ᡣ𐭩

+18, svt ♡

[kimitations]

GOOD & PLENTY — h.js

pairing — joshua x afab!reader summary — joshua is the kind of hot that’s technically HR-safe until the annual conference makes it impossible to ignore. the two of you have been orbiting each other through polite smiles and project deadlines, trading glances across spreadsheets like it’s harmless. but in a different city, under hotel bar lighting and too many cocktails, “harmless” stops meaning anything. he kisses like he’s been waiting all financial year. wc. 10.6k

⚠ +18. MINORS DNI. warnings — mild alcohol consumption, smut, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering, protected piv. no solid d/s dynamic but josh is a chatty cathy. big dick joshua lowk? honestly just porn with minimal plot that i wrote at work.

📌 HYATT CENTRIC. CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. 9:32PM.

CHICAGO LOOKS DIFFERENT from thirty floors up—colder, quieter, like the city forgot to be loud for once. From the conference suite, the skyline bleeds silver against the lake, and the clink of glassware fills the silence between panels. Someone’s talking about quarterly growth; Joshua’s leaning on the railing beside you, tie loosened just enough to break the dress code. He smiles when you hand him a drink, the kind of smile that doesn’t mean anything in front of your coworkers—but it still feels like it does.

The evening’s thinning out. Clusters of colleagues linger near the buffet, laughing in that tired, wine-slow way that only happens after a full day of presentations. The HR team slips out in a cluster of perfume and goodbyes. The event coordinator dims the lights by a few degrees; the jazz playlist bleeding from the corner speakers sinks into something quieter. You and Joshua have drifted to the edge of things—the professional equivalent of slipping out for air without actually leaving.

“Did you learn anything today?” you ask, keeping your voice low, eyes on the reflection of the city instead of him.

“Only that people will still pay to hear the word authenticity in 2025.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he grins at the sound like he was waiting for it. Someone from accounts waves on their way out; Joshua lifts his glass in acknowledgment, his shoulder brushing yours when he does. It’s nothing. Just proximity. Just the shared fatigue of too many hours in recycled air.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s soft. The kind that fills itself with unsaid things. Down below, headlights move through the streets in slow constellations. You watch your own reflection in the glass—tired, half-lit, standing too close to a man you shouldn’t think about this way.

“Bar downstairs should still be open,” he says after a beat, casual but measured, like he’s tossing the idea into neutral ground.

You tilt your head toward him. “What happened to calling it early?”

“I said eventually.” He finishes his drink, sets the empty glass on the high table between you. “One real one before we go back to pretending we like each other in fluorescent lighting.”

“Right,” you murmur. “For team morale.”

He laughs quietly, pushing off the railing. The movement pulls his jacket tighter across his shoulders, and you have to look away before it becomes obvious that you noticed. He waits for you to follow, standing at the doorway as the conference room empties behind you—still part of the group, but somehow already separate.

The elevator ride down is slow, filled with the faint hum of the cables and the clatter of the last few attendees’ laughter somewhere behind you. When the doors open onto the lobby, the city pours in through the glass—wet pavement, the neon flicker of the sign across the street, the muted sound of traffic.

Joshua gestures toward the hotel bar tucked beside the lounge, all warm light and dark wood. “After you,” he says, voice easy.

You pretend not to hear the edge of amusement in it, stepping past him into the amber glow.

The bar hums with the kind of low, late-evening quiet that only hotel lounges seem to perfect—polished wood, soft light, a piano left to rest. The last few conference stragglers have settled at tables near the windows, their laughter a distant hum behind the lull of jazz. You and Joshua take a corner booth, the leather warm under your palms, the city glimmering through rain-slick glass just beyond his shoulder.

He orders something you can’t pronounce—a bourbon with a name that sounds like an old book. The bartender nods and moves with unhurried grace, like there’s no rush, no expectation. When it’s your turn, you half-smile and ask for something easier. An amaretto sour, because you like how it looks in the glass and you know it’ll go down too smooth.

“Still sweet?” Joshua asks when the drinks arrive, the faint curl of a grin tugging at his mouth. He’s close enough that his voice barely rises above the music.

“Still strong,” you counter, lifting the glass and letting the foam settle against the rim before you take a sip.

He chuckles, low and warm. The bourbon smells like vanilla and smoke. He smells like it too—sweet wood, clean cologne, that faint trace of something softer you can never quite name. He leans back in the booth, arm stretched across the backrest, and the space between you shrinks without either of you meaning to. His jacket brushes your shoulder when he moves. You tell yourself it’s just the booth being small.

To anyone looking in, it’s nothing more than two colleagues winding down—post-conference gossip, maybe. Work talk filtered through exhaustion. You laugh over the keynote speaker’s overuse of buzzwords, how the catering staff somehow ran out of dessert before the second course, how next year’s location better have decent weather. But inside the booth, it feels different. The air hums. Every laugh lingers a little too long. Every glance stretches.

Joshua’s smile always reaches his eyes. He listens with the kind of focus that makes you feel like you’ve said something worth hearing. When you talk, he looks at you—not past you, not at the condensation on his glass, but at you—and it burns a little under your skin. He doesn’t do it on purpose, you think. Joshua’s not a flirt by nature; he just makes people feel seen. Maybe that’s why you can’t tell when the warmth in your chest starts belonging more to him than to the liquor.

You match his teasing easily. He says something about your reputation for being too organized, and you toss it back with a comment about his habit of turning every brief into a poem. The banter moves like a dance—unhurried, unguarded, the kind of rhythm built over years of knowing when to push and when to let silence do the work.

The bartender passes by once to clear glasses, and you realize you’ve both finished your drinks. Joshua gestures for another round without asking, and you let him. It’s easier than stopping, easier than thinking. The warmth in your throat spreads, sweet and slow, and the city outside blurs into streaks of gold and shadow.

At some point, you stop remembering who brought up what. The conversation drifts from work to travel to things that aren’t supposed to be personal but start to sound that way: old cities, favorite songs, small regrets. His voice drops when he asks if you’ve ever stayed out late just to see what a city looks like when it forgets its own name. You want to say yes. You want to tell him it looks exactly like this—quiet, suspended, one breath away from something you shouldn’t want.

It’s probably the Disaronno, you tell yourself. The sweetness always makes you soft around the edges. That slow buzz beneath your skin, the pull toward him that feels too real—it’s just the drink. It has to be. Because Joshua is lovely. Always has been. But tonight, in the amber glow, with the bourbon on his breath and that patient smile aimed squarely at you, lovely feels like something a lot more dangerous.

The second round arrives with a faint clink of glass, condensation trailing down the sides like a countdown neither of you is watching too closely. Joshua lifts his bourbon in an easy salute, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again. The bar feels quieter now—music softer, laughter thinning to a distant hum. He’s loosened up, the edge of professionalism worn away by the hour and the warmth in his cheeks.

“So,” he says, turning his glass between his fingers, “how many times did you think about walking out during that last panel?”

“Only three,” you reply. “Four, if you count when they said ‘authentic connection’ for the twelfth time.”

He grins, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “You lasted longer than I did.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“You? Never.” He laughs into his drink, voice low, smooth. “I think you could cause one just by disagreeing too politely.”

You hum, pretending not to feel your pulse pick up. “That’s rich, coming from the man who charmed an entire client board into changing their brand colors because you said orange was ‘aspirational.’”

Joshua feigns offense, hand to his heart. “It is aspirational.”

“It’s hideous.”

His laugh rings out—soft, genuine, the kind that catches you in the ribs. He leans closer without meaning to, forearm resting on the table between you, and suddenly he’s too near. The light cuts across his face—clean lines, soft mouth, lashes that should be illegal. He smells expensive: sandalwood, cedar, and the faintest trace of bourbon’s sweetness. It’s devastating.

Something you must understand about Joshua Hong: he is gorgeous. Not in the distant, magazine-cover way, but in the kind that sneaks up on you. Earnest and unassuming, until you realize you’ve been staring for too long. Yes, he’s a good listener. Yes, he’s the kind of man who remembers details from conversations you forgot you’d had. But he’s also infuriatingly easy on the eyes, and he smells divine. God help you, it was the first thing you noticed the day he joined the company—fresh out of the intern program, sleeves rolled, name tag clipped crooked.

Even through years of late nights and client calls, even through the endless slide decks and caffeine and the droning voices of today’s panels on the future of digital identity and brand intimacy in the age of algorithms, one thing has remained constant: you want Joshua Hong.

He says your name then, just to pull you back from wherever your mind wandered. “You still with me?”

“Barely,” you admit.

He smiles, tilting his head. “That bad?”

“Worse,” you say. “You’re still here.”

He laughs again, softer this time, eyes flicking down to your mouth before darting back up. It’s nothing overt—no lingering look, no invitation—but it’s enough to tip the air between you into something electric.

“Dangerous thing to say to your coworker,” he murmurs, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something that doesn’t sound entirely like a joke.

You stir your drink just to have something to do with your hands. “Good thing you’re a good listener.”

“I try,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving up, and you can’t tell whether the room feels warmer because of the bourbon or because Joshua’s still watching you like you’re the only person in the room worth listening to.

It’s just past eleven when you both finally give in to the pull of the elevator lobby. The bar has emptied around you—empty glasses lined neatly like punctuation marks on a night that went on longer than intended. The conference tab covers everything, so no one needs to fumble for cards or tips. Just a polite nod to the bartender, a quiet goodnight, and the soft click of your shoes on marble as you and Joshua cross the lobby toward the elevators.

The hush of the hour sits between you, gentle and heavy. The air smells like rain and wood polish, and the only sound is the hum of the elevator cables and the quiet shuffle of your coats. He presses the call button with one long finger, glancing sideways at you with that half-smile that means he’s fighting the urge to fill the silence with something light. The doors open, you both step in, and the soft gold light folds around you like the last drink of the evening.

Maybe it is the Disaronno. It sits low and warm in your stomach, fuzzy around the edges, dissolving that invisible boundary between restraint and indulgence. It makes you bold—or maybe just honest. Because right now, standing beside Joshua, your body feels like it’s aware of him in ways your mind pretends not to be: the heat of his arm near yours, the faint scent of bourbon and cedar, the easy way he occupies space like he was built to do it. He tucks his hands behind his neck and stretches—long, lazy, feline—as though shaking off the day. His shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders, the motion unselfconscious but lethal.

You glance away, or try to, but the mirrored walls are a traitor. He leans back against the glass, a faint smudge of his reflection beside your own, and flicks an errant curl off his forehead with a tired sigh. The gesture is nothing, ordinary, but the sight of it does something ridiculous to your chest. When his eyes lift and meet yours in the reflection, time lurches—the slow slide of breath between you suddenly the only sound. He catches you staring. You don’t even bother pretending you weren’t.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and almost private, more exhale than laughter. “You’re looking at me like I’ve got spinach in my teeth,” he says, tone gentle, teasing—but his gaze lingers, and something about it feels deliberate. Not cocky, not smug. Just… aware.

“Do you?” you manage, the words catching somewhere between amusement and embarrassment.

“No,” he murmurs, his reflection smiling faintly. “I didn’t know I could hold your attention that long.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t help the warmth in your throat. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s the lighting.”

He hums—a soft, knowing sound—and you both fall quiet again. The seconds stretch, the elevator humming as it climbs. He shifts slightly closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you feel it. He looks down, then at the mirror again, and when he catches your gaze this time, there’s no laughter in it. Just something open, testing, as though he’s putting out a hand to see if you’ll take it.

The elevator dings softly. The spell breaks, just barely. You step forward as the doors slide open to the muted corridor of your floor, its carpet muffling the world into stillness. He gestures for you to go first, and your shoulder brushes his as you pass. It’s enough to make you forget how to breathe for a second.

Your rooms are side by side, separated by nothing but a wall—an architectural choice that feels like a cosmic joke. Maybe the company thought it was practical, that you’d stay up late strategizing for tomorrow’s panel, reviewing slides, conspiring professionally. Maybe they trusted you not to let exhaustion and proximity turn into something else entirely.

You reach your door at the same time he does, keycards in hand, neither of you moving to swipe first. The air between you is thick with all the things that haven’t been said since the moment he caught you looking. His voice breaks the quiet, softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says.

“Night,” you reply, though it comes out lower than you mean it to.

Joshua smiles again—gentle, unreadable—and turns toward his door. For a heartbeat, you think that’s it. Then he glances back, eyes finding yours one last time, that same subtle, lingering question flickering there.

The locks click in near-perfect unison. Two doors shutting on the same thought, on the same side of the same wall.

The hotel room settles around you in stillness too neat to be comfortable. You’ve kicked off your shoes, lined them side by side near the wall like it matters, set your phone to charge though you’ve scrolled through it twice already. The city hums outside—car horns, wind over the river—but it’s the noise closer at hand that keeps your thoughts from resting.

Through the wall, faint and muffled, you can hear movement: the slow drag of a zipper, a sigh, the low clink of glass. Joshua. Of course. The walls are thin enough to blur the small sounds into something almost domestic, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to name. You imagine him loosening the last button of his shirt, running a hand through his hair, standing in the same lamplight as you but a world away.

It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. Adults can share a floor, a wall, a thousand hours of small talk without turning into clichés. You take a long breath, roll over, try to focus on the steady hum of the air conditioner. The sound through the wall fades for a while. You think that’s it—that he’s gone to bed, that you’ll forget the way his voice dropped when he said goodnight outside the elevator.

Then comes the knock.

Soft. Polite. Two short raps that don’t sound like housekeeping or an emergency. You sit up before you’ve even decided to.

When you open the door, Joshua’s there, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He’s still in his button-down, sleeves rolled, collar a little crooked. His hair is damp at the edges, like he’s just washed his face. He smiles—sheepish, careful, devastating.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting a small white cord between his fingers. “Do you have a charger that works for this? Mine just died.”

You stare at the cable, then back at him. “That’s your excuse?”

He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Excuse?”

“Joshua,” you say, and his name comes out softer than you mean it to. “That’s a really poor one.”

His mouth curves—not quite a grin, not quite guilt. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low, a single syllable that somehow sounds like relief.

He doesn’t move to leave. You don’t move to close the door. The hallway is quiet except for the hum of the ice machine down the corridor. For a heartbeat, it feels like the world’s balanced on the edge of that sound.

“I just—” He stops, glances down at the charger, then up at you again. The act drops completely. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, pretending you’re still deciding. “And you thought I’d be awake?”

“I hoped,” he says, and that word does you in.

You open the door wider. “Come in before someone sees you standing here pretending to need tech support.”

He laughs quietly, stepping past you. He smells like warm wood and something faintly sweet, the ghost of the bourbon still clinging to his skin. The room feels smaller with him in it—not claustrophobic, just… compressed, like air before a storm. He sets the useless charger on the desk without looking at it, then turns back to you.

“You were right,” he murmurs.

“About what?”

“That was a terrible excuse.”

You shake your head, half smiling despite yourself. “It worked.”

He exhales, slow and shaky. The tension that’s been building since the bar settles between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. For a moment, you both just stand there—him close enough that you can see the faint bruise of fatigue under his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says finally, quiet but steady. “If you’d rather I go back to my room—”

“Joshua.”

He stops.

“Don’t ruin it by pretending we don’t both know why you’re here.”

The words hang between you, raw and strangely gentle. His gaze searches yours for permission, or maybe just confirmation that he hasn’t imagined any of it. You give it to him in silence, in the way your shoulders loosen, the way your lips part as you exhale.

He steps closer. The distance collapses in one careful movement, and the next breath you take tastes faintly of him—bourbon, citrus, and the quiet surrender of two people who have finally stopped pretending.

Joshua’s laugh comes out in a rush—soft, breathy, almost disbelieving. “You knew?” he says, and there’s a nervous brightness behind it, like he can’t quite believe you’ve said it out loud. “This whole time? And you didn’t say anything?”

You blink, mouth parting. “Well, no.” The words trip over themselves, barely above a whisper. “I hoped.”

The confession hangs there, raw and open between you, and the world narrows until there’s only his face in the low hotel light. Your stomach drops at the weight of it, the final click of realization that maybe all those moments you told yourself you’d imagined—every brush of his hand, every look that lasted one beat too long—were real. God, of course he had feelings this entire time.

Joshua’s jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep a smile in check, a quiet flush creeping up from his collar. He looks almost boyish in that second—relieved, bashful, a little undone. You can feel the same heat crawling up your own neck, pulsing beneath your skin, the same nervous energy that’s always hummed between you finally finding air.

He searches your face, eyes tracing over the corners of your mouth, your throat, the tilt of your chin, like he’s looking for proof he didn’t just mishear you. You don’t move, don’t speak, just let him look. The silence thickens, stretching long enough for you to hear both of your breaths start to sync.

When he finally speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave, low and careful. “You really didn’t know?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “I didn’t let myself.”

He huffs a small laugh, this time without the nervousness, and takes a half-step closer. “Maybe I should’ve been braver.”

The distance between you feels negligible now—his body heat bleeding into yours, the faint smell of soap and bourbon hanging in the air. You can feel your pulse hammering, feel his gaze flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. You’re both waiting for the same thing, realizing, in perfect tandem, that waiting has officially outlived its purpose.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you feels fragile, like a held breath might shatter it. Joshua’s gaze dips to your mouth and lingers there, hesitation caught in the set of his jaw, the quiet in his throat. Then, finally, he leans in—slow enough that you could still pull away if you wanted to, close enough that you can taste his breath, warm and faintly sweet.

The first press of his lips is cautious, questioning. It’s the soft kind of kiss that feels more like is this okay? than I’ve wanted this forever. You exhale against him, a sound caught somewhere between surprise and relief, and that tiny noise seems to undo him completely.

The second kiss comes harder, the uncertainty burning away the moment his hand finds the side of your jaw. It’s no longer polite or tentative—it’s years of stolen glances and swallowed words finding their outlet all at once. You meet him halfway, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt before sliding up to the back of his neck.

