couple of personal clutter that told his life story in pieces.
You padded into the bathroom first, already tugging your hair up as you reached for the sink. When you pulled it back, the velvet scrunchie you used caught the light.
Bucky, leaning against the doorframe pretending not to stare, absolutely stared.
Not at you, well, yes, at you— but at the scrunchie, too.
He clocked the brand instantly, the logo stitched onto the fabric. He recognised it as a luxury brand. He didn’t even know they sold scrunchies.
His brow furrowed for half a second.
There was no way you could afford it on an artist's salary. I mean, you didn’t even buy coffee from a cafe, because you said you could make a cheaper, better one at home.
Then, just as quickly, he realised you probably thrifted it.
You thrifted a lot of things. You found beauty in castoffs, in things other people overlooked. Of course you’d stumble across something like that tucked into a bin somewhere for three dollars and a story. He didn’t ask, didn’t even question it.
You caught him watching in the mirror and smiled around a mouthful of water.
“What?” you asked after rinsing.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, lips twitching.
You rolled your eyes fondly and went back to washing your face. When you came back out, hair still tied up, your face was clean and bare.
You changed into one of his shirts and a pair of shorts you’ve packed in, and climbed into his bed like it was already yours.
Bucky followed a second later, the mattress dipping as he laid beside you. You turned toward him immediately, like your body already knew where it wanted to be, and he met you halfway, metal arm sliding around your waist as you leaned in.
The kiss was slow, no rush, no edge to it. Your lips were familiar with each other now, fitting together after weeks of wanting and waiting and missing. His human hand settled at your lower back, thumb tracing absent circles through fabric. Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his.
“So,” he mentioned, a faint grin in his voice, “sell any more art to the top one percent lately?”
You snorted, sounding a bit more awkward than you normally do. “Oh my god,” you laughed. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying,” he teased, nose brushing yours, “you’re clearly very exclusive now.”
You chuckled nervously, shaking your head as you tucked yourself closer into his chest. “Stop.”
“Mm,” he said, tightening his hold. “Maybe. But I’m proud of you.”
You shifted, settling fully against him, your head tucked under his chin.
Neither of you talked much after that.
The day caught up to you, exhaustion seeping in around the edges, blurring your vision.
—
Morning eventually greeted the tower.
Bucky’s room was still dim, the city muted behind reinforced glass, when his phone started continuously vibrating against the nightstand.
He groaned, rolling onto his back and squinting at the screen.
NEW AVENGERS GROUP CHAT (14 unread)
And, of course, the name at the top of the rapid-fire messages was Val.
Emergency meeting now.
I expect every single one of you in the conference room in five minutes.
This is not optional.
“Son of a—” Bucky cursed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He shifted, trying to sit up without waking you, but the movement dragged you halfway out of sleep anyway. You made a tiny, disgruntled noise and curled closer, your hand finding his bare stomach on instinct.
“Mm… don’t go,” you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “ts’ too early.”
“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Believe me, I’d rather stay right here.” He glanced back at his phone. “But it’s an emergency thing.”
You hummed in protest, face pressing into his side.
“Go back to sleep, sweets,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “I’ll be back soon.”
You responded with a very unconvincing, “Hmph,” and rolled away just enough to steal the blankets back, already halfway gone again.
Bucky smiled despite himself.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching once before reaching for his shirt. That was when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.
His hair was… a disaster.
He ran a hand through it, making it worse. He checked the desk, the nightstand, and chair for a hair tie, but had no such luck.
“Great,” he sighed, before seeing you scrunchie on the nightstand by your side of the bed.
He hesitated, then glanced back at you.
“…Hey,” he murmured, gently brushing his fingers over your arm.
You cracked one eye open. “Mmm?”
He lifted the scrunchie between his fingers, “Mind if I…?”
“Mm, sure,” you said, already sinking back into sleep.
He tied his hair back quickly, tugged on his boots, and grabbed his jacket. Before leaving, he paused, turned back, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
You shifted, tugging the blanket higher with a content sigh.
—
The conference room looked like a collective cry for help.
Bucky arrived just in time to see the doors slide shut behind him, sealing in a room full of people who had very clearly been dragged out of bed with little warning and even less dignity.
Ava sat slouched in her chair in lounge pants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy knot. Bob had on flannel pajama pants and a hoodie, one sleeve pushed up as he clutched a mug like it was life support. Alexei lounged comfortably in sweats and a worn T-shirt, stretching his arms. Yelena sat sideways in her chair, barefoot, braid loose over one shoulder, chin propped on her knee as she stared at Val with thinly veiled judgment. John, annoyingly, was already in gym clothes, towel around his neck.
Bucky dropped into the nearest chair with a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders. His hair was pulled back with your velvet scrunchie, one small comfort in an otherwise rude morning.
Val stood at the head of the table, immaculate as ever, blazer pressed, coffee in hand, completely unfazed by the chaos in front of her.
“Good morning,” she said briskly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable hour and situation. “I’ll make this quick.”
“You woke us up,” Yelena replied mildly, “so I assume someone is on fire.”
“The CEO of Orbital is here,” Val continued.
Alexei blinked. “Here as in… here here?”
“He is in the building,” Val confirmed.
Bob frowned into his mug. “Wasn’t that… next week?”
Yelena nodded. “Yes. I remember this because I planned to be wearing shoes.”
Val took a sip of coffee. “His schedule changed. He has a business trip next week and prefers to accelerate the process.”
Ava folded her arms. “And you woke us up for what, exactly?”
“For symbolism,” Val said flatly. “You don’t sign nine-figure contracts with half the team missing.”
Bucky shifted in his chair, jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t love that phrasing, but he’d heard worse.
Yelena glanced around the table. “You could’ve given us time to put on real clothes.”
“You look approachable enough,” Val said dryly. A few minutes passed as everyone sat up a little straighter, tried to look marginally more awake, and mentally prepared themselves to play Responsible Public-Facing Asset before breakfast.
Then the doors slid open again.
The same CEO from the party stepped inside without fanfare, wearing a tailored suit that somehow didn’t feel intimidating.
“Good morning,” he said easily. “I hope I’m not intruding too early.”
Val’s smile was smooth. “Not at all. We’re glad you could make it.”
He nodded, then turned his attention to the table, eyes moving from face to face with genuine interest rather than evaluation. He greeted a few of them by name, offered polite handshakes, exchanged a brief comment with John about training schedules, chuckled lightly at something Alexei said under his breath.
Then his gaze landed on Bucky.
It wasn’t suspicious. Or hostile. But definitely curious.
His eyes lingered for a second longer than the others, studying him. Bucky met the look without flinching, giving a small, polite nod. The man smiled back as if he had noticed something he had filed something away for later.
The man moved on, taking his seat at the table as documents were placed in front of him, the moment passing as naturally as it had come.
The rest of the meeting unfolded smoothly.
Papers were passed down the table, signatures added. Val walked everyone through the final clauses, Orbital’s legal team nodded along, and the CEO listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions. When the final document was signed, he leaned back in his chair, satisfied, folding his hands together.
“Well,” he said warmly, “that went exactly how I hoped.”
Val smiled. “We’re pleased to have you on board.”
“And I,” he replied, glancing around the room, “am pleased to support a team that clearly cares about what they do.”
That earned a few genuine smiles. Even Yelena looked marginally impressed.
As people began standing, chairs scraping softly against the floor, the CEO raised a hand. “Before we wrap up, there’s one more thing.”
At his nod, two members of his security team entered the room, carefully maneuvering a large canvas mounted on a rolling stand. It was covered in protective cloth, tall and wide enough to command attention the moment it appeared.
“This,” the CEO said, standing as well, “is a symbolic gift. A way to mark the beginning of this partnership.”
The cloth was pulled back.
Bucky swore he stopped breathing for a second.
It was a New York skyline, painted with oils. The city curved inward, bending like it was folding around itself, buildings stretching and warping subtly, lights glowing like veins. Familiar landmarks were there, but they were creatively reimagined, the colors were layered, textured, alive.
He knew this painting.
He had witnessed it come into existence. He had sat on your kitchen counter drinking bad coffee while you repainted one corner three times because it “didn’t feel right yet.”
You made it.
“It’s beautiful,” Bob said, standing a little closer.
The CEO smiled, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you like it. My daughter painted it.”
Bucky felt the room tilt.
Daughter.
Suddenly, every scattered detail slammed into place. The mansion. The art. The resemblance he’d brushed off. The way your father had looked at him earlier….
The scrunchie.
His hand lifted unconsciously, fingers brushing the velvet tie holding his hair back. He definitely recognised the scrunchie he was wearing. Not many people had it.
The CEO’s eyes flicked briefly to Bucky, almost amused. If he wasn’t certain before, he was definitely certain now— Bucky’s expression left no room for error.
“She is a very talented artist, and an investment consultant at our sister fine art investment company,” he continued. “Though,” he added with a faint chuckle, “it's a bit hard to get her on the phone these days.”
Bucky swallowed.
That was why he had been looking at him earlier. He hadn’t been assessing an Avenger. He’d been clocking the man wearing his daughter’s scrunchie, probably knowing his daughter was in this room right now.
The meeting wrapped shortly after. Goodbyes were exchanged, handshakes polite and warm. As the CEO made his way around the table, he paused when he reached Bucky.
Their handshake was firm and brief.Then, quiet enough that only Bucky could hear, he said, “Sergeant Barnes.”
“Yes, sir.” He winced slightly. Fuck. Sir felt wrong.
Chronologically? Sure, Bucky had a solid century on paper if you counted cryo and time lost. But standing here, looking at the man in front of him… he just didn’t know how to address him.
A corner your father’s mouth lifted, and it was clear he had no idea he was sleeping with you, until today. “Please tell her to answer my calls.”
Bucky let out a small, helpless breath of a laugh. “I will.”
And with that, there was a brand-new meaning attached to the words family matters.
—
Bucky sat there long after everyone left, staring at the place where your father had stood, his brain finally catching up to his heart, and then promptly tripping over it.
Fuck’s sake.
He’d been complaining to you, half-joking, half-exhausted, about funding bottlenecks with work, outdated surveillance tech, how everything felt like it needed a tech boost to keep up… and you’d just gone and fixed it. Told your dad and go invest or whatever.
You’d done it the way you did everything, without ever making yourself the center of it. He huffed out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face, equal parts stunned and touched. It was sweet. It was so funny. He’d been pacing around your apartment ranting about resources while sitting on the couch of the woman whose family could write a nine-figure check before lunch.
And then it all lined up, one humiliating click after another.
The mansion. Of course, he hadn’t been hallucinating, it was you he’d seen. Your art was there, because why wouldn’t your father fill his house with your work? And the scrunchie. He actually, stupidly thought you got in a bargain bin. Val had said it flatly once the room cleared: “That hair tie you’re wearing retails for three hundred and fifty dollars, Barnes. Where’d you get it? I’ve been trying to get one for myself for ages.” Of course it was. And that “cab” last night? A private driver, no doubt. After a quick google search, he realised you used your mother’s maiden name instead of your father’s last name to keep your profile… private.
So how could he have known? You had a small apartment, for fuck’s sake.
A one-bedroom. Quirky, yes. Charming, absolutely. But small. He remembered how he’d clocked the narrow hallway, the way the kitchen barely fit two people comfortably unless one of you leaned back against the counter. He remembered thinking it was cozy, but scrappy.
And not that he actually let himself think about it, he realised… You never said you rented.
You’d talk about the building, about how much you loved the light in the afternoons, about the woman downstairs who played cello at odd hours and the corner bodega guy who slipped you extra napkins when your hands were full of canvases. But you’d never complained about a landlord, never mentioned rent hikes, or panicked about leases or renewals or moving.
Because you probably didn’t have to.
That building, he could see it now, was probably historic. It was artsy in that very specific way that the occupants probably paid obscene money to preserve. Exposed brick, original molding, big windows that hadn’t been replaced with cheap modern crap.
And he’d walked in there thinking: she’s struggling, but she’s happy.
God, he thought you were a struggling artist.
Another memory surfaced. He was standing in your kitchen, holding a paper bag from your favorite takeout place like it was some grand romantic gesture. Your face lit up as you had told him, “Baby, you spoil me,” like he’d just brought you diamonds instead of noodles in a cardboard box.
You’d meant it.
You’d really meant it.
He remembered all the dates he had insisted on paying. He remembered you arguing back, but letting him win just enough to make him feel good about it. Remembered how proud he’d felt taking care of you.
Meanwhile, you could’ve bought the restaurant.
And the flowers, my god. The expensive bouquet he’d agonized over once, standing in a shop too long, picking something that looked full and worth the money. You’d held them like you couldn’t believe he spent so much time and money and effort on you.
It wasn’t deceit. Not really. It was… curation. You’d carefully hidden your life as an art investment consultant, because, lets’ be real, you were probably an artist first anyways. You’d stripped away the money, the name, and stepped into his life as just you. An artist in paint-stained clothes who drank bad coffee and used his Netflix account and split the bill because fairness mattered. And Bucky never minded. He was well paid, both in his brief political career and now. It’s not like he was throwing obscene amounts of money at you, he just used it as a tool to show that he cared.
And you… you probably loved not being loved for your family’s money.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. All this time, he thought he was the one protecting you, making your life a little easier. And maybe he had, in the ways that mattered to you.
But you’d been doing the same thing for him.
You had been letting him feel needed. Letting him feel generous. Letting him feel like a man who could bring home dinner and flowers and make his girlfriend smile, instead of a soldier constantly fighting against systems bigger than him.
It was so unfairly, devastatingly… cute.
And he loved you for it, loved you more for it— because you hadn’t needed him to be anything other than who he was. You’d just let him be good to you.
—
By the time he pushed his bedroom door open, he had come to terms with who you really were.
And inside, you were awake, curled into the window seat, one socked foot pressed against the glass, knees tucked up, a book open in your lap. Morning light painted you in heavenly colours, the city sprawling beneath. You looked peaceful.
God, he loved you.
You glanced up when the door shut, eyes lighting up instantly. “Hey,” you smiled. “You’re back already.”
“Couldn’t stay away,” he said easily.
You laughed as he leaned down, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then, because he couldn’t help himself, the corner of your mouth. One hand came to rest on your waist, thumb brushing absent-minded circles.
“How was it?” you asked, bookmarking your page with fold. “Emergency or emergency emergency?”
“Eh,” he shrugged, nuzzling briefly into your hair. “Just the usual .”
You hummed. “Shocking.”
He eased down beside you, arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest like it was second nature. You adjusted without thinking, leaning into him.“So?” you prompted. “What happened?”
Here we go, he thought fondly.
“You know, the company I told you about, Orbital?” he said. “CEO came in early. Wanted to finalize everything in person.”
Your face did something interesting. Not panic, you were better than that, but your nose scrunched up in a half-second recalibration.
Your father probably didn’t tell you when he was going to visit the tower, did he?
“Oh,” you said lightly. “Yeah? That’s… efficient of him.”
He watched you over the edge of his eyes.
“Mhm,” he continued, trying to relax. “Nice guy. He remembered everyone’s name.”
“Love that,” You nodded too quickly. He bit the inside of his cheek.
You shifted, tucking your legs under you, clearly settling in for conversation. “Did it go okay? Val in a mood?”
“She always is,” he said. “But yeah, it went smooth. Lots of corporate optimism.”
“Love corporate optimism,” you said solemnly. “So comforting.”
He snorted.
You launched into chatter, trying to steer the topic away from anything but your actual father. You were asking about Bob, about Yelena, about whether John was insufferable before coffee. You filled the space with noise, gesturing animatedly with your book, clearly hoping momentum would carry you right past the danger zone.
And for a moment, he let you talk, he let you dodge, while nervously fiddling with the dog tags around his neck. He let you ramble, digging a hole right in front of him.
At one point, you smiled at him, clearly pleased with yourself. “Anyway,” you concluded, lifting your book again, “sounds like a boring grown-up meeting.”
“Mmm,” he agreed, tilting his head. His thumb brushed your chin, “Pretty boring.”
You relaxed. Fully relaxed.
That’s when he said, completely offhand, “Oh. And your dad wants you to call him back.”
You blinked.
Bucky watched the exact moment it hit you. The way your eyes widened, then darted away, then back to him like you were hoping he’d magically retract the sentence.
“…Fuck.”
He laughed, pulling you closer as you buried your face into his chest with a groan.
“I was this close,” you muffled. “I almost made it.”
“You really did,” he said fondly, kissing the top of your head. “Had me going for a second.”
“Liar,” you muttered.
“Okay, maybe not,” he admitted. “But I enjoyed watching you try.”
You peeked up at him, cheeks warm. “How mad is he?”
“Not very,” Bucky said, brushing your hair back from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “But he was very, very amused.”
“And you?”
“Not mad at all, sweets,” he reassured.
You sighed dramatically, collapsing sideways into the window. “God, this is humiliating.”
He wrapped both arms around you, holding you close, “Hey,” he defended. “I think it’s kind of adorable.”
You looked up at him suspiciously. “Adorable,” you echoed.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “My girlfriend secretly gets investment funding into my job and then pretends she really loves that I buy takeout for her.”
You groaned again, swatting lightly at his chest. “I do love it.”
“I know,” he said.
He kissed you then, like there was nowhere else either of you needed to be. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know,” he added, teasing in his voice, “next time you wanna give the entire team a pay raise, you could at least warn me first.”
You laughed, breathless, hands curling into his shirt. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He smiled, tightening his hold just a little. “I’m so in love with you.”
And this time, you didn’t try to dodge anything at all.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — october’s cold bite brings out the ghosts, the parties, and the wild in everyone but you’d rather vanish than join the crowd. one haunted house party, one stolen motorbike, and one impossible boy later, you find yourself tangled in a night of dares, heated bets, and secret corners where every shadow feels like a dare. what starts as a brush with danger becomes a halloween tale of risk, pleasure, and being finally, truly seen. sometimes the scariest thing isn’t the dark, but what happens when you let yourself want more. or; when you try to ditch sunghoon’s halloween party he accuses you of stealing his bike, and before you know it, he’s giving you riding lessons, on and off the motorbike.
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — explicit language, rough sex, public sex (party/bathroom/garage), face riding, nipple play, heavy grinding, mutual masturbation, oral (f/m), risky sex, dom!sunghoon, possessiveness, jealousy, spanking, slapping, hair pulling, spitting, dirty talk, praise/degradation kink, mild choking, orgasm control, overstimulation, riding kink (literal and metaphorical), clothing/lingerie kink, slight exhibitionism, voyeurism, minor dub-con vibes (consensual but high pressure), sex under the stars, pool sex, food play (kitchen), alcohol use, mentions of sex addiction, hints of competitive fucking, biting/marking, aftercare, light humor, multiple rounds, light angst, halloween party themes, wild chemistry, intense eye contact, motorbike as a prop, very vocal reader, emotional vulnerability, catharsis through sex, heavy makeouts, accidental romance, feeling seen for the first time.
listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 🎃
The cold hits harder out here than you expected, a knife-edge wind slicing through the thin satin of your costume until your teeth chatter. You curl forward, shoulders hiked like you’re trying to fold yourself into a smaller target, one arm clutching the neckline in place, the other white-knuckling your phone as you bounce from rideshare app to rideshare app. Each rejection pings through you like a bruise: No drivers available in this area. Of course not, it’s past midnight, you’re half a mile from campus in a suburban stretch no sane driver cruises after Halloween. Your shoes, strappy, glittery, chosen for possible fun, not actual mileage, grind tiny rocks into your heels every time you shift your weight, and you feel each sting all the way up your calves. Behind you, the bass thrums in your bones, a relentless heartbeat you want to outrun but can’t.
From the cracked doorway you left ajar in your rush, you catch neon slices of party light: strobing orange, sickly green. The smell of sugary punch laced with cheap vodka drifts out in sticky waves, hazed with smoke and that unmistakable tang of too many bodies packed too close. You’d lasted maybe twenty minutes inside, long enough to see two strangers giggling on the staircase as they unzipped each other’s costumes, long enough to watch a couple you think you’ve seen in your econ lecture full-on tongue each other in the pantry beside the plastic-wrapped loaf of Hawaiian rolls. Someone had already spilled an entire cauldron punch bowl, raspberry-red tide creeping across the hardwood while three different people filmed it instead of helping. The music was a remixed early-2000s hit, pitched high and cruel, a relentless pulse that made your temples throb like they were trying to hammer their way out.
Out here, the party house has a warped, storybook charm, its two stories blurred with orange string lights and half-sagging cobwebs, plastic skeletons swinging crookedly from the porch beams, caught in the wind like marionettes abandoned mid-dance. The front steps are crowded with carved pumpkins, some masterpieces, some crude, all grinning with flickering teeth, candlelight twitching behind jagged mouths. Every window pulses with the blur of movement, staccato silhouettes framed by haze and music, a thousand tiny dramas happening behind smudged glass: someone jumping onto a friend’s back, a flash of bare thigh as a costume rides up, a glittering mask tossed aside. Laughter rises, shrill and wild, then drops into a bassline rumble that rattles the panes, the house itself seeming to sway with every surge.
You shift your weight, heel sinking into the wet grass, feeling the chill leak through your tights. The tombstone at your ankle—R.I.P. GOOD GRADES, black marker slanted, makes you snort quietly, a bubble of bitter amusement rising as you imagine your transcript going six feet under by morning. Another gust claws at the hem of your dress, dragging satin up your thighs, and you jerk it down, face burning with the self-consciousness of a kid who thinks the whole world is watching. The truth is, no one’s looking. You’re invisible out here, a scrap of shadow on the fringe of something riotous and glowing. The laughter from inside feels both inviting and pointed, like a joke you’re not in on. You fold your arms tighter across your chest, cold gnawing through the thin costume, phone clenched so hard your knuckles ache.
You can hear everything, even with the door mostly closed, the off-key chorus of a group shotgunning punch in the kitchen, the shriek of someone spotting a friend in matching fangs, the groan of floorboards under too many stomping boots. Once or twice, someone opens the door and a sheet of sound pours out: old pop remixed with horror-movie effects, giggles that burst and scatter across the lawn before vanishing. From your place in the dark, you’re neither guest nor stranger, just the negative space around the party, a half-forgotten margin between porch lights and street. You watch the light flicker over the lawn, golden and syrupy, and wonder if it would swallow you whole or spit you back out if you tried to re-enter.