He makes a quiet sound when you thread your hand through his hair, the soft drag of your fingertips against the nape pulling him in closer. The angle shifts, deepening, your mouths moving together like the rest of the world has dropped out of focus. His breath stumbles against yours; your pulse jumps under his thumb. The careful restraint he’s worn all evening slips, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of the polite coworker in the bar—just Joshua, warm and solid and wanting.

When you finally break apart, it’s barely a pause—just enough space to breathe, to see the faint daze in his eyes before you close the distance again. This time, there’s no question in it. Only recognition.

Something white-hot shoots down your spine when Joshua’s hands shift—slow, deliberate—sliding from the dip of your waist to the curve of your hip. His fingers press in gently at first, testing, before he drags one hand lower to cup the swell of your ass in a grip that makes your breath catch entirely.

The contact is unexpected, firmer than before, and it pulls a sound from you—quiet but involuntary, caught somewhere between surprise and something far more desperate. It slips out against his mouth, and you feel him inhale sharply like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

His other arm tightens around your waist, tugging you fully against him in one fluid motion. There’s nothing polite about it. Your bodies fit like a promise that’s been waiting too long, the heat of him hitting you all at once—his chest, his hips, the slow-burning want thrumming between you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, barely audible, and his hand flexes in response, grounding you even closer.

Joshua groans into the kiss, just the edge of it, like he’s losing the careful grip he’s kept all night. His mouth drags to the corner of yours, then your jaw, his lips hot and open as they press there. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent.

Your hand fists tighter in his hair, pulling him back to your mouth like that confession alone is enough to undo you. And maybe it is. Maybe this whole thing is already undoing you—his hands, his mouth, the slow ache building under your skin.

Joshua groans softly into your mouth, the sound dark and low as his hands knead at your hips, sliding over the curve of your ass like he’s been dreaming about it for months. He tugs you closer with both hands full, guiding you against him in one fluid, unhurried pull. There’s nothing subtle about the way he holds you now—his restraint, which hung on so carefully all night, is well and truly gone.

You gasp against his jaw, a breathless, involuntary sound that betrays just how fast the heat is crawling under your skin. He responds with another kiss—deeper, dirtier—and you meet him without hesitation, a hand still tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

He mouths along your jaw, then your neck, the stubble on his upper lip catching just slightly against the edge of your throat. Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe him in—bourbon and sweet wood and something warm and distinctly him.

And then you feel it: the moment. That quiet snap in your spine where instinct wins out over caution, over timing, over fear. Maybe it’s the way he groans when you tug his hair, or the fact that you’re still standing in the middle of a too-expensive hotel room like it’s any other night—but suddenly, you want to move. You need to.

So you do.

You let your hand trail down his chest, fingers catching on the open edge of his shirt, then sliding lower—down, down, until they hook into the waistband of his pants. The motion is unhurried, almost contemplative, but the message is unmistakable. His breath stutters as you start to backpedal toward the bed, dragging him with you by the front of his slacks.

He follows like it’s instinct—no resistance, just tension and heat and his hands never leaving your body. One slides up your back, fingers spanning wide between your shoulder blades; the other keeps you anchored tight to him, his thigh brushing yours with every step.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed first. You stop, just for a second, both of you breathless, hovering. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, hair mussed from your grip. You wonder if you look just as undone—if he can see it written across your face, the raw want, the finally.

He opens his mouth like he might say something, but you don’t let him. You surge forward, kiss him again—harder, messier, less composed. And he moans this time, full and shameless into your mouth, as you fall back onto the bed and pull him down with you.

The last thread of patience unspools. You feel it in the way his hands roam now, greedy and reverent, in the way your body arches to meet him. You don’t care that it’s been building for years, that you’re coworkers, that there’s a wall behind you where you stood trying to stay composed.

You’ve waited long enough. You’re not waiting anymore. You’re getting fucked tonight.

“Didn’t expect you to be so greedy,” Joshua whispers, breath warm against your cheek as your fingers find the first button of his shirt. There’s a flicker of amusement in his voice, but it’s roughened now, stretched thin by the heat that’s settled between you. His hands are still on your waist, thumb brushing in slow, absent circles, but everything about the way he looks at you—lips parted, lashes heavy—feels like he’s holding his breath.

You huff a laugh, half-dazed and already drunk on the weight of him, on the thrill of unwrapping something you’ve spent too long imagining. The second button slips free, then the third, and his chest slowly comes into view—warm skin, golden from sunlight and time, every line and shadow a study in discipline. His torso is sculpted like he’s always been patient, like he’s built himself deliberately. You’d tease him for it if your mouth weren’t already dry.

“I’m not shy, Josh.” The fourth button gives under your thumb, the shirt beginning to part fully. Your voice is quiet but clear, threading through the air between you like a challenge. You push the fabric off his shoulders in one slow drag, watching it slide over the slope of his arms. “I just didn’t want to make things weird by being wrong.”

He stills for half a second, the shirt slipping to the floor. His breath catches—just barely—but his eyes never leave yours. And then his mouth curves, that perfect, quiet smile pulling at the corners like it means something more now.

“You weren’t,” he says, low and sure. One hand lifts to cradle your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he can’t believe you’re really here beneath him. “You’re never wrong.”

Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, slower, like he’s tasting the weight of what you’ve both just admitted. And you let him, because there’s nothing left to hold back.

Joshua’s hands slide up your sides with a reverence that makes your breath hitch, calloused fingertips dragging slowly over the soft cotton of the shirt you’d thrown on with every intention of sleep. He moves like he’s memorising you—palms skimming your waist, tracing the edge of your ribs—until they slip beneath the fabric and find bare skin. The contact is warm, grounding, a contrast to the cool air of the hotel room as he glides higher, mapping the curve of your sides, the line of your back.

When his fingers graze the underside of your breasts, you exhale shakily, and he pulls back just far enough to look at you properly. His eyes are dark, flushed with heat and something tenderer, more awed. Then, without a word, he sits back on his knees and nods once, gaze fixed on yours, giving you space and invitation in the same breath. You push yourself up slowly, the air catching in your lungs as you raise your arms for him.

Joshua peels the shirt over your head with careful hands, slow and deliberate like he’s unwrapping something fragile. The soft fabric brushes up your spine, your arms, your shoulders, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere with his own. His eyes don’t leave you. He doesn’t speak. He just smiles—slow, warm, like someone just served him a five-star meal and didn’t charge.

Then his lips are on you again, chasing you back down to the bed in one unbroken, hungry motion. He kisses you like he can’t decide which part of you to worship first—your mouth, your jaw, the tender line of your throat. His mouth moves with purpose, leaving heat in its wake, until he reaches your collarbone and bites down just enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hand finds your breast again, this time bare, this time with no fabric to soften the touch. He cups you, fingers spreading like he wants to feel the shape of you completely, thumb brushing up the swell before his palm presses in and squeezes, slow and sure.

Then he shifts, kisses lower, and seals his mouth around your nipple with a low groan that vibrates against your skin.

The gasp that escapes you is sharp, stunned, ripped from somewhere deep. He looks up, lips still wrapped around you, and smiles—not smug, not teasing, just honest pleasure. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Like this is what he’s been aching for.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he sucks—slow, focused, like he wants to ruin you with just his mouth. His hand kneads you gently, thumb flicking once, then again.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and he smiles wider against your skin, like he likes hearing you unravel. Like he plans to hear a lot more of it before the night is over.

Joshua’s mouth moves from one breast to the other, his pace slow and deliberate, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pulls that make your head spin. He keeps his eyes on you the entire time, watching the way you respond, the way your breath catches when he drags his tongue over sensitive skin. Every shift of his mouth draws another sound from your throat—soft, needy, completely unguarded. He doesn’t stop until your back arches off the mattress, until your hips are shifting restlessly against the sheets, searching for friction that isn’t there. Only then does he pull away, his lips glistening and curved into a satisfied smile.

“Move up the bed, baby.” The words come out rougher than he probably intends, low enough that they vibrate through you. His hands brace on either side of your shoulders as he speaks, voice breathless but steady. You obey, shuffling back until your head finds the pillow, your pulse still beating hard against your ribs.

Joshua’s cheeks are flushed a sweet, lingering shade of red, the kind that betrays how badly he wants you despite the calm in his tone. When your body settles beneath him, he dips back down, picking up the trail he left unfinished—kissing the curve between your breasts, the soft hollow of your sternum, the subtle rise of your stomach. Each kiss feels slower, heavier, more reverent than the last.

By the time his mouth reaches your navel, your breathing’s uneven again, anticipation curling tight in your gut. His palms slide down your sides, following the shape of your hips, until they find the hem of your pyjama pants. His thumbs hook under the waistband, and the gentle tug is all it takes for the air to thicken. You go still instantly—stiff, breath caught halfway out of your lungs.

He notices. Of course he does. Joshua pauses, head lifting, eyes soft and searching. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice dipping back into that steady, careful register you’ve heard a hundred times in less intimate settings. “Are you okay?” His hands leave the fabric immediately, palms open in the air like he’s surrendering.

Your lips part, a quick rush of air leaving you before you manage a quiet, embarrassed sigh. “Josh, I haven’t… it’s been, like, a week since I shaved.”

For a second, silence stretches between you. His expression flickers—concern melting into blank surprise—and then into something else entirely. The corner of his mouth twitches. His shoulders start to shake.

“Are you serious?” he says, and then he laughs—quiet, incredulous, eyes crinkling. “I’m thirty. You know that, right?”

You frown up at him, caught between mortification and confusion. “Okay? What does that have to do with anything?”

He sits back slightly, hands still resting on your thighs, grin spreading until it’s wide and impossible to fight. “It means I’m a grown man. I’ve eaten Starburst with bits of the wrapper still on.” He gives you a look that’s part teasing, part impossibly fond. “Lay back down.”

For a heartbeat, you just stare at him. He doesn’t move to close the distance again—just waits, calm and patient, his body still humming with the same heat but his eyes soft enough that you know he means it. He’ll stop if you want him to.

You exhale slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders, and fall back against the pillow. A sigh slips from you—half embarrassment, half relief—and when you glance down, his smile has gentled into something far quieter.

“Touché,” you murmur.

Joshua’s grin returns, smaller but warmer this time. “That’s what I thought.”

Then, finally, he moves again—fingers slipping once more into the waistband of your pyjama pants, thumbs pressing just enough to tease, to test. His eyes flick up to meet yours, unreadable but full of intent, and then he flicks his chin in the smallest of gestures.

You lift your hips wordlessly, breath catching, and he tugs the fabric down your thighs with maddening patience. His knuckles graze your skin as he drags them past your knees, down each calf, slipping them over your ankles one at a time. The sound they make hitting the floor is barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears.

Joshua doesn’t rush. He never does. He treats it like a ritual, like a reveal he’s earned—not something to tear into but something to uncover piece by piece. He takes your ankle in hand, thumb brushing over the curve of bone before lifting your leg by the handle of it, pressing a kiss just below your knee.

You exhale shakily.

Then he starts.

He kisses the inside of your calf first—soft, lingering. Then higher, a little to the left. Then again, just above the seam of your knee, where he presses his mouth a little firmer. His lips are warm, open, and your skin feels electric under his mouth. The further up he goes, the slower he gets.

By the time he’s at the tender skin of your inner thigh, your back is threatening to arch clear off the mattress. He hasn’t touched you where you need it, hasn’t even looked like he’s going to yet, and it’s killing you.

The gentleman act is lovely. Truly. The care, the attention, the reverence in his hands and mouth—it’s everything you didn’t know you wanted from him. But you’re not shy, and you’re certainly not patient. Not anymore.

Your left leg settles over his shoulder, knee bent, heel brushing at the slope of his back. He’s warm and steady beneath your touch, mouth ghosting maddeningly close to where you’re already aching. He kisses the softest part of your inner thigh, lets his teeth scrape gently over the flesh, and then glances up—eyes dark, lashes low, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You can feel his breath against you, warm and slow and deliberate. Every muscle in your stomach pulls tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly. “So wet. I barely did anything.”

You’re trembling. Your fingers twist in the sheets, jaw slack, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a mile.

“Joshua Hong,” you hiss through clenched teeth, your voice tight with disbelief, desire, frustration—everything. “I swear to God—”

He grins, utterly shameless, and kisses a little higher. Right where it hurts.

“Hmm?” he hums against your skin, like he’s innocent, like he doesn’t already know exactly how wrecked you are. “You were saying?”

You could scream. You could sob. Instead, you groan—a noise pulled from the depths of your throat—and tug on his hair with the hand that’s suddenly threaded through it.

Joshua chuckles, low and pleased, and finally—finally—he gives in, and it’s like flipping a switch.

He leans in, tongue parting your folds with a patience that borders on cruel, dragging up through your slick with a low groan that vibrates straight through your core. It’s not clumsy or rushed—it’s exploratory, measured. He’s tasting you like he’s curious, like this is a sensory puzzle he’s determined to solve.

And he learns fast.

He clocks the way your breath stutters when his tongue presses just a little firmer, the way your thighs twitch when he circles instead of flicks. He marks each tell like a data point—arch of your spine, flutter of your lashes, the way your hips roll upward without thought—and builds a blueprint in his head of exactly how to unravel you.

You feel it in the way he focuses in, unrelenting. Every time your fingers tighten in his hair, he doubles down—deeper, slower, faster, whatever you ask for without words. He’s locked in, completely, and it’s devastating. His hands are firm where they spread your thighs, one arm looped beneath your leg, the other hand gripping your hip with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He uses his mouth like a man starved, but it’s when he adds his fingers—slipping two inside you with a smooth, careful press—that your mouth drops open in a soundless cry.

God, his hands. Long, thick fingers, calloused just enough to drag delicious friction against your walls. He curls them just right, watching you from beneath his lashes like he’s trying to memorise what makes you squirm.

And you do—squirm. You writhe and curse and grind down against his mouth, your free hand fisting the sheets while the other stays tangled in his hair, holding him to you like an anchor.

You catch it by accident—mid-moan, mid-breathless stammer of his name—the subtle shift of his hips against the mattress.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

He’s grinding. Subtle, barely-there movements, hips canting down into the mattress as he eats you out like he’s never tasted anything better. Like he can’t help it. The visual hits you hard—your devastatingly hot coworker, who spends half his life being professionally charming and unfailingly put-together, now reduced to rutting into hotel linen with your thighs over his shoulders.

It’s obscene. It’s perfect.

“Josh—” you gasp, high and fraying.

His eyes flick up at the sound of his name, lips glistening, chin slick, expression half-wrecked. He blinks slow, like he’s pulling himself back to earth.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, throat working.

“You’re grinding on the bed,” you manage to say, barely above a whisper, as if pointing it out will make it more real.

Joshua stills for a second, eyes wide—like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.

And then he grins.

“Can you blame me?” he says, voice dark with arousal, mouth returning to the crease of your thigh. “You taste like you were made for this.”

The groan that leaves your throat isn’t entirely human.

“Back up,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Let me finish what I started.”

He doesn’t stop—not when your hips buck into his face, not when your thighs begin to tremble, not even when they clamp tight around his head like you’re trying to lock him in place. If anything, it spurs him on.

Joshua groans, low and wrecked, the sound muffled against your cunt as he doubles down, tongue flattening and curling, relentless in his rhythm. His fingers keep working inside you—deliberate, unyielding—as your thighs begin to shake around his ears. You feel the coil inside you snap with a shuddering gasp, your spine arching off the mattress, fingers buried in his hair, holding him so close you’re half convinced he might just let you suffocate him right there.

And judging by the way he moans into you—he’d let you. Happily.

Your orgasm hits hard. White-hot and sweeping, stealing the air from your lungs as he works you through it, not easing up even as your body begins to writhe with overstimulation. You gasp, broken and breathless, hips jerking with each pass of his mouth. He only slows when your hands falter—when your legs begin to loosen around him, no longer straining to hold him in place but trembling, pliant, undone.

Only then does he ease off, mouth trailing one last soft kiss to your inner thigh before he finally pulls back, eyes heavy-lidded and flushed with heat.

Your breath catches as you watch him—watch the way he sits back on his knees, chest rising and falling, fingers glistening. He brings them to his mouth and licks them clean like a man savouring the final bite of something decadent, eyes locked on yours the entire time. There’s no teasing in it. No bravado. Just hunger. Reverence. Delight.

You blink at him, wrecked and speechless.

He pushes off the bed, standing tall at the foot of it as his fingers move to his waistband—slow at first, like he’s letting you have your fill of the view. His gaze doesn’t leave you, but there’s a flicker of something smug in the curl of his mouth as he unbuttons and unzips his slacks, peeling them down his hips. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes drop, the way your breath stutters at the sight of him standing there in nothing but soft grey Calvins, stretched taut over the hard line of his arousal, the fabric darker at the tip where he’s already leaking for you.

You take a moment to be selfish, to look.

Because how could you not? Joshua Hong is the kind of handsome that borders on unfair—abs carved like a sculpture, thighs thick and defined, chest broad enough to pin you and hold you there. He’s the kind of fine that has made you grip the edge of your desk at work more than once, biting your tongue during meetings when he leans too far back in his chair or stretches his arms overhead like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s always known.

He peels off his briefs with a bit more urgency, groaning softly as the cool air of the room meets the hot, flushed skin of his cock. He’s big—thick, long, the kind of full you’ve fantasized about more times than you’d admit, your thighs pressing together beneath conference tables, under hotel sheets, in the haze of a post-work bath. It should feel surreal, but it doesn’t. It feels inevitable.

He’s on the bed again before the thought can settle fully, climbing up the mattress on his hands and knees until he’s over you, braced on his elbows, mouth catching yours in a kiss that knocks the breath from your lungs. He tastes like you. Like your skin and sweat and slick, like the echo of your orgasm still thrumming under your ribs. You moan into his mouth and slide one hand up to cradle his jaw, the other trailing lower—past his chest, his stomach—until your fingers wrap around the heavy weight of his cock.

Joshua groans into your kiss like it guts him.