You shift again, the ache in your feet growing sharper, shoulders curled forward against the wind. You can smell the sweet reek of fake cider, pumpkin guts, sweat, something fried and overcooked wafting out the kitchen window. The sound of glass shattering, cheers follow, then a thud. Someone’s already made a mess of the living room, you’re sure. Inside, everyone’s burning hot and too loud, while out here, the night clings to you, cool and damp, and you swear you can hear your own heart louder than the music. It’s the peculiar ache of being somewhere you’re not wanted, but not brave enough to leave for good, just stuck, in between, shivering while the party goes on without you.
You stare down at your phone, thumb hovering, willing a rideshare to appear out of thin air. You’d give anything to be back in your bed, mismatched socks and pumpkin-scented sheets, watching something soft and safe under a pile of blankets. Instead you’re here, on the fringe of someone else’s fun, and even the skeleton on the porch seems to laugh at your expense. You came because Mira wouldn’t let up, weeks of “please, just this once,” all her puppy-dog eyes and promises of fun, until you caved. She’d wanted you in something cute, something that would “make guys jaw drop,” but mostly you just wanted her to stop begging. Now you’re cold, alone, haunted by the echo of her laughter somewhere inside, regretting every step that brought you here. You never belonged at parties like this; you don’t want to flirt with strangers or drink until the world goes blurry. The truth is, you regret letting yourself be convinced you could slip into someone else’s story for a night, and all you want is to disappear back into your own.
Your phone glows blue against your frozen palm, thumb twitching with every failed attempt at summoning a ride. The screen flickers, mocking your desperation with its pulsing “no drivers available.” Each try makes your hands shake harder, nerves tangled with cold and something rawer, embarrassment, maybe, or just the ache of being so pathetically out of place. Wind slices down the street, swirling around your bare legs, catching at your skirt, making you shiver so hard your teeth knock. Overhead, the porch lights pour orange into the darkness, smudging everything in the tint of jack-o-lanterns; your breath comes in little clouds, white against the chrome tank of the bike beside you. The metal gleams, slick and beautiful, reflecting broken fragments of party light. bodies moving behind frosted windows, teeth bared in laughter, the blur of devil horns and fishnets in every glass pane. You press closer to the seat, the machine thrumming quietly in the chill, its silhouette a hard comfort beside the wild warmth you’re locked out of.
You’re pressed against the bike without thinking, letting the warmth of the metal seep into your skin. Your brain barely registers that it’s a stranger’s ride, you just know it feels good to lean here, like it’s the only thing anchoring you in the cold. The bike is a silent furnace in the October dark, its black-chrome tank radiating the leftover heat of a vanished rider, and you find yourself pressed to it like bruised fruit to a warming windowsill, heedless of propriety, grateful for any spark that staves off the night’s bite. The metal hums under your corseted ribs, reflecting candle-orange jack-o’-lantern glows so that your satin witch skirts shimmer like spilled potion across a cauldron’s rim; every breath fogs the mirror-shine, a ghostly charm you can’t help tracing with chilled fingertips. It smells of gasoline and clove-sweet cologne, a contradiction as sharp and steady as a heartbeat, promising movement even while standing still. Somewhere inside the house, bass and laughter crash like storm surf, but out here the machine’s quiet authority feels like an oath: if darkness wanted a steed, this would be it, sleek, predatory, patient, waiting for the figure who commands it to step from shadow and claim both engine and the girl foolish enough to lean against its ribs for warmth.
You don’t hear footsteps at first, just the slow scrape of something heavy over loose gravel, a metallic chime threading through the wind. It’s the kind of sound that prickles at the back of your neck, not quite alarming, just enough to set every sense on edge. For a heartbeat you imagine it’s nothing, just the house shifting, the wind knocking something over, but then it comes again: deliberate, boots rolling stone, steady as a metronome. It slices through the chorus of party noise, sharp as a knife against glass. You press closer to the bike, letting the engine’s leftover heat bloom against your thighs, comfort and tension mixing in your chest. In the haze of porch lights and swirling fake fog, you glimpse a silhouette moving between parked cars, broad shoulders, tall frame, a slow and certain gait that seems almost out of place in a yard full of drunken, tripping shadows. He isn’t hurrying; it’s as if he owns the night, or at least the piece of it you’re trying to disappear into.
There’s a chill in the air, cold enough that your breath smudges the chrome when you exhale, and for a second you almost resent how safe you feel pressed to this machine. Like the bike is a wall between you and the chaos, or maybe a bridge, letting you float in the space where things might shift. The motorbike’s frame is smooth beneath your palm, the black paint glossy, reflecting the orange flicker of carved pumpkins and the gold edge of a too-late moon. You let yourself linger, hiding in the outline of a life you don’t live, heartbeat syncopated with the metallic hush behind you. A shadow stretches over your shoulder. You sense him before you ever look, something in the air tightens, a shift, a hush, your nerves winding up. He stops just outside your peripheral vision, close enough that the warmth of his body eclipses the bite of October air, close enough that you smell the faint tang of leather, sweat, and sugar from inside. You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t look, hoping for a moment that if you don’t acknowledge him, the world will hold its breath with you.
Then his voice breaks the quiet, low and careful, not quite mocking but edged with challenge. “Didn’t peg you for a thief.” The words curl between you, slow and dangerous, sliding under your skin like a secret. Only then do you glance up, finally facing him in the dim light, he’s not just any boy at the party, not just another student fading into the night. He’s something darker, sharper, carved from shadow and sweat, every inch of him humming with the kind of attention that makes you wonder if you’ve just been chosen, or hunted.
You’re face to face with Park Sunghoon, and even in the bad porch light, you can’t pretend he’s anything less than beautiful. He’s the kind of campus legend whose name is always half-whispered, half-worshipped: everyone knows someone who’s slept with him, fought with him, wanted to be him, wanted to ruin him. The upperclassmen swap stories about the time he bench pressed a whole rugby team for charity, or that night he disappeared with two girls and came back grinning, lipstick-stained, not a hair out of place. His jaw looks cut from stone, hair tousled and a little wild, eyes rimmed dark with exhaustion or maybe just the shadow of too many nights like this one.
Every line of his is built for attention, broad shoulders filling out the tactical jacket, long fingers loose and confident at his side, the quiet sort of power that says he doesn’t need to try, because everyone’s already looking. You tell yourself he’s just another campus cliché, a heartthrob in a crowd of a thousand, but your heart still skips when he gives you his full attention, gaze skimming over your bare thighs, pausing at your mouth like he’s reading your secrets there. Park Sunghoon, the name that floats through every corridor, scrawled on bathroom stalls and whispered in stairwells. Heartthrob, rumored bad influence, the reason half your classmates even show up for lectures some days.
His group is legendary in the way popular boys always are, untouchable, glossy, all gravity and golden-hour confidence. They’re sprawled across every soft surface inside, Jake’s laughter bouncing off the ceiling, Jay flicking bottle caps at Heeseung, who’s busy texting three people at once. Jungwon always tries to pull new faces in, but even he can’t break the circle’s spell. You’d never admit it out loud, but you don’t really like them; it’s the easy entitlement that grates, the way they move through parties like the floor tilts for them, the private language of in-jokes and glances that leave everyone else as an afterthought. Still, you watch them, everyone does. Every glance is loaded, every dare filthier than the last, the air around them thick with things that never make it onto Instagram stories. Sometimes you catch yourself eavesdropping on their whispered bets, who’ll fuck in the backyard, who’ll hook up in the guest room, whose ex is coming back for another round.
It’s a little disgusting, how much you don’t want them to notice you. The idea of being just another girl on their lips, their attention, their approval, the sharp appraisal in their eyes, makes your skin crawl. Sunghoon and his group are infamous for a reason: they dominate every room, weaving inside jokes and filthy dares, surveying every girl as if she’s on offer for their amusement. The last thing you want is to become part of their legend, another conquest, a story for them to laugh about the next morning. You’d rather be invisible, anonymous, just a background blur they forget by sunrise. Tonight, the worst outcome would be to have his eyes linger on you, for all the wrong reasons, only to be discarded, forgotten, left with the bitter taste of being used and nothing more. You’d take invisibility over their spotlight any night.
You might wish to disappear, but you’re not going to be invisible tonight, not with the way he’s looking at you now. Sunghoon’s gaze is impossible to ignore, heavy-lidded, shamelessly direct, as if he’s already catalogued everything about you worth having. He leans against his bike like he owns the night, boots planted wide, one broad hand casually splayed on the chrome, the other dangling his keys. There’s a cocky slant to his mouth, a flicker of amusement in the set of his jaw; he looks at you like he’s been expecting this moment all along, like he knows exactly how this story ends. It’s in the subtle way his eyes trace your silhouette, lingering on the way your costume, tight, vintage, a pin-up witch in midnight satin, clings to your hips and frames your legs in thigh-highs and velvet. His own costume is almost a mirror: black tactical jacket unzipped just enough to show the muscle beneath, his arms all sinew and power, the fake blood at his jaw making him look like he’s just come from a bar fight or a heist. You notice it now, the way your costumes echo each other, matching in their darkness and defiance, and for one breathless second, it’s like you planned it, like you belong at his side.
He doesn’t let the silence settle. “You stealing my ride, or just looking for trouble?” he drawls, voice low and edged with a teasing smugness that’s all challenge and none of the usual frat-boy bark. He flicks his gaze pointedly between you and the bike, as if the two of you are both just barely out of his reach, and grins when you bristle at the implication. “Didn’t think anyone could make leather and fishnets look this good except me.” The words are warm, gliding over you, and you catch yourself staring at the outline of his bicep under the sleeve, the line of muscle at his throat, the way every inch of him seems designed to be wanted. You swallow hard, trying to keep your expression blank, but your heart’s already traitorously loud in your chest. The bike at your back hums with his presence, the chrome cold through your stockings, and you realize you’re both reflected in its lacquered curve, shadow-twins in the flickering orange of the porch lights.
You try to step away, making your tone clipped, your shoulders set. “I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to go home.” The words are brittle as ice, and you keep your eyes fixed on the curb, desperate to avoid the full brunt of his attention. You gather your jacket tighter, shift your weight away from him, praying he’ll take the hint and leave you in peace. “I don’t need to talk to you, or anyone, actually. This isn’t my kind of night and it’s an even lamer party.” You mean for it to sound dismissive, but your voice cracks on the last word, betraying your nerves. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, just lets the smile curl a little wider.
“Damn,” he says, feigning a look of mock offence, hand over his heart. “That’s how you feel about my party? Lame?” He gasps, a cartoonish, exaggerated sound, but his eyes stay sharp, glued to you. “It’s not a lame party, by the way. We’ve got a Ouija board, haunted jello shots, and someone threw up in a cauldron. That’s, like, three for three on Halloween bingo.” He leans in just enough for you to smell the lingering spice of whiskey and cinnamon gum on his breath. You’re so close now, you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the cut of his cheekbone where it catches the porchlight. There’s a new edge in his voice, something heavier, a dare behind the bravado. He tips his chin at you, lips curving. “So, let’s hear it. What’s got you so ready to run home? Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little fake blood and too many plastic bats.”
You snort, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Please. Your party smells like cheap vodka and somebody’s regret. I saw three people making out on the pantry floor. One of them might’ve been wearing a diaper, and don’t even get me started on the punch. Did you poison it, or is it supposed to taste like cough syrup and sadness?”
He grins, flashing teeth, shifting even closer so his knee bumps yours. “That’s our secret recipe. You just can’t handle the classics. At least nobody’s passed out in the tub—yet.”
You arch a brow, defiant. “Only because the bathroom door’s jammed. Pretty sure I watched Heeseung and some girl try to break in with a plastic skeleton arm. The music’s so loud my fillings hurt. And what’s with the playlist? If I hear Monster Mash one more time, I’m walking into traffic.”
He feigns horror, clutching his chest. “Monster Mash is a classic. It’s Halloween law. I bet you’re the type to skip Thriller, too. Besides, you could dance if you wanted.”
“I don’t dance at parties where half the costumes look like a fever dream. Jay’s in a toga and Crocs. Someone’s got devil horns and pajamas. What were you even supposed to be? Discount Batman?”
He laughs, deep and easy, voice dropping. “Funny. I thought you’d appreciate the tactical look. Didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about Crocs. You’re one to talk, what are you supposed to be? Kinky Elphaba?”
Your mouth quirks, heat rushing to your face. “Vintage witch, actually. Didn’t know you knew the difference between velvet and vinyl. I figured the only spell you could cast was making girls disappear the next morning.”
He leans in, close enough for your breath to catch. “Maybe I only disappear when I’m bored. And for the record, your costume’s the only thing keeping this party alive right now.”
You scoff, fighting a smile. “That’s rich. You throw this whole party and you’re out here harassing girls next to your precious bike? Afraid someone’s going to steal it, or do you just like the view?”
His eyes flick down, then up, slow and shameless. “I like a good view. Especially when it’s freezing and some gorgeous girl’s pressed against my seat, acting like she hates every second of it. I’m starting to think you don’t hate it at all.”
You cross your arms, tilting your chin. “I hate loud parties, cheap drinks, bad costumes, and boys who think they’re God’s gift just because they can grow a five o’clock shadow. But sure, maybe I’ll give you credit for the bike.”
He grins, looking at you like he wants to bite. “You can hate the party, but you can’t pretend you don’t like the attention.”
Your voice is soft, but edged. “If I wanted attention, I’d have stayed inside. Maybe I just like the cold.”
He steps even closer, so close the air shivers between you, the lines of the party dissolving behind him. “If you really wanted to leave, you would’ve already. Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to give you a reason to stay.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “Give me one good reason.”
He smirks, lowering his voice, his breath warm at your ear. “I could make you forget you ever wanted to leave. Bet I could make you beg to stay.”
For a split second, it’s all sharp and electric, your glare, his crooked smile, the space between you thrumming with something wild. The party could fall off the edge of the earth and you’d never notice, not with his eyes pinning you in place. You shrug, forcing a dry laugh, the tension thrumming under your skin. “Big talk. But I’ll need more than cheap lines and Monster Mash to stick around, Park.”
He cocks his head, grin widening. “How about a ride? On the bike, or—” his gaze drags, deliberate, “—wherever else you want. I’m good with my hands.” The words hang there, filthy and funny and daring, and you realize you’re smiling back, your whole body wound tight as a bowstring, refusing to look away.
You’re silent, unable to look away from him. His eyes bore into you, daring you to call his bluff, to walk away, to break the charge that’s suddenly vibrating between your bodies. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You can feel your own pulse thudding in your throat, the burn of his gaze heating every inch of exposed skin, the tension thick as smoke. The urge to say something, anything, is overpowered by the urge to just close the last few inches and see what would happen if you stopped pretending. The whole night feels head-fucked, every nerve jangling. You gulp, searching his face for a sign, for a warning, for something that might let you break free but all you see is intent, fixed and hungry, and you realize, with a rush that leaves you breathless, you don’t want to be invisible anymore.
He shrugs off his jacket with a casual flick, the leather warm from his body, and drapes it over your bare shoulders. His hands linger a moment too long, thumbs tracing the slope of your arms, fingertips curling at the nape of your neck to settle the collar. The gesture is unexpectedly gentle, almost reverent but the heat in his eyes makes your breath catch. “Can’t have you freezing out here,” he says, voice low and loaded, “not when you look that good.” You feel the weight of it, his scent ghosting over your skin, the jacket swallowing you up in his presence. For a second, you both go still, tension knotting tight between you, the world outside the circle of his touch blurring into insignificance. The party roars, but all you hear is the soft hush of his breath as he pulls the zipper up under your chin, knuckles brushing the hollow of your throat.
You smirk, trying to chase off your own nerves, “You’re so possessive about this jacket, your bike’s gotta be worse. Afraid someone’ll scratch it, or are you afraid I’ll look better on it than you ever did?” The words are teasing but shaky, colored by a strange, heady thrill.
He grins, all teeth and hunger, stepping closer, his hands moving to your hips without asking. “Trust me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “that seat was waiting for you.” His grip tightens, bold, confident, and the implication is unmistakable. “And I like seeing you on things that belong to me.” The words hit low in your gut, wicked and forward.
You meet him glare for glare, matching his pace, refusing to break first. “You’d have to earn it,” you challenge, letting your fingers toy with the zipper, “and not just the bike.”
He doesn’t blink. He dares you with a crooked smirk, nodding toward the machine gleaming in the porch light. “Go on. Try it.” At first, you scoff, half-laughing, but something in his stare dares you to want it. Your hands shake a little as you straddle the seat, your dress riding high, leather warming your thighs, his hands steadying you, fingers sliding up your waist, guiding you, lingering, until there’s no space left between you. He steps up behind, fitting himself to your back, his chest pressed to your spine, breath hot at your ear. The chaos behind you intensifies, laughter and shrieks swirling around the porch, but Sunghoon’s touch makes the night fall away. The press of his body is electric, his hands molded to your hips, his chin brushing your hair as he leans in. “You look fucking perfect up here,” he whispers, the words meant only for you, the promise of everything he could do vibrating in the air between you.
All eyes are on you now, friends, strangers, half the party turned to stare, their voices rising in gasps and shrill disbelief, a flicker of phone flashes capturing the moment. People are elbowing each other, whispering, “Is she really—? That’s Park’s new girl now?” But you don’t care, not when his hands are sliding under the hem of your dress, adjusting your seat, making you feel safe and exposed all at once. He presses his lips to your ear, voice velvet and dirty: “Wanna know how it feels to really ride, sweetheart?” Every word tingles over your skin, promise and threat, and you shiver, whether from the cold or him, you can’t tell.
It hits you, suddenly, just how insane this is, straddling Park Sunghoon’s bike, his hands on your body, the party crowding the porch behind you, the night sharp and alive. You never thought you’d even talk to him, let alone be here, burning with want and daring, ready for something wild. The world outside your little orbit feels blurry, distant, unreal. You feel his breath in your hair, his thigh braced against yours, his presence filling every empty space in your body. There’s a sharp, dizzy certainty blooming in your chest: this could be the start of something dangerous, something real, something that belongs only to you and him. For once, you’re not invisible. For once, the universe is staring back, and it feels right, perfect, inevitable.
He leans forward, mouth ghosting over the curve of your ear. “I’ll make you a bet. I take you on a ride, show you what it feels like, what it means to let go and if you love it, you come back inside and spend the rest of the party with me. Let me show you how much fun you can really have.” His fingers flex at your hips, his mouth inches from your neck, eyes burning. You don’t hesitate. “Fine. But if I don’t like it—if riding isn’t all that, then you’re coming with me. We’re leaving, and you’re sitting through a double feature of every classic Halloween movie I own. Popcorn, pumpkin candy, and you’re not allowed to complain.”
His eyes crinkle, his smile dangerous and real. “Deal,” he says, the word rolling over you like a promise. “But just so you know—I never lose.” The world shrinks to this moment, this heat, this wild, reckless bet with the campus heartthrob, your heart beating in time with the engine you’re about to start. For once, you can’t wait to see what happens next.
The engine is cold and mean beneath you, the bike a beast between your thighs, chrome gleaming in the jack-o-lantern haze. Sunghoon is right behind you, his chest pressing into your back, the hardness of his body an anchor and a dare. He leans over you, one hand braced on your thigh, the other guiding yours to the ignition. You can feel his breath on your ear, the rumble of his voice so low you almost miss it. “Twist, baby. Not too gentle, but not all at once. Like you mean it.” His fingers curl over yours, large and certain, veins tight under his skin, and the contact shoots straight to your core.
“Scared?” he asks, voice so close it’s almost in your mouth, and you can’t help the shiver. The wind whips your bare legs, goosebumps rising along your skin, but it’s his touch that makes you tremble. “Or just nervous because you know I won’t let you get away now?” He laughs, the sound hot and cruel and proud, one hand sliding up to your waist to steady you as you shift on the seat.
You try for a smirk. “Are you nervous? That I’ll crash and ruin your pretty bike, Park?”—but your voice is thin, breathless, your whole body wound tight, braced for anything.
His laugh is low, a rich rumble against your spine, and you feel it before you even hear it. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice smug and deep. “I’m not worried about the bike, sweetheart. I’m more concerned about how wet you’ll be by the time we stop.” His hands glide down your arms, tightening at your waist as the bike idles, heat radiating from him in waves. “You think I’d let anything happen to you? I’d let this bike hit the pavement before I’d let you fall. Besides…”—his hips shift, pressing himself closer, unmistakable, hard, cocky—“I like a little risk. Makes it more fun when you hold on tight.” He nips at your neck, tongue flicking over your pulse, and you shudder, caught between fear and anticipation. You barely have time to gasp before he’s revving the engine, his mouth a wicked line at your jaw. “Show me how bad you want to ride, princess. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Your cheeks burn so hot it’s almost painful, his breath catching as his words settle over your skin, thick and heavy, a promise and a dare all at once. You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder, your pulse racing, words caught somewhere between a challenge and a plea. “Big talk, Park,” you murmur, lips parted, your body already melting into his grip. “Maybe I want you to worry a little. Maybe I want to see just how far you’ll let me go.” Your fingers tighten over his, anchoring yourself in the warmth of his hands, the shiver in your voice making everything more electric. “Hold on, then. I hope you like the way I ride.” The wind whips past as you start to move, your heart pounding out a wild rhythm, his chest pressed to your back, his laughter rumbling dark and approving. For the first time tonight, you don’t care who’s watching, you just want to see what happens when you finally let go.
He reaches around you, his body caging yours, hand on the throttle. “You ride this right, you’ll feel everything. Hold on, don’t let go.” He presses his mouth to your ear, whispering, “If you fall, it’s on me. But I never let anyone fall, especially you.” The dominance in his words is thick, his palm bracing your hip, the weight of his thigh pushing you into the machine. You feel trapped and protected, wild and claimed, and it’s the kind of danger you’ve never tasted but always craved.
Just before the engine snarls awake, Sunghoon reaches behind him, fingers curling around a matte black helmet, and without a word he settles it gently over your head, brushing your hair back, buckling it beneath your chin with careful fingers. His gaze flicks up, sharp and serious for a beat, every cocky edge smoothed out by the way his thumbs linger on your jaw. “No one rides with me without this, princess. I plan on riding with you until we’re breathless, not getting you killed.” He grins, soft and wild, then slips his own helmet on, the click of the strap loud in the night as he swings his leg back over the bike, pulling you flush to his chest, the world outside the visor already fading away until it’s just the two of you, heat and wind and everything waiting to happen.
The engine coughs to life, vibrations buzzing straight up your spine, and Sunghoon laughs again, low and proud, a dark sound that thrums in your chest and somewhere lower, the sound of a boy who knows exactly what it is to break rules and bend bodies to his will. “Let’s go,” he commands, his voice all gravel and smoke, one broad hand curling under your jaw to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes. The porch lights flicker across his face, sharp jaw, eyes hungry, lips parted with something dangerous. “Look at me when I say it. You ready?” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your pulse, claiming every shaky breath as his own.
His hands guide yours over the throttle, his fingers splayed wide, palms swallowing yours, he wants control, but he wants you to feel it, wants you to know you’re not alone on this ride. “Throttle slow, then fast. I want to see if you can take it,” he says, voice curling over your skin, making you shiver even through layers of leather and lust.
You twist, too eager, and the bike jerks forward, the motion pitching you flush back into his chest. His hands clamp hard on your hips, holding you in place, fingers digging in, half-pain, half-possession, laughter curling through his body and into yours. “Easy,” he growls, his voice all dominance now. “Don’t fight it, let it move through you. Trust me.” He moves with you, hips rocking forward, pressing himself against your ass, the heat of him so blatant it makes you clench around nothing, makes you want more.
Every time you steady, he tests you, hips rolling forward, hands sliding up and under the hem of your dress, stroking the bare skin of your thigh, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Lean back on me, baby. That’s it. Let me see how good you can be for me.” The dominance in his touch is overwhelming, your mind slipping out of gear, body burning with every command, every subtle flex of his hands.
The house fades behind you, the party noise swallowed by the engine’s growl and the rushing wind. Your thighs clamp tighter around the bike, your body rocking with the pulse of speed, and he’s there, hands never letting you drift, his mouth at your ear again, whispering filthy encouragement, the threat and promise of what he’ll do to you later. “That’s it. You like this, don’t you? Taking over my ride and letting me show you how it’s done?”
You giggle, a sound almost wild with adrenaline, “Can’t believe you’re leaving your own party for me.”
He answers, smug and bright, “The party was dead the minute you walked out. This is where the real fun starts.” You surge into the darkness, the wind stealing your breath, hair whipping around your face, your heart beating so fast it almost hurts. The lights fade behind, the night swallowing you both, and for the first time all night, you feel free, held tight, taught to let go, every inch of you pressed against the only boy on campus who’s never let anyone close enough to fall.
You can feel him, hard, thick, grinding up into you even as the bike rumbles forward, the vibration of the engine running right up your thighs and into the softest, rawest parts of you. Every time you ease off the throttle, he shifts behind you, hips rolling with the bike, cock pressing firmer through denim, making it absolutely impossible to ignore what’s coming or how desperate you already are. His chest pins you forward, the line of his body sheltering and daring you all at once. He laughs again, but this time the sound is right at your ear, half-mocking, half-hungry, and it’s so filthy and intimate you feel it echoing in your bones, a private message only you can hear. “Keep going. I’ll tell you when to stop,” he murmurs, the threat and the promise burning just beneath his words.
His hands never stop, one steering, the other sliding up from your waist to your ribs, fingers slipping under your dress, teasing the edge of your bra, calloused thumb tracing the dip between your breasts. You gasp, the bike lurches, but he holds you tight, laughing low, breath hot on your skin, every touch a dare. “You feel that? You like the way I fit behind you?” he taunts, his cock grinding harder, every bump in the road making you jolt back onto him, so aware of the friction, the heat, the want coiling low in your belly.
You shudder, knuckles white on the handlebars, legs spread around the engine, the wind snatching at your hair, dragging it across his cheek as he leans closer. “You ride like you fuck,” he hisses, hips jerking into you, the lewd praise making you ache, skin prickling with anticipation. “Little messy, a little too eager, but you make me want to lose control.” He drops a kiss at the base of your neck, tongue flicking over your pulse, teeth scraping just hard enough to make you gasp, your back arching into him, desperate for more.
Every stoplight, every sudden turn, becomes an excuse for his hands to find a new spot, to pull you tighter, his mouth dragging up your throat, whispering the filthiest things—how pretty you look like this, how wet you must be, how he can smell the heat of you even with the night air whipping past. “You gonna cum just from riding?” he teases, and the shame of it, how close you actually are, makes you whimper, hips rocking, the engine shuddering between your legs and his cock a relentless promise behind you.
You try to keep your composure, biting your lip, eyes burning from the rush of wind and sensation, but Sunghoon’s relentless, never letting up, his palm sliding down between your thighs, pressing against you through your panties, rolling his hips so you feel every inch of him, every intent. “Don’t slow down, baby. I want the whole street to know who’s making you lose it,” he rasps, one hand on your heart, the other on your cunt, the world shrinking to just this—his body, your want, the wild risk of it all.
The city blurs around you, neon streaks, orange streetlights flickering over wet asphalt, the roar of the engine swallowed by the sound of your own breath. You barely register the world beyond him, every sense overloaded by the feel of his hands, his cock, the heat of his mouth dragging along your jaw, the taste of danger and desire so thick you can’t breathe. You know you’ll lose this bet, you want to lose, and the certainty of that makes your skin buzz, every muscle tight, every nerve ending raw.
You tip your head back, riding the high, the speed, the risk, and feel him everywhere, his words, his touch, his hunger, so overwhelming you never want the night to end. For the first time, you feel yourself letting go, really letting go, surrendering to the wild, dangerous promise that only Sunghoon and his bike can offer. The engine roars, your heart roars louder, and you realize this is what it means to be alive—this freedom, this fear, this heat, this boy at your back and his cock already promising the next disaster you’ll both make out of each other.
You hit the open road, every muscle in your body locked with tension, every bump and turn magnified by the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing. But he’s behind you, all power and ease, his hands covering yours on the grips, voice low in your ear. “Just relax, you’ve got this. Lean when I lean. Trust me.” It’s strange how quickly you do. The first curve sends you tilting, a gasp catching in your throat, but his touch steadies you, his palm splayed across your stomach, pressing you back against him. The night air rushes over your skin, the bike’s engine is a wild animal beneath you, and you realize you’re not afraid anymore. You’re breathless, high on speed, on him.
With every mile, your body finds its rhythm. Your back straightens and a wild laugh spills from your lips as the wind whips your hair into your mouth. Sunghoon’s answering chuckle rumbles in your ear. “See? You’re a natural.” The city melts away, orange streetlights blurring into streaks of haunted color. You glimpse shadows of trees, the glint of moonlight on glass, the silver ribbon of river cutting through the darkness. Everything is in motion, bright and endless and fast.
You let your head fall back, air cold and clean against your throat, hair flying behind you like a cape. For a second, you close your eyes and let the world tilt and spin. Sunghoon’s chin drops to your shoulder, the heat of his mouth brushing your skin, “Open your eyes, pretty. You don’t want to miss this.” You do as he says, and the world explodes into sensation, stars caught in puddles along the road, the smell of earth and autumn smoke, distant bursts of laughter from backyard fires. Your giggle rises, unguarded and dizzy, and you feel him smile against your neck, pride and possession burning in his gaze.
You start to move with the bike, hips shifting with each twist and swerve. The speed picks up, Sunghoon leans in, his voice a growl, “Faster, yeah? You can handle it.” The pavement blurs beneath you, the engine roaring, your heart pounding so hard you feel it in your teeth.
You squeal, loud and unashamed, “Go! I want more!” and he obeys, one hand firm on your thigh as he pushes the bike harder, the two of you a blur of shadow and heat cutting through the night.
There’s a kind of reckless magic in this, every shiver of fear swallowed by the rush of pleasure, every trace of self-consciousness left behind with the party and its noise and strangers’ eyes. You haven’t let yourself be this unguarded in so long, maybe ever. The night is a movie reel, and you’re the girl who’s finally living, the bike, the needle that stitches every moment into your skin. You never knew you needed this, to trust, to let go, to laugh without thinking about who’s watching. Sunghoon’s hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in as if to remind you: You’re here, you’re with me, you’re not going anywhere.
You catch glimpses of your own reflection in storefront windows as you fly by, wild hair, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and greedy for more. The cold bites at your exposed thighs, but you barely feel it, body humming from the heat pressed close behind you. Sunghoon’s mouth is at your ear again, a command and a promise, “You look good like this. Free. Happy. You should see yourself.” You grin, twisting to look at him, your noses almost touching, and there’s a moment, so brief and electric it’s almost painful, where you feel everything change between you.
The city drops away, replaced by dark stretches of road, houses spaced far apart, empty lots overgrown with weeds. The speed is dizzying now, your laughter mingling with the roar of the engine, a song that belongs only to the two of you. Sunghoon guides you with each shift and press, his hands confident, greedy, reassuring, and you let yourself fall into the motion, the heat, the possibility that this night might never end. It’s a bet you already know you’re going to lose—you’ll never want to go back to the party, not when you’ve tasted this kind of wildness.
The world feels infinite, time suspended between the streetlights and your own pulse. Every sense is alive—cold wind on your bare skin, Sunghoon’s body is a furnace at your back, the steady vibration of the bike beneath you. You lean into a curve, his arms caging you in, and for the first time, you feel unstoppable. This is more than escape, it’s surrender, it’s flight, it’s the start of something you don’t want to name. You press your head back, find his mouth at your ear, and let yourself whisper, “Don’t ever stop.” The night stretches out before you, wild and wide and open, and you know with aching certainty that you’ll follow him anywhere.
For a moment you aren’t a girl on a bike, you’re acceleration itself, a streak of untended starlight blazing through October’s velvet hush. Moon-silver air rushes over your teeth, and the raw grin splitting your lips feels bigger than your own face, as if your happiness can’t be contained by skin. You tilt your head back, eyes slicing upward, and the night answers in saturated color: bruisy indigo curling at the horizon, a slick ribbon of violet where the streetlamps blur, clusters of feathery gold stars pricking the black like lit confetti. The clouds, thin as sugar-spun dreams, drift past in bruised lilac and ghost-white strips, glowing each time they trespass across the moon. Every shade feels personal, poured directly into your marrow.
You realize you’ve been holding your breath for weeks—months—maybe years, the way a cracked teacup holds rain, always fearing the next tremor will make you shatter. But right now the tremor is freedom: the engine’s hum vibrating up your spine, Sunghoon’s laugh buzzing against your nape, the metallic rasp of wind yanking at your hem. Your lungs expand so wide it almost hurts, filling with cold, cinnamon-scented air, and you think: this is what it’s like to live in color instead of grayscale. You wonder how close you came to skipping it all, curling beneath a dorm blanket while October spilled its fireworks outside.
His hands tighten on your hips, steady, grounding, yet somehow a dare, don’t look away. So you don’t. The sky is a dark river and you’re a stone skipping its surface: brief, bright, reckless. You’re a jack-o-lantern’s candle, flame licking its own wax, never meant to last the whole night but burning as if that’s the only commandment. You’re every wicked little rumor that ever clung to his name, speed, danger, pleasure, yet here, under these storm-colored stars, those words turn tender, almost holy.
You laugh, wild, helium-light, half-sob because minutes ago you were desperate to vanish, and now you want to swallow the night whole. Every fear tastes small beside the taste of wind on your tongue. Somewhere behind you the party still howls, but it’s only background static now; the real song is the low thunder of the bike, his ragged breathing, the drumline of your heart. If the road never ended you’d ride it until dawn set the world on fire, until every bruise on the sky blushed pink. The thought strikes you: there’s so much left to feel, and you almost missed it. You squeeze his thigh, grateful, greedy.
Up ahead the streetlights scatter like molten coins across wet asphalt, and you swear the pavement itself shimmers, liquid obsidian, reflecting constellations even the astronomers don’t have names for. The future might be hiding in that shine, or maybe it’s pressed between your shoulder blades where his chest echoes your heartbeat. Either way, it feels like the night is only just cracking open, rich with possibilities that taste of gasoline, laughter, and want. You can’t predict where it will take you, but you know, deep in bone, blood, and spark-bright grin, you won’t be the girl who leaves early ever again.
His hand tightens on your thigh, fingertips pressing hard, almost possessive as the bike idles beneath you. The street behind blurs out, just the two of you straddling the engine and each other, your bodies tangled in the aftershocks of speed. Sunghoon’s mouth is close to your ear, his voice thick and lazy with pride. “Look at you,” he breathes, letting his teeth graze the edge of your jaw, “didn’t know you had it in you, riding like you were fucking born for it. You know how fucking good you look with your hands all over my bike, legs spread, hair wild, shit, you could ruin a man right here.”
You laugh, still giddy, your fingers tightening on the handlebars. “You like watching me take control? Thought you were the one giving the lessons tonight.” Your voice is teasing, but there’s a challenge there, a dare you want him to answer with more than words.
He laughs, low and cocky, his hips pushing forward so you feel the solid weight of his cock, hard through his jeans. “Trust me, I’m learning, too. Didn’t know how much I’d love this, watching you take it, hearing you squeal for me, knowing every pair of eyes at that party wishes they were me right now. This wasn’t on my bucket list, baby, but fuck if it isn’t my new favorite thing. Might never let anyone else on my bike again.”
You tip your head back, bumping into his shoulder, your grin wicked. “So you’re saying I ruined you?”
He smirks, thumb brushing up under your dress, slow and filthy, tracing the outline of your soaked panties. “Ruined, obsessed, whatever you want to call it. Never seen anyone take a ride like that, never seen anyone make it look so fucking hot. You got me all fucked up, sweetheart. Gonna need you on the back of this bike every night now.”
You hum, feigning innocence as you roll your hips back against him, breath catching at the friction. “You better keep up, Park. I might just be your best ride yet.”
He growls, leaning in, his tongue flicking at the shell of your ear, voice thick with heat. “Oh, you’re more than that. You’re my favorite problem. Don’t think you’re leaving my side for the rest of the night, not when you’re this fucking perfect, not when you ride like you’re made for me.” You laugh again, the sound shaking through both your chests, and you know he means it, every word, every touch. This isn’t just about the bike. This is the start of something reckless, stupid, and maybe exactly what you’ve been starving for.
You’re still clutching the handlebars, knuckles white, breath tumbling out in warm clouds. There’s a wildness in your chest you almost don’t recognize, something reckless and alive, a fizzing urge that overrides the usual need to control, to keep every feeling on lockdown. You’ve always been the girl who winds herself too tight, who keeps her edges sharp and her words neat, who never risks looking foolish or out of place. But right now, with your thighs burning from the ride, your heart battering your ribs, and Sunghoon’s hands everywhere, you feel loose, uncoiled, like you’ve finally let go of a weight you didn’t even know you were carrying.
You glance over your shoulder at him, laughing, hair a tangled mess, skin flushed and alive under the city’s neon haze. “I didn’t know I could feel like this,” you say, voice thick with disbelief and wonder. “I didn’t know I could let go. I’m always so—tight, so careful, and you just—” You shake your head, at a loss, because it’s never been this easy to be wild, to want, to take.
Sunghoon grins, wild and bright, his eyes burning as he watches you unravel. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You keep everything bottled up. Maybe you just needed someone to make you forget how,” he murmurs, his words soft but edged with heat, pride, and the promise of even more freedom to come. It’s not just the bike or the speed or even the sex, it’s the way you let yourself be seen, wanted, and reckless for the first time in a long time. Sunghoon’s given you that push, the one you would’ve never asked for, and you know you’ll chase this feeling again and again, every wild night, every backroad, every moment you forget how to hold yourself back.
You let out a squeal, high and bright, as the bike picks up speed, your laughter tumbling out before you can help it. The wind whips at your face, wild and sweet, but the rush isn’t just the night air, it’s him, Sunghoon, right behind you, his voice a growl of approval. “God, you’re so fucking hot like this,” he calls over the roar, the compliment ragged, almost a moan. “You’re cute when you’re happy. Ride for me, pretty girl. Let me see you let go.” The praise makes you giddy, makes you bold. You lean back, pressing your ass into his crotch, feeling how hard he is, feeling his hunger, how badly he wants you.
“Touch me,” you beg, the word spilling from your lips without shame, your body straining for more, for anything. “Please, Sunghoon, I want your hands on me, right now.” You’re giggling, desperate, dizzy, your skin buzzing from the freedom and the danger, the engine’s vibration everywhere. His laughter is low and filthy, his breath hot at your ear, and then you feel it, one of his hands never leaving the handlebar, but the other slipping right between your thighs, pressing into the slick heat already soaking through your panties.
“Fuck, you’re soaked. You’re so tight,” he groans, two fingers rubbing you slow, then fast, his grip steady even as the bike keeps moving. The road is a blur beneath you, the only real thing is his touch, his dominance, the way he makes you feel held and ruined at once. He keeps you balanced, guiding you with his body, his mouth never far from your skin. “You wanna cum for me? Here, like this?” he growls, his palm flattening, working you just right, thumb teasing your clit as you gasp, writhing, the world spinning out beneath your wheels.
Your nipples ache, hard beneath your dress, and he knows, of course he knows, his free hand sneaking up under your top, pinching and rolling the sensitive bud, his fingers rough and clever. You arch for him, a whimper sliding out, wanting more, needing everything. “Look at you, baby. You can barely ride straight,” he teases, and you can hear the smirk, feel the filth in every word. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? You love when I touch you, when everyone could see if they just looked close enough.”
The moans spill from you, unashamed, wild, all for him, lost to the night and the thrum of the engine, the world reduced to the feel of his hand moving inside you, the sting and sweetness of his grip on your breast, his lips at your ear. “That’s it, pretty. Let me hear you. Give me those sounds,” he pants, his own hips grinding up against your ass, cock throbbing, ready to split you open the second he gets you alone.
You’re begging, mindless, all words and want: “Don’t stop, please, Sunghoon, I need more, I need you to fuck me, ” but you never finish, because he shoves two fingers inside you, fucking you slow and deep, thumb flicking over your clit until you’re sobbing, coming for him on the back of his bike, the world exploding in sound and speed and need.
He growls in triumph, biting your shoulder, still guiding the bike steady, never letting you slip. “That’s my girl. You’re so fucking perfect, so wet for me,” he hisses, his hand never stopping, still tormenting your nipple, still fucking you with his fingers, milking every last aftershock, every moan, every trembling gasp. The whole world spins out, wild and reckless and so fucking good, and all you can think is that you never want this ride to end.
It’s not just the engine’s roar or the wind tangling your hair that drives you wild, it’s the dizzy rush of being slightly drunk, skin humming, blood sugar-quick from too many shots and too many longing glances, that makes everything sharper, sloppier, more dangerous. The alcohol is a fuse burning low in your veins, a soft haze that loosens your tongue and dissolves every last inhibition; it makes Sunghoon braver, too, reckless in a way that borders on feral, all cocky smiles and bold hands, his laughter loud and mean and full of want as he pushes you further, faster, messier. Each gasp and grind is magnified, each dirty word and desperate kiss charged with the kind of wildness you only find when you’re both half-untethered. intoxication turning every brush of skin, every shared look, into a dare you can’t help but take.
The ride back is reckless, laughter and moans eaten by the wind, and you barely feel the ground beneath the tires when Sunghoon finally swings the bike up to the curb in front of the pulsing party house. The porch lights smear gold over chrome, heat swirling off the engine, the house a blur of chaos behind you but the world shrunk down to the fever between your legs and the press of his chest at your back. You kill the ignition, breathless, hair whipped wild, and the quiet hits so suddenly you laugh out loud, a startled, delighted giggle, hand clapped to your mouth, high off the speed and the risk and the boy pressed so tight behind you.
You lean back, letting your head loll against his shoulder, turning just enough to catch the outline of his mouth in the dark, the glitter of want in his eyes. The silence stretches, heavy with promise. He grins, all teeth and hunger, and you tip sideways until your lips brush his, tasting sweat, adrenaline, and the faintest hint of whiskey from earlier. He groans, low and broken, immediately surging forward to devour you, his mouth hot and greedy, tongue sliding deep, hands everywhere, pulling you down into his lap so the bike rocks under you, echoing every desperate thrust of your hips.
It’s clumsy and urgent, all knees and elbows and teeth, his hands squeezing your thighs, dragging you closer until you’re straddling him, skirts bunched up, the whole world condensed to the slick heat between your legs and the hard line of his cock grinding up against you. The engine is still warm beneath you, metal humming against your calves, and every time you move the bike bounces in place, a dirty rhythm that makes your breath catch and your vision blur. Someone shrieks with laughter near the porch but neither of you notice, locked in, lost, every nerve ending tuned to each other.
You can feel him, solid and throbbing, rutting up between your thighs, and it’s so filthy, so public, you almost hope someone’s watching. He’s got one hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he can bite down the length of your throat, sucking marks into your skin, growling praise into your ear. “You’re fucking wild,” he mutters, nipping your jaw, hips bucking up to meet every grind. “You gonna fuck me out here, princess? Let everyone see how bad you want it?”
Your answer is a moan, muffled against his mouth, fingers clutching his shoulders, grinding harder, riding the hard seat and his cock and the thrum of the whole damn bike. He kisses you again, open-mouthed and messy, spit slick between your lips, his hands sliding up under your shirt, thumbs flicking over your nipples until you gasp, arching into him, desperate for more. The house is roaring, the whole street alive, but you’re caught in your own little fever dream, hips stuttering, body electric with need.
You pull back for just a second, breathless, watching the way his chest heaves, eyes glazed with lust and something deeper, something hungry and possessive. “You make me fucking crazy,” he rasps, one hand slipping down, pressing against the soaked crotch of your panties, teasing you right there, in the open, shameless and proud. “I could do this all night. Would you let me, baby? Would you let me ruin you right here, just to show them all you’re mine?”