His hips stutter forward reflexively, his lats tightening beneath your touch as you begin to stroke him, slow and purposeful. He’s so warm, thick in your hand, and it’s obscene in the best possible way—feeling him like this after months of imagining, knowing now what he sounds like when he moans, what he looks like when he’s half-wrecked above you. You press your thighs together at the memory of his mouth on you, at the low, broken noises he made between them.

Your thumb swipes over the slick head, and Joshua’s breath catches.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a moment. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, breathless and smug. “Not yet.”

He pulls away with a suddenness that startles you, and for a split second, your hand falls from his length, bristling with the kind of confusion that reads as rejection. But then he breathes out hard—like he’s just remembered how to—and mutters, “I—fuck. I have a condom. In my pocket.”

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

Then you let out a short laugh, half incredulous, half delighted, and wrap your hand back around him, stroking slow and deliberate as he groans low in his throat.

“You were really counting on that charger, huh?” you tease, watching the flush climb higher on his chest, the way his cock twitches in your palm.

Joshua drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained little laugh, breath warm against your skin. “I had hope,” he mumbles, kissing the curve of your jaw before reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. He rifles through one pocket, then the other, muttering something about Murphy’s law before fishing out the little black foil square like it’s divine intervention.

You sit up with him, feel the ache in your thighs already setting in as your body tries to keep up with how far gone your mind is. He sits back on his heels and tears open the packet with quick fingers, rolling the condom down over his length, his jaw tight with focus, eyes flicking up to meet yours once it’s on. It does something to you—how careful he is. How thorough. How he still checks in.

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, soft and lingering, before you lie back against the pillows, heart thudding in anticipation. He follows a moment later, weight warm and steady as he braces himself above you with a forearm near your head. You bend one knee up beside his hip, breath catching when he shifts lower and guides himself between your thighs, dragging the tip of his cock slowly through your folds.

The pressure is delicious—barely-there friction, teasing and filthy all at once. You exhale, hips tilting up in search of more.

Joshua watches your face like he’s memorizing it, voice quiet and tender when he asks, “This okay?”

You nod, a little too fast. “Please,” you whisper. “Yes. Please.”

He kisses you once—soft, reverent—and then finally presses forward, the blunt head of his cock nudging inside. The stretch burns in the best way, slow and deep as he eases into you inch by inch, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek as you suck in a shaky breath. He groans something low, something nearly reverent as your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, forehead pressing to yours. “You feel—god, you feel so good.”

You cling to him, hands finding his back, his shoulders, nails digging in lightly as he bottoms out. And then, for a suspended second, everything goes still. The air between you vibrates with it. With the weight of want finally realized. With the ache of every look, every near miss, every night spent wondering if you’d ever get here.

He pulls back slowly, dragging his cock out to just the tip, and your breath stutters at the friction—slick and sweet and dizzying. His head drops to your shoulder, lips brushing your skin as you tighten instinctively around him, every nerve ending lit up with sensation. He groans, deep and throaty, the sound vibrating against your throat as he presses back in, just as slow, just as deep.

It’s obscene how thick he is—how impossibly full you feel. Like your body was made to fit him and only him, snug and pulsing around every deliberate inch he gives you. You gasp, fingers clutching at the muscle along his back, your thighs trying to close around his waist out of sheer desperation. But he shifts, one arm leaving the mattress to hook under your knee, gently guiding your leg up to the crook of his arm.

The stretch makes you gasp, the openness of it—how exposed, how vulnerable and perfect you feel beneath him. It changes everything: the angle, the depth, the pressure. His next thrust punches a whimper from your lungs, high and breathless, and your back keens off the bed.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and strained. “That—shit, that’s it. That’s so fucking deep, baby.”

You nod blindly, mouth open and eyes fluttering as the new angle lets him grind right where you need him most, dragging every thrust against your sweet spot until you’re clutching at his arms, his waist, anything to anchor yourself.

He starts a rhythm then—measured, intentional, grinding deep into you with every stroke. The way you clench around him pulls another curse from his lips. He leans in closer, forehead pressed to yours, nose brushing your cheek as his breath fans warm across your skin.

“You feel unreal,” he whispers, like he can’t help it. “So fucking good… don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this.”

And the worst part? You believe him.

Joshua shudders as he bottoms out again, your leg still hooked over his arm, your bodies flush in every place that matters. He groans into your mouth when your walls flutter around him, a sharp, involuntary reaction to just how deep he reaches with each deliberate roll of his hips. You feel stretched, filled, claimed—and somehow, you’re still aching for more.

But instead of picking up the pace like your body is begging him to, he slows. Holds still, chest heaving against yours, forehead pressed to the pillow beside your head.

“Fuck,” he pants, a breathy laugh caught in the middle. “If I go any faster, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast.”

You breathe out a sound that’s something between a moan and a laugh. “What, scared I’ll make fun of you?”

He lifts his head enough to look at you, flushed and beautiful and entirely wrecked already. “No,” he says, quieter now, his voice threaded with something more raw. “Just don’t wanna waste it.”

Your heart clenches. But before you can say anything, he kisses you—slow, lingering, all heat and intention. Then he draws his hips back again and thrusts in just as slowly, and it feels like being split open and rebuilt in the same breath.

He sets that pace: deep, unhurried, maddening. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s memorizing the way you sound when his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you, the way you gasp and grip at his shoulders, the way your leg tightens around his waist every time he grinds just right.

He mutters praise between kisses and curses, his voice cracked and reverent.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes against your neck. “So tight, baby. Can’t believe I waited this long…”

Your nails dig into his back when he rolls his hips, when he whispers your name like it’s something precious, when he mouths at your jaw and moans low into your skin. It’s slow, but it’s anything but soft. Every thrust feels like a promise—measured, restrained, but so intense it borders on unbearable.

You’re dripping for him, body trembling, tension coiling tight and hot in your belly. He keeps you on that edge, letting the burn build between your legs while his cock strokes deep, his hands never straying far from your body.

“This okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek.

“So fucking okay,” you gasp, rocking into him. “Don’t stop, Josh.”

“I won’t,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Not until you come all over me. Not until I know you feel every second of it.”

Joshua shifts, breath heavy and uneven against your neck, his body still moving in that slow, careful rhythm that keeps you trembling and clinging to him. But when he feels your hand slide down his back—when he feels your hips cant up into his—it sparks something deeper, something restless.

He kisses your shoulder, the shell of your ear, before pulling out slowly, the absence of him making your body clench around nothing. His hand runs down your spine, palm steady, coaxing rather than commanding.

“Turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice rough and coaxing all at once. “Please. Wanna see you like that.”

You shift onto your stomach, then your elbows, the sheets warm against your skin. He helps guide you without losing contact—his hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other tracing the curve of your hip as you settle onto your knees. It’s not the kind of position that feels detached or mechanical; it’s close, almost tender, his chest pressed against your back before he moves again.

Joshua kisses the nape of your neck, down your shoulder, each one slower than the last, like he’s trying to remind you that even like this—especially like this—it’s still him, still soft around the edges. His hand finds yours where it’s fisted in the sheets, his fingers lacing through yours.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, lips brushing your skin.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. Please.”

He hums a quiet sound of approval and lines himself up again, the head of his cock gliding through your slick before he pushes in. The stretch feels new, different—deeper—and you can’t help the sharp gasp that breaks from your throat. He sinks in again inch by inch, groaning against your shoulder when you tighten around him, his fingers squeezing yours in time with the roll of his hips.

When he’s fully seated inside you, he stills again, breathing hard, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re perfect like this.”

You squeeze his hand, the motion small but grounding, and when he starts to move again, it’s deliberate—deep and steady, hips rolling rather than snapping. His other hand finds your waist, guiding you back onto him, the sound of your bodies meeting soft and slick. Every thrust drags against that sweet spot inside you, every moan he breathes into your skin pulling you closer to unraveling again.

Joshua never strays far. He stays close enough that you can feel his chest against your back, his breath on your neck, his words spilling in low, broken whispers between every thrust—praise, curses, your name. His lips find the curve of your shoulder again, his nose brushing your hairline as he murmurs, “So fucking beautiful. So good for me. Look at you, baby—”

He adjusts, hand sliding from your waist up to your chest, cupping one breast as his thumb grazes over your nipple. The motion makes you arch, makes the rhythm falter for a moment as a sigh pulls from your throat.

He groans at the sound, hips stuttering before he buries himself deeper, almost shaking with the effort to keep his composure. “That’s it,” he breathes, kissing the side of your neck, his voice a raw whisper against your skin. “Just like that, sweetheart. Stay with me.”

And when you glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his gaze from behind you, his expression nearly undoes you—flushed, reverent, eyes heavy but soft with something more than lust. He leans forward and kisses you, slow and unhurried even as his hips keep moving, and you realize this isn’t about rhythm or release anymore.

It’s about him and you, the quiet hum of connection beneath the heat. The kind of closeness that leaves you trembling even before you come apart.

Your orgasm hits hard—sharper than you expect, sudden and all-consuming. It crests like a wave and crashes into you, the force of it making your elbows buckle, your forehead dropping to the pillow with a breathless moan.

Joshua knows. He feels it. The way your cunt pulses around him, the way your breath stutters and breaks apart. He groans your name, hands tightening their grip on your hips, fingers digging into soft skin as he keeps driving into you, deep and sure.

“Fuck, baby—just like that—god, you feel so good,” he murmurs, voice rough with the edge of his own unraveling.

He leans over your back, pressing kisses along the slope of your spine—wet and reverent, grounding you even as your body trembles beneath him. His chest flush against your back, his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, then your lips. You reach for him, breath still ragged, kissing him back through the haze of your orgasm, still fluttering around him.

Joshua doesn’t last much longer. Your heat, your body, your sounds—you—drag him right to the edge. His rhythm falters, thrusts growing deeper and messier, every push punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna come,” he gasps against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck—baby, I—”

And then he’s gone. He lets out a low, broken moan as he sinks all the way in, cock twitching deep inside you, hips jerking with the force of it. You feel every pulse of him through the rubber, feel the way his body trembles and strains above you as he fucks you through the aftershocks—his release drawn out and desperate with the way he’s been holding back for months.

His breath is ragged in your ear, his body heavy and shaking with effort as he slows to a stop. One final roll of his hips makes you whimper, overstimulated and still floating. He stills, then leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your shoulder—anywhere his lips can reach.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice hoarse with awe.

You smile into the pillow, too blissed-out to answer just yet. But your hand finds his, fingers threading lazily, and you give it a small squeeze. You don’t need to say anything. You both know.

He slips out with a soft groan, the movement careful, deliberate, his hand steadying you by the hip before the space between you fills with cool air. For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing—ragged, uneven, tangled together in the small, dimly lit room. Then you hear him hiss quietly, a sharp exhale through his teeth, followed by the faint rustle of something hitting the plastic liner inside the trash can on the other side of the nightstand.

The bed dips again a heartbeat later. The mattress shifts as he climbs back in, and then there’s the weight of him at your back—a solid, familiar presence that pulls you in without hesitation. A strong arm slides over your waist, finding its place beneath your breasts, and he gathers you up like it’s instinct. His chest is hot and damp against your spine, the slow drag of his breath cooling the sweat that still clings to your neck.

You don’t bother untangling your legs when he fits his between them. They’re slick, messy with the evidence of what you’ve just done, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he presses closer, humming softly when your thigh brushes his. The sound is low and content, like a man who’s finally found a place to rest.

Joshua buries his face in your hair, his nose nuzzling at the side of your neck before his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. He smiles against your skin when your fingers trace along his forearm, brushing through the fine hair there, your thumb grazing the inside of his wrist. The touch makes him squeeze you tighter, one long sigh leaving his chest and spilling warm against the shell of your ear.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and quiet—like he’s half afraid of breaking the calm that’s settled over both of you.

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Never been better,” you murmur, a smile tugging faintly at your lips.

He hums in response, the sound almost a purr, and presses one more slow kiss to your shoulder. His breathing evens out first, steady and rhythmic, the kind of easy calm that only comes from being completely spent. You stay there in the dark, tangled up in him, every pulse of your heartbeat syncing to his until the room feels smaller, softer, like it belongs only to the two of you.

[cheers-to-you-th]

Deer in Headlights

Pairing: Joshua x reader Word Count: 3.6k Genre: Smut, pwp Warnings: unprotected p in v, fingering, post-argument sex, creampie Summary: You and Joshua hardly get in disagreements that aren't solved by talking things out, so when the two of you start spiraling, you use unconventional methods to refocus.

or

flashing Joshua mid-argument because the plot was lost long ago and you're tired of it.

thank you my loves @supi-wupi and @mylovesstuffs not only are you guys my favorite people ever but you also betad this so quick like you're both so amazing

You and Joshua almost never fight. Sure, you have little spats here and there like every other couple, but full-blown, yelling and shouting at each other? It’s almost unheard of. The two of you are both the kind of people who value communication above all, and most of the time, that means you talk things out before they ever get bad. You’ve always prided yourselves on that—on being the calm couple, the one that listens, that doesn’t let emotions boil over. All of that to say, you don’t know how the fuck tonight got so bad.

You can’t even remember what started the argument, something small like forgetting to put the dishes or laundry or something away. Something stupid. Something that shouldn’t have mattered, and yet here you are—voices raised, breaths coming too fast, both of you standing on opposite ends of the living room like strangers. Joshua’s standing by the counter, arms crossed, trying to keep his voice level. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching at your sleeves like that’ll somehow keep you from saying something you’ll regret. 

You’ve both gone so off-course from the original topic that you can’t even try to think back because all you’re hearing are the words he’s saying now and you can feel yourself spiralling and going farther and farther down that rabbit hole and—

Okay, no.

You decide very quickly that this argument has gone on far too long. At this point, you don’t think either of you realize what you’re even arguing about.

“Joshua.” “No, you have to understand that—”

“Josh”

“And I’ve just been doing all of these things at work and I come home and we—” You watch him pace and ramble, and sigh. You pull the one thing that has ever gotten your boyfriend to stop mid-sentence. You tug your shirt up and over your head, tossing it straight at his and letting the fabric drape over his eyes. 

“What the fuck?” Joshua’s voice is saturated with disbelief and irritation as he rips the fabric off and turns to face you, features twisted in rage before he freezes.

It’s almost comical the way his eyes go wide, jaw falling slack, eyes flicking between your face and your chest like he can’t figure out exactly what's going on. For a long, suspended moment, he just stares. His mouth opens, then closes. You can practically see the argument short-circuiting in his brain. His chest rises and falls a little too fast, anger still lingering at the edges of his expression, but confusion—and something else—slowly start to win out.

You cross your arms, half for modesty, half out of sheer defiance. “Are you done?” you ask, tone clipped but quieter than before.

Joshua blinks. Once. Twice. “You—what—are you serious right now?”

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant even though your heart’s pounding. “You weren’t listening, I wasn’t listening. I needed to get your attention.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that sits heavy between you, before his lips twitch—barely noticeable, but enough to tell you he’s fighting it. The beginnings of a smile, hidden under layers of exasperation.

He drags a hand down his face, groaning. “You can’t just—God, you’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you say, taking a slow step closer, “but it worked, didn’t it?”

Joshua exhales, the last remnants of tension slipping out of his shoulders as he finally meets your gaze again. The anger’s still there, faint and frayed at the edges, but softened now by something much warmer. He looks at you for a long moment—like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or kiss you—and finally mutters, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” you reply, a small, tentative smile forming. “But you love me anyway.”

He shakes his head, a quiet huff of laughter escaping him as he steps closer, hands finding your bare skin. “Unfortunately for me,” he says, voice low as his thumb traces the dips of your waist, “you’re right.”

You wind your arms around his neck with a soft smile. “So, why don’t we go to the couch and actually talk about this, yeah? Because last time I checked neither of us gets this worked up over dishes or laundry.”

Joshua huffs out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sigh—the kind that admits you’re right but refuses to say it out loud. His forehead drops against yours for a moment, and you can feel the warmth of his breath fan against your skin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “We really don’t.”

You nod, fingers still idly tracing the back of his neck. “Then come on,” you say, tilting your head toward the couch. “Before we start round two over where we sit.”

That earns you a small smile, crooked and reluctant, but real. “Well, that's obvious,” he says as you walk together to the couch. He sits down first and pulls you into his lap, letting your legs swing to one side. “Your spot is always here.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You sit together, but there's still a space between you filled with a soft, uneasy quiet. You can still feel your pulse in your throat, still see the flash of hurt that crossed his face earlier. It lingers, even now.

Joshua’s the first to break the silence, his fingers trailing up the skin of your stomach as he does, grounding. “I hate when we fight.”

“Me too.” You rest your head on his shoulder, curling into him. “It always feels wrong. So let’s not fight and just talk about what’s really going on, m’kay?”

He nods, hands still absentmindedly tracing patterns on your bare skin. His voice is quieter now, careful. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just—” He pauses, takes a slow breath. “Work’s been insane lately. I keep coming home on edge, and I tell myself not to bring it here, but then something small happens and it’s like—” he gestures vaguely, helplessly “—everything just snaps.”

You listen—really listen—to the way he talks with his hands, the exhaustion in his tone, the faint tremor that betrays how much he’s been holding in. “You don’t have to handle all of that alone, you know,” you say gently. “I’m supposed to be here for you, but I can’t be if you shut me out.”

He flinches slightly, and then his shoulders drop. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just… sometimes I feel like if I start talking about it, I won’t know how to stop, and you already have so much on your plate with work, and—”

“Joshua,” you interrupt softly. He looks up, and your voice steadies. “You’re allowed to lean on me. That’s part of being together. I want to be there for you, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes softening. “You always know exactly what to say,” he says quietly, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips.

You shrug. “Only because I’ve spent the last three years learning how to read you.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, and for the first time all evening, the tension in the air finally seems to fade. He leans back into the couch, pulling you with him, head tipping against the cushion. “I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter now. “For snapping at you. For making you feel like you had to yell just to get me to listen.”