You’re whimpering, rocking into his palm, desperate and aching, every movement making the bike jolt beneath you, every gasp swallowed by his mouth. His teeth scrape your lip, his hips thrust up, and for a wild, endless moment, the whole world is just heat and need and the delirious, dirty joy of being wanted, of wanting him right back, your hands in his hair, his fingers inside you, the two of you wild and high and so, so alive in the Halloween night.
Your breath fogs, lips swollen, heart racing from the ride and the way your body is caging his in, one of his hands locked around your waist, the other tracing slow, lazy circles over your thigh. “Sunghoon,” you gasp, voice raw and greedy, “I want you—fuck, I need you. Can we please go somewhere quiet and let me scream for you? I want to fuck you so loud everyone in this town hears.” You’re not guarded anymore, not even close, just ruined by adrenaline and the night, the need thrumming through your veins like gasoline. You turn, mouth right against his visor, and beg: “Please, please, just take me somewhere—”
He grins, full and wicked, teeth flashing under the parking lot lights. “Looks like you lost our bet, pretty girl. And you know what that means, I’ve got to show you what a real party is before I let you ride me again.” He plants a slow, filthy kiss at the corner of your mouth, tasting your need. “Don’t pout. You’ll get everything you want. Just let me have you in my world first.” You groan, muttering under your breath, but you’re already nodding, already slipping your hand into his, letting him lead you back up the drive.
Walking into the house now, your entire body thrums with possession and hunger, Sunghoon’s hand huge and warm in yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles, the two of you moving as one. It couldn’t be more different from when you arrived, cold and invisible, hugging your coat to your chest and shrinking from every blast of music or snatch of laughter. Now the lights seem to blaze in welcome; heads turn, conversations stall, and the air is thick with something that wasn’t there before. You hear someone gasp your name, and a low ripple of “Is that Sunghoon with—?” runs through the crowd. There are stares, half-curious, half-envious, but you barely notice, the world narrowing to the press of his palm, the way he glances back at you with a look that says you belong to him.
Sunghoon doesn’t stop, not for anyone. He weaves you both through the tangle of bodies, the haze of spilled beer and too-sweet punch, and even though you know you’re suddenly the center of attention, you don’t care at all. All you feel is the weight of his hand, the way your chest brushes his arm, the way he glances down at you every few steps, eyes dark and proud and already undressing you again. The house hasn’t changed, there’s still the same chaos, the same heat, the same wildness crowding every corner but this time you’re not a ghost on the margins. You’re here, you’re seen, you’re wanted, and with him you feel untouchable.
He squeezes your hand, tugging you close, his lips at your ear as he murmurs, “Let’s give them a show, hm? Let’s make them wish they’d been the one to drag you out into the night.” And all you can do is nod, dizzy and gleaming, as he sweeps you through the crowd, no longer invisible, no longer alone, just you and Sunghoon at the center of it all, heat rising, promise in every step, your body already singing for what’s coming next.
The noise of the main room swells as he steers you through the crowd, his hand never leaving the small of your back, both of you brushing against bodies slick with heat and cheap cologne, the chaos a living thing. It feels strange, surreal, to be claimed in front of all these people, his hand guiding, sometimes squeezing, sometimes sliding just a little too low, as if to say mine. But his voice in your ear is quieter, coaxing. “Come on, I want to show you something,” he says, mouth brushing your hair, and you let him lead you past the crowd, trusting him in spite of everything.
He pulls you into the laundry room, flicking on a string of battery lights tacked over the washing machine, the sudden hush making your breath feel loud in your chest. Someone’s left a tray of cider shots on the dryer, apples, cinnamon, a bite of whiskey and he pours you each a glass, nudging it into your hands with a wink. “Most people never see this side of a party,” he says. “But this is where you get the best stories.” The light is soft and yellow, the air perfumed with detergent and the distant sound of bass. He leans back against the dryer, watching you, thumb brushing over your wrist, as you sip and feel the tension begin to ease. It’s so private, so removed, it almost feels like you’ve wandered into someone else’s memory.
The music changes, something slower and older, a song you half-remember from a summer you almost want to relive. He grins when you recognize it, reaches for your waist, and pulls you into his lap on the edge of the dryer. “Let’s have a dance, pretty girl,” he whispers, voice husky. You go willingly, legs swinging, his knees bracketing yours, the two of you swaying just slightly to the beat. The air smells like sugar and clean cotton, his hands smoothing up and down your back, and for a moment it’s as if you’ve always belonged here, folded into the heat and hum of the house.
After a few minutes, Sunghoon lifts you down and grabs your hand again, tugging you into a narrow hall lined with old framed photos and thrift store art, pausing at a door. “Attic’s this way. Hardly anyone goes up except my closest friends.” He flicks on a lamp at the foot of the stairs, and you follow him, your footsteps muffled by the thick runner. At the top, the attic is transformed: fairy lights strung overhead, mismatched pillows scattered everywhere, people curled up in little knots, laughing, sharing secrets, couples tracing patterns on each other’s skin. A few glance up, but Sunghoon’s presence makes room for you. He pulls you onto a heap of pillows, his arm around your shoulders, your thighs flush against his, both of you facing a window lit blue by the city outside.
“Look,” he murmurs, pointing out at the skyline, “you see that spire? That’s where Jake and I got locked out one night, and had to climb down the fire escape.” He starts telling stories, sharing tiny memories tucked inside each room, how Heeseung once slow-danced with a boy up here just to win a dare, how Jay wrote song lyrics in Sharpie on the beams, how the best nights are always the quiet ones nobody else remembers. As he talks, you realize how little you ever saw before, how the surface chaos of a party hides all these softer, stranger, sweeter corners. Your heart starts to calm; you can feel it physically, breath deepening, laughter slipping out more easily, the tension of the night draining from your shoulders as Sunghoon traces circles over your knee, always touching, always close.
You curl into a velvet throw blanket and Sunghoon’s side, letting him hold you, the two of you half-watching the slow, lazy dancing on the far side of the attic. At one point he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail over your cheek, and it makes your whole body hum. “See? It’s not all beer pong and bad decisions,” he murmurs, nuzzling your temple. “Sometimes it’s just… this.” He kisses you, slow and deliberate, lips soft but hungry, one hand sliding up your thigh under the blanket, the rest of the room melting away.
When you break apart, giggling and breathless, he pulls you even closer, fingers tangled with yours, and starts pointing out silly details, the sticker someone left on the lamp, the shoes dangling from a ceiling beam, the soft hum of a group playing a whispered game of truth or dare in the corner. Every detail he shares feels intimate, like a secret, and your heart twists at how easy he makes it to forget where you started tonight, alone, outside, cold. Here, with him, you feel warmer, lighter, like you might finally be letting yourself belong.
Eventually, he coaxes you up again, guiding you through the attic’s hidden exits, down a back staircase that lets out into a tiny sunroom full of dying houseplants and candles burned almost to the glass. He grins, squeezing your waist, and says, “If you ever need a break from the crowd, this is where I hide. Want to stay here a little longer?” The way he looks at you, soft, possessive, so sure, makes it impossible to say no. You let him settle you in his lap again, the two of you tucked away behind a half-closed door, sharing more cider, his hands never still, tracing patterns on your thighs, your back, your jaw, leaving you aching and giddy and wanting nothing but him.
He kisses you again, this time with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide. Your fingers knot in his hair, your body pressed to his, the rest of the world gone fuzzy and distant, just shadows and candlelight and the thrill of being seen, finally, in all the ways that matter. You forget, for a little while, about the bet, about the crowd, about anything except the heat and weight of him, the little world you’ve carved out of the party chaos, a secret speakeasy, a blanket fort in an attic, a sunroom full of overgrown green. All of it, suddenly, just for you.
You sink into Sunghoon’s lap, straddling him with your knees pressed to the cushions, hands braced against his shoulders, the velvet throw puddled around your hips but forgotten. Your bodies align perfectly, his legs wide beneath yours, your chest flush to his, every inch of space gone in an instant. The room is a low-lit cocoon: candlelight flickering over floorboards, the muted thump of party music far below, but here it’s nothing but the heat between you. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs sweeping under the hem of your dress, palms dragging you closer until your core is pressed to the hard length straining against his jeans.
You don’t answer with words, your hips answer for you, rolling forward, grinding down slow and shameless, feeling the heat and pressure build where you both want it most. He sucks in a sharp breath, head tipping back, and you chase his mouth, lips meeting in a kiss that’s already half-moan, half-bite. His hands are everywhere: cupping your ass, tugging you harder against him, tracing up your spine to fist in your hair, holding you in place as he kisses you like he needs to taste every part of you. “You feel that?” he mutters against your lips, letting his hips buck up, cock thick and ready under you. “Fuck, you’re so hotc so fucking wet for me already. I knew you’d be trouble the second I saw you leaning against my bike.” His words are a low growl, but his hands are worshipful, sliding up your ribcage, thumbing at your nipples through the thin fabric, squeezing until you whimper into his mouth.
Your grinding gets bolder, wetter, a rhythm building that’s just for the two of you. Every little friction sends sparks up your spine, your body wild for more, your breathing ragged. You pull back just enough to see his face, eyes glazed, lips slick, jaw tight with want. You lean in and whisper, “You like this, don’t you?” and he laughs, low and desperate, thrusting up to answer you with his body. Around you, the rest of the world could disappear and you’d never notice, all that matters is the way he holds you, the way his tongue tangles with yours, the slow, relentless drag of his hands under your dress and the unspoken promise that there’s so much more waiting once you finally leave this attic.
The world outside your little corner is still all raucous music, distant shouting, and the distant thud of feet on the stairs, but here it’s a warm, golden hush, every flicker of candlelight dancing across his jaw, every heartbeat close enough to taste. Sunghoon’s hand finds your thigh, long fingers squeezing, inching the hem of your dress higher. You tip your head back, breathless, lips parted, watching the shadows play over his face. His voice is low, smoky, barely more than a whisper: “You know, I was watching you all night. Out on the lawn, leaning against my bike. You looked like you were waiting for someone.” He presses his mouth to your ear, nuzzling, soft laughter rumbling through his chest. “Did you know it’d be me?” The words burn, heavy and sweet. You turn in his arms, facing him fully, and his hands settle around your waist, holding you steady as you straddle his lap, knees pressing into the pillows.
Your answer is a slow, deliberate kiss, your mouth finding his lips soft at first, tasting the cider on his tongue, letting him pull you closer until your chests are flush, until your hips sink down and you feel him, already hard, straining through his jeans. He groans against your mouth, biting gently at your bottom lip, and you let yourself melt into him, every inch of your body wound up, aching, hungry for more. His hands slide under your dress, palms hot and greedy, pulling you tighter, rocking you against the thick length of him, grinding slow and heavy, as if he needs to memorize the shape of you. He breaks the kiss, just enough to murmur against your jaw, “Fuck, you feel good. I could sit here all night with you just like this. No one’s ever looked better in my lap.” His breath is hot, damp on your skin, hands never stillc one sliding up your spine, splaying wide between your shoulder blades, the other dipping down to cup your ass, urging your hips into a deeper roll. You gasp, your body answering without thought, grinding down, letting the ache and the friction carry you somewhere shameless.
Your lips find his again, messier now, open-mouthed, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, each kiss more desperate than the last. He tugs your head back, exposing your throat, and leaves a trail of kisses, biting just hard enough to make you shiver. The blanket slips, pooling around your hips, leaving you open, exposed, glowing in the lamplight. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, one hand guiding your hips as you move, slow and shameless on his lap. “You want more?” His words are a growl now, all need, all promise.
You nod, panting, nails digging into his shoulders, the world blurring into heat and want and the soft scrape of his jeans against your thighs. “I want you,” you say, voice raw. “Right here, right now.” He hisses, his grip tightening, hips bucking up, grinding you down, the two of you gasping into each other’s mouths, chasing pleasure in the secret hush of the attic, the party nothing but a heartbeat beneath your feet. He kisses you again, rough and deep, and everything else falls away, just the taste of him, the strength of his arms, the dizzy, perfect friction of your bodies tangled together, lost in the golden dark.
You’re ready to ride him, breathless in his lap, but before you can sink down, Sunghoon pulls back with a sly, taunting grin, his hands tightening on your hips to hold you at the edge of his lap, just out of reach. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice thick and low, heat coiling in every word. “You lost the bet, remember? I promised to show you how this party’s supposed to feel.” He sits up, shifting you off him just enough that your body aches at the loss, that empty throb making you want to whine. Before you can protest, he grabs your hand, fingers laced tight, tugging you through the tangle of blankets and across the attic floor. “Come on, pretty girl. You’re not leaving without a tour.”
You barely catch your breath before he’s leading you down the stairs, weaving through shadow and light, past half-dressed couples and collapsed partygoers. He sweeps you into the kitchen, chaos, sticky counters, trays of half-eaten snacks, a punch bowl looking suspiciously radioactive. He grins, snagging a loaf of bread and a bag of shredded cheese, elbowing a drunken Jake out of the way at the stove. “You ever had a grilled cheese this late?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Bet it’ll ruin you for life.” He’s cocky, almost childlike as he fumbles with the pan, but there’s something soft in the way he glances back to make sure you’re watching, the way he leans close so only you can hear: “I make it better when someone’s looking.”
You tease him for his technique, swiping at the cheese on his wrist, and he retaliates by offering you the first bite, feeding you slowly, thumb brushing your lower lip. The kitchen is a storm of sound, someone yelling about spilled cider, glass shattering in the sink, laughter bouncing off the tile but with his hand on your cheek and the taste of melted cheese in your mouth, it feels private, secret. Sunghoon backs you against the fridge, lips crashing to yours, stealing the taste of your last laugh, vodka and sharp cheddar and something so fucking raw you shiver. His hands slide to your waist, hips pressing forward, grinding you up against the cold metal, the heat between your bodies making you forget where you are. Every pass of his tongue is dirtier than the last, the world blurring around the sharp edges of your want, your breath fogging the stainless steel.
Someone shouts from the other room, music blares, a new song pounding through the floorboards. Sunghoon just grins into your mouth, pulling away to catch your dazed, hungry look. “Still think you want to go home?” he asks, letting his hand fall to yours again. Before you can answer, he’s dragging you out of the kitchen, down the hallway, where most of the party has thinned. He fishes his phone out, scrolls for a second, and suddenly you’re alone in the biggest living room, the couch deserted except for a couple passed out on each other. He plugs his phone into the speaker, some slow, pulsing track filling the room, something sexy and lush and meant to be heard in the dark.
He finds you with his eyes, grinning, and tugs you into his arms, hands landing low on your hips, pulling you in so close your chest brushes his with every shallow breath. “Let’s see if you dance as good as you ride,” he teases, his voice velvet, and you can’t help but laugh, nerves and want fizzing through you. He starts slow, rocking you in time to the music, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers filth, compliments, filthy things he wants to do to you, praise for how fucking hot you look tonight, how no one else in this house compares. His hands get bolder, sliding over your ass, fingers tracing the line of your spine, drawing you flush against the hard line of his body. You can feel him, thick, ready, pressing up against your core with every step, every sway. He kisses your neck, bites your shoulder, lets his hands cup your ass and grind you in time to the music, not caring that anyone could walk in and see.
There’s laughter somewhere, but its background, unimportant. You only hear the music, feel the pulse of his hands, your hips rolling shamelessly into his. It’s intimate, obscene, slow-dancing in the dark with the one boy who can set you on fire with just a look. When he finally pulls back, breathless and grinning, you realize your heart is beating out of your chest, your body begging for more, and you know the night is nowhere near finished, not with Sunghoon in charge.
You barely get a warning, a grin, a wicked glint in Sunghoon’s eye, before he tugs you away from the music and the chaos, down a shadowed back staircase and up another, the air thinning and cooling as you climb. The hallways narrow, overhead lights flickering, distant bass thrumming through the floors. He pushes open a heavy door and suddenly you’re hit with the hush of night, cool air against your skin, the city spread out in glimmering bokeh below. The rooftop is a secret garden, untamed: fairy lights strung haphazard over rusted railing, wind-worn deck chairs scattered around a square pool that glows aquamarine in the dark, steam rising from a sunken jacuzzi bubbling in the corner. No one else is here, just you, Sunghoon, and the hiss of water on tile.
He doesn’t hesitate. He drops his jacket on a chair, then peels off his shirt in one easy motion, letting it fall to the ground with a thud that feels more intimate than a kiss. Under the golden lights, his body is all shadow and muscle, pale skin glinting, dark hair wild above his brow. Every line of him is honed and unapologetic, broad shoulders tapering down to a tight waist, the muscles in his arms flexing as he moves, chest dusted with the faintest line of hair trailing down, stomach tight and cut with abs you want to rake your nails across. He smirks, undoes his belt with a lazy twist, slides out of his jeans, boxers following until he’s bare, no shame, no fear, just confidence and hunger.
His cock hangs thick and already hardening, jutting forward between strong thighs, the head flushed deep red, glistening in the half-light. Your throat goes tight at the sight, he’s beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes your mouth water, your core clench, every inch of him made for sin. He catches you staring, one eyebrow arching as he fists the length slowly, spreading the slick with the pad of his thumb just to tease. “You gonna keep watching, or you gonna come take what you want?” he taunts, voice velvet-dark, making heat bloom everywhere in your body.
A low, greedy growl rumbles in your chest before you can stop it, hunger twisting through your belly. He grins, hungry and wolfish, drinking you in with the same unhidden need, the weight of his cock swinging as he steps closer to the pool. The sight alone has you pulsing, ready to sink your teeth into his shoulder, to taste salt and skin, to claim every inch. The way his body moves, so unhurried and certain, makes you want to drop to your knees and worship every line, every shadow, every drop of sweat. It’s almost feral, the way you crave him—hot and raw and desperate, a need that claws under your skin, threatening to eat you alive if he doesn’t touch you soon.
Your throat goes dry. You’re trembling from the cold, from the heat in his eyes, from the raw audacity of being here, alone, exposed, with Sunghoon. He grins wider. “Come on, sweetheart. No one ever finds this place. Only the good ones get an invite.” You glance at the skyline, at the empty chairs, heart pounding as you tug your dress up over your hips. The hem catches, and you flush, fumbling with the zipper, but his voice finds you: “Slow down. Let me see.” Your hands go still. You lock eyes with him, and the rest of your dress slides up, satin rustling, baring your legs, then your thighs, then your bare chest beneath the witchy corset you chose just for tonight. You toss it aside, goosebumps racing down your arms. You hook your thumbs in your stockings, rolling them down inch by inch, his gaze dragging over every inch of skin you reveal. By the time you’re bare, the night air is colder but your body is burning, your nipples pebbled, your pulse thrumming everywhere.
His eyes drag over every inch of you, slow, greedy, a touch of reverence mixed with unmistakable hunger, his gaze dips from your flushed cheeks to the swell of your breasts, nipples pebbling in the chill, down your belly to the soft skin between your thighs, the shadows hiding nothing, the goosebumps rising everywhere he lingers. He stares like he’s starving, tongue wetting his lips, jaw tensing as his gaze traces the curve of your ass, the arch of your back, the vulnerable line of your throat. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice husky, eyes blown wide with want. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, messy, perfect, dripping for me.” For a moment you swear he’s lost language, just breathing you in, jaw flexing, cock twitching, hungry as a wolf, not moving until you come to him.
He crooks a finger, beckoning. “Come here. It’s warmer here.” You take a breath and step in, the water licking up your calves, knees, thighs, until it’s waist-deep and your body sighs at the sudden heat. Sunghoon doesn’t give you a second to hesitate, he meets you in the middle of the pool, hands finding your waist under the surface, his touch anchoring you as your legs threaten to give out. He drags you closer, chest to chest, skin to skin, the world vanishing until it’s just your heartbeat and his, the smell of chlorine and him, the stars reflected all broken in the ripples.
He tilts your chin up, grinning, hair dripping over his brow, his eyes so dark you could drown. “Thought you’d run,” he whispers, but you shake your head, breathless, hungry. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You reach for him, hands sliding down his back, feeling the shiver that runs through him. He kisses you, slow at first, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth, then deeper, hungrier, one hand tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your spine to cup your ass and pull you flush. Your legs wrap around his waist, your back arching, every inch of your body slick with water and want. The heat of the jacuzzi swirls around you, the city humming somewhere far below, but up here, there’s only the slap of water, the breathless hush between your moans, the quiet gasp when his cock grinds against your core.
His stare doesn’t let up for a second—you feel it, sharp and unblinking, grazing every curve, every patch of skin you’ve just exposed to the night. You try not to flinch under the attention, but there’s something primal in the way he watches, like he’s memorizing you for later, cataloguing every dip and hollow and inch of soft flesh he’s about to touch. When you finally step closer, the city lights painting you gold and silver, he lets his hands settle on your hips, drawing you into the heat of him, his cock hard and leaking against your belly, bodies flush and slick as the steam from the jacuzzi blurs your outlines. He doesn’t say a word—just devours, starting at your mouth, tracing your lips with his tongue before deepening the kiss, messy and slow, until you’re gasping. His mouth finds your throat next, nipping a bruise under your jaw, then scraping his teeth over your collarbone, biting the tip of your shoulder just hard enough to make you moan, then soothing it with a kiss. He trails lower, lips and teeth mapping you like a secret he’s waited all night to claim, and by the time he licks the shell of your ear, his hands have moved up, thumbing your nipples, making your head drop back, breathless and bare in every sense.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” he growls, nipping, licking, drowning in you, his voice raw. Your hands grip his hair, your hips moving against his under the water, grinding, desperate, chasing the heat that builds with every slick stroke. Your thighs tighten around him, holding him there, wanting more, always more.
He slips a hand between your legs, fingers teasing, sliding through your folds, finding you already soaked despite the water. “You gonna let me make you cum right here?” he murmurs, teeth flashing. “You want the whole city to hear you?” You whimper, nails scratching at his shoulders, biting back a moan as he circles your clit, slow and dirty, just how you like. His other hand cups your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple, tugging until you’re squirming, so close to falling apart already you could scream.