You shift to get a better view of him, legs falling to either side of his hips so you can cup his cheeks carefully. “I’m sorry too,” you admit. “I could’ve walked away before things got that bad. I just hate feeling like I’m not being heard. It makes me defensive, and I end up saying things I don’t mean.”

His hands find your waist again. “You were right to call me out. Even if your method was—” his gaze flicks downward, mouth twitching “—a little unconventional.”

You laugh, the sound breaking the last bit of leftover tension. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

Joshua smiles, eyes glinting with warmth again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It did. Definitely did. You should do that every time we fight.” He responds playfully as his hands start wandering up your sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

His hands find you slowly this time, not with hunger, but with something softer—like he’s afraid you might pull away. His fingertips trace the edge of your ribs, hesitant at first, the warmth of his palms grounding you back in the present. Every touch feels like an apology he doesn’t quite know how to say, a quiet way of asking, are we okay again? You let out a shaky breath and lean into him, the tension in your shoulders easing as the silence stretches between you.

The faint scent of his cologne lingers, cedar and something faintly sweet, wrapping around you like the remnants of a memory you don’t want to lose. It’s familiar, and it steadies you—the way his pulse beats against your skin, the slow, even rhythm that’s always been your anchor. He exhales, a quiet sound that brushes against your temple, and you feel his hand tighten just slightly at your waist, as if to make sure you’re still there.

"Maybe I will," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, a small smirk forming on your face, "But then you might go taking advantage of it, starting fights more."

"Seeing you like this might be worth it." Joshua jokes softly before he pulls you closer, finally brushing his lips against yours.

Your eyes flutter closed instinctively, the world narrowing to the soft curve of his mouth against yours, how his hands—still cradling your waist—tighten just a fraction, steadying you both, as if he's savoring the moment as much as you are. A quiet sigh escapes you, your heart thudding in your chest, the vulnerability from your earlier argument turning into something tender as he presses closer. 

The kiss deepens, his lips moving with deliberate slowness, exploring yours in a series of gentle presses that feel like unspoken apologies and promises all at once. The sensation is intoxicating, the plush warmth of his lips coaxing yours to part just enough to invite him closer without urgency. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your sides, the calluses on his palms creating a delicious contrast against your sensitive skin, igniting tiny sparks that travel down your spine and settle in your core. 

There's an undercurrent of emotion in the way he kisses you, a quiet intensity, his breath hitching as your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, threading through the soft strands of his hair. Your bodies press closer, the heat between you growing, but he doesn't push, his lips coax yours into a rhythm that's reverent. It's as if time has stretched, every heartbeat echoing in the quiet room, the air thick with the subtle rustle of fabric as you lean into him.

His hand slides from your waist to cradle the curve of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he pulls back just enough to gaze at you, eyes dark and searching. That familiar furrow between his brows returns, softer now. 

"Tell me," he murmurs, his voice rough-edged. "Tell me I didn't wreck everything tonight." 

You shake your head slightly, your forehead resting against his. "You know," you whisper. "that you could never wreck everything. We're good." The sincerity in your words loosens something in him, a shuddered breath escaping his lips.

He kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting against yours. His hand slides from your jaw down to your throat, fingers pressing lightly into your pulse point as his thumb strokes the soft skin beneath your ear the way he knows you like. Your answering moan is swallowed by his mouth, vibrating against him, the sound thickening the air. 

His tongue traces your lower lip and you open for him willingly, letting him sweep inside with a low groan of his own. The kiss turns messy, hungry—a culmination of pent-up frustration and relief. His hands roam down your back, calloused fingers catching against your spine, pulling you flush against him. The rise and fall of his chest against yours syncs with your own ragged breathing.

He breaks the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and neck, teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. Your head falls back, fingers tangling in his hair, urging him lower. He obliges, lips closing over the peak of one breast, the wet heat of his mouth making an ache bloom deep in your belly. 

You arch into him, a strangled gasp escaping. "Shua...please..." His name comes out pleading, rough-edged.

His answer is a low hum against your skin, the heat of his mouth closing around your bare nipple. The sensation is electric—sharp suction, the wet flick of his tongue, the scrape of teeth just shy of pain. Your hips jerk against his lap, a whimper torn from your throat. One of his hands slides down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. He pauses there, knuckles pressing against the damp lace beneath. You grind down against his hand, grinding against the heel of his palm as need coils tighter inside you. His groan vibrates against your breast, his fingers finally slipping beneath lace to find slick heat. 

"Christ," he rasps against your skin. "You're soaked, baby." His thumb circles that swollen bundle of nerves, deliberate, slow strokes that make stars burst behind your eyelids. The pressure builds, sharp and insistent, pushing you towards that familiar brink. His mouth moves to your other breast, lavishing it with the same torturous attention while his fingers dance beneath your clothes, a rhythm designed to unravel you completely.

You twist against him, legs tightening around his hips. "Need you." The plea slips out, thick and desperate. 

His answering chuckle vibrates against your nipple—saccharine sweet. He withdraws his hand slowly, fingers slick and glistening as he lifts them to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan that punches straight through you. "I know, my love," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "I’ll take care of you, promise."

His touch returns, not to where you crave it most, but tracing the curve of your hipbone, dipping lower beneath the elastic of your underwear. The drag of his knuckles is maddening—gentle yet seeking before he finally hooks his fingers into your waistband, dragging them down your thighs. Cool air hits overheated skin, making you shudder, hyper-aware now of every shift in his grip beneath the couch cushions where he’s anchoring you against him. The rough denim of his jeans chafes your inner thighs as he spreads you wider, settling deeper into his lap.

“Shh,” Joshua murmurs into your throat, lips brushing the frantic pulse-point beneath your ear. One palm slides up the sensitive arch of your spine, guiding your chest flush against his torso. You feel the tremor in his breathing, the hitch as he shifts beneath you. His hardened length presses tight against your stomach—a thick ridge beneath worn fabric. He groans low, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your face back, exposing your throat. Not teeth this time, but soft, sucking kisses blooming beneath your jawline, deliberate, almost reverent.

Your hands scramble against his shoulders, nails grazing taut muscle. “God, Josh, please,” you choke out. It’s less demand, more ragged prayer.

His laugh is a soft puff against damp skin. Slowly, agonizingly, his free hand cups you—not yet penetrating, just holding. He lets you throb against his palm, skin slick and swollen. His thumb slips backward, tracing the rim of your entrance with unbearable lightness. When you whimper, bucking against the tease, he finally dips one thick finger inside—barely an inch—a slow, languid thrust. He watches your face, eyes hooded and dark. “Look at me,” he rasps.

You force your eyes open. The intensity of his gaze pins you—heat, tenderness, and raw vulnerability. His finger curls deep, hitting a spot that steals your gasp. A second joins it, stretching you with a deliberate slowness that borders on cruel. Every stroke drags against slick flesh, retreats too fast, sinks back deeper. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing the fullness. Each inward press draws a sharp hitch in your breathing. His thumb finds your clit, circling slow, maddening circles that build pressure until stars bite the edges of your vision. The rhythm builds—in, out—a slow tease giving way to driving urgency. You clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into skin. Inside, his knuckles press against a place that makes you cry out.

His kiss swallows the sound—deep, drowning—as his fingers thrust harder, deeper. “Come for me,” he whispers against your lips, voice fraying. “Let me feel it.”

The command unravels you. Pleasure crests sharp and sudden, shattering through your nerves. You arch violently, your cry muffled against his mouth as the world whites out—electric pulses radiating from his deliberate fingers. He holds you trembling through every wave, fingers stilling deep within you, thumb resting gently against your oversensitive clit. Aftershocks flutter through your stomach as you slump against his chest, breathless. His own restraint is fraying; beneath you, every muscle is taut steel. He presses a kiss to your sweat-damp temple before he lifts you up, placing you down on the couch.

You hear the unbuckling of his belt and the removal of fabric more than you see it, still lost in the post-orgasmic haze, before he climbs over you, pressing light kisses all over your face.

“Love you so much,” he whispers, voice full of devotion, “so fucking much. You’re everything, you know that?”

His words sink into you like honey—warm and golden—as his lips brush your eyelids, nose, cheeks. Every touch feels sacred as he carefully peels away the only clothes separating you from him. Then he’s lowering himself, elbows bracketing your shoulders, eyes locked onto yours. The air grows thick with heat and yearning. His fingers trace down your trembling thighs, spreading them wider, exposing you completely. When he nudges your entrance, you gasp at the blunt press of him—full, insistent, but unbearably slow. He pauses.

"You okay?" Joshua asks, voice rough as gravel. You nod, unable to speak.

He pushes inside inch by careful inch, filling you with a stretch that borders on ecstasy. You arch beneath him, nerves singing as every ridge of him drags against sensitive flesh. Your legs tighten around his hips, forcing him deeper. A groan rips from him—low, fervent—as he seats himself fully, moving only when you whimper.

The rhythm starts slow, sinuous thrusts that build a liquid heat low in your belly. His hips roll against yours, each withdrawal leaving you aching, each plunge a shockwave of pleasure. His forehead drops to yours, breaths mingling—cedar-sharp—as he murmurs broken praises against your lips.

 "God, feel how you take me… perfect… you're so fucking tight baby, fuck."

You lose words, lost in sensation—the slick drag of skin against skin, the faint tremor in his thighs as he holds back, the pressure pulsing where your bodies meet. Your fingers dig into his shoulder blades, pulling him closer as your hips lift to meet him. The sound he makes—a choked growl—echoes through your core.

His thrusts speed up, forehead pressing against yours as he bends you in half. His eyes are dark with lust and love and emotions so overwhelming all you can do is hold him closer. His hand slips between your hips, thumb finding your clit, circling so lightly at first it’s agony. Pressure builds, tightening unbearably. His thrusts deepen, faster, harder now. He lifts his head, eyes blazing into yours. 

“I love you so much, baby. Fuck, I’m so close, pussy taking me so good, shit—” 

Your climax crashes hard—a burst of white-hot sparks tearing through you. You cry out, shaking uncontrollably as he drives into you relentlessly. He follows moments later, shuddering with a groan that seems torn from his very soul, burying his face in your neck as he spills hotly inside you.

Silence descends, thick and syrupy, punctuated only by ragged breaths and the soft thud of sweat-slicked skin relaxing against leather cushions. Joshua collapses beside you, an arm thrown protectively over your waist. His fingers trace idle patterns on your stomach, feather-light strokes that calm your still-trembling limbs. You curl instinctively into the curve of his body, the heat radiating from him a comforting anchor. The sharp cedar of his sweat-damp skin mixes with the heady musk of sex.

“Still breathing?” His voice, rough-edged but tender, brushes against your ear. You manage a soft hum in response, fingers seeking his hand where it rests on your belly. He entwines them without hesitation. 

Outside, rain begins to patter against the windowpane—a gentle, rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet. You close your eyes, focusing on the sound, the warmth of him pressed along your back, the way his thumb smooths over your knuckles. 

Eventually, he slips away, returning with a soft towel warmed under tap water. He cleans you with unhurried reverence, every swipe of the cloth intimate but chaste—a balm to skin flushed and sensitive. You watch his face. The furrowed brow, the quiet concentration. When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls the crocheted throw from the armrest, draping it over you both before settling behind you again. 

"Warmer now?" he murmurs. You nod, burrowing backward. His lips press against your shoulder blade—a silent promise—as he pulls you flush against him. The rain’s steady patter fills the space where anger once roared.

He tugs the blanket higher, tucking it snugly around your shoulders. His breath evens against your nape, deep and slow—the rhythm of near-sleep. 

“We’re gonna need to shower.” He whispers into your skin, causing you to groan.

“Five minutes?” You respond, pulling him closer.

And, well, he was never able to say no to you anyway.

[cheoliedollie]

"wanna see my tits?"! svt: texts ♡

☆ ~ hyung line | maknae line

genre: best friend svt | nsfw | reader is pranking them, but they don't care | friends to lovers maybe idk let's see

note by marie: back to my prime! feel free to interact anytime! ♡ as always, hope you guys like it!

[gyuisxue]

𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 𝗜 𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ᘏ⑅ᘏ ┈─ seventeen!

PRECIS ╱ their love languages

WRDS ╱ 1.7k+

𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗟 feeds you when you are busy

sometimes seungcheol was better at scolding you than your mum. it’s become a habit of his to always take care of the people by his side and he’s done it all so frequently that it just comes out naturally. so when he gets to know that you’ve practically starved yourself till 9 in the night all because of a project, he takes it in his own hands to feed you. he’d sit by your side, an airplane motion of a spoon and there goes the food.

you don’t even realise it, but it’s practically a routine of his now. whether it be a full meal or even a small biscuit, he finds joy in the little things— feeding you. and at last, when you’re done and delighted, it’s your turn to reward him with a loud smooch that leaves him chuckling.

𝗝𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗔𝗡 peels pomegranates for you

the first time in life when you moved out, you already knew how hard it would be to manage even the smallest things without your mum or dad on your side. so you started it bit by bit. cleaning floors, washing dishes, doing laundry, all of it was now routine. but when it came kitchen? gosh you truly did suck. so when jeonghan sees you staring at the pomegranate with a knife in your hands, he just shakes his head and grabs the knife from you.

that’s when you knew that you no longer needed to worry about peeling pomegranates. you tried, you really tried to peel it but it just ended up with your shirt having splatters of pomegranate juice on you. and truly, you wondered why had no one added peeling pomegranates as a love language yet?

𝗝𝗢𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗔 lends you his hoodies

it started off with missing hoodies in his wardrobe. at first, he thought maybe they were just in the dryer but when he notices you showing up to his place in incredibly familiar hoodies he just finds himself cupping your face and muttering, “if you wanted my hoodies, all you needed to do was ask, baby.”

younger him would be so annoyed if anyone had tried to steal his hoodies, but when he saw you in his hoodie he just felt his heart probably pounding a little bit faster. the way the cuff of the sleeves was too long for you, the way the hood nearly covered your face when you put it on, gods he really did love you in his hoodies.

𝗝𝗨𝗡 brings you flowers everyday

when he first began dating you, he was pretty nervous. so he did a bit of research on vikihow ‘how to keep your girlfriend happy’ a pretty concerning question for him at that time and that’s how he started bringing you flowers every time the two of you met up. it didn’t always have to be a huge bouquet, even a single rose did show his sincerity.

“a pink rose for milady,” he announces with a dramatic bow that has you covering your smile in shock. “pretty flowers for the prettiest woman in this world.” and that pretty much summed up that his girlfriend was indeed quite happy.

𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗛𝗜 braids your hair

it wasn’t something hoshi thought of ever doing. it was too childish to do it. but when he saw you at 11 pm, in front of your vanity mirror with a new set of nails and clearly struggling to braid your hair, he decided to step in. the first few days were naturally a disaster. sometimes the strands would just slip out of his grip and other times he’d be too gentle that the braid would just easily fall out. in his defense, he was really scared to grab your hair tighter in case it hurt your scalp.

by the second week, he’d sit on the edge of the bed with you between his legs on the floor and he’d patiently braid your hair.

“hold it tight, yeah that’s right,” you mutter with eyes closed and just relaxing because you knew no matter how your hair turns out that night, hoshi will always be there to try again.

𝗪𝗢𝗡𝗪𝗢𝗢 calls you new nicknames

the first nickname he ever gave you was babe. pretty common, pretty basic. but it sounded good because it was from him. then babe, baby, darling, honey, sweet, all of them upgraded. it was just his thing of teasing you and watching you get all riled up when you heard another one of his hilariously stupid nicknames.

“my sweet corn i missed you,” he mutters, hugging you from the back and presses a kiss to the side of your head and is immediately met with a loud huff.

“wonu i’m telling you—“

“my sweet daisy, i’m sorry don’t be mad at me.” well at least he’s quick to butter you up. though it does take quite some time to calm you down, he’s patient as ever till the end.

𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗭𝗜 dedicates his song to you (anonymously)

no one ever truly found out who jihoon’s hidden muse was. upon being interviewed, he just shrugged and smiled to himself knowing that his said muse was already watching him on TV. but carats were no fool either. they would somehow gather the easter eggs he’s dropped throughout the years and confidently come to a conclusion that it’s his rumoured partner.

of course it was you. jihoon doesn’t think that he’s felt more loved and noticed besides by you. he thinks of your hands running through his hair while he writes lyrics, he thinks of your sweet smile when he’s all sweaty and exhausted from dance practice.

𝗗𝗢𝗞𝗬𝗘𝗢𝗠 likes to holds your hand

he loves to feel grounded the moment his fingers lace with yours. he swings both of your hands together in a slow repeated motion whenever the two of you head out for walks. on days when he feels bored, he’d just trace the skin on the back of your thumb or just fiddle with the rings on your fingers.

dokyeom just loved your hands. he loved kissing them when you got upset at him, he loved to cover your hand with his whenever he explained something to you or just helped you with stuff.

𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗬𝗨 removes your makeup when you’re tired

it was a human thing to be tired, of course. whether it was from work stress or just a hard time dealing with yourself, you did tend to just shut off and lay on the bed. today was yet, another one of those days where you just kicked off your shoes and laid on the bed with a sigh of relief. but your makeup? still on and very much making you feel reluctant to fall asleep. but worry not because mingyu was here.

he’d start off by gently patting the cotton pads over your eyes and whispering soft words to you. then he’d move on to rub the cotton pads over your face and listen as you’d slowly talk about your day and occasionally he’d play with the back of your thumb with the hand that wasn’t occupied. you don’t think that you could’ve gotten any luckier than this.

𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗔𝗢 takes you on late night drives

it always starts off with an errand like buying milk for the next day or getting a new pair of socks. but it soon became a part of your daily routine. once the two of you got off work, had your dinner, both of you would put your seatbelts on and just go off on drives to nowhere. it was soothing, really. the way the vibe of the drive just changes depending on the hour of the day. along with the vibe, the music changes too. it’s softer in a sense that it provides you with a sense of peace.

hao would laces his free hand with yours and just hum along to the melody while you look out of the window on your left. it was the best thing you could ask for. sometimes, you’d be behind the wheels when he had a rough day, but it was the company that could even turn a horrible brunch into the most memorable day.

𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗞𝗪𝗔𝗡 leaves you sticky notes

albeit, seungkwan wasn’t the greatest poet or shakespeare himself, but he was still yours. so when he had to leave the house early and return late, the guilt that came with it was just incurable. so he started leaving silly messages in those notes. “hope you dreamt of me last night,” or it could be something even as sweet as “text me how many cinnamon rolls you want. i love you as much as you love the rolls.”

and you didn’t think anything could make you happier than reading kwan’s letters the first you wake up. it was your good luck charm and no matter how stacked up his schedule got, he never stopped leaving sticky notes and you never complained if you got one a day.

𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗢𝗡 hugs you twice

two times. that’s what makes a vernon hug. the first hug is always excited and just meant to touch you. the second one, although, is pretty tight. one of his arms would wrap around the back of your head and the other would wrap around your torso as hugged you. the two hug rule applied on both highs and lows and it felt really weird if you left the house without his hugs.

“too tight?” your voice is muffled in his chest and vernon mutters an incoherent apology between his chuckles and loosens the grip, only to tighten it again on the second hug.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡 gets you jewellery

well, specifically he gets you rings. the first present he ever got you was a ring pop when the two of you were barely even getting an allowance from your parents. but as the years went by, the presents upgraded and so did his love. the latest thing that he got you (apart from a dancing cactus) was a promise ring. it had both of your initials engraved on it and he would just love the feeling of grabbing your hand and touching the cold ring unconsciously.

“i love you,” he whispers, kissing the ring and you smile at him.

“i love you too”

[butvega]

in a world of boys he’s a… — joshua hong.

“shua é seu gentil, educado e cortês amigo. concorda em te fazer um favor, após seu término conturbado com o também amigo dele, wonwoo.”

w. +18, sexo casual, joshua é super carinhoso. ah! quem gosta de greys anatomy vai entender a referência aqui ahahah

Você invade o escritório de Joshua, sem ao menos bater na porta. Ele levanta o olhar polido, seguido de um sorriso contido. Você respira fundo, solta o ar com força e fecha os olhos arrumando forças para finalmente falar o que trazia você ali.

“— Posso ajudar?” — ele pergunta. O tom de voz comedido te traz uma gota de tranquilidade em meio ao caos. Você sorri sem graça, caminha por sua sala e se senta na cadeira à frente de sua mesa.

“— Eu queria uma ajuda sua.” — você diz baixinho. Ele coloca os papéis na mesa, cruza as mãos e passa a te dar total atenção.

“— Quer alguma consultoria? Projeto?” — ele começa a listar vagarosamente, e em um súbito lapso de coragem, você decide cortá-lo e dizer de uma vez o que te trouxe.

“— Sexo.” — fala rápido, e ele arregala os olhos. “— Eu preciso de um favor do tipo… Sexo.”

“— Eu não…”

“— Eu só…” — interrompe ele novamente. “— Eu preciso de sexo, Shua. Preciso transar, eu preciso… Preciso de alguém que eu confie, um homem que eu confie, e que não vá me julgar por estar afogando minhas mágoas em sexo.” — você suspira, aliviada. “— Mas se você não quiser, tudo bem, não tem problema. Sei que você e o Wonwoo são amigos, não sei se vocês tem tipo esse código masculino de fidelidade, sei lá. Mas achei que você fosse se sentir… Lisonjeado.”

Ele te olha com curiosidade e espanto durante sua fala. O olhar vai amolecendo a medida em que as palavras saem sem parar de seus lábios. É difícil decifrá-lo, mas sente que a resposta seria positiva quando ele ri baixinho, abaixando a cabeça.

“— Hm… Claro. Você também é minha amiga, e fico feliz em saber que confia em mim pra… Isso. Pelo menos sei que você vai estar segura, e não na casa de nenhum maluco.” — você se sente extremamente aliviada, o sorriso sai em seus lábios sem ao menos perceber.

Joshua podia ser tudo, menos burro. Era amigo de Wonwoo? Sim. Mas sabe que ele não era o melhor namorado do mundo, e sabe o quanto ele te fez sofrer. Haviam se separado cerca de três meses, e desde então você não havia se relacionado com ninguém. Como uma adulta com vontades, se sentia sufocada por querer transar, mas ficar travada com medo de conhecer um alguém novo, pegar intimidade, até a parte que te interessava.

“— Hoje a noite então?” — você pergunta empolgada. Novamente ele ri.

“— Hoje a noite, lá no meu apartamento.”

Segundos após tocar a campainha, ele abre a porta. O cabelo negro arrumado com gel, a blusa social meio aberta, o relógio enorme de ouro no pulso… E o maldito perfume de homem rico.

Sabia que Joshua ocupava um cargo alto na empresa, mas não sabia que ele era tão rico. Observa atentamente cada ponto do apartamento. Obras de arte nas paredes, velas aromáticas acesas, e na mesa de centro havia vinho, duas taças, e uma tábua com alguns petiscos. No som ambiente, parecia tocar… True Colors, do The Weeknd. Merda. Parecia um encontro.

“— Shua…” — você riu. “— Eu não imaginava isso tudo, eu… Que incrível.”

Você imaginava sim. Por isso estava com um belo tubinho preto, e seus saltos Louboutin.

“— Pode ficar a vontade. Eu…” — ele riu fraco. “— Não sei muito bem como podemos iniciar isso, mas acho que começa com o vinho.”

“— Joshua, sério, se você não estiver se sentindo confortável com isso é só me falar, juro que não vou ficar chateada.”

Ele chega perto de você aos poucos, a fragrância amadeirada te envolve, e ele te encaminha até um enorme piano de caldas, onde está a garrafa de vinho e as duas taças. Ele as enche, e entrega uma pra você.

Se encosta na lateral do piano, e com delicadeza puxa sua mão até que você se encaixe entre suas pernas.

“— Eu quero.” — roça a palma da mão em seu rosto, em um carinho gostoso. “— Quero muito.”

Encarar os olhos amendoados de Joshua deixava suas pernas bambas. Ele aproxima o rosto do seu, até que seus narizes se encostem, e deposita um selinho demorado em seus lábios. A tensão te faz pulsar lá em baixo, ele faz questão de fazer tudo com calma, lentidão, o que te deixa ansiosa. Mais um selinho, que se engata em um beijo real. A destra dele em sua cintura, e a canhota em seu pescoço. A língua macia desliza por sua boca, te fazendo sentir o gostinho do vinho.

Perde a conta de quantos minutos passa ali, apenas o beijando, sendo acariciada e amassada em todas as partes possíveis de seu corpo, se sentindo quista, se sentindo desejada. Não sabe se é o clima com as luzes baixas, a música, ou o vinho, mas já está melada o suficiente para recebê-lo.

Atenta aos detalhes, caminha com Joshua ainda o beijando, até o sofá da sala. O sofá é enorme, está decorado com almofadas fofas e cheirosas. Ele te deita com delicadeza, se encaixa entre suas pernas e torna a beijá-la. Nesta posição, consegue sentir sua ereção nada modesta enquanto ele tenta se aliviar esfregando-se em seu ventre. Não consegue segurar um gemido baixo quando ele acerta seu pontinho.

Joshua não consegue negar que sempre te achou muito simpática, muito bonita, e nessas circunstâncias, o mais importante: muito gostosa. Não era nenhum sacrifício transar com você, muito pelo contrário. Ele fazia de bom grado, e com muita vontade. E sim, tinha a questão dele se sentir mais tranquilo em saber que você estava fazendo aquilo com ele, e não com alguém que ele não conhecesse direito e pudesse te magoar, ou te machucar. Ele pelo menos sabia que te trataria bem, e com a delicadeza que um pós término pedia.

“— Posso tirar sua roupa, amor?” — você se arrepia ao ouvir o apelido. Sabe o quão carinho e cavalheiro ele é, mas não imaginava que a experiência seria completa. Você acena com a cabeça, e ganha um sorrisinho em resposta.

Os próximos segundos são uma bagunça de roupas pelo chão, até que fiquem nus, imersos em mais beijos profundos, toques, esfregadas gostosas.

“— Shua…” — você geme, é um pedido quase silencioso e você nem ao menos sabe o que quer pedir. Só quer ele. Mais dele.

“— Diz, amor… Você me quer aqui, hum?” — diz enquanto passa os dedos por sua fenda babada, te fazendo se contorcer.

“— Por favor, Shua… Me fode.” — você pede, a voz em um fio, já afetada demais pelos toques afetuosos do americano.

“— Te foder? Nã, nã… Eu vou transar com você, amor.” — diz colocando a proteção em seu comprimento. “— Vou te fazer gozar várias, e várias vezes, te deixar com a perna molinha, e te tratar do jeito que você merece. Vou te comer bem gostoso, te prometo. E você pode me usar quantas vezes precisar.”

Se você havia morrido, com certeza estava no céu. Não sabia que era possível ficar mais excitada do que já estava, mas ficou, assim que Joshua disse aquelas palavras. Centímetro por centímetro ele foi entrando, investidas misturadas em uma rebolada lenta, mas firme, que te fazia enlouquecer aos poucos. E o beijo? O beijo molhado, lento, que em conjunto com a maneira que ele metia te fazia sentir…. Amada. Sexo com Joshua era como um sonho. E você não queria acordar.

Ele aumenta a velocidade, e o que vem a seguir são minutos incansáveis de muito sexo, de carinho, dele fazendo você se sentir uma rainha. Ele te come no melhor papai e mamãe já feito na face da terra, te coloca sentada no colo dele e faz questão de meter com rapidez bem fundo, e finaliza te colocando de costas no sofá, enquanto beija, lambe, morde seu pescoço. Você goza em cada posição, o apertando. Na última vez, sente até o ouvido zumbir, não consegue manter os olhos abertos, geme o nome dele repetidas vezes, com o interior contraindo no pau dele. O coração parece parar, o ar lhe falta, e você só consegue pensar como viveu tantos anos de sua vida sem ter esse homem dentro de ti.

Em seguida ele goza, com gemidos suaves, contidos, mas manhosos, baixinhos, em seu ouvido. Arrastados, enquanto preenche a camisinha com seu líquido quentinho, imaginando estar se derramando dentro de você sem nada para impedir que você receberia seu gozo.

Mesmo depois de gozarem, continuam na mesma posição por um tempo, normalizando as respirações, enquanto você recebe um carinho gostoso na cintura.

Ele te pega no colo, você nada diz, te leva até o banheiro e você vê mais um cenário romântico: uma banheira enorme, com sais cheirosos que deixam a água azul. Água esta que parece quentinha, agradável.

Você sorri pra ele, e ele te auxilia a entrar. Ele se senta atrás de você, te coloca em seu colo, entre as pernas, e te abraça pela cintura, fazendo você se encostar no peitoral dele. Sabe que é sexo casual com um amigo, mas não consegue esconder a leve “emoção”, e o ciúmes em seu peito pensando com quantas garotas ele já havia feito aquilo. Quantas garotas já haviam se sentido amadas, se sentido especiais, sob o toque dele.

Tenta abafar esses pensamentos, e descansa a cabeça no ombro dele. Recebe um beijinho no cabelo.

“— Tá tudo bem? Eu te machuquei?” — pergunta baixinho, com a voz rouca. Você chega a rir. Como ele podia pensar aquilo?

“— Foi perfeito, Shua… Nossa, eu… Nunca…”

“— Nunca…” — ele incentiva.

“— Nunca gozei três vezes assim… Seguidas.” — você diz meio sem graça, e ele ri baixinho.

“— Que bom que gostou. Fico feliz. E sim, me sinto muito lisonjeado por ter sido escolhido. Por você confiar em mim pra isso. E… Sempre que precisar, vou estar aqui. Pra te tratar como você merece… E te fazer gozar quantas vezes você quiser.” — ele diz a última parte baixinho, te fazendo arrepiar.

E não é mentira, seus encontros se tornam recorrentes, até que seu coração passe a temer que o sentimento de sexo bom, se transforme em algo a mais. Até porque, com Joshua, é muito fácil sentir a mais.

Mesmo que Wonwoo descubra. E faça um escândalo no escritório.

Mas isso é história pra outro dia.

[butvega]

𓂃˚‧ 𓆸 seventeen sendo pegos no flagra! 𓂃֒ 𑁍܀. 　pt2.

“você é o chaveirinho do seu namorado. ele te carrega para o nana tour, e acabam sendo pegos no flagra!”

hoshi: quando estava com você, hoshi esquecia completamente de que era um idol famoso, e que dividia a casa e a vida com mais 12 homens. por isso agora ele estava brincando com você, que estava sentadinha no colo dele. ele te abraçava, beijando todo seu rosto, rindo, enquanto murmurava palavras doces.

“— sabia que você é a garota mais linda do mundo? sério… eu só… sei lá. quero casar contigo.” diz te fazendo sorrir.

tornam a se beijar, dessa vez com mais vontade, você rebolando no colinho dele. até wonwoo entrar no quero. vocês, no próprio mundo, sequer perceberam. sorte que wonwoo nada falou, apenas saiu do quarto de fininho para não interromper. como gostaria que fizessem com ele.

joshua: na atual conjuntura, aquilo era o máximo de romantismo que joshua podia te dar — mas ele estava tentando. havia colocado algumas velas pelo banheiro, não havia banheira mas havia chuveiro quente, luzes apagadas, e você em cima da pia o beijando lentamente. ainda estava de calcinha, e o blusão de Joshua, e ele estava apenas de calça. o cabelo dele já estava bagunçado, qualquer um que aparecesse saberia qual a intenção dos dois — sem nem precisar ver a ereção de joshua.

“— hyung, cheol hyung pediu comida, você quer um po… eita…” — boo entra em pânico, os olhos arregalados ao presenciar aquela cena. paralisado no lugar, mal consegue se mexer.

até que joshua o empurra pra fora do banheiro. é. acabou o clima.

dk: após beberem com os meninos, vão para o quarto que compartilham. não conseguem ao menos chegar na cama, já que a primeira parede que veem se torna a morada de um beijo molhado, e demorado. quando ele agarra sua bunda com as duas mãos, já meio altinho, você murmura um “mô” sob os lábios dele, que só faz com que ele te beije com mais vontade.

a porta é aberta de supetão, fazendo com que vocês separem o beijo, e olhem assustado.

“— vocês esqueceram… o… telefone… foi mal.” — vernon diz pausadamente, e sai do quarto com as bochechas vermelhas. o álcool faz com que vocês não liguem, e tornem a se beijar.

[minniesfiles]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ DEALING WITH TANTRUMS — joshua

𑣲 PAIRING; joshua x reader

𑣲 GENRE; fluff, humour

𑣲 TAGS; established relationship, slice of life, domestic, first time parents, fluff, some humour, child tantrums

𑣲 WORDCOUNT; 1.6k

[ part of the ‘seventeen as girl dads’ drabble series ]

🧸ྀི

▎17 March 2024

Joshua was no stranger to tantrums. Life with a toddler came with its fair share of screaming, tears, and dramatic flops onto the floor. They were practically a normal part of his life, and yours. He had seen it all, or so he thought.

It was more of an event than a tantrum. Even your cat Marshmallow would retreat upstairs in your shared bedroom and hide under the bed when he would hear the first series of your daughter’s high-pitched cries. Even he knew better than to get involved.

But today’s meltdown deserved its own category, because it was a whole new level. He was talking about full-volume wailing, fists pounding and legs kicking.

Joshua held Byeol tight against his chest as she screamed like her world was ending. Her tiny face was blotchy and soaked with tears, her legs thrashing and arms flailing like she was fighting for her life. Every kick hit with surprising force for someone barely three feet tall. Her cries bounced off the aisles and echoed down the rows of cereal and canned soup.

People were definitely staring. Some gave that ‘I’ve been there’ look of sympathy, while others pretended not to look while clearly listening. A few just sighed or whispered to each other, probably judging his parenting skills from a safe distance.

Joshua could feel some heat rising in his face, but he didn’t let go. He survived public tantrums before, but this one could probably be heard in the parking lot.

You walked a few steps ahead with both hands on the shopping trolley, trying to look calm and collected. Your face was the picture of neutrality, no frustration or embarrassment. But Joshua knew you too well. The tightness around your mouth and the way your shoulders tensed every time someone turned to stare, it all gave you away of how it was getting to you.

You let out a slow breath and looked back at him, “she’s really going for it today” you said, almost in disbelief.

“Oh, you think?” Joshua muttered, tightening his hold as Byeol twisted like a tiny hurricane which nearly smacked his baseball cap clean off. “She wanted the chocolate chip cookies. I said no. And apparently that was the worst mistake of my life.”

You gave a small, weary laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes, then reached out to grab a box of cereal. Any cereal really, just something to make it look like you were still focused on shopping and not the human siren wailing behind you.

“People are staring,” you mumbled loud enough for your husband to hear you.

Joshua didn’t even need to look up to know people were staring. He could feel the burn of every side-eye and judgmental looks shooting the back of his neck. The sound of Byeol’s cries was basically filling every quiet gap in the store.

An older woman pushed her cart past while shaking her head with that tight-lipped expression only grandparents seemed to have mastered. The ‘in my day, kids knew how to behave’ look. While a man by the dairy section paused mid–milk grab and shot Joshua the ‘control your kid’ kind of look.

Joshua bit back a sigh. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew it was chaos. But what did they expect him to do? Negotiate with a two-year-old terrorist in aisle seven? He strengthened his grip on Byeol as she kicked again as her sobs turned hiccupy and wild. He tried to focus on breathing instead of bolting for the exit.

Joshua adjusted his grip again and started bouncing Byeol gently, trying to soothe her even as she squirmed and kicked against his chest. “Bubba, please,” he murmured to her. His voice was soft, but fraying around the edges.

As he brushed a few damp curls off her forehead, he could see how her little face was hot and streaked with tears. “I know you’re upset baby, but we can’t get cookies right now. We’ll have a snack when we get home, okay?”