He kisses you again, swallowing your cries, his hips moving, grinding you together in the steaming blue water, the slap and swirl of it echoing off the tiles. “Hold on to me,” he whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged. “Let me take care of you.” And you do, you let him, you let yourself, lost in the thrill of being naked and devoured and seen, right here where no one else will ever find you.
The water sloshes around your hips as Sunghoon’s hands find your waist, pulling you down into his lap, every inch of skin meeting his, his cock sliding between your thighs, hot and heavy. You’re still half-floating, legs weightless in the warm pool, when his fingers find your clit under the surface, slick and slow, the pad of his thumb circling until you’re arching into his chest, mouth buried in his shoulder to keep quiet. The steam rises, fogging the air, your breaths mingling with the night as he slips a finger inside you, then two, knuckle-deep and curling just right, making your legs quake beneath the surface. He coaxes you, filth in every whispered word, “You want everyone in this city to know how good I make you feel, pretty thing?” before sealing his mouth over yours to swallow your answer. His grip tightens, rhythm cruel and perfect, and you lose track of time, every heartbeat pulsing against his palm, your body clenched and fluttering, thighs trembling around his hand as you come hard, biting down on his shoulder, stifling your scream.
He doesn’t let you sink back into the water. Instead, with a strength that feels possessive and adoring all at once, he scoops you up, water streaming off your skin, and lays you out on the cold stone edge of the pool. Your back hits the tile, the shock of it chased by the heat of his gaze, and you barely catch your breath before his hands are parting your knees, spreading you open to the night. The city sprawls behind him in a mess of neon and traffic, but all you see is the hunger in his eyes, the way his hair falls into his face as he kneels at the edge, mouth already ghosting over your inner thigh. He pauses just long enough to drink you in, fingers stroking gently over your slit, then dives in, tongue flattening against your clit, licking long and slow, savoring you like something decadent.
Every pass of his mouth is unhurried, deliberate, obscene, his tongue teasing your folds, dipping inside, then back up to flick against the swollen bud of your clit until you’re whimpering, fists tangled in his hair, heels digging into his bare shoulders for leverage. He groans when you writhe, mouthing curses against you, lips glossy with you, tongue never letting up, devouring every sound you make. The cold air hits your skin but you’re burning from the inside out, trembling on the edge of another orgasm as he sucks your clit into his mouth, humming low, letting his teeth graze just enough to make you cry out, all the while murmuring how sweet you taste, how filthy you look like this, dripping, ruined, spread out for him and only him.
Stars blur overhead, the city roaring beneath you, but the only thing that matters is his mouth—Sunghoon, unashamed and relentless, eating you out like it’s his whole reason for being. When you finally break, shattering in a rush of sound and sensation, he doesn’t stop, lapping up every drop, tongue gentle but insistent, anchoring you to the rooftop, to the heat of his body, to the wild, dizzying realization that no one has ever made you feel like this before. When you come down, breathless and boneless, his hands are there, steadying you, worship in every touch.
You barely hit the tiles before Sunghoon has you pinned, his mouth crashing against yours, teeth and tongue and hunger, your bodies slick with water and need. Your arms loop desperately around his neck, legs tangled at his waist, every kiss a collision, every gasp a promise. He stumbles you both through the dark, trailing wet footprints, groping blindly for a door, laughter and party noise echoing distantly behind you. Your nails rake his back, hips grinding against his as he fumbles the knob, shoves you both inside a cramped bathroom, and kicks the door shut with a shuddering slam. The lock clicks. He presses you flat to the door, mouth devouring yours, his hands everywhere, palming your ass, tugging you higher, fingers digging bruises he’ll kiss later. The need is dizzying, a heat that scorches your lungs, every breath a moan swallowed between frantic kisses, hips rutting helpless and greedy, both of you lost to the madness of wanting, desperate to fuck and tear the rest of the world away.
He grabs your jaw in one hand, tilting your face up, and spits right into your open mouth, smirking as you swallow it down, hot and filthy, your tongue flicking over your lips just to taste him. He kisses you hard, tasting himself, grinding you harder against the door so every ridge of his cock rubs through his jeans into your clit. “Open wider,” he commands, sliding two fingers between your lips and fucking your mouth, thumb pressing down on your tongue. “Show me how much you want it. Make it sloppy, baby.” You do, spit pooling on your chin as you suck him, moaning around his hand, your eyes rolling back at the roughness of it, the ownership, the way his gaze never leaves your face.
He drops his hand to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch, holding you still while he kisses down your chest, biting the soft skin above your neckline, leaving dark marks that will bloom into bruises. You arch, whimpering, hips rolling, desperate for more, your cunt aching, dripping, desperate for his cock. He grins, wicked and sharp, and slides his fingers back between your legs, smearing wetness over your thighs. “Can’t believe how much you’re leaking for me,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and want. “Do you want everyone to hear how filthy you get when I touch you? Want me to make you scream for real this time?”
The porcelain sink bites into your hips as Sunghoon shoves you back, your dress bunched at your waist, your panties tugged off so fast the elastic burns your thighs. He doesn’t give you a chance to breathe, just drops to his knees on the grimy tile, his hands spreading your legs so wide the stretch aches. His mouth finds your cunt like he’s been starved for it all night, his breath hot and ragged, tongue flat and broad as he licks a filthy stripe from your hole up to your clit. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t flirt, just devours, tongue moving in brutal, greedy circles, sucking your clit between his lips, letting the messy slick and spit drip down his chin. He moans into you, loud and guttural, as if the taste of you alone could make him cum. You arch, clawing at the edge of the sink, your moans bouncing off tile, high and desperate and wet.
He slides two fingers inside without warning, curling them up ruthlessly, knuckles grinding against your dripping cunt while his mouth works like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to worship or ruin. Every flick of his tongue is frantic, his nose pressed into your mound, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. He pins you open, one palm splayed against your belly, pressing you down to keep you from writhing away as his fingers fuck you rough and deep, hitting that spot that makes you scream. He growls against your clit, “Scream for me, pretty baby, let them hear how fucking sweet you taste”—and you do, your voice raw, the whole party surely hearing your cries as you cum the first time, legs kicking, hands fisting in his hair.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop to gloat. He just pulls you closer, nearly lifting you off the floor, tongue pressing inside you, fucking you with his mouth, the mess soaking his chin, spit and slick dripping onto the tile below. He eats you like you’re his last meal, like he needs you to survive, his hands squeezing your thighs so tight you’ll bruise, groaning into your skin every time you shudder or cry out. You lose track of your own noises, pleasure pouring out in filthy moans and half-words. “Please, please, don’t stop, need it, fuck”—and he only laughs, eyes gleaming up at you, pupils blown wide, devouring the sight of you coming apart.
He starts talking, filthy and low, every word vibrating through your cunt. “Look at this pretty pussy, dripping all over my tongue, you taste so fucking good, bet you’ve never been eaten like this before, have you? Bet no one’s ever made you cum just from their mouth, yeah? You wanna cum again? You gonna soak my face, baby? Show me how much you love being ruined like this”—his words half-mocking, half-worshipping, every line making you melt. You try to close your legs but he pins them open, spreading you wider, licking even deeper, nose bumping your clit as he sucks, tongue fucking you, grinding his face into you like he’s marking you for everyone to see.
When you cum again, it’s violent, your whole body spasms, thighs clamping down on his head, hips bucking so hard you nearly knock the sink loose from the wall. He grins, loving it, lets you ride his tongue through the aftershocks, never stopping, fingers still pumping deep, thumb rubbing messy circles on your swollen clit. “Good girl,” he breathes, “cum for me, fuck, do it again, want you shaking,” and you sob, tears running down your cheeks, every nerve ending on fire, pleasure rolling through you in endless, breaking waves. He slaps your thigh, hard, just to feel you jerk and cry out, the sting mixing with the ache and the want and the mess he’s making of you.
He’s relentless, licks you through every twitch, never letting up, using his spit to make you even messier, his hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed, eyes locked on yours the whole time. You’re babbling now, begging, not even sure what for, just needing, needing, needing, and he eats it up, hungry for every sound, every shiver. He pulls back for a second, eyes dark, mouth shining with you. “Look at you,” he says, “look how fucking ruined you are for me. You want more? Want me to spit in your mouth again? Want me to fuck you with my tongue until you forget your name?”
You nod, desperate, and he laughs, leans up to spit in your open mouth, then dives back down, tongue working faster, messier, sloppier. His hand slips up, finds your throat, squeezes until you’re dizzy, your moans turning strangled and high-pitched, your cunt squeezing around his fingers. He lets go just long enough to slide his thumb into your mouth. “Suck, baby, wanna feel your tongue”—then goes back to devouring you, his voice muffled, “Gonna make you cum for me again, I don’t care if you scream, let everyone fucking hear you, I want them to know you’re mine now, all mine.”
He keeps eating you out until your legs are shaking so badly you can’t stand, until you’re half-sobbing, half-laughing, your whole body tingling, the mess everywhere, on your thighs, his mouth, the sink, the floor. When he finally stands, his jaw glistening with your slick, he wipes his face on the back of his hand and smirks, looking at you like you’re the only thing worth having tonight. You’re a wreck, thighs trembling, voice hoarse, eyes wild and all you want is for him to ruin you all over again.
The door rattles in its frame, pounding and laughter echoing from the hallway, but neither of you move. Sunghoon stands, eyes glazed and hungry, his hands cupping your ass as he lifts you just enough to grind the thick, aching length of his cock right against your dripping cunt. The fabric of his jeans is rough, the pressure perfectly filthy, and you gasp, desperate for friction, thighs trembling as you rut helplessly against him. His voice is all low smoke, breath hot in your ear. “You want me to fuck you in front of everyone?” he whispers, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, “Or do you want to get on your knees and show me how much you need it?”
Your answer is a broken whimper, but you slide down his body, tongue tracing the ridges of his abs as you go, licking sweat, teeth scraping over his skin, fingers digging into his waistband until you reach the bulge that’s been tormenting you all night. He yanks his belt open, jeans barely past his hips, cock springing free, flushed and leaking for you. You don’t hesitate, just take him in hand, spit already pooling on your tongue, gaze flicking up to meet him. He grins, cocky and wild, one hand sinking into your hair, gripping tight as he guides you to his cock. “Open up, pretty thing,” he growls, voice barely louder than the party outside, “Let me see how much you can take.”
You suck him deep, hollowing your cheeks, loving the way he shudders, the salty tang of him heavy on your tongue. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling, making your eyes water in the best way. Every thrust of his hips makes you choke a little, spit and precum dripping down your chin, but you’re greedy for it, moaning around him, nose pressed to his pelvis, throat stretching for him. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, “Look at you, drooling for my cock with the whole fucking house outside.” The bathroom door rattles again, someone’s yelling, pounding, but Sunghoon’s only response is to fuck your mouth harder, his other hand braced on the sink behind you, holding you steady.
You pull back, licking a wet stripe from the base to the head, swirling your tongue under the tip, making him gasp. He’s twitching, pulsing, desperate already, and you love the power of it, love the way he looks down at you like you’re the filthiest, prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “You gonna let me cum down your throat, baby?” he whispers, breathless, “Or do you want to taste it on your tongue first?” His hand is tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, making you look up at him, his cock smearing your cheek. You moan, sticking your tongue out, begging for it without words.
He slaps his cock against your tongue, leaking all over your lips, then pulls you up by the hair, making you gasp as he drags you to your feet. “Not yet,” he murmurs, “Want you screaming when I fuck you.” His grip is brutal but careful, a hand cradling the back of your head, thumb brushing your jaw as if to soothe. “Gonna ruin that pretty mouth, then bend you over the sink and make you take it until you’re crying for more.” His mouth finds yours, kissing you with teeth and tongue, the taste of his cock mixing with your own slick on his lips.
You’re shaking, wet and desperate, every inch of your body on fire as he turns you, pressing you hard against the cool porcelain, cock grinding into the curve of your ass. He lifts your dress, bare skin to the open air, and rakes his nails down your spine, making you arch and whimper. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, “Love seeing you messy. Love knowing everyone can hear how much you want it.” His hand slips between your thighs, fingers stroking your soaked folds, spreading you open just enough to make you gasp. He leans in, voice right at your ear, filthy and soft. “Bet you’ll cum for me just from this, just from grinding on my cock while they all listen.”
The door bangs again, louder now, angry voices and more laughter, but Sunghoon just laughs low in his throat, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. “Let them wait,” he smirks, “You’re not leaving this room until I’m finished with you.” His other hand finds your throat, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy, his cock rocking against your cunt, your slick already soaking his jeans. You whimper, grinding back on him, desperate for more, for everything. “Say you want it,” he whispers, biting your ear, “Say you want to be ruined with everyone listening.”
You manage a breathless, “Want it, want you to fuck me right here, make them hear me scream,” and he smiles, dark and hungry, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear. “Good girl,” he purrs, “You’re mine tonight. Only mine.” He sucks a mark into your neck, hand still tight in your hair, cock still pressed hot and heavy against your soaked cunt, every muscle in your body straining for the moment he finally gives in and takes you.
The bathroom is a wild, echoing chamber of sweat and heat, the thump of music and muffled shouts from the party pounding through the door. Sunghoon’s cock grinds against your soaked folds, the denim gone rough and sticky from your slick, his fingers threading through your hair as he breathes in the sound of your moans. He kisses you, hungry, biting, the kind of kiss that makes you ache for more even when you’re already trembling. “You want it so bad, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low for you alone. “Bet you’ll forget your own name when I fuck you. Bet you’ll scream so loud the whole house will know who you belong to.”
Your body surges forward, desperate, greedy, hips rolling back to meet every shift of his. “Sunghoon,” you gasp, clawing at the porcelain, “please. Please, just fuck me. I can’t, I need it, I need you right now.” He laughs, dark and delighted, the sound vibrating up your spine. You feel the slap of his palm on your ass, sharp and stinging, and it only makes you wetter, your body bowing under the command of his hands. “That’s it,” he hisses, “Beg for it, pretty girl. Show me how desperate you can get.”
He yanks your dress up, leaving you bare from the waist down, your cunt glistening in the harsh bathroom light, so wet you’re practically dripping onto the tiles. His fingers dip between your legs, gathering slick, spreading it over your folds, just to hear the filthy sound it makes. “Fuck, you’re soaked for me,” he growls, lining himself up at your entrance. “You want everyone to know how needy you are? Want them to know I’m the only one who gets to ruin you like this?”
The head of his cock pushes inside, thick and slow, stretching you open inch by aching inch. Your mouth falls open, a strangled moan torn from your throat as he fills you, the world tilting, vision white-hot at the edges. You clutch the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, as he bottoms out, grinding his hips into yours, refusing to let you adjust before he’s pulling back and slamming back in, hard enough to make the whole counter shudder. “Fuck—so tight,” he groans, voice strangled, “God, you feel fucking perfect. Taking me so well, baby.”
You can’t form words, just breathless pleas and broken whimpers, every thrust driving you closer to the edge, his grip bruising on your hips. “That’s it, let them hear you,” he pants, rutting into you harder, the slap of skin loud enough to be scandalous. “Let them hear how much you love getting fucked by me.” You’re half sobbing, half laughing, lost in it, forehead pressed to the cold mirror, tongue out to catch your own moans as you watch the way his eyes burn into your reflection.
The doorknob rattles. There’s a sudden shout, someone’s trying to barge in, the handle wrenching, a flash of hallway light. You barely register it before Sunghoon snarls, pulling out, turning you, shoving the door shut with a slam that shakes the wall. “Occupied,” he barks, voice raw and ragged, and you’re giggling, high on adrenaline and shame and desire, watching him lock it again, his cock flushed, glistening with your slick. “No one’s interrupting,” he mutters, grabbing you, spinning you around so your back hits the door, pressing his body flush to yours.
His mouth is on your neck, your jaw, biting down hard enough to leave marks, his hands everywhere—m, thighs, ass, waist, the small of your back. You wrap your legs around his hips, locking him in, grinding down until you feel him tremble. “You’re so fucking hot,” you whisper, licking the sweat off his cheek, “I want you to lose control for me. I want you to cum so hard you forget your own name.” He groans, teeth bared, and then he’s back inside you, pounding up into you with desperate, filthy need, every thrust pushing you higher.
You’re gone, lost in sensation, the world narrowing to the place where his cock splits you open, the sting of his teeth on your collarbone, his fingers bruising your hips as he fucks you hard enough to make the door rattle in its hinges. “Take it, take all of me,” he growls, fucking you through his own shaking, “You’re mine tonight. All fucking mine.” You moan, clawing at his shoulders, nails raking his skin, leaving marks you know he’ll love in the morning.
There’s another crash from outside, someone pounding, another voice laughing, the party oblivious or pretending not to care. You gasp, the noise pushing you closer, making it feel even dirtier, the risk of being caught sharpening every edge. “You want to be caught, don’t you?” he whispers, dragging your head back by the hair, forcing you to look into his eyes. “You want everyone to know you’re getting fucked like this.” You’re so close, teetering, your whole body slick and straining, and you can only nod, desperate for release.
He slows for a moment, catching your jaw in one hand, holding you steady as his hips snap into yours, cock grinding right against your g-spot. “Say it,” he growls, “Say you want everyone to hear you cum.”
“I want it,” you whimper, voice shaking, “I want everyone to know I’m yours.” He laughs, soft and dark, then fucks you harder, pulling you down onto him, making your legs quake with every thrust. The pleasure builds, wild and sharp, until you’re sobbing, crying out, your whole body spasming as you shatter around him, the sound echoing off the tile and mirror and his lips at your ear, telling you how good you are, how fucking perfect.
When it’s over, you collapse against his chest, both of you shuddering, breath tangled, his hands smoothing over your skin in rough aftercare, mouth gentler now, peppering kisses over your face, your shoulder, whispering praise and filth in equal measure. “So fucking good for me, baby. Never seen anyone take it like you do. You’re unreal.” You’re barely standing, legs jelly, and he eases you down, kneeling, pulling you into his lap on the floor, still joined, still desperate for more. His voice is softer, careful, but still electric. “You want to cum again?” he asks, thumb stroking your swollen clit, “Or do you want to make me lose it this time?”
Your answer is a hungry nod, and before you can blink, he’s pushing you gently to your knees, his cock glistening and flushed, right at your lips. “Open up, pretty thing,” he murmurs, “Show me how filthy you can get.” You don’t hesitate, just lick him clean, savoring the taste of both of you, moaning as he shudders under your tongue. He’s so sensitive, every swipe of your mouth making him twitch, curse, eyes rolling back in his head.
He thrusts into your mouth, both hands tangled in your hair now, fucking your throat slow, then faster, his voice ragged and ruined, “Fuck, just like that, you’re perfect, you’re so fucking perfect, take it, take it all, baby.” Someone bangs on the door again—neither of you care, the risk only making you hungrier, your hands squeezing his thighs, pulling him deeper. He’s losing it, voice shaking, “Gonna cum, you want it, don’t you? Gonna swallow every drop like a good girl, show me, show everyone how much you love my cock.”
He holds you in his lap for a moment, both of you still trembling, his heartbeat thundering beneath your cheek as you catch your breath together. The air between you hums with something raw, something unfinished—neither of you satisfied, not really. His fingers trace idle, hungry circles over your bare thigh, and when your eyes meet in the bathroom mirror, the heat is still there, unspent, ravenous. You see the glint in his eyes, that ache that never seems to settle; the kind of need that isn’t satisfied by one orgasm or two, but by losing himself inside you, over and over, until you forget where you end and he begins. You don’t even flinch when he stands, hands gripping your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, pushing you back against the door with a force that’s both desperate and deliberate.
He fucks you until your knees buckle, sweat dripping down your spine, your body crushed between his and the bathroom door. Sunghoon’s breath is ragged at your ear, every thrust harder than the last, his body strung tight as a wire. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he snarls, his cock slamming deep, the slap of skin against skin echoing out past the music and shrieks from the party. “I can’t get enough of you. I need you again. And again.” You cry out, dizzy, so full you can barely take it, but the ache is everything—sweet, stinging, electric. His hand snakes around your throat, thumb pressed gentle over your pulse. “You gonna take all of me? You gonna let me ruin you tonight?” He’s watching you in the mirror, pupils blown, jaw clenched, desperate for the sight of you fucked out and open just for him.
Even after you’ve come, trembling, spent, Sunghoon won’t let up. He doesn’t even pull out all the way, just drags you across the tiles, bends you over the sink, and pushes in again, making you whimper with every fresh thrust. “Look at yourself,” he whispers, curling your hair around his fist, yanking your head back so you have to meet your own reflection. “Look how perfect you look with my cock inside you. Tell me who you belong to.” You choke on his name, lost in sensation, in the way he fills you up, his cock bruising you deep, his voice nothing but hunger. “That’s right,” he laughs, low and dark, “all fucking mine.”
He fucks you raw, hard, relentless, each round rougher than the last. Sometimes he’s almost gentle, sliding in slowly, letting you feel every inch, but then the tension snaps and he’s pounding you again, hips slamming into your ass until you cry out, your nails raking his shoulders, leaving him marked and claiming him just as much. There’s nothing soft in the way he takes you, nothing patient in the way he chases his own pleasure and yours. He wants you spent, ruined, the memory of him pressed into your body for days.
You feel the edge coming again, too quick and too much, but Sunghoon lives for it. He pulls out just as you shudder, then drags you to your knees, cock smearing your cheek as he strokes himself, sweat running down his chest, breath hot and wild. “Open your mouth,” he commands, voice barely more than a growl. “Show me how much you want it.” You do, tongue out, eyes locked on his, and he groans, cock sliding past your lips, thick and still slick from your cunt. He fucks your mouth, using you, loving every second, thumb brushing the corner of your lips as you choke and swallow him down. “That’s it, good girl, take it—fuck, I could do this all night.” His hands tangle in your hair, pulling you down, his hips jerking as he uses you for his own release.
When he cums, it’s with a guttural cry, cock twitching against your tongue, his whole body shuddering as you swallow him down, not wasting a drop. He pulls you up, still hard, still wanting, and kisses you hard, filth and heat and possessiveness tangled in every movement. He doesn’t stop, he presses you to the wall, fingers between your legs, sliding into you, smirking at how wet and ready you still are. “You’re fucking insatiable,” he teases, licking the sweat from your collarbone. “You want more, don’t you? Can’t get enough of me.”