But Byeol wasn’t having it. She arched her back and threw her head back with a shriek that could’ve shattered glass. Joshua flinched, and his patience was starting to hang by a thread. He was usually good at staying calm, but this was draining the life out of him. He shot you a look that said ‘please save me’ before actually saying it out loud.

“Any ideas?”

You pursed your lips and thought. Then, you reached into the trolley and pulled out a bag of baby carrots. You crouched a little so you were eye level with your daughter, “Byeol, look,” you said as you held the bag up like it was a treasure. “Want some carrots?”

For a moment, there was hope. Byeol hiccuped and sniffled as her teary eyes flicked towards the bag. Then, with all the fury a two-year-old could muster, she slapped it away, “NO!” she screamed.

You exhaled through your nose and straightened up before dropping the bag back in the trolley. “Well,” you said dryly, “it was worth a shot.”

Joshua let out a long, exhausted sigh. His shirt was sticking to his back, his arms ached from holding a squirming toddler, and he could practically feel every judgmental look burning into him from all directions. He was done — mentally, physically and emotionally.

But then an idea popped up in his mind. Desperate times, desperate parenting. Maybe it wouldn’t work, but at this point, he was ready to try anything.

He shifted Byeol in his arms so she was facing him. “Hey, Bubba,” he said softly with a little playfulness in his tone. “Can you take a deep breath with Daddy?” he asked as he brushed her curls away again.

Byeol hiccupped, her tiny chest jerking as she sniffled. She looked at him through her wet lashes, then shook her head with a stubborn little scowl.

Joshua smiled anyway. He was still surprisingly patient, but clearly running on fumes. “That’s okay,” he said, still rocking her gently. “Daddy’s going to do it anyway.”

Joshua drew in a loud, exaggerated breath, puffing out his cheeks until they looked ready to pop. “Biiiiig breath in—” he said, drawing out the words like it was part of a magic spell. Then he leaned forward and blew a gentle whoooosh of air right into Byeol’s face.

She blinked, clearly startled. Her little chest still heaved from all the crying, but something about the goofy sound, or maybe the puff of air, caught her attention for just a second. Her brow furrowed in curiosity in spite of herself.

Joshua caught that sparkle of calm and ran with it. “And another one!” he said, doing it again. This time it was even sillier, and with a cartoonish puff of his cheeks. “Whoooosh!”

Byeol hiccupped, then let out a small, shaky giggle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your heart unclench. Joshua grinned in victory. “One more?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, still sniffling, then took in a tiny, uneven breath. With her best attempt at copying her father, she blew it out with a quiet pfff.

And just like that, the grocery store went quiet again. The screaming had stopped and the air felt lighter than ever.

“See how easy that was?” Joshua said softly, tapping Byeol’s nose with his finger. “Screaming and kicking like that won’t get you anywhere Bubba,” he added gently, tone more loving than scolding.

You stepped closer and pulled a tissue from your bag to wipe her tear-streaked cheeks. “You’ve had plenty of sugar this week sweetheart,” you said.

“But Mummy promises she’ll make you a yummy snack when we get home, okay? Something special just for you.”

Byeol had clearly run out of steam. Her little shoulders sagged and her sniffles faded into quieter hiccups. Whatever energy she had left from her earlier tantrum was gone and replaced by tiredness. With a few gentle words from you, she was convinced, nodding and resting her head against Joshua’s chest.

“That’s my good girl,” Joshua murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and running a soothing hand through her hair.

The rest of the shopping trip was blessedly calm. No more tears, no more ‘I want that one’. And by the time you both reached the car to put the shopping away, she was completely out, fast asleep in her father’s arms.

Joshua let out a quiet laugh as he buckled her into her car seat. “All that over chocolate chip cookies,” he said, shaking his head.

“But she has to learn that no means no. She can’t always get what she wants.”

You shut the boot door and leaned against the car for a second. “True,” you admitted, though your heart softened as you looked at her peaceful face. “But my poor baby. I hate seeing her cry like that.”

Joshua looked up at you with a small smile. “Me too. But if we give in once, she’ll think it works every time. Some days we just have to ride it out.”

You sighed, brushing a stray curl from Byeol’s cheek. “Parenting is so hard.”

“Yeah,” he said with a quiet laugh, sliding an arm around your waist. “But I think we’re doing alright as a first time parents, you know?”

You rested your head against his arm as he closed the car door. As Joshua sat in the driver’s seat and you next to him, you saw Byeol stir slightly and mumble something about cookies in her sleep. You both couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Guess she’s still dreaming about them,” you said.

Joshua smiled. “She’s definitely your daughter.”

⟡ main masterlist

[bleudandelion]

A LIFETIME WITH YOU

Pairing: Joshua Hong x F!Reader

Warning: SMUT | kissing | oral | fingering | unprotected sex (don’t do this) | he propose while naked (lol)

Genre: domestic - established relationship | fluff and kinda emotional at the end but nothing over the top

MDNI | READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

The click of the front lock turning is the only sound that breaks the quiet hum of the jazz drifting from the speaker. The low thrum of a double bass, the lonely cry of a saxophone — the soundtrack to your evening, a deliberate choice to cultivate peace. You don’t look up immediately, letting the moment settle. Joshua — your boyfriend, is home.

The soft thud of his briefcase hitting the floor by the entryway follows, then the familiar, almost silent pad of his socked feet on the hardwood. You feel his presence before you see him, a warm shift in the atmosphere of the room, a change in the air pressure that has everything to do with him and nothing to do with science.

“Hi.”

His voice is a low murmur, a balm after the long hours he’s been gone. You finally lift your gaze from the page, the words now a meaningless blur of black ink. He sits at the edge of the couch, illuminated by the warm glow of the floor lamp. The lines of exhaustion are faint around his eyes, but they’re erased by the soft smile that touches his lips as he looks at you. Really look at you. As if he’s memorizing the scene: you bundled in a plush throw blanket, a forgotten book in your lap, the half-empty mug of tea steaming gently on the coaster.

An emotion, deep and profound, washes over his features. It’s not just happiness, not just relief. It’s a settled, unwavering devotion. He loves this. He loves coming home to you. The thought crystalizes in his mind, sharp and clear: I want this for the rest of my life.

You smile back, a slow, easy curve of your lips as you dog ear the page — a habit he always gently chastises you for but secretly loves — and set the book aside. You sit up, shrugging off the blanket to lean into his space. The cotton of his work shirt is soft against your cheek as you press a brief, warm kiss to the skin just beside his mouth.

“Welcome home, baby. How was your day?” you whisper, your voice a soft counterpoint to the jazz.

The question is simple, domestic. But the feel of your breath against his skin, the scent of you — clean and warm, like laundry and lavender, the utter, unguarded affection in your gesture, hits him with the force of a physical blow. A slow, searing heat coils low in his belly. It’s sudden, this wave of arousal, so potent it almost steals his breath. It’s not just desire; it’s something more, something tangled up in the love that’s threatening to burst his chest. You look so soft, so lovable, so entirely his, and he is suddenly, painfully hard.

“It was … long,” he manages, his voice a shade rougher than before. He sits on the very edge of the cushion, not crowding you, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. “But better now.”

You hum in sympathy, your fingers coming up to smooth the hair back from his forehead. “Did you eat dinner? I can warm something up.”

“In a bit,” he says, his gaze fixed on your face. His hand, which had come to rest innocently on your ankle, begins to move. His thumb strokes slow circles over your skin, a touch that’s both comforting and possessive. The circles widen, his palm gliding higher, over the curve of your calf. The air shifts. The conversation about dinner dies on your lips, replaced by a sudden, sharp awareness of his touch, of the intensity burning in his dark eyes.

His touch deepens, fingers pressing into the muscle of your thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. The blanket has pooled around your hips, and the space between you feels charged, electric. Your own breath hitches, a familiar warmth begins to bloom low in your own stomach, mirroring his. He sees the shift in your eyes, the way your lips part slightly.

And then he’s leaning in, closing the small distance between you.

At first, the kiss is slow, languid. It’s a reacquaintance, a gentle press of lips that speaks of missed connections and the comfort of reunion. It tastes of the mint from your tea and the faint, lingering bitterness of his day. But the kiss doesn't stay gentle for long. A low groan rumbles in his chest as his hand tightens on your thigh, his tongue sweeping out to trace the seam of your lips. You open for him instantly, a soft sigh escaping as the kiss deepens, turns from intimate to something hungrier, more demanding. It’s a bruising press of mouths, a clash of teeth and tongues as the desperate, pent up need from both your days surges to the surface.

He moves with a sudden, fluid grace, sliding the book onto the coffee table along with the forgotten mug of tea. His hands are on you then, one cupping the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s standing, pulling you up with him, never breaking the kiss. You stumble, a breathless laugh swallowed by his mouth as your arms wind around his neck, clinging to him.

The world becomes a blur of motion. He’s guiding you, steering you through the dim living room, his lips locked on yours, his body a solid, warm anchor in the dizzying spin. You expect the cool wood of the bedroom doorframe against your back, but instead, he stops just shy of it. He uses his free hand to shove the door open, the sound a loud crack in the hushed apartment. But he doesn’t pull you inside.

He pushes you.

Your back hits the solid wood of the doorframe with a soft thud, trapping you between his body and the house. A sharp gasp escapes you, a thrill shooting down your spine at the sudden, dominating move. His mouth leaves yours, and for a second, you mourn the loss, until you feel his lips on your jaw, trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hands roam your body, mapping your curves over the thin fabric of your shirt and shorts, relearning you after a single day apart.

“Joshua,” you breathe, your head falling back against the wood, offering him more.

He makes a low sound of approval, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. “You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, raspy thing that sends shivers straight to your core. “No idea what you do to me.”

Then, in a move that makes your knees buckle, he grips your hips and spins you. Your palms flatten against the opposite side of the doorframe, your body now facing the bedroom, your back to his front. His chest presses against your spine, and you can feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection through his trousers. He kisses the nape of your neck, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

He continues his downward exploration, his lips moving a worshipful trail over your neck to your shoulder blade. He kneels, his breath hot on your lower back, and presses a tender kiss to the base of your spine, right above the waistband of your shorts.

The gesture is so reverent, so intimate, it makes your heart ache. He’s worshipping you, piece by piece. When he rises, he’s breathing hard, his hands firm on your hips.

“On the bed,” he whispers, a command and a plea all at once.

He guides you the few steps into the room, his hands never leaving you. He eases you down onto the duvet, and you fall back against the pillows, your body humming with anticipation. He stands over you for a moment, his dark eyes roaming over you, drinking you in. The intensity in his gaze is almost overwhelming.

He kneels on the bed, crawling between your legs, and slowly, deliberately, hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties. He pulls them down together, the fabric whispering against your skin. He discards them without a second glance, his attention fixed entirely on you, bared and open to him. He lowers his head, and his breath ghosts over your most sensitive flesh, making you tremble.

Then, his mouth is on you.

The first touch is a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots through you. He knows exactly what you like, exactly how to unravel you. He spreads you with his thumbs, his tongue circling your clit before flattening against it, applying a steady, maddening pressure. Your hands fly to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you as he works you with a devastating expertise. He’s not in a hurry. He’s savoring this, savoring you.

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. The dual stimulation is exquisite, a slow building fire that threatens to consume you whole. He sucks your clit into his mouth, a gentle, rhythmic pressure, and the fire finally breaks. Your orgasm crashes over you in a blinding wave, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your body arches off the bed. He works you through it, his tongue and fingers prolonging the pleasure until you’re a boneless, trembling mess beneath him.

He doesn’t give you long to recover. He moves over you, his body covering yours, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. He kisses you then, and you can taste yourself on his lips, a heady, intimate flavor that makes your own arousal spike anew. You reach between you, fumbling with the button and zipper of his trousers, needing to feel him, all of him. He helps you, shoving his trousers and boxers down his hips in a single, impatient motion.

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your wetness. He pauses, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his eyes locking with yours. They’re dark, blown wide with desire, but there’s something else there too, something soft and achingly vulnerable.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

You nod, unable to form words, and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He takes the invitation, pushing into you in one slow, deep thrust. You gasp at the stretch, the feeling of being so completely, perfectly filled by him. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours. His breath is ragged, his body taut with a barely leashed control.

Then, he begins to move.

His pace is unhurried at first, a slow, deep rhythm that stokes the embers of your desire back into a roaring flame. It’s not just fucking; it’s making love. Every thrust is a declaration, every kiss a promise. He holds your gaze, his eyes never leaving yours, and the connection between you is so potent it’s almost painful. He shifts his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside you again, and a moan escapes your lips.

He picks up the pace, his movements becoming harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your shared, breathless cries. He’s losing himself in you, his control finally snapping as the need for release takes over. He buries his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin, and you feel your own release coiling tight in your belly, ready to snap.

“Shua,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “I’m close.”

“Let go, baby,” he growls against your skin. “Come for me.”

His words are your undoing. Your second orgasm tears through you, even more intense than the first. Your body clenches around him, your vision blurring as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. He follows you over the edge a moment later, his body shuddering as he spills into you with a hoarse cry of your name.

For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your hearts pounding in a frantic, syncopated rhythm. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding presence, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his damp hair, your own body still trembling with the aftershocks.

Eventually, he pushes himself up, his arms trembling slightly with the effort. He looks down at you, his expression softening as he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His eyes are clear now, the haze of passion replaced by something deeper, more enduring.

You expected a kiss, maybe a soft word. You did not expect what came next.

He shifts his weight, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you properly. He traces the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. The jazz has ended, and the only sound in the room is the soft hum of the air conditioner and the rhythm of your breathing. He looks at you for a long time, as if searching for the right words, and a flicker of nerves crosses his face, something you rarely see.

Then he speaks, his voice a low, intimate rasp, laced with a vulnerability that makes your breath catch.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, his gaze unwavering, pinning you in place. “If you’ll let me.”

The world stops. The air leaves your lungs. Your heart, which had just started to return to a normal rhythm, lurches into a frantic, panicked beat against your ribs. You stare at him, your mind struggling to process the words, to connect them to the man you know so well, the man who is currently inside you, whose scent is all over your skin. A proposal. Here. Now.

A slow smile spreads across his face, a soft, knowing laugh escaping his lips as he takes in your stunned expression. It’s not a mocking laugh, but one filled with pure, unadulterated affection. He leans down and presses a soft, romantic kiss to your parted lips, a stark contrast to the frantic passion of moments before. It’s a kiss that tastes of the future, of promises whispered in the dark.

When he pulls back, his eyes are sparkling. “Is that a yes?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

A tear escapes, tracing a hot path down your temple. You can only nod, a shaky, watery thing, but the widest smile you’ve ever felt spreads across your face. The words are stuck in your throat, a choked, happy sound. He seems to understand. He kisses the tear away, then captures your lips again in another soft, searing kiss.

He finally pulls out of you gently, and the loss of his warmth makes you shiver. He disappears for a moment into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a warm, damp washcloth. He cleans you up with a tenderness that steals your breath all over again, his hands gentle and sure. It’s an act of care so intimate, so profoundly loving, it feels more significant than the mind blowing sex you just had.

He tosses the cloth aside and pulls the duvet over both of you, settling you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thrum beneath your ear. You wrap an arm around his waist, holding him tight, as if afraid this perfect moment might slip away.

You’re both quiet for a long time, simply basking in the afterglow, in the monumental shift that just occurred in your shared life.

Finally, you find your voice, a whisper against his skin. “I can’t believe you just proposed while you were still … you know.”

He chuckles, the sound making a deep vibration in his chest. “I couldn’t help it,” he admits, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “I came home, and I saw you there, looking so beautiful and peaceful. And it just … hit me. All at once. That this is it. This is what I want. For the rest of my life.” He tightens his arm around you. “The feeling didn't exactly fade when we were … occupied.”

You lift your head to look at him, your heart swelling. “It’s what I want, too,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “More than anything.”

He leans in and kisses you, a slow, deep kiss that seals the pact. When you part, he’s smiling, a genuine, radiant smile that reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “We’ll do it properly,” he says. “I’ll buy a ring. I’ll get down on one knee. Maybe with clothes on next time.”

You laugh, a real, happy sound that fills the quiet room. “I’d like that. But this was perfect, Joshua. It was so you.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering. “Get some sleep, my fiancée,” he whispers, the word sending a fresh jolt of happy electricity through you.

You snuggle closer, a profound sense of peace settling over you. The lingering scent of him, the weight of his arm around you, the quiet promise of a shared future. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. You close your eyes, a smile still on your lips, and drift off to sleep, feeling safer and more loved than you ever have in your entire life.

[soyongdorigyu]

pairing: Joshua x Reader || wc: 800+

warning/s: Alcohol consumption

There are bottles on the floor.

Not too many, not too few, just enough to serve as a testament to the spirit of last night’s festivities. It’s messy, an eyesore of deep greens, but it only brings a smile to your face. It’s evidence of him. It’s evidence of you.

Joshua has his arms wrapped around you, his warmth offsetting the cold of the B&B’s living room. It’s easy to pretend like this is how everyday is, easy to pretend like you and Joshua live in an apartment situated somewhere in this quiet part of the city.

“Good morning.” Joshua’s voice is roughened by sleep, but his smile is softened by the morning glow filtering through the windows. A new day has started, a new year has begun, but the love in Joshua’s eyes has remained unchanged. “Sleep well?”

“Mhm,” You hum softly as you turn around fully, nose burying itself into the soft creases of Joshua’s shirt. “The wine took me out.”

Joshua chuckles, a contented sigh leaving through his nostrils as he tightens his hold around you. “It’s our last day today. What do you wanna do?”

“Is cuddling you all day an option?” You joke, but you can’t help but think that at least half of it is true. You’d spend forever and a day in Joshua’s arms if the universe would let you.

“It is.” Joshua’s smile widens. “But I know you’re going to get mad if I don’t drag you out on our last day.”