And you don’t. Your body aches, pussy swollen and sore, but you need him, crave the way he fills you, the way he claims you over and over. He lifts you again, legs wrapped around his waist, cock sliding in so deep you see stars. “That’s my girl,” he pants, fucking up into you, relentless. “So perfect, so fucking perfect. I could keep you here forever, just taking my cock, just for me.” Your head falls back, mouth open, lost in the endless heat, the push and pull of his body, the dirty words that fall from his lips, the praise and the possession and the hunger that never ends.
The night is brutal with cold, a sharp bite that steals your breath and stings your cheeks, but you barely notice it over the pulse in your veins. You follow Sunghoon through the aftermath of the party, red Solo cups scattered in the grass, bits of toilet paper caught in the branches, a deflated jack-o-lantern leaking candle wax on the curb. The house behind you still pulses with music and leftover heat, but it’s nothing compared to the gravity that drags you to him, to his bike waiting like some shadowed beast under the streetlamp.
He glances back, eyes black and glittering, a cocky grin flickering on his mouth as he tosses you the helmet. “Let’s get out of here. For good this time,” he says, voice gone low and rich, threading through you like a promise. “This place was just a rental. My place is better.” You pull the helmet on with trembling fingers, chin strap digging into your jaw, every movement made clumsy by adrenaline and nerves. He swings his leg over the seat, muscles flexing in his thighs, black jeans hugging him like a second skin, and then he looks over his shoulder, nodding for you to climb on. “Come on, pretty. You’ll ride behind me, hold tight, don’t let go.”
When you settle in behind him, it’s instinct to grip his waist, but he grabs your hands and slides them lower, guiding your arms around his middle, his fingers warm even through your coat. “Right there,” he murmurs, thumb tracing a lazy circle against your knuckles, voice a secret meant for your skin. “Closer. I want to feel you the whole way home.” He revs the engine, the bike shuddering beneath you, the vibrations running straight up your thighs, making you squirm against him. He laughs, deep and knowing, a rumble that vibrates through your chest as you press yourself into his back.
“Keep your knees tight, princess,” he says, letting his hand rest atop your thigh, stroking just enough to set you trembling. “Balance is everything. Move with me. Lean when I lean. And don’t be scared, nobody rides me off the road.” The world narrows to the feeling of his body, the rough texture of his jacket, the heat of his palm curving possessively over your thigh. You smell his cologne, that sharp, addictive note of leather and musk and the wild tang of autumn air, and you realize you’d follow him anywhere.
The bike snarls to life, engine growling under both of you, and suddenly you’re flying, roaring out onto dark city streets, neon blurring, Halloween decorations spinning past in your periphery. Every corner tilts your universe, every jolt drives you harder into his back, your arms locked around his waist, your breath stuttering with every turn. He speeds up, faster and faster, chasing the empty stretches of night, the world whittling down to your shared pulse, the cold air burning tears from your eyes.
When you lean into him, your chest pressed flat to his spine, you feel the way he arches back, shifting his hips so your thighs lock tighter around him, one hand reaching to squeeze your knee. His other hand sneaks down between your bodies, fingers creeping under your skirt, tracing the damp silk clinging to your skin. “That’s it, baby,” he says, barely audible over the wind and the engine, but you hear him anyway, every syllable curling through your body. “Can’t wait till I get you home. Gonna keep you on my lap till sunrise.”
Every stoplight is an excuse for him to touch you, thumb pressing circles into your thigh, knuckles grazing the skin above your panties, just enough to leave you aching for more. The thrill is heady, wild, your laughter spinning out behind you in the wind. He leans back, helmet tapping yours, voice a filthy whisper, “Doing so good, princess. You hold on so tight. Do you feel that? That’s what you do to me.” You gasp, not sure if you’re riding the bike or him, the world a blur of color and sound and him, always him, guiding you home, where the night won’t end, not until you’re wrecked and ruined in his bed.
The ride ends behind a block of dark, glassy apartments, a part of town that never really sleeps, but tonight is quiet, all the noise contained inside walls you’ll never see. Sunghoon coasts the bike down a narrow drive, past numbered parking bays and flickering security lights, until he pulls up in front of a steel door set flush in the back of the building. You realize, with a start, that this isn’t just any garage, it’s his. His apartment is right above, keys on a loop at his belt, and you see the mark of him in everything: the battered bike helmet hanging from a peg, a stack of textbooks balanced next to a laundry basket, old posters curling on the far wall. When he swings open the heavy door, you step into a space that’s private in a way nothing at the party ever was, this is where he keeps what matters. The air smells like cold metal, grease, and a hint of his cologne, the floor scarred by tire marks and the ghost of old spills. Every echo in here belongs to him.
He kicks down the stand and looks over his shoulder, eyes dark and waiting. You linger at the threshold, not quite ready to shatter the quiet, this is his domain, the world where he’s more than just a rumor or a dare. You see the apartment door at the back, a spiral of keys hanging, the comfort of knowing if you want, you’ll follow him all the way home. For now, you’re just here, in his garage down below, surrounded by the proof that this is real, this is private, and for the first time all night, you’re not just crashing someone else’s scene. You’re in Sunghoon’s.
The garage is chilly and cavernous, but every echo of concrete and steel is muffled by the throb of your heartbeat and the low rumble of Sunghoon’s bike beneath you. He sits back on the cool leather seat, legs splayed, jeans shoved low, cock flushed and thick and already slick from your mouth. You climb onto him, knees braced on either side of his hips, skirt bunched up around your waist, panties already gone, your bare skin prickling with anticipation and the brush of night air. The bike creaks under your shifting weight, the smell of oil and rubber sharp as you grip the handlebars behind his shoulders, using the frame to hold yourself steady as you slide down onto him in one greedy, desperate motion. You gasp, the stretch brutal, your thighs trembling around his.
He groans, hands splayed hard on your hips, dragging you flush against him, the bite of his grip promising bruises that’ll last for days. “Fuck, just like that,” he growls, voice echoing off the garage walls. The engine’s still warm, humming beneath your knees, every movement of your hips causing the bike to shudder and groan, the vibrations traveling straight up through your cunt, making you shiver and moan. You start to bounce, riding him hard, letting your head fall back, hair spilling down your spine, the slap of skin on leather shockingly loud in the echo chamber of the garage.
You’re loud, too, deliberately so, every gasp and curse tumbling out unfiltered. “God, Sunghoon, fuck, you feel so good, you’re so deep,” you moan, nails digging into his shoulders as you pick up the pace, grinding down until you see stars.
He reaches up, grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your mouth to his, tongue rough and demanding, swallowing your moans. “You like that, baby?” he whispers, letting you catch your breath just long enough to whimper, “Yes, yes, fuck, don’t stop.” His free hand slaps your ass, the sound ricocheting, making you clench around him and bounce harder.
The bike rocks beneath you, tires squeaking against the concrete as you move, the whole thing swaying with the rhythm of your bodies. Sunghoon’s jacket is bunched between your fists, his chest slick with sweat. “Look at you, riding me like you own me,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide. “Think you can cum for me, right here, with the door open?” You look over your shoulder, see the sliver of night through the half-rolled garage door, the risk of being seen, of being heard, making you whimper. “You want the neighbors to know what a slut you are for me?” he teases, his voice filthy and fond, hand snaking up to wrap around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse as he thrusts up into you.
You bounce harder, the engine’s growl under you mixing with your cries. “Yes, please, Sunghoon, I want it, I want you,” you pant, the words ragged, desperate.
He leans forward, licks a stripe up your throat, teeth grazing your jaw, before pulling your hand up to cover your own mouth. “Be quiet, or I’ll stop,” he warns, but there’s laughter in his voice, the challenge clear. You whimper against your palm, trying to stifle your cries as he pounds into you, the bike rattling, every thrust making the headlights flicker. The slap of your skin against his, the wet drag of your cunt, the heavy bass of the engine, every sound makes you clench tighter, feel wilder, needier.
He pulls your hand away, forcing your mouth open with his thumb. “Let them hear,” he commands, voice low and brutal. “Let them know who’s fucking you, who’s making you cum.” You shudder, the humiliation and pride blurring together, hips jerking as you start to unravel. He digs his fingers into your waist, urging you to ride him harder, faster, until you’re sobbing, back arching, body straining for release. “Good girl,” he breathes, the words breaking you open, the orgasm ripping through you so hard you nearly scream, collapsing against his chest, shaking and spent.
He won’t let you stop. He flips you, pushing you forward so your hands are braced on the handlebars, ass high in the air, your thighs spread wide. “Stay just like that,” he orders, lining up and slamming back in, his hips slapping against your ass. The bike is shaking, the whole garage vibrating with every desperate thrust. “You’re so fucking perfect, baby, you take it so good,” he groans, hand sliding up to fist in your hair again, jerking your head back so you have to look at him, see the wild hunger in his eyes. “I could fuck you like this all night, do you want that? You want to cum again, for me?”
You’re begging now, every word a plea, every breath a sob. “Please, Sunghoon, more, I need you, I need it.” He reaches around, rubs your clit in tight circles, fucking you through another shattering orgasm, your whole body convulsing, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity.
He leans in, kisses the salt from your skin, whispers praise into your ear, every word filthier than the last. “Such a good girl, so fucking pretty when you break for me. I’m never letting you go.” The engine purrs beneath you, the garage ringing with the sound of your ruin, the thrill of being caught making every moment burn hotter, every climax sweeter, every inch of you his.
You barely catch your breath before Sunghoon is on you again, lips crashing into yours, rough and hungry, all teeth and spit. He pushes you down to the cool concrete floor, the grit of dust biting your bare thighs, his weight pinning you in place. “You said you wanted more,” he growls, voice ragged, fingers digging into your hips as he yanks your legs apart. The floor is cold and hard, but his hands are everywhere, bruising and possessive, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. “Spread for me. Let me see.” You do, shameless and pliant, arching your back so he can slide back inside, stretching you wide as he sinks in, groaning at how slick you are, how ready you always seem to be for him. The garage lights flicker overhead, the world reduced to the slap of his skin, the slap of his cock, the sweet ache of the concrete scraping your spine.
He leans down, mouth hot on your neck, biting just hard enough to make you gasp, then dragging his tongue across the mark, soothing and claiming. His hips pound into you relentlessly, the sound obscene, wet and filthy, every thrust pushing you further, deeper, until you’re crying out, nails clawing at his back. “You feel that?” he taunts, low and mocking. “No one else is ever gonna fuck you like this. You’re all mine.” He bends your legs up, pushing your knees to your chest, fucking you open for him, letting the whole garage see what you look like ruined and wanting, your moans bouncing off the walls. You barely notice when he spits on your chest, rubbing the mess over your nipples, making you arch up and beg for his mouth.
He flips you, hauls you up, and shoves you against the nearest wall. The cement is icy against your cheek, but his body is all heat behind you, his cock splitting you open as he slams back in. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, the other wrapped tight around your throat, thumb stroking your jaw. “Count for me,” he rasps, hips pistoning into you, every thrust making your bones rattle. “Every time you cum, I want you to say my name.” You lose track, the orgasms rolling through you, wringing you out until you’re boneless, your voice cracking from screaming his name over and over. He bites your shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise, leaving his mark where no one but you will ever see.
You collapse to your knees, dizzy and half-laughing, half-weeping, your face pressed to the wall. He drops down with you, drags you over to the bike, props you up against the seat so your back arches and your ass is on display. He kneels behind you, spreads you wide, and eats you out again, rough and messy, spit and cum smeared everywhere. “You taste like heaven,” he groans, tongue working you until you’re begging for mercy, thighs shaking, his fingers fucking you open while his tongue torments your clit. You sob, grab his hair, ride his mouth until you’re shaking, your body wrung out and dripping. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you down, just keeps going until you push him away, gasping for air.
He stands and pulls you up, kissing you hard, shoving you back over the bike’s gas tank, your hips pinned by the curve of metal. “Hold on,” he commands, and you grip the handlebars for dear life as he thrusts into you from behind, the bike swaying under the force of his fucking. He grabs your hair, jerks your head back so you have to look him in the eye in the reflection of the chrome, his voice low and taunting. “Look at yourself. Look how desperate you are. Fuck, you’re so perfect like this.” The engine clicks, the seat creaks, your bodies thrum with every bounce, your moans muffled by the roar of your own need. He slaps your ass, tells you you’re his filthy girl, his perfect rider, the only one who can take him this deep.
He pulls out, grabs your jaw, spits in your mouth, kisses you with it, lets you lick his tongue, then flips you onto your back again, fucking into you hard, deep, slow now, torturing you with the drag, making you beg for every inch. “Do you want it fast or slow?” he asks, voice thick with satisfaction. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
You beg, plead, every word a confession, every moan a demand. He gives you both, fast, then slow, mixing it up, never letting you settle, never letting you know what comes next, until you’re so dizzy with it you don’t know if you’re cumming or crying or both. His hand is on your throat again, his teeth on your lips, his cock dragging you open, making you his over and over.
The last time, he takes you on the cold floor again, one hand under your knee, the other pinning your wrists above your head, fucking you until you go silent, pleasure sharp as a knife. He whispers all the filth in your ear, how he wants you, how he’ll never get enough, how he wants you to ruin him and let him ruin you. When you finally go limp, trembling and leaking and bruised and perfect, he collapses on top of you, breath coming hard, kissing you soft and slow, the world outside the garage fading to nothing.
He barely lets you catch your breath, dragging you off the bike by your hips, his mouth already finding your tits, tongue laving over one nipple, then the other, sucking hard and desperate, leaving each peak wet and stinging. “You taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters against your skin, teeth grazing, biting down just enough to make you arch, your hands fisting in his hair, gasping for air. He sucks, circles, bites, makes you moan and whimper and beg, switching sides, mouth frantic and greedy like he’s been starved for years. “Let me hear you, baby,” he growls, tongue flicking, sucking so hard your whole body tingles, nipples red and swollen and aching. You tug him closer, whimpering, not caring about anything but the way his mouth makes you burn.
Before you know it, he spins you, palms rough on your waist, pressing you up against the cold garage wall. His hands are everywhere—one squeezing your breast, thumb rolling your nipple, the other yanking your ass back so your hips jut out for him. You feel his cock, hot and leaking, pressing between your cheeks, still slippery with your slick and his spit. He bends low, licks up your spine, then nips the back of your neck, makes you shiver, makes you whimper, so needy for more. “Hold on,” he commands, voice gone jagged. “Don’t let go.”
You brace your palms flat against the wall, eyes fluttering closed, pulse hammering as he lines up, cock heavy and throbbing. Without warning, he pushes in, fucking you deep, all the way to the hilt, a brutal, perfect stretch that makes you sob. His fingers slide up, find your mouth, slip between your lips, two, then three, pressing down on your tongue, holding your jaw open as he fucks you. “Suck,” he orders, voice dark, possessive, and you do, tasting yourself, moaning around his fingers, drooling, wild with how filthy it is. He thrusts harder, hips slapping your ass, the garage echoing with every desperate, messy movement.
The wall is cold, your skin is hot, sweat sliding down your back, your knees shaking with every punishing snap of his hips. He’s relentless, fucking you deeper, harder, never slowing, every thrust a filthy promise that you’re his for the night. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down to rub your clit, circles rough and fast, making you squirm, making you wail. “You look so good like this, fucked out and messy, dripping down my cock,” he grunts, voice pure sex and hunger. “You like being used, don’t you? You want everyone to know who ruined you?”
Your mind shatters, white noise and pleasure and Sunghoon’s voice, Sunghoon’s hands, Sunghoon’s cock driving you wild. You cry out, clenching around him, trembling on the edge until you break, coming hard, body convulsing, walls fluttering, so sensitive you can barely breathe. He follows with a growl, slamming deep one last time, spilling inside you, biting down on your shoulder as he grinds through his orgasm, hands holding you so tight you’ll wear his fingerprints for days.
He doesn’t pull out right away, just leans over you, panting, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your neck, cock still buried inside. “Fuck,” he rasps, almost laughing, still high on the aftershocks, “I can’t believe you’re real.” He’s shaking, you’re shaking, the world gone blurry with heat and exhaustion and that wild, raw thrill that nothing will ever feel like this again.
You slide to the floor together, tangled and gasping, your head against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, both of you too spent to move, your bodies sticky and sore and blissed out. The garage is quiet, just the soft tick of the bike’s engine cooling, your mingled breaths, the pounding echo of your hearts. Sunghoon presses lazy kisses to your temple, still tasting salt and sweat, his mouth gentle where it was ravenous before. “You’re fucking insane,” he whispers, a crooked grin in his voice, “and I want you all night.” Neither of you want to move. You just hold each other, ruined and new, high on everything that’s just happened, the bike, the risk, the wildness, the pure fucking insanity of this night. You’re both fucked dumb for each other, bodies humming with aftershocks, every touch lingering, every whisper a secret. You know you’ll never look at him—or yourself—the same way again.
𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑
It’s barely afternoon, sunlight slanting through the half-open blinds of Sunghoon’s apartment, his apartment, now just as much yours, though most people would only see the way your bra is dangling from his bedroom doorknob, the way your perfume and his cologne have become a single scent. You’re straddling his hips, thighs bracketing his, still sticky and a little raw from where he’s kept you for days, weeks, a whole month now spent learning how many ways you can lose yourself with him inside you. The sheets are a ruined, tangled mess, there’s never been a morning they weren’t. Your knees ache from all the different angles he’s bent you; your voice is rough from begging, from whispering his name, from laughing when he fucked you through sunrise and started again at noon. The air tastes like sweat, old sex, and something so sweet it hurts your teeth. He’s looking up at you like there’s no world outside this bed, arms folded behind his head, mouth parted, jaw dark with stubble you feel everywhere, on your collarbones, between your thighs, where he’s marked you again and again.
Your hands splay over his chest, mapping every new bruise, every old scratch, every memory you made with your body tangled around his. His cock is thick and hard beneath you, slick with both of you, and your hips roll slow and deep, not because you’re in a hurry, but because you both know there’s no rush anymore. This isn’t the wild, desperate fucking of that first night, though you’ve had more than your share of that too. Now it’s a marathon, an experiment, every thrust a new way to say “don’t stop,” every moan a promise you’ll never be done learning each other.
Your head tips back as you ride him, sun painting gold across your skin, and he’s transfixed, greedy for every detail, every sound you make, every flutter of your lashes when you clench around him just right. If anyone asks what you two have done this month, the honest answer is everything, on the bed, the kitchen counter, the couch, his bike, against the shower wall, even on the floor when you couldn’t make it another step. You’ve forgotten how to say goodbye, how to keep your hands to yourself, how to let a day pass without his fingers inside you, his mouth coaxing you open, his words as filthy and necessary as air. You move for him, slow and deep, a rhythm only you two know, hips rolling until his hands slide up to grip your waist, bruising, claiming, promising another hour, another night, another week of this endless wanting. You’re drunk on it, dizzy with it, every nerve ending still raw and electric from all the ways you’ve loved him in the last month and all the ways you plan to keep going.
You bounce gently, letting him fill you over and over, your bodies sticky and soft, clinging together like the world’s shrunk to just this bed and the sound of your shared breath. Sunghoon’s hands finally slide up, cupping your waist, holding you steady as you ride him, his eyes never leaving your face. “You know,” he murmurs, voice rough and so full of honesty it makes you pause, “I noticed you way before the party. I knew who you were before you tried to escape my party and steal my bike.” His thumbs move over your skin, teasing, slow. “You always sit in the third row, two seats from the end. You bite your pencil when you’re thinking and your notes are neater than anyone’s.”
You give him a look, jabbing your heel against his thigh, breathless and grinning, hips rolling harder. “Please. I ride that motorbike better than you ever could, Park.” He barely lets you catch your breath before he’s rolling his hips up again, hungry for more, and you laugh, biting your lip, still bouncing on his cock. “You know, I’ve gotten pretty good at riding, right? Both kinds. All those late-night lessons you give me, you only ever take your hands off to put them somewhere filthier.”
He grins, dark and possessive, hands sliding up your waist as he rocks into you, “Don’t act like you haven’t begged for every lesson. I think you love my bike almost as much as you love my cock.”
You whine, letting your head fall back, hips moving faster, “It’s a close race, Park, but only one of those makes me scream.”
He chuckles, deep and smug, twisting his fingers in your hair to pull you down for a kiss, voice thick with promise. “Yeah? Let’s see which one you want more after we’re done. Might have to take you for another spin after this.” And you moan, losing yourself in the rhythm, in his hands, in the heat, knowing you’ll always say yes, whether it’s leather and engine oil or tangled sheets and nothing but skin, because every ride with him is the only one you ever want to take.
“God, I never knew riding could feel this fucking good, makes me want to climb on and lose myself every damn night, on your bike or your cock. Just need you under me, begging me to go faster, baby.”
He grins back, cocky and gorgeous, dark hair falling over his eyes, letting you take him all the way in. “Yeah? I know what you ride the best, though,” he fires back, one hand cupping your ass, pulling you down hard on his cock, making you gasp.
You moan, grinding harder, shameless, the bedsprings squeaking under you. “Yeah, baby, say it. Tell me what I’m best at.” You bounce on him, hair flying, eyes locked on his, drunk on how he never stops wanting you.
He groans, low and desperate, thrusting up into you, rough and perfect. “You—fuck—bounce on my cock like you were born for it. You make me lose my mind every time, every fucking time.” And you laugh, wild, head thrown back, riding him faster, the sound filling the room and the sunlight and everything you’ve been together all month, just the two of you, always wanting more.
You pull back, breathless, lips brushing his as you coo, “Really, baby? You noticed me before the party?” The word boyfriend tastes sweet and new on your tongue, makes you smile into his mouth. He nods, hands warm on your hips, eyes shining as he draws you down into another kiss. You blink, pulse stumbling, every part of you clenching around him. “You, you noticed me?” Your voice is half a gasp, half a smile, shy and so fucking vulnerable.
His answer is a low groan, hips rocking up, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen, but still hungry for all of you. “I did. Every time I walked in, I checked if you were there. You never look up, but I could always feel you in the room. I like how quiet you are, how you actually listen, how you laugh at the stupidest jokes the professors make even when no one else does. I like the way you write little notes to yourself in the margins—little hearts, sometimes, or just dumb reminders.” He squeezes your waist, grounding you to him, every word a gentle claim. “You’re different. You made me want to be different, too. I had my eye on you way before the party, that’s why I’m happy Mira dragged you there. My whole worldview shifted the second I caught a gorgeous little witch in thigh highs loitering next to my bike, looking like she might hex me if I got too close or maybe ride off with the whole damn thing.”
Your hips slow, almost stopping, your eyes stinging with something bright and full, his confession winding through your chest. “I thought you never even saw me. I thought I was invisible to you.” It comes out soft, almost embarrassed.
He only laughs, warm and disbelieving, pulling you closer, pressing his lips to your cheek as if to erase the very idea. “You could never be invisible to me, sweetheart. Not in a million years. “Couldn’t stop seeing you if I tried,” he whispers, thumb tracing your jaw. “That’s why when I saw you leave the party, I couldn’t let you go. I was scared you’d slip away before I ever got the chance to know you for real.” His voice drops, darker, more vulnerable. “You have no idea how glad I am that I saw you trying to leave, that I convinced to stay with me and taught you how to ride. That I got to show you what you do to me.”
You flush deeper, arching into him, riding him a little harder now, your hair falling over your face, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Sunghoon,” you murmur, breathless and grinning, “you could’ve had this all along.” He groans, hands flexing on your waist, hips driving up into you with more intent, both of you chasing something deeper than just pleasure.
For the first time you feel incandescent, like a midnight-carved jack-o’-lantern finally lit from within, every razor-thin slice of loneliness flooded with heat as Sunghoon’s gaze holds you open; it’s liberating, obscene, a revelation that shudders through your bones and pools between your legs, because being wanted this hungrily turns invisibility into costume at last discarded, the shy girl unmasked beneath the October moon and claimed in candle-bright sparks of pleasure; you ride him with desperation and awe, tasting sweat and pumpkin-spiced air, understanding in every slick, echoing slap of skin that the right lover doesn’t just see you, he burns your outline into constellations, teaches your body the gospel of being noticed, worshipped, devoured, until the old you is nothing but a ghost story whispered outside party windows while you come alive, trembling and greedy, in the lantern-glow of his hands.
Your rhythm gets rougher, more desperate, your body lit up everywhere he touches. He drags you down for a kiss, mouths crashing, tongues tangled, his hands sliding over your back, pulling you flush to his chest as he thrusts up, cock hitting just right, making you gasp. He grins against your mouth, wicked and open, “I want you every day. I want you every way.” You ride him faster, the bed shaking, your moans melting into his name, the world reduced to sweat and skin and the hungry, tangled ache between you. You come together, bodies pressed tight, his arms wrapped around you so close you can barely tell where you end and he begins. You bury your face in his neck, both of you shaking, breathless, his hands stroking your spine, whispering soft, filthy nothings that make you laugh and shiver and cling to him all at once. There’s nothing frantic in it, just the soft, raw certainty that you’ve both been waiting for someone to look at you like this, to touch you like this, to finally let yourself want and be wanted.
When it’s over, you collapse beside him, tangled up in his sheets, legs still draped over his, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. He looks at you, eyes warm and content and just a little wild, and says, “You wrecked me, you know that?” And you can’t help but smile, because you know exactly how he feels, ruined and remade and so goddamn glad you let yourself be seen.
Outside, October sunlight spills across the blinds like leftover jack-oʼ-lantern glow, but inside this room feels enchanted, two midnight runaways who outraced the witching hour and woke up in their own fairy tale. The bed is your pumpkin carriage at dawn, sheets rumpled into silver clouds, his heartbeat drumming beneath your palm like the last notes of a spell, and every bruise you share glitters like star-dust proof that you both survived the haunted woods. You lie there, skin warm against skin, tasting cinnamon on his smile, certain that the universe bent its crooked spine, just once, to scribble a sweeter epilogue: every morning after this, you’ll keep choosing one another, the quiet girl and the campus legend, rewriting Halloween into happily-ever-after as long as you both feel the magic humming under your ribs.
asks, reblogs, comments much appreciated, don’t be a silent reader !!
wanna read more from me? check out my latest sunghoon fic!
‘masked souls’ — in a world where every glance is a transaction and every touch risks ruin, you—daughter of the province’s richest family—are haunted by a masked stranger who claims you on all hallows’ eve, then vanishes. months later, park sunghoon appears as lowborn staff in your father’s estate. you fall for him, unaware he’s the same man you loved and lost. forbidden passion grows, shadowed by secrets, hunger, and a class divide that could destroy you both. only when every mask is stripped away do you learn if love can survive the cost of truth, or if fate always demands you choose between duty and desire.
oscar piastri x yn!mercedes f1 driver - social media au | request — here
fc: olivia rodrigo
summary — oscar accidently posts a picture of his girlfriend who just so happens to be on the grid...
─── oscar masterlist !
note — (all manips are made by me!!) love this... two fics in kinda one day, ty for the request!! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤
Liked by oscarpiastri, irisapatow and 5,885,924 others
yourinstagram what a day... thank you to the team for making it possible!
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user1 so proud of you queen!!
user2 MY GOAT
oscarpiastri 🥳👏 liked by yourinstagram !
user3 no one does it like you
user4 number 1 driver for a reason!!!!
user5 that red dress.... drooling
user6 im in love with these pics of you!!
user7 8th picture WHEWWW
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Liked by yourinstagram, irisapatow and 1,885,924 others
gqsports Y/n L/n talks being star-struck by Lewis Hamilton and answers your most requested questions.
When asked if she's ever been star-struck L/n replied "Oh em gee yes! I remember when I first ran into Lewis [Hamilton] and I was having talks behind the scenes about joining Mercedes, at the time I didn't know if Lewis knew about those talks and it was all I wanted to talk about. Because I didn't know if he knew about me joining I just didn't say anything and stared at him in silence, eventually he started talking and I was just nodding as if I wasn't freaking out."
L/n answered one of the requested questions as well "I will watch races to prepare for the race weekend but when it comes to watching for enjoyment I'll sometimes rewatch races with my boyfriend. We started doing it because his job can sometimes be at the same hours so he can't watch. It's become a habit in our house, to rewatch races and commentate the race while we watch."
Tap the link in our bio to read more.
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user1 in love with this picture
user2 okay she has to be dating someone that isn't famous
->user3 unless they JUST started dating so they haven't really been out that much as a couple
->user4 i mean the only guy she's ever seen with is oscar
->user3 they're friends don't be weird
user5 the "oh em gee" she's so endearing
user6 everything i learn about her makes me love her more
user7 commentating her own racing is so cute
user8 all the newer driver fangirling over lewis never fails to make me giggle
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oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
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user1 Smashed it today 🔥
yourinstagram omg the piastri family is so cute 😭❤ and congrats or whatever
->oscarpiastri "or whatever" is crazy
->user2 girl 😭
->user3 she only cares about the important stuff
user4 Love to see it 👏
user5 idk feels like you hate spa...
user6 Well done legend 🙌
user7 I’d never would have guessed !
user8 What a weekend! Well done, Oscar!
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Liked by oscarpiastri, irisapatow and 5,885,924 others
yourinstagram happy summer break, ready to get back on the track 🏎
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user1 PARENTS ❤
oscarpiastri who's that guy?
->yourinstagram a fan 😚
->oscarpiastri your not wrong
->user2 waittt i love them
->user3 cuties
user4 the only couple ever omggg
user5 always looking perfect in red wow
user6 oscar is the perfect wag
user7 i'll be thinking about this post for awhile
user8 the cat recognized his own kind
user9 y'all look so good im sickkk
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A FEW MONTHS LATER. . . .
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Liked by oscarpiastri, irisapatow and 5,885,924 others
yourinstagram fia awards 2025 🤍
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user1 So sparkly chic wow
oscarpiastri perfect in every way liked by yourinstagram !
user2 Unreal 😍
user3 this side part is so cute diva
user4 pretty girl syndrome fr
user5 this look is so cute omfg
user6 Literal perfection
user7 oscar can’t fight us all
user8 prettiest princess 💗
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✎…… only added the "months later" because i've had that manip made for like a month and haven't used it...
was going to wait to post this but i want it out the drafts so i can work on more request 😚❤
oscar piastri x yn!chronically online girlfriend - social media au | request — here
fc: bella hadid
─── oscar masterlist !
note — (all manips are made by me!!) ty for the request!! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤
Liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton and 2,885,924 others
yourinstagram if you were the person who gave oscar a labubu comment so i can block you 😚
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oscarpiastri What should we name the labubu?
->yourinstagram don't get too attached to it
->oscarpiastri right....
->user1 what a sinister ass thing to say 😭
user2 hugging the fans.. such a cutie
user3 THE CAPTION?!?!
->yourinstagram THEY SCARE ME
->user4 no your real for that
user5 loving the outfit queen!!
williamsf1official we thought he'd like it..
->yourinstagram i should've known...
->user6 BRO why do y'all always have beef?? 😭
user7 we all fell for that trap tbh
->yourinstagram millions stuck in bear traps due to oscar piastri 😔
->user8 he needs to be hold accountable smh...
user9 okay but oscar looks really cute in that picture with the labubu :(
user10 waittt i didn't know the bff's were at the race
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Liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton and 4,885,924 others
yourinstagram happy birthday to the guy who makes everyday feel like the first time i knew i loved him, everyday spent together is a day i cherish. love you
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user1 the most adorable couple omggg
oscarpiastri wouldn't be me with out you ❤
->yourinstagram ❤
->user2 crying a little
user3 y'all are the friggin cutest
user4 i feel like every year u try to make a birthday post to make me cry
user5 oscar wearing a white shirt in almost every picture is killing me 😭
user6 May this kind of love find me 🙏💐
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Liked by oscarpiastri, user1 and 1,885,924 others
vogue Y/n L/n talks about future career plans and the constant battle of being a woman on the internet.
L/n on where her future lies "There are times when I am modeling for magazines and walking runways which I love every second of but I also want to do more. I have such a love for acting and I've been taking acting classes for a few years now so I really want to step into that world pretty soon and I have a few opportunities lined up. I wont give too much away but it's going to be fun."
Y/n also talks about her chance meeting with boyfriend Oscar Piastri "Oscar and I met 3 years ago randomly in London, where he was living at the time, we were both at a coffee shop reading the same book and he flipped to the page I was about to start reading. Then he turned to me and said 'hey we're on the same page!' and we sat and read a few pages together then talked for a few hours and the rest was history." she continued on about the double standard she faces "I sometimes get comments saying 'she makes her boyfriend her entire personality' or 'she's so obsessed with her boyfriend' like yes! I wouldn't be dating him if I wasn't. We are both equally obsessed with each other I can just sometimes be a bit louder. At the end of the day it's just misogyny, because when he makes the same posts he doesn't get any negative feedback."
She also talked about her love for her fragrance line "Ôrebella" which was founded in 2020 "I've always loved fragrance and how it can remind you of a specific moment or time in your life. I love making a scent that reminds me of a time in my life and for a moment it brings me back there. It's such a special thing."
Click the link in our bio to read more.
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user1 being on the same page is so insane they were really meant to be
user2 her being an actress would be so cuntyyy
user3 there aren't THAT many negative comments on her posts but when there is, it is almost always questioning why she's posting HER boyfriend so much like!?!?!?
user4 she's so likeable, ughh love her
user5 i love her fragrances so it's cool to know they probably come from a happy memory of hers
user6 thinking about how oscar said he has a coffee smelling candle he lights in his drivers room when THEY MET AT A COFFEE SHOP
->user7 OMG that makes so much sense
->user8 that's actually so fucking adorable
->user9 why is he such a romantic
user10 wait i can totally see her acting
user11 i need to know the book PLEASEE
user12 oh what a lovely meet cute
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yourinstagram story !
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user1 the queen of paddock fits 😍
jjettas2 we gone work on his dance moves before the next win
->yourinstagram he might need a few classes 😭
user2 please tell him to never griddy again
user3 i'll never shut up about that dress it's just to good
user4 i could go without him hitting the griddy ever again
->yourinstagram you and me both 🤞
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Liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton and 4,885,924 others
yourinstagram miamiiiii 🏆☀
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user1 people not mentioning the chanel mini dress is criminal 😔💔
->yourinstagram i love that dress too 🤞
user2 serving as expected 👏
jacquemus 🏆🤍 liked by yourinstagram !
user3 the cut to you wearing a poncho was so fucking hilarious
->yourinstagram like, i wanted to be there but also im wearing a unreleased jacquemus dress... i didn't wanna ruin it 😭
->user4 smart on your part, because he went straight for u with the champagne
->yourinstagram i know he tried to spray me on purpose i just can't prove it...🔎
->oscarpiastri I did 😁
->user5 oh 😭
->user6 this guy.. 😑
user7 the jacquemus dress is eatingg
user8 the little kitty next to oscar ❤
user9 best dressed all weekend
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Liked by user1, user2 and 2,472,824 others
Vogue Inside Y/n L/n's star studded birthday bash! L/n's boyfriend Oscar Piastri rented out L/n's favorite restaurant in Los Angeles and flew out her friends and family.
Every detail was picked by Piastri from the menu to the plates. Anok Yai, Alex Consani, Dua Lipa, Lewis Hamilton, Law Roach and many more celebrities were in attendance!
Click the link in our bio to read more.
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user1 wait it's so cute how much he put into her bday 😭❤
user2 i saw the pictures of the decorations and he ATEE
user3 don't wanna know how much that probably cost 😦
user4 i know he don't play about her...
->user5 AT ALLLL
->user6 i remember a reporter was basically calling her hot during an interview and he was like "you thought that, asked it, and you're looking at me expecting an answer. you're not very good at this" and just walked away
->user7 he looked SO pissed during that
->user8 one of the only times i've seen him MAD
user9 the most famous model and her nerdy boyfriend, love this
user10 AND he got her a dog after
user11 where did she find him????? i need to date someone like this
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Liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 5,885,924 others
oscarpiastri It's an honor to be able to have Y/n by my side, I didn't know I was looking for something to make my life better but then we met and I knew I found someone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Happy Birthday to who makes my day better by just existing 🤍
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user1 such cute pics he loves her so much
user2 my favorite lovebirds
user3 hey king, what did you mean by "rest of my life"?
->user4 that's his future wife!
->user5 you're so right
user6 make sure to invite me to the wedding!
user7 that's such a romantic picture in the second slide wtf
user8 shakespeare taking notes when y'all write your birthday captions
user9 HAPPY FOR YOU TWO 😭❤
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Liked by yourinstagram, user2 and 872,824 others
motorsports Thinking about when Y/n L/n watched Oscar Piastri on the podium when he won his first race in 2024 at the Hungarian Grand Prix.
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user1 her skin though ✨
user2 last picture i'd keep in a locket
yourinstagram ykw thanks for not using the picture where i was SOBBING
->user3 you looked good no matter what queen
->yourinstagram thanks <3 but i was such a mess that day
->user4 we all were 😭
user5 i was also sobbing so when they showed her i started crying more 😭
user6 always so emotional when he wins she loves that man fr 😭❤
user7 she's serving while sobbing, love!
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oscarpiastri Lots of celebrations recently but my favorite is our 1 year wedding anniversary 🤍
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user1 i know it was the cutest wedding omfg
user2 okay so the "husband" and "wife" posts were soft launching ur marriage 😭
user3 we've been asking when's the wedding WHEN THEY'VE BEEN MARRIED
lewishamilton What a beautiful day!🤍
->yourinstagram 🤍
->user4 girl how tf did he not leak it???
->user5 he's one of the last people i'd tell 😭
user6 these pictures are so cute, happy for u 2!
user7 HUHH???
alex_albon such a hard secret to keep 😫
->yourinstagram texted me the day after the wedding asking when he can say something 😭
->lilymhe never tell him a secret again, was bursting at the seams wanting to tell someone
->user8 he was just so happy for you 2 😔💔
user9 what the hell congrats!??!!?
user10 insert cynthia erivo"i didn't know this was happing" meme because HUH
dualipa the most stunning bride
->yourinstagram love you 😚
->user11 star studded wedding wth
user12 so on brand for them to have waited a whole ass year 😭
user13 WDYM THEYRE MARRIED????
user14 CONGRATULATIONS!!!
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✎…… this fic made me realize i know none of the f1 memes outside of oscar, lewis and a little bit of george 😭
unsure about this fic but i think it's cute 🤍
also this fic is kinda long so there is 100% some mistakes that we'll ignore!
Summary: You’re Max Verstappen’s assistant, hardworking, hyper-organised, and the only person who can tell him to shut up without getting fired. He’s a world champion, a headline magnet, and a shameless womaniser. It’s strictly professional… until he starts to realise that you’re the only thing in his world he can’t afford to lose.
A/N: this is very tony x pepper coded (spot the dialogue)
5.8k words / Masterlist
Max Verstappen could not find his passport.
Or his wallet.
Or somehow his jacket.
And somehow this was your fault.
“I swear I left it on the counter,” he mutters, already halfway through tearing apart his living room.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh into the phone. “You left it at the hotel in Paris. I shipped it to your flat the next day. I’d bet it’s currently on your kitchen table under a takeout menu from that terrible Italian place you insist on ordering from.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture him standing there, mouth slightly open, blinking at the exact place you described.
You wait.
He exhales through his nose. “Found it.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re kind of scary,” he admits, but it’s warm, teasing.
“I’m efficient,” you correct. “And clearly the only reason you’ve ever made it through airport security.”
There’s a pause. Then he laughs full-bodied and genuine.
“What would I do without you?”
“It’s a scary thought.”
“You don’t think I could manage on my own?” he says, mock-offended.
“I don’t think you could tie your shoes without my help.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”
“Is it?”
You can hear the smile in his voice before he speaks again. “Touché.”
Working for Max Verstappen wasn’t in your five-year plan. Or your backup plan. Or your blackout-drunk in Ibiza plan.
But somehow you’re here, personal assistant, calendar wizard, social media wrangler, part-time therapist, and full-time fire extinguisher. On any given day you’re organising press conferences, rejecting offers from another gin brand who want Max to be their new face, and reminding him that ignoring the stewards is generally frowned upon.
You’re the one who handles all the chaos that surrounds Max, the media, the meetings, the endless parade of appearances and dinners and fake smiles. You schedule his life down to the minute, including what time he should eat, when to leave for press, and how to avoid women with Instagram bios that say “F1 obsessed.”
He’s a womaniser, flirtatious to the point of reckless. Models. Influencers. There’s always someone, always something, and it’s usually half-dressed and hanging off his arm before you’ve even finished your first espresso. You’re the one who fields the follow-up texts. The ones that say “Can you tell Max I left my earrings in his hotel room?” or “I think we really had a connection.”
You delete them. Like you delete everything that doesn’t fit neatly into the carefully managed image you’ve built around him.
Because that’s your job.
To clean up the mess.
To stay calm.
To stay separate.
He, predictably, doesn’t appreciate it. Not really.
He’s a handful. Several, really.
And you’re very, very good at handling him.
Which is probably why he won’t let you go.
“You know you’re not my prisoner,” you tell him one evening as you both recover from a brutal double-header. You’re sunburnt, jet-lagged, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications from a fire you put out six hours ago..
He’s sprawled across the sofa in his Monaco apartment, arms behind his head, still in Red Bull merch, hair slightly damp from the shower. “You say that but every time I try to hire someone else, they run screaming.”
“What’s that got to do with me? That’s because you ask if they know how to make tequila sunrises mid-interview.”
He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s a fair question.”
“You don’t even drink tequila sunrises.”
He cracks one eye open. “No, but you do.”
You pause, turning your head slightly. “Wait. Are you… screening assistants for their compatibility with me?”
“Maybe.” He turns fully now, propping himself up on one elbow, suddenly more alert. “Got to keep the standards high. Wouldn’t want to hire anyone who can’t handle the real boss.”
You blink. “Me?”
Max grins. “Obviously.”
You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back he adds quieter, almost absentmindedly, like the words slip past his usual filter: “There’s no replacement for you anyway.”
Something in your chest stutters but you don’t let it show. You school your face into practiced neutrality while your pulse leaps. Max of course doesn’t even notice. He’s already found the remote, casually flipping through channels like he hasn’t just lobbed a live emotional grenade across the room.
You lean back into the cushions hiding the smallest of smiles.
“Damn right there isn’t,” you murmur.
He doesn’t hear you.
The thing is Max isn’t dumb. People sometimes think he is, because he’s flippant and flirty. Because he plays the part of the Dutch lion with the messy hair, the lazy grin, the couldn’t-care-less attitude. He shrugs off press drama and forgets half his scheduled meetings.
But Max? Max sees everything.
He just doesn’t always let on and the way he treats you is proof.
You get the best hotel rooms. You’re the only one who can yell at him without consequence. You have access to all his passwords (except one, which is suspicious and probably his gaming PC). He listens to you in ways he doesn’t listen to anyone else.
It’s not romantic.
It’s just… Max.
And it drives you mad.
Because you know how he is with women. Beautiful, disposable women who orbit around him like moths to fire. Girls who laugh too hard at his jokes, who post his watch on their story, who mistake proximity for permanence.
They see the world champion, not the man who carries stress in his shoulders like cement. Not the man who forgets to eat on race days unless you shove a protein bar into his hand with a death glare. Not the man who texts you from airports he doesn’t remember flying to just to ask if he packed socks.
Yet when he talks to you? There’s this something in his voice. A softness. An unspoken trust. Like you're not just his assistant. Like you're something else.
But he never says it and you’re smart enough not to ask.
You’re fixing his tie.
Again.
“Max,” you say with the patience of a teacher and the soul of a martyr, “this isn’t a hard skill to learn you know.”
He’s smirking, of course. Standing in the middle of his Monaco apartment, one hand buried in his pocket, the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“But that’s why I have you,” he says, not even looking up.
You tug the knot tighter than necessary. Not tight enough to actually choke him but it’s a close call.
“You can’t rely on me for everything.”
“Can and will.”