“You know me so well.”

The morning is slow as you pick up the bottles and throw them into a bag. Joshua has you giggling breathlessly the entire time, cracking jokes and recalling moments from your little trip. He has you laughing and tearing up, has the day’s first chore flying into a flurry of pinks, golds, and greens, and before you know it, the living room is spotless.

Joshua then takes you out for breakfast, espresso and an apricot cornetto at a coffee bar near your accommodation.

“Do you think they have this back in Seoul?” You ask, eyeing the pastry in your hand with longing. It’s good, really good, and you already know you’re going to miss it when you inevitably leave.

“We can look for a store that sells it,” Joshua replies. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” You nod as you continue to bite and chew through the cornetto. “Like I might cry over this, actually.”

Joshua chuckles, hand reaching out to let his thumb brush at the corner of your lips. “Don’t cry. I’ll learn how to make it if I have to.”

You’re not sure which is warmer: the cup of coffee in your hand or the blooming feeling in your chest.

Breakfast passes, and the two of you are quick to get on your feet and explore the city one last time. Your walk has no direction, and you think this is what they mean by the journey being more important than the destination. You’d walk anywhere as long as Joshua held your hand like this, fingers intertwined with yours and buried in the pocket of his coat.

Fate and idle conversation lead you to Terrazza del Pincio. Your heart is still recovering from the walk, the stairs, the journey, but you find that it isn’t difficult to regain that slow rhythm, especially with the view in front of you.

The sun hangs low in the left, and from here you can see Rome’s vividly blue sky blanket the golden buildings interspersed between the greenery. An obelisk at the center of Piazza del Popolo, St. Peter’s Basilica in the background, and you think the heavens are smiling down upon you as Joshua hums beside you.

“I’m gonna miss this place,” You whisper softly, and you watch as the sun strikes the fog of your breath into existence.

“We can always come back,” Joshua says with certainty as he kisses your temple, says it like next year is promised, says it like tomorrow and every day after it will have you and him in it… Together. “A little holiday tradition, if you’d like.”

A holiday tradition, like decorating the tree with your father, like wrapping presents with your mother, like gathering around the dinner table with a sprawl of delicacies you only see once a year.

“Hey, Josh?” You shift your gaze from the view that the quiet terrace overlooks, and you stare at the soul of the one that matters most.

“Hm?”

“I love you,” You breathe it out, and the warmth of your confession shines gold in the air as the sun shifts. The air in your lungs and that overwhelming in your heart are one and the same, you think. You know.

“I love you more.”

And you pray with every fiber of your being that your love is as eternal as the city you stand upon.

A/N: I’m writing something a little softer on the soul tonight. Please don’t mind me while I try to get over a bad case of writer’s block with self-indulgent blurbs 😅 Also, I will be making a new taglist soon just to reset things, so if anyone’s still interested, it’ll be out before the next long fic.

🔹 General Taglist: @floraoleander, @wonu13, @socialsymphonies, @limeliner, @joepomonerof, @xxxhanasoni-blog, @bruhmoonlight, @nahyuckism, @enchantingbarbariansublime, @haaruki, @daisyyquakee, @hrtsformark, @sakusaskrma, @septemberskies, @lyche3soju, @eyeshasimps, @imjustchubby, @mari-maris-things, @picheolout, @sankriin, @tranquillitysoul, @amturners, @kyoongchannie, @alohacrispyrn, @saythenamesvtsblog, @noisymiraclewatcher, @tinaaaapon, @akhtara, @smrz7, @faizaa09, @minorwithchampagneproblems, @jaja-salute, @woozilovespinkunderwear, @wonwooslefttiddie, @starmint-s, @dontmindme-readingsmutsonly, @hanniehaeo, @cherrylovescheol, @gyuguys, @yoonjeo, @vwintershire, @lovelylonelinesssvt, @christinewithluv, @seungcheolsblackcard, @amisuh, @fyeahwonu, @cherryfairy08, @krystalxxjx, @luvseungcheol

[himewonu]

WANT U BACK! ౨ৎ seventeen ex texts

౨ৎ when ex!seventeen tries to “happy birthday” their way back into your life (¬_¬)

contents seventeen ot13 x gn!reader(s), romance, comedy, exes au, light profanities

from rianca, i made this without anyone’s bday in mind. it’s not even my bday today.. i’m born in march… also thanks to soph for the inspo from her cortis ex texts !!

please support by reblogging and feedbacks ♡

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[goldenhourology]

WHITE RABBIT. part of the midnight menagerie collaboration with @camandemstudios

pairing: joshua hong x f!reader

genre: smut, master magician x apprentice/assistant

summary: well-known magician, j. nocturne, didn’t expect to lose his permanent residency and then be forced to work at an eerie new circus that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. the midnight menagerie is full of unusual acts and mysterious faces around every corner, but nocturne, otherwise known as joshua, knows to keep his head down. a paycheck is a paycheck. but everything changes the day you walk into his apprentice auditions, and what sparks from there is a fervent obsession that explodes on opening night.

warnings: dom!joshua, slight age gap (25 yr old + 31 yr old), power imbalance, obsession, jealousy, masturbation, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, use of pet names (bunny), weird costumes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, use of blindfolds + handcuffs, a hint of possession at the end, joshua can be kinda toxic at times, mutual pining (if you squint). nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).

word count: 11.6k

note: this fic is a part of the awesome midnight menagerie collab hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you guys for giving me the opportunity to be a part of this! seriously, when I got the dm to join this, I damn near freaked out. I'm such a huge fan of everyone involved in this collab, and I'm just so stoked to be part of it. the concept is very fun and unique, so make sure you check out the other stories in the collab. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! 🎃 (taglist posted at the bottom.)

in rotation: just like magic, jackson wang / i put a spell on you, sylvia black / smoke, pvris / creep, ateez / house of balloons/glass table girls, the weeknd

“We can’t have you come back this season.”

Joshua felt his stomach drop. He stared at his boss, Richard, not blinking, simply trying to process the words that just came out of his mouth. The circus he had worked at for over a decade … was firing him. He could only utter, “Why?”

Richard pushed his glasses up to his hairline and sighed. Sitting back in his chair, he replied, “Budget cuts. Circuses aren’t as cool as they used to be. Well, not that they ever really were. We just can’t afford to have all these acts anymore if people aren’t showing, so we have to cut some.”

This didn’t make any sense. Joshua had been performing with this circus since he was 20. He practically grew up here; his 20s were cemented in these grounds with the worms and dead roots. There would be no J. Nocturne without this circus. Videos from his performances and practice vlogs he uploaded to Youtube got him to where he is today. Was it his age? He was 31 now, surely he wasn’t out of his prime when one of their clowns was nearing 70.

“But I always pull an audience. I’m one of the most popular acts!” Joshua furrowed his brow. “And you’re going to cut me?”

Richard shook his head. “Magicians just aren’t that exciting anymore.”

The words had been rolling through his head for what felt like forever. Joshua had become a hermit in his apartment. Weeks turned to months, and eventually he was dipping his hand into his savings as if it were a cookie jar. He needed to find another residency, but how could he when magicians just weren’t that exciting anymore? Just thinking about Richard made him want to scoff. He had no choice but to start looking for auditions, unless he wanted to be penniless. To think that he, J. Nocturne: Master of the Veil, had to audition was unbelievable. Almost embarrassing.

He had one audition. No call back.

Another audition. No call back.

Yet another. No fucking call back.

Now, he was mortified.

What could he be doing wrong? Joshua had been perfecting his act over so many years. He adapted his performance for a Twitter-centric crowd, and then the TikTok generation, making segments of his act shorter to accommodate everyone’s shorter attention spans these days. He always knew when to switch it up, to trust in his gut. So why wasn’t he being hired? Turning the dreaded 3-1 had to mean something: his glory days were over. 

He just wasn’t the magician he once was.

After a fifth audition over video chat with no response, Joshua was ready to hang up his hat. He got in his car one late Saturday afternoon, noting that the air smelled of pumpkin spice and aged wine, with the intent to visit his local coffee shop and try to pick up a part-time gig until he found something permanent. But it was when he parked that he noticed something in the distance. He stepped out of the vehicle, squinting across the street at a huge tent being set up in an abandoned field.

Was this … not a mirage? That field had been deserted for years, the grass so dead that it turned white. Some of the local high schoolers had even begun to use it for parties. It was well known in town as a dead zone. Joshua pinched himself, but the sight before him wasn’t disappearing into thin air. He ogled the large red and white tent, stained with dirt and wear, along with a slightly-torn sign that said, COME ONE, COME ALL! THE MIDNIGHT MENAGERIE.

Taking this as a good omen, Joshua immediately got back in his car and drove over. He passed the fabric sign, trying not to note how the letters were either made out of red paper or sticky paint, and stopped by a trailer situated near the main tent. There were various other canopies littered amongst the grounds, surrounded by teams of people for set up. Some were in costume, unbeknownst to him, while others looked like children, walking through the dirt with no shoes. Joshua cocked a brow, considered going back in his car, and then almost jumped out of his skin when a clown wearing yellow makeup and a tiger-striped vest breezed past him with a haunting laugh.

He turned at the right time, finding a man lingering on the steps of the trailer. He was looking at Joshua like he expected him to be here, like he had been waiting patiently for him to arrive. The brunette man was an inch or so shorter than Joshua, but his stance held command. “Are you here for the audition?” He asked suddenly, mouth lifting into a smirk.

“You’re holding auditions?” Joshua replied.

“We’re always holding auditions.” He chuckled, disappearing back into the trailer, expecting Joshua to follow.

Looking around for a moment, Joshua hesitated before venturing inside the packed trailer. The owner, which he could only guess was the man in front of him, was clearly a hoarder. He had stacks of paper and manila folders in almost every corner, posters from years past hung up on the wall, vintage animatronics that made a shiver run down Joshua’s spine once he spied them at the back of the office. He introduced himself as Seungkwan, and then asked Joshua to sit down in a chair that looked like it was made for a child.

“When did you and your crew get in town?” He asked, crossing his legs to get more comfortable. “I’ve never seen your circus here before. This land has been abandoned for years.”

Seungkwan smiled, his expression almost disoriented. “We’ve come back every year around this time.”

Joshua stared at him for a long moment. “I feel like I would’ve noticed you. Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Joshua was used to circus people being strange – I mean, he, himself, wasn’t all there. He was a magician. But Seungkwan had to be on some kind of psychedelics. He had this far-off look in his eyes, and he spoke like he was from a different time. Joshua had done psychedelics once – high school graduation night – and Seungkwan wasn’t exhibiting any other physical symptoms. So what was his deal?

“Well, uh – I don’t have any props with me, but I guess I can show you some of my videos online for the audition,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve always worked as –”

“A magician,” Seungkwan prompted, raising a brow. Joshua’s mouth dropped slightly, his eyes never leaving the owner’s, until Seungkwan slapped his knee. “I’ve seen your videos. I’m a fan.”

Relief crashed through him. Joshua laughed along with him, albeit quite awkwardly, but the tension needed to be alleviated. Seungkwan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He studied Joshua for a moment, his eyes raking down the button-up that was just one button too low, the dark wash jeans hugging his thighs, and then hummed. “So when can you start?”

“You’re hiring me?” Joshua asked, dumbfounded. “Just like that?”

“Unless you don’t want it.”

He stammered, “No, I – I … yes, I want to. I can start setting up tomorrow.”

Seungkwan clapped. “Great!” He opened one of the many drawers on the side of his desk, which Joshua just now noticed was missing a leg. Even throughout the mess, Seungkwan was able to find the paper he wanted so easily. He slid it across the desk and placed a pen on top. “This is your contract. All I need is for you to sign on the dotted line below.”

Joshua flipped the piece of paper over, front and back. “Pretty short for a contract.”

He grinned shyly. “I’m concise.”

Skimming through it, Joshua didn’t find anything unordinary in the fine print. In fact, this almost seemed too good to be true. Just when he was down on his luck, this Midnight Menagerie seem to pop up out of nowhere with a job opening for him in mind. He didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it was just … no. If he thought about it more, he might refuse this opportunity.

Meeting Seungkwan’s eyes, Joshua set the paper down and scratched his name in ink at the bottom. He was elated, but he couldn’t help the creeping suspicion that he might’ve just sold his soul.

Next to the big event pavilion, Seungkwan handed Joshua one of the biggest tents on the premises for his act. As if it was always meant to be his. Opening night was months away, but Seungkwan explained that they liked to move locations early to give enough time for set up and to practice the performances in a new space. Joshua became accustomed to showing up everyday, gathering supplies for his stage, even called his parents to tell them the good news. (In typical fashion, all they wanted to know was if he had a girlfriend yet.)

Despite his excitement, Joshua noticed the obvious red flags about the establishment. Every circus came with them, but none had ever been this … eerie. He didn’t question the other performers who seemed like they were from a different era. He didn’t ask the owner why he was able to appear and disappear at the most unlikely of times. He ignored a plethora of other things that kept him up at night. Joshua knew that as long as he kept his head down, he’d get paid. And that was all that mattered at the end of the day. He just needed this gig to last a little longer before he retired the cloak and finally went for the corporate role his parents always dreamed for him.

He was working late one night when Seungkwan approached him. Setting up different props on stage to see what looked right, Joshua turned around to see the owner directly beside him and he fought the urge to scream. He didn’t even hear the tent flap open; Seungkwan was as silent as a ghost.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Seungkwan mused, eyes roaming around the stage. There was a dark shade of gray under his eyes. “You pegged me as a person who is scared to be out late, young Joshua.”

Joshua raised a brow. “I thought I was older than you.”

The owner paused. “Anywho,” he sighed, dragging a finger over the edge of the stage, gathering the dust. “I was thinking today … have you considered getting an assistant?”

Joshua rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve never needed one before. I can draw big crowds just by myself.”

“Just a thought,” he shrugged. “You know, sex sells and what not.”

“If I hired an assistant, I wouldn’t be having sex with her,” Joshua stated.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t suggesting that at all,” Seungkwan waved his hand. “I’m just saying … a beautiful assistant can do wonders for stage presence. Keep it in mind.” His eyes flickered to the stage once again. “And take care of the dust. It gets rather filthy in here.”

Taking his words as an order rather than a suggestion, Joshua made a post online that he was holding auditions. Clearly, Seungkwan thought that he couldn’t get by on his skills alone, but the last thing he wanted was an assistant. No, he’d hire an apprentice, someone he could train and shape, someone to take his place once this circus season ended. Instead of hanging up the cloak, it could go to someone else.

Auditions were held in his tent on the first Saturday of September. Joshua got to the circus grounds bright and early, expecting a car or two already parked, but there was … nobody. Not even any of the performers were out and about. He waited in his tent for hours, but still, no one showed up to his auditions. He was inviting people to stop by between 8 AM to 2 PM. He gave them enough time. Was he doing something wrong? Did his posts not reach enough of his audience? Joshua was biting the edge of his nail, frantically scrolling through his phone, when the flap to his tent opened.

And there you were.

You swallowed hard as you stumbled inside the tent, locking eyes with the J. Nocturne. You almost couldn’t believe it. You’d been a fan ever since you first saw his videos go viral on Youtube in college, even going to see him live whenever your local circus was in town. A couple times, you ventured outside of town to see him, just to be the first to witness his new act.

Your friends, your family – everyone thought it was strange that you idolized a circus magician. Even you couldn’t deny that your fascination with him was borderline unusual. But something about him was endearing, so charismatic, as if he could pull you under a real spell. You were just shy of 26, and he was older than you by a few years, but he seemed so much older than that. So much wiser.

When you had seen his post about auditions, you took a train, and then a bus just to get here. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have the first clue on how to be a magician’s apprentice. You weren’t missing this. You arrived close to the end of auditions, hair a mess and sweat clinging to your forehead, but you still made it. Adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, your eyes roamed around the tent and saw no one else there. Perhaps most people auditioned earlier.

“Am I late?” You asked, slightly out of breath.

Joshua took in the sight of your light blue sundress, the light fabric clinging to your hips, and noticing the small coffee stain near the neckline. Just one look at you and he knew you weren’t cut out for this. He could tell you were disheveled and unorganized, nothing of use to him. And yet … he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

“No, no …” He finally cleared his throat and gestured to the stage. “Right on time. The floor is yours.”

You nodded quickly, walking ahead and setting your bag down by the stage. Striding up the steps, you stopped in the middle of the stage, hands balling into fists as you met his eyes in the back row of seats. His brow shot up, one finger tracing his top lip.

“I …” You shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t exactly prepare an act.”

Joshua blinked. “Then how did you plan on auditioning?”

“I assumed my charisma and enthusiasm would land me the job.”

You couldn’t be serious. Just like he assumed: you were of no use to him. Nevertheless, something about you was pulling him in, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Your smile was contagious, and he was fighting the urge to laugh at your response.

“Do you have any experience with stage performance?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Well … no, not exactly. I was forced to do a play in middle school. It was something by Dr. Seuss, I think.” Your knuckles were turning white now, your nails digging into your palm. “Other than that … what’s the saying? ‘All the world’s a stage?’”

Joshua rubbed at his eyes for a moment. “Quoting Shakespeare is an interesting way to get the job as a magician’s apprentice.”

“Mr. Nocturne –”

“Just call me Joshua.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Finally, you let your fingers relax, your breath slowing as his hard eyes met yours. “Joshua,” you said, his name rolling off your tongue, sweet like syrup. “I know I’m not fit for this job. I did email you my resume, and my background is very clearly in cooking. I’ve worked at a few restaurants, so I know how to work through a fast place environment like this one. I’m just …” You sighed. “Admittedly, I’m a huge fan of you. It would be fun to do something like this and work alongside someone I’ve admired. Your videos got me through a lot of stressful nights in undergrad.”

Admire. That one word looped through his head, making every hair on the back of his neck stand up. He couldn’t remember the last time someone told him they admired him. But you did, and now it felt like the planet had physically stopped spinning, just so he could stare at you in this moment and appreciate the sight in front of him. 