Now he does glance down, eyes amused and warm, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in that lazy, infuriating way he’s perfected over the years.
You sigh, stepping back to assess your handiwork. The tie is perfect. Centered, crisp, symmetrical. Because of course it is. You did it.
You grab the printed event invite off the kitchen island and slap it lightly into his chest. “Charity gala. Black tie. Actual grown-up behavior required. And Max?”
He raises a brow.
“You’ll need to show up on time.”
He gives a lazy shrug, fingers closing over the invite without even looking at it. “You coming with me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, already moving toward the kitchen to clean up the mess he left behind.
“But you plan everything,” he says behind you.
When you turn he’s closer than he was a moment ago. His voice drops, soft and low, the air between you suddenly weighted and still.
“Wouldn’t be the same without you.”
It’s infuriating.
And disarming.
And very Max.
He just grins, all teeth and trouble.
By the time you arrive at the gala you’re already regretting your decision to come.
Not because of the event itself your dress is beautiful, the champagne is cold, and the venue is glittering in a way that makes everyone feel more important than they actually are. You’ve already charmed two sponsors Max will absolutely forget by morning, and your heels haven’t started to blister yet.
No. The problem, as always, is Max.
He’s magnetic in the way that only men who know they are can be. All ease and confidence, effortlessly weaving through the crowd with his trademark smirk and too-expensive suit, stopping to offer shoulder squeezes and half-hugs to women whose names he definitely doesn’t know. Flirting like it’s part of his job description.
But every few minutes he glances back at you.
Like he’s waiting for something.
Approval? Amusement? Jealousy?
You’re not sure, and you hate that you’re even wondering.
You’re posted up by the bar when he finds you again. He appears at your side like he always does quietly, confidently, like he belongs there.
“You haven’t danced,” he says, offering his hand without preamble.
You arch a brow, sipping your drink. “Neither have you.”
“Well,” he says, head tilting just slightly, “let’s fix that.”
You hesitate. His hand stays out and his expression shifts. An echo of sincerity that rarely surfaces in public.
So you take it.
The music is slow. Old-school. Something classic that wraps around you both like silk.
Suddenly he’s closer than he’s been all night. One hand on your waist, the other holding yours gently, like he's afraid to startle you. You’ve touched Max a hundred times, fixing his mic, dragging him by the sleeve, slapping his arm when he says something stupid.
But this?
This is different.
His thumb brushes across your knuckles not by accident.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
Your heart stutters. You glance up at him too fast, too unguarded and that’s when you feel it. That terrifying tilt in the air between you, the way something shifts out of place and threatens to become something else entirely.
So you do what you always do when things start to feel like something they’re not supposed to.
You break it.
“It’s just a dance,” he says lightly, forcing your gaze to him.
Max doesn’t let go. Not entirely, but you feel the change the slight pause, the faintest shift in pressure at your back, the way his fingers curl.
You keep talking. Rambling now, trying to plug the leak in your chest.
“No it’s not just a dance. You don’t understand, because you’re… you. And everyone knows who you are, how you are, with women… and that’s fine, that’s completely fine. But me… I’m your assistant Max. You’re my boss. I’m supposed to be on the schedule. Not on the dance floor with you.”
He’s silent. Really silent. That rare kind of Max Verstappen quiet where even his breathing seems to slow. Where you know, you know, he’s listening and trying to understand.
“You’re not just dancing with your boss.” His voice is lower now. “You’re dancing with me.”
You stare up at him. Your brows furrow. Your stomach flips.
“Exactly,” you whisper. “That’s worse.”
A beat. Then he chuckles, dry and quiet. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you say, the word leaving your mouth with more force than intended. You step back before he can stop you, before the moment pulls you in too deep.
His expression flickers like you’ve genuinely hurt him and maybe, in a way, you did. But you don’t say anything else. You walk away instead.
Because if you don’t…
You might stay.
And you’re not sure what that would mean.
Back in Monaco a few days later things go back to normal.
Almost.
The routine is still the same, early meetings, sponsor calls, team briefings, the endless churn of a season that never truly pauses but he isn’t. Max is quieter, less reactive, less Max. His usual flirtations have faded into something far more restrained, almost cautious, as if he’s holding something back without fully knowing what it is.
And you? You’re working harder than ever not to notice.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That you prefer it this way, less tangled, less confusing, less like something you don’t know how to name, but there’s a heaviness to it now, a tension that lingers in the spaces where his jokes used to live.
You can’t help but wonder if you broke something.
By the time you arrive in Zandvoort the chaos swallows everything else.
The Dutch fans are out in full force, loud, loyal, relentless. There’s orange smoke in the air, Max's name on banners and caps, entire families dressed in matching team merch. It’s overwhelming in the way all home races are, but this one more than most. The pressure is different here. He is different here.
You see it in the way he moves through the paddock head high, expression exact, every step calculated like he’s walking a tightrope in front of the world. He’s calm, but not relaxed. Controlled, but not comfortable. You know him well enough to recognise the strain in his shoulders and the slight twitch in his jaw when another camera gets shoved too close.
You keep your head down, buried in logistics: finalising his press schedule, adjusting sponsor timings, scanning incoming weather reports, and fielding yet another round of phone calls from people who can’t take no for an answer. You’re on your third Red Bull and halfway through reworking the team’s outbound travel manifest when someone taps your shoulder.
You expect an intern. Maybe a member of security.
You do not expect Charles Leclerc.
He’s standing just behind you, hands casually in his pockets, the grin on his face irritatingly sun-warmed and relaxed. He looks far too at ease for a man who just stepped off a media gauntlet.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking over your screen before settling on your face. “You look more stressed than usual.”
You offer him a polite, practiced smile the kind you keep in your back pocket for drivers who aren’t yours. “That’s because I’m currently doing the work of three people while also trying to stop a certain driver from throwing jabs at Max in front of a live mic.”
Charles chuckles. “You should transfer to Ferrari. Our drama is internalized.”
“Tempting,” you say, your voice dry.
He laughs again, leaning against the wall beside you, arms folding as he studies you. “You know, I never see you relax.” There’s a beat, just long enough for your guard to slip half an inch. “We should change that.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
You weren’t expecting that. Not from him, not today. It’s not that you’ve never been flirted with in the paddock God knows the ratio alone makes that inevitable, but this is Charles and for once you're the one caught off guard.
Before you can find a response another voice cuts through.
“She’s busy.”
You turn and immediately regret it.
Max is standing behind you, arms folded, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. He’s close not quite in your space, but close enough to make a point and he’s staring at Charles like he's considering whether to shove him into the nearest wall.
“Am I?” you say, your tone frostier than you intended.
Max doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain locked on Charles, his stance radiating a quiet, simmering challenge.
Charles raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin unfading but softer now, more cautious. “Okay, okay,” he says with a small laugh. “Message received.”
He pats your shoulder lingering just for a moment and walks away. You feel Max track his every step until he disappears around the corner. Then you turn to him.
“Seriously?”
“What?” he replies, tone flat.
“‘She’s busy’? Really?” You cross your arms. “Do I work for you, or do you own me now?”
He shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “You do work for me.”
You stare at him. “Right. And I also have free will. Which means I get to decide who I talk to without your permission Max.”
He doesn’t flinch, but something shifts in his jaw. “Charles knows what he’s doing.”
“So do I.”
You let the words hang there, heavy and deliberate.
He doesn’t respond.
You take a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Say it.”
His brow twitches. “Say what?”
“That you didn’t like him flirting with me.”
He scoffs, defensive now. “I didn’t like him distracting you.”
You tilt your head. “Try again.”
Max opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, blinking hard like the sun’s too bright or the conversation too dangerous.
Right there in the silence, in the refusal, you get your answer.
He won’t say it.
Because if he does, everything changes and neither of you are really ready for that.
Not yet.
Later that evening you don’t come to his hotel room to go over press notes in person.
You almost always do. Even when you’re tired, even when he’s late, even when you both pretend it’s strictly business and not the quietest part of his day.
This time you email them.
Just a PDF. No notes in the body of the message. No dry comment about the journalist who always misspells everyone’s names. Not even your usual "please read this before tomorrow, don’t make me chase you" line.
He stares at the attachment, unread, the cursor hovering over it like maybe if he waits long enough you’ll show up after all.
You don’t.
He frowns and picks up his phone.
Calls you.
It rings until voicemail.
He tries again.
Still nothing.
He lowers the phone, jaw tight, thumb hovering over your name as if the third call will fix it.
It won’t. Because this is how you operate when you’re pissed, professional, polite, perfectly distant. You don’t yell or sulk you just shift into autopilot and stop giving him anything extra.
No reminders. No soft glances. No quiet sarcasm that only he gets.
Just the job.
Max, for all his victories, all his trophies, all his press-trained composure feels like he’s losing.
You don’t speak to Max the entire next morning.
Not really.
You respond when necessary because you have to, but it’s short and clipped, eyes on your tablet or phone or anyone but him. You’re professional.
And he hates it.
You can tell by the way he keeps glancing over during meetings, like he’s waiting for a joke or a sideways comment that never comes. His knee bounces through the strategy debrief. He forgets his water bottle. He asks a question someone already answered ten minutes ago.
After the final media round-up, you hand him a neatly typed itinerary and don’t wait for a thank you. You’re already halfway out of the hospitality tent when you throw over your shoulder, “Flight’s at seven. Be packed on time.”
“Wait.”
He sounds... hesitant like the word caught on the way out. You turn slowly, folding your arms ready to remind him that you still have fifty unread emails and no patience left but he looks genuinely uncomfortable which is uncommon.
“I was out of line yesterday,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like it physically pains him to admit it.
You raise an eyebrow but say nothing.
“I know I don’t have the right to tell you who you can and can’t talk to. I just—Charles is…” He exhales sharply, searching for the right words like they owe him money. “He flirts with everyone. I didn’t think he should be doing it with you.”
You blink once. Then again. “Why?”
Max falters. His eyes drop for a second and when they lift again there’s something unguarded in them.
“Because you’re not…” He trails off, swallowing like the sentence got stuck somewhere between his mouth and his chest. “You’re not like them.”
You study him carefully, resisting the urge to cross your arms tighter. “What am I like then?”
He shrugs, helpless in a way that’s rare for him. “You know me.”
You look at him for a long time, long enough to feel the edges of your frustration begin to soften because he means it. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with it.
You let out a slow breath. “Let’s just forget it.”
Max doesn’t move. He looks like he wants to say more but as always he stops just short. You shake your head and walk away, the tension lingering behind you like smoke.
You’re not sure if he’s convinced.
You’re not sure you are either.
That night alone in your hotel room you lie in bed longer than you mean to, scrolling aimlessly on your laptop rereading emails you’ve already answered. At some point you check your phone one last time before you put it on charge.
There’s a new message from Max.
Just a photo.
Your favourite snack the one brand you always complain you can’t find here sitting neatly on your desk in his motorhome.
You stare at the screen for far longer than necessary.
You forgot to put it on a plate. I taught you better.
His reply comes immediately.
Thought I’d leave you something to scold me about otherwise I might miss it.
You don’t sleep well after that, but when you do drift off, you dream of him.
You should’ve known. The moment Max mentioned “just a small thing” on his yacht between races, you should’ve known.
You should’ve blocked off the date in his calendar, faked a scheduling conflict, pretended the boat had mechanical issues. Hell you should’ve burned the entire Monaco marina to the ground.
Instead you nodded because you were tired. Because it was late and he looked at you with that grin, the one he wears right before doing something reckless and deeply annoying.
And now?
Now you’re standing on the top deck of his floating monument to excess while EDM thunders through your skull, champagne pours into the sea, and someone truly is trying to light a cigar with a firework.
This isn’t a party.
It’s a disaster.
And you're part of it.
“Max!” you shout, pushing through a crowd of strangers, models, vaguely European tech bros, influencers who’ve filtered their faces into the same perfection.
Someone offers you a suspicious looking drink. You give them a look so cold it could freeze the Mediterranean.
You find him eventually near the bar of course. Halfway through a bottle of something so gold it probably shouldn’t be drinkable, laughing with unbridled energy.
He sees you.
And he smirks.
Bad sign.
“You’re here!” he calls over the music, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
“How drunk are you?”
He grins wider. “I’m celebrating.”
You glare. “What are you celebrating exactly? Your complete inability to respect any boundary I set?”
His smile falters. Just slightly.
You’ve been firm with him before snippy, tired, annoyed but you’ve never snapped. Not until now.
“I asked for one thing,” you continue, voice low but lethal. “No big party. No cameras. No press. No footage that I have to spend the next week cleaning up or spinning into something palatable for your sponsors.”
He tries to laugh it off. “Come on, it’s not that bad—”
“Max someone is filming an OnlyFans collab on your stairs!”
Max blinks.
“And I just got a message from your sponsor liaison asking if you’ve officially pivoted to a career in nightclub management.”
“Okay,” he says, straightening. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll fix it.”
You laugh and it’s not nice. “You won’t. You never do. You apologise make a joke promise to do better and then you forget by morning.”
He frowns. “Don’t be dramatic—”
“Dramatic?” You stare at him, stunned. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to spend my life putting out fires you set? Cancelling meetings because you’re too hungover to stand? Rearranging entire weekends because you feel like playing captain on your floating ego trip?”
He opens his mouth, but you’re not done. Not even close.
“I have spent years of my life making yours easier. Cleaner. Simpler. And you keep acting like the world owes you something just for showing up.”
His expression shifts. Defensive. Confused. Hurt.
“I’m done Max.”
He stills. Completely. “What?”
“I quit.”
The words come out steadier than you expect, but the air around them changes like something’s been dislodged in the center of your universe.
Max laughs once short and disbelieving. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
That silences him. You watch as the fight drains out of his expression.
“I—” he starts, then stops. His eyes search your face like maybe there’s a version of this where you're bluffing.
You say it again.
“I’m done.”
Then you see it like you’ve pulled a single thread and suddenly the whole fabric of his world is unraveling at the seams.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice thinner now. He’s not posturing anymore. He’s barely holding it together. “You always say that when you’re mad.”
“I’ve never said that before.”
He swallows hard. “So what—this is it?”
You shrug, even as your throat burns. “You’ll be fine. You always are. You’ll hire someone else. Someone who won’t push back every time you act like the rules don’t apply to you.”
“No,” he says, quickly. Too quickly. “No I won’t.”
“Max—”
“I can’t do this without you.”
The air stills.
His voice is different now quiet and hoarse, almost boyish in its honesty.
“You think I’d function without you?” he says, stepping toward you there’s nothing arrogant in the way he moves. Just desperation. “You think I’d remember to eat? To breathe?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
“You talk to me like I’m a person,” he continues, “not a headline. Not a paycheck. You don’t care what they think. You care what I see. What I feel. You make me show up. Not just on the track but here.”
He’s close now. The party hums behind you like a distant world you’re no longer part of.
“I know I act like I don’t notice but I do.” His jaw tics. “I see everything you do. Every crisis you fix. Every time you deal with the shit I create and still somehow look at me like I’m worth something.”
You blink too fast. Look away. You can’t cry not here. Not in front of him.
Max reaches out but he doesn’t touch you, won’t, but his hand hovers like he wants to, as if he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“Please don’t go.”
His voice is barely audible now. Just you and him and the ache you’ve been ignoring for far too long.
“I can’t lose you,” he says. “Not you.”
You don’t quit.
Not that night.
Not the next day either.
There are at least seven different moments where you almost do. Like when you’re up until 3 a.m. fielding calls from media, sponsors, and one very irate PR rep who uses the phrase "brand suicide" twice, or when you’re forced to sort through tagged Instagram stories showing Max grinning next to a man who brought an albino snake to the yacht.
But you don’t quit.
The press coverage is messy, but it’s manageable. The headlines are brutal, but you’ve weathered worse. Damage control becomes your entire personality for 48 hours straight.
Max shows up to a sponsor event. On time. Wearing the suit you picked. Sober. Hair styled.
When he’s asked about the party, about the chaos, about the videos that went viral he doesn’t deflect or smirk, he doesn’t make a joke about being “young” or “Dutch.”
He just says, clear and steady. “It got out of hand. I’ve learned from it.”
You almost drop your phone.
The next time you see him he’s slouched on a couch in the motorhome wearing sunglasses indoors like a hungover rockstar and holding a cup of something hot with all the enthusiasm of a man gripping poison.
“You’re not fired,” you say, setting his briefing packet on the table beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “I should be.”
“You’re not.”
This time he does glance at you. Over the rim of his sunglasses, his eyes meet yours.
“Why’d you stay?” he asks.
There’s no sarcasm or deflection just the honest question. A little lost.
You pause. There are a hundred reasons you could give. Because the whole team needs you. Because you love your job. Because walking away felt a lot more impossible than staying.
But none of them are the truth.
You hesitate, then answer quietly. “Because you matter to me.”
Max stares at you for a long beat and then—
He smiles, it’s not his usual smirk. Not cocky or smug or teasing. It’s soft a little unsteady around the edges.
It stays that way for the rest of the week.
No more parties, no more headlines, no chaos. He listens more and shows up to everything early which is frankly unsettling. He still pushes your buttons. Still forgets to charge his phone. Still asks if the catering crew can “just once” serve stroopwafels for breakfast, but it’s different.
You’re not sure what it means, only that for now you’re still here and so is he.
It’s been a week since the yacht party. Seven days since you nearly walked away from Max Verstappen. From your job. From whatever fragile, unspoken thing has been humming beneath the surface between you for far too long.
He’s been… different. Not in some dramatic, overnight transformation way he’s still Max, still occasionally infuriating, still drinks Red Bull for breakfast like it’s water and forgets his lanyard at least once a day but something has shifted.
No more brushing off your reminders with a smirk. No more groaning when you hand him briefing notes. He shows up early. He wears what you recommend out without comment. He sits in strategy meetings and asks questions instead of zoning out halfway through.
Most notably he doesn’t flirt.
Not with models.
Not with heiresses.
Not even with the stewardess who accidentally-on-purpose dropped her hotel key into his lap.
It’s unsettling. What’s worse is the way he looks at you now. Like he’s waiting. Watching. Like he’s afraid to push, but even more afraid to be shut out again.
He doesn’t crowd your space, doesn’t bait you into conversation the way he used to but every time you’re near walking past him in the garage, passing him his schedule in the motorhome, adjusting his earpiece before media he’s there, tracking you like he’s trying to memorise you in case you do disappear.
You don’t make it easy because the truth is, you’re still mad. Not in the white-hot yelling kind of way. That’s passed. This is quieter. More dangerous. You’re mad because he made you care too much because you think he might actually mean it the apology, the softness, the please don’t go, and now you don’t know what to do with that hope.
Worse still: you’re scared.
Because if he keeps this up, if he keeps acting like someone who could be serious, someone who could make space for you, not just as the person who organises his life, but as something more then you just might let your guard down.
Max doesn’t always understand half the things you do. He doesn’t know how you manage four calendars, so many time zones, and still remember to order his mum’s birthday flowers with a handwritten card in Dutch. He doesn’t know how you can sit through hours of briefings, bookings, and back-to-back calls and still have the presence of mind to pull him aside and remind him to breathe.
He knows this… he almost lost you, and it scared the hell out of him. That moment on the yacht when you said “I quit” with your voice steady and your eyes too bright it stuck in his ribs like shrapnel. He’s never seen you walk away from anything. Not a mistake. Not a crisis. Not him.
Something about it broke the rules he’s been pretending don’t exist.
He doesn’t know what to call this thing between you. The pull. The ache. The way he can feel you in the room before you speak, but he knows he can’t afford to lose it.
It’s the paddock walk in Sao Paulo and media is swirling like sharks. Max is flanked by his Red Bull team, walking with quiet confidence as cameras flash and fans scream from every barrier. You're behind him, checking notes, earbuds in, filtering out chaos like always.
One of them nods toward you as he walks alongside Max. “She’s very good. Efficient. Not a lot of assistants that can handle as much.”
Max just nods, focused ahead.
The guy smirks. “So… what is she to you anyway?”
Max stumbles. Just slightly. Blinks.
The man doesn’t notice. Keeps talking. “Girlfriend? Or is this like a long con assistant-with-benefits situation?”
Max stops walking.
The team slows.
The man looks confused. “What—did I say something?”
“She’s not a long con,” Max says, his voice flat.
The man raises his eyebrows. “So… girlfriend?”
Max opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
Because he doesn’t know how to answer. Because you’re not his girlfriend. You’re not just his assistant.
You’re not just anything.
You’re everything.
You notice it later, in the way Max is quiet through the entire strategy meeting. How he doesn’t argue when the tyre compound is changed last-minute. How he nods absently through the briefings but keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. His knee bounces under the table not like he’s impatient, like he’s unraveling.
Afterwards you’re packing up your things halfway through sending a message to the press team when he clears his throat.
“Can I talk to you?”
You glance up. “Now?”
He nods.
You follow him down the corridor, past media personnel and catering carts, until he slips into a small side room off the hospitality unit, quiet, air-conditioned, the faint scent of stale coffee and printer paper hanging in the air. He closes the door behind you, doesn’t turn around right away.
You wait with your arms crossed. Guard up.
He paces once. Twice. Then stops.
“I froze,” he says, suddenly. “Earlier.”
You blink. “What?”
“When that guy asked what you are to me.”
You don’t answer just lower your arms slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I should’ve said something… but I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“You don’t have to explain anything Max. I work for you. That’s the end of it.”
He turns toward you. Takes a step closer. His voice drops. “Is it?”
You hate him a little in that moment. For asking. For hesitating.
For almost being ready and still not getting there.
You shake your head, tight and slow. “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.”
He doesn’t move. Just looks at you, jaw clenched, hands at his sides like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.
You turn to leave and then his hand wraps gently around your wrist. Not pulling. Holding you there.
“Don’t walk away.”
You look down at where his fingers touch your skin then up at his face. His eyes are wide open.
“I need you,” he says. “I’m trying. I want to try.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy enough to buckle your knees.
You pull your hand free softly.
“I know Max.”
Then you leave, because if he doesn’t know what you are to him yet…
He’s not ready.
You’re not going to fall for someone who’s still figuring out if he can catch you.