You were what Seungkwan wanted for him. You had to be. There was something about you that was captivating. Maybe it was the softness of your smile, the nervous glint in your eyes,  the way your posture was slightly lopsided, but he … he wanted to know more.

You were untrained and not exactly talented. But you were moldable.

And Joshua knew how to mold.

Standing up from his seat, he walked forward until he was at least a foot from the stage. He tilted his head up to look at you and asked, “I can start teaching you the basics tomorrow.”

Opening night was less than two months away – October 31st, to be exact – and Joshua didn’t realize how difficult it was going to be to train a complete amateur just the foundation of magic. 

He assumed it would be easy to pick up, like riding a bike on training wheels, but boy, was he wrong. You lacked the attention span to follow his instructions, and your mind was almost always somewhere else to remember exactly what he told you. It took almost a week for you both to nail down pulling a bunny out of a hat – something most children could do. 

He was determined to make you the perfect apprentice. If there was anything about Joshua, it was that he was hell-bent, bordering on obsessive. Hopefully, in a few years, you’d be good enough to take over his act, allowing him to retire and move on. But until then … he was stuck in this tent, teaching you the difference between close-up magic and stage magic. 

This new position in life had his brain completely warped, and even you noticed. You had been watching Joshua’s routine for years, memorized it down to the second. But around him, you could hardly remember a thing. Maybe it was due to his attitude. You could tell that he never wanted to be at this backwater circus in the first place, or training an apprentice, for that matter. You heard him talking to one of the jugglers – Vernon? – and complaining about having to relearn his act all over again. He was frustrated and deeply insecure about it all – to the point you almost wished you hadn’t gotten the job – but somehow, Joshua was still … incredibly cocky.

Multiple times a day, he made you redo a routine over and over again. He got close to you because he knew that made you sweat. He belittled you and loved to remind you of your place while trying not to throw a stack of cards off the stage. After a month of training you, the only piece you had perfected because the rabbit trick, which led Joshua to calling you, Bunny.

The nickname made the hairs stand on the back of your neck. Your skin would prickle and your nails would create the deepest crescents in your palm. You would tell him to stop calling you that, and he would simply smile before ordering you to practice again. It was demeaning and rude and frankly, uncreative, but …

But.

If all those things were true … why were you up most nights repeating the way he said it in your head? You couldn’t help but close your eyes, remembering the way his lips formed as he uttered the name, while slipping a hand under your pajama pants. You would moan into your pillow to drown out your shame, fingers pumping in and out of you, wondering if his could go that much deeper, how his one gloved hand would feel better than anything you’ve ever experienced. Your apartment was so dark, so empty, but as you imagined him, it felt like all eyes were on you, watching you as you fucked yourself and thought about J. Nocturne. And then you would cum, with nothing but the memory of your boss saying, “Bunny,” echoing behind your eyelids.

How mortifying it could be to have a crush.

 Almost a couple weeks before Halloween, you began to notice a change in him too. It was unsuspecting at first. You had been so wrapped up in your daydream-infused lust to realized that maybe – just maybe – it was reciprocated. (I mean, how could you ever think that with all his belittling, with your nightly routine that left you red and embarrassed every time you thought about it?) Until the night of the costume fitting. 

You both had just wrapped up a long eight hours of practice. You had finally perfected almost half the routine, which Joshua considered a win, so he rewarded you with takeout and a surprise. Sitting in your dressing room behind the stage, grease and sauce staining your upper lip, he couldn’t help but want to watch your reaction as he set the dress bag on the rack before you. He simply gestured to it with his head before grabbing his takeout carton and slurping a noodle. (Which you tried, desperately, to ignore.) Wiping your mouth with a napkin, you asked, “What’s this?”

He shrugged casually. “Open it up and see.”

You placed your carton of fried rice on the table before standing up. With heightened anticipation, you slowly pulled down the zipper of the dress bag and … what the fuck?

“I had it made specifically for you, Bunny.”

You could hardly hear him through the ringing in your ears. Your face was turning red, either from humiliation or anger, you weren’t sure. The reason he had a tailor come earlier this week to take your measurements was because … your onstage costume was supposed to resemble a white rabbit.

“You’re joking,” you finally muttered, fingers grazing the vintage lace on the skirt. 

“What?”

You practically heard the brow raise in his voice, and when you looked over your shoulder at him – there it was. Your eyes blinked, studying his face. He was serious about this. “You expect me to wear this?” You shucked the dress bag down to unveil the costume in all it’s frilly glory. “To parade around the stage with you as your personal Playboy Bunny? I have more respect for myself than that. Sorry.”

His jaw ticked, so quick you almost didn’t notice it. 

Getting to his feet, Joshua walked over to you with his hands in the front pockets of his pants. Your eyes raised the closer he got, until he was directly in front of you, dark stare flickering from yours to the costume in your tight grip. Your nails were painted his favorite color: dark blue. You never had your nails painted, and … were you wearing makeup or were your cheeks that red right now?

“Last I checked,” he spoke calmly, as if he was preserving a deeper part of his voice, “you worked under me. You don’t exactly have a choice. Now, go try on the costume.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’ll try it on when I want to.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, walking back over to his chair and popping another forkful of noodles into his mouth.

You waited there, stunned, as he pretended like you didn’t existed. He held the takeout in one hand, grabbing his phone with the other and beginning to scroll through his texts. After a moment, you let out a frustrated exhale. “Whatever, give me a few minutes,” you said, turning your back before you could see his triumphant grin.

You rounded the corner to the back of the dressing room, pulling the curtain to shield yourself. Meeting your eyes in the old mirror, you placed your hands on both cheeks, feeling the heat. You slapped yourself, hoping it would knock some sense into you, but the sting of pain was only a mere distraction from the inevitable. But it wasn’t time to think about that right now. You couldn’t.

It took more than a few minutes to get the costume on. This dressing room had such minimal lighting, especially behind the curtain, so you struggled with even finding the zipper. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, almost in horror. The bunny ears might be the worst part. They looked old and used, dirt staining part of the white and one ear bent down far too low, almost hitting you in the eye. The top was tight and hardly fit your chest, but you supposed you did look good. The fabric was a thick, white brocade sewn into a corset-like bodice, but with a zipper in the back and frilly lace lining the neckline. The skirt had the same lace, almost resembling a pair of bloomers, but trust that this was a skirt. And it was far too short to wear anywhere. Your behind was practically hanging out the back, or was your ass just that long? Genetics were such a bitch sometimes. 

The costume was definitely made to your measurements, but something about it was so old. Could it be the 1930s-style corset shape? Or the stains embedded into the up-cycled lace? You weren’t sure. Despite this, you couldn’t help but … admire yourself, even in this dim lighting. Although it was tight, it fit you in all the right places. You looked different. You looked sexy.

You couldn’t remember the last time you looked like this.

Yanking the curtain back, you stepped out nervously and intertwined your hands behind your back. He was already waiting there for you, patiently, leaning back in his folding chair as he regarded you with ease. Like he got exactly what he wanted. You could tell he was fighting back some kind of expression – a smile, perhaps? – as his eyes raked down your barely-clothed form. But you kept your chin held high. That was all you had in this moment, and besides … you knew you looked good.

When his eyes met yours once again, he was staring at you like a predator that had finally captured his prey. Like he wanted you. Like he needed you.

God, could pull it together until you were alone in your apartment tonight?

“Well?” You spat, attempting to ignore the immediate pulse between your legs.

But you wondered if he could sense it, if he could smell it, because he hesitated. His hand on his knee jerked slightly. 

“‘Well,’ what?”

Your sweaty hands smoothed down the frills on your skirt. “Well, what do you think? You’re the one who had me try this on in the first place.” You reached up, adjusting the ears. “The headband is a little tight.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, and you noticed a change in his eyes then. Somehow, they were darker than before, a trace of smoke swirling behind that deep abyss. His stare lingered on the shape of you, how the fabric fit just right, wishing – praying – you turned slightly so he see just a hint of your ass peaking from under the hem of the skirt.

Or maybe you were imagining that part.

Because he adjusted his stance in the chair, sitting up, and turned back to his phone. He grabbed the takeout carton and sent you a small smile. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, reading through a text thread.

He didn’t meet your eyes again for the rest of the night.

Joshua found you up earlier for practice each day, spied you staying after hours memorizing the routine alone. This whole time he’d been dead set on practicing with you, but he realized observing you was much more satisfying. Some mornings, he would walk into the tent, not say a word, and simply watch you for the fourth row as you did the routine over and over again. 

He was becoming harder on you, which you guessed you should’ve expected given the fact that opening night was less than two weeks away. Every mistake was like a lashing, but somehow worse than that. You would’ve preferred his loud voice, maybe even a ruler smack. Anything other than him sitting in the back row and saying in the calmest voice possible, “Again.”

Some days it was almost too much. The days where you’d practice for over ten hours and nothing went right. When the latch on the stage trap door got stuck once again, you sunk to the floor and blew out a tired sigh. Sweat clung to your hairline. You were so hot despite the October chill in the air. You heard the rest of the performers outside the tent laughing, grilling barbecue and singing. But you were stuck inside this tent for what felt like forever and there was your boss repeating, “Again.”

“I can’t,” you breathed out, tugging you hair up into a ponytail. “We need to break for the night.”

“Opening night is a week away.” Joshua shoved his phone in his pocket and sat back in his chair. “I know that door is old and rusty, but you still haven’t been able to time the pull correctly.”

You blinked at him. He wasn’t going to let you leave. “I’m doing my best. It’s late. I’m hungry.”

Joshua tilted his head.

“Can’t we just call it tonight? I’ll be able to come at this with a fresh mind tomorrow.”

He sighed, and for a moment, you thought he was going to relent. With a shake of his head, he said, “Again.”

You surged to your feet, the adrenaline rushing through you and leaving just as quickly. Stomping down the stairs of the stage, you walked through the rows of folding chairs and muttered, “Absolutely the fuck not. I’m grabbing some barbecue from Jihoon, and then I’m going home.”

As you passed by his chair, you felt his large hand wrap around your forearm like an electric coil. Your feet stilled, despite yourself, looking down at him until he stood up and your chin was tilting upwards. You swallowed hard. His palm was like acid, hot and stinging against your goose-bumped arm. He could feel it too – you knew he could – the way your pulse was thrumming, calling out to him like a song.

You tried to save face as you whispered, “Are you going to let go of me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bunny?” He wasn’t answering your question this time. “I’m sure Jihoon really misses your company. You love a strong man, right?”

“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrowed. “You have no right to speak to me like that.”

He cocked his head. “Jihoon has become nothing but a mere distraction for you. I’ve seen you sneaking off to see him around noon, sitting with him for lunch. He’s walked you to your car every night for the past couple of weeks.”

"What are you doing? Spying on me?”

His chin jerked back, as if you caught him redhanded.

Your lips pursed, and after a moment, you muttered, “Joshua, let go of my arm.”

Slowly, gradually – Joshua’s hand unraveled and lifted from your forearm. You were almost tempted to look down, to see if his palm had burned itself into your skin, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. No matter how much you fantasized about him.

The funniest part about all of this was … Jihoon meant nothing to you. He was a friend, but nothing more than that. The fact that Joshua was seeing something you didn’t meant he had been watching you much more closely than you’d given him credit for. 

“I won’t let Jihoon, or anyone else – for that matter – become a big enough distraction and ruin our performance,” he finally replied. “If you think I would, you clearly weren’t as big of a fan as you said you were. I would sacrifice anything if it meant my show did well.”

You took in the honesty written all over his face, how deeply earnest he was about this. But it didn’t matter when he was being accusatory like this. You scoffed, turning on your heel and walking towards the exit. 

“Bunny.”

Your hand was pulling up the tent flap, but then you paused. You met his gaze over your shoulder.

His mouth was turned upward on one side, like he was teasing you. “Be ready to practice in costumes tomorrow.”

Not that fucking rabbit costume.

You sneered in his direction. “Goodnight, sir.”

Maybe he had been right, in some way, about you not knowing him. Not being as big of a fan. He was the magician you idolized; the man you watched on YouTube religiously, even when your college roommate made fun of you. But now … he was your boss, and you had to treat him as such. You were simply an apprentice, an assistant in a white bunny costume on opening night.

Regardless, Joshua was learning that when his apprentice didn’t want to do something, you were absolutely not doing it. It didn’t matter if he was your boss or just a guy at a bar. You were a stubborn piece of work.

“What are you wearing?” He asked, adjusting his favorite cape on one of his shoulders. Afternoon sunlight casted through a hole in the roof of the tent, and you tried to keep your eyes away from where he was pulling at the white gloves on his hands.

You placed your hands on your hips and looked down. An old thermal henley clung to your torso while you wore a pair of sweatpants dangerously low on your hips. When your head popped back up, you asked, “What? You thought I was actually going to wear that rabbit costume today?”

“That is what I asked for.” His brow shot up high. “Have you never heard of a dress rehearsal?”

You glared at him. “I’m not wearing the costume.”

A quick tick in his jaw, and Joshua was slowly walking over to your end of the stage. You were tempted to step back, but then you’d be falling off the edge. Maybe that was what he wanted. Your heart rate only increased the closer he got. When his feet were practically touching yours, he adjusted his right glove and said, “I thought you wanted to become my apprentice to surpass me.”

“And you think the key to surpassing you is prancing around stage in a white bunny costume?”

He couldn’t help but smile a little. You got him there. “Always got a comeback. Right.” He shook his head and turned on the heel of his loafer, striding back to his stool at center stage. In the most casual tone possible, he asked, “Would Jihoon be able to get you in that outfit?”

Your brow knitted together. “What?” You could feel your rage bubbling beneath the surface, and he could see it. He knew he’d already won. “What is your issue with Jihoon?”

“No issue.” He shrugged. “Just a question.”

You didn’t respond, only crossed your arms over your chest.

Joshua’s eyes flitted down, just for a moment, ogling your neckline so quickly you didn’t even notice it, before his gaze connected with yours again. That wisp of a smile appearing once more. “I just figured … since you were laughing with him so much at lunch today …” His shoulders sagged up and down.

You stomped over, wagging your finger in this face. “If you paid enough attention, then you’d very clearly see that Jihoon is just my fucking friend –”

“And also a distraction, seeing as we’re still talking about him and you’re on the defense,” he quipped, looking down as if you were a kid. Like he had you right where he wanted.

Your persistence was waning, crumbling like a stack of bricks. “I don’t want to put it on –”

“I’m your boss,” he rebuked, and your mouth immediately sealed shut. A brutal loss. “At least, put on the damn ears. Sound good, Bunny?”

Minutes later, you were standing in the middle of that stage, performing dress rehearsal as one of your rabbit ears kept flopping into your eye. All the while, Ringmaster Seungkwan watched from the tent entrance. Your boss – your biggest admiration – had become the source of your humiliation, but the pull he had on you was relentless. You’d give in eventually.

What could be even more embarrassing? Touching yourself that night while thinking about those goddamn white gloves, how jealous he got over Jihoon. Guess you couldn’t be that mad about it after all.

It was October 31st. As soon as the sun set, the spotlight in front of the circus switched on. The Midnight Menagerie was open and bustling with life. Performers stood outside the rusty gate, waving to every vehicle that passed. Cars, motorcycles, even children on bicycles made their way inside the circus, heads almost doing a 360 as they took in the hypnotizing lights on display. Seungkwan’s voice boomed from the big tent, inviting one and all to witness what was in store at the menagerie.

Joshua had been running around his own tent the whole day, making sure every piece of the set was perfect. He did run throughs with the teenagers hired for lights at least twenty times. Scolded you over the phone when you didn’t arrive for rehearsal at the exact time he asked. Had you do over one trick when you made the tiniest mistake. But still, he was having a good day. At least that’s what he told himself so his head wouldn’t blow up. 

He almost couldn’t bear to look outside the curtain once he knew the gates had been open. Too scared of failure, too anxious to see that all this had been for nothing. But when he finally stuck his head from the side of the velvet divider, he was shocked to see that his tent was packed already. Almost every seat was filled. The crowd seemed stiff though, almost translucent like ghosts, and he wondered how they managed to file in without making a sound. He needed this to go well; he couldn’t dwell on the status of his audience.

All that matter was that he had an audience.

But then he turned his head, watching you walk out of the dressing room. 

And not in the white rabbit costume.

You’re still wearing those ears – thank god, because the seamstress wasn’t cheap – pushing back your hair, which was styled in soft ringlets. The blazer you were wearing was tight and he wasn’t sure if there was anything underneath, but he didn’t seem to care all that much when your chest looked that good, that inviting, and it was a shame that you weren’t dressed just for him. His eyes dragged down to the matching shorts, paired with frilly white socks that went up to your knees and heels in the same color. He swallowed hard, tempted to ask you to change, and yet … he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He feared drool would seep out of his mouth if he even opened it.

This wasn’t what he asked for at all … but dear god, if you didn’t look good than he’d be a liar.

The curtain opened, and the night would’ve gotten off without a hitch, if your nerves didn’t get the best of you. Only two tricks in, you were making mistakes. You didn’t stack his deck correctly before the show, leading his card trick to falter in front of someone he picked in the audience. The person hardly noticed though, staring at him as if he could see right through Joshua, and the magician simply kept the show going. But then, like clockwork, you damn near forgot to pull the trap door at the right time, almost ruining his disappearing act for the tenth time this week. And the crowd was still hardly reacting, as if this routine was stale, as if they’d seen someone do it over the past 100 years or so.

The worst offense was during the handcuffing act – one of the last pieces of the performance. There was no room to get it wrong, and they only way they wouldn’t notice was if they were dead. The trick had started off perfect: he twirled you around so your back faced the audience, clicking the handcuffs in place. His eyes lingered, only for a moment, on how your shorts fit perfectly to the curve of your ass, that hint of a cheek underneath the hem. He couldn’t get distracted – that was how a trick failed – but he was already feeling his cock stir in his trousers. He swallowed hard and resumed the act, showing the ghostly audience the handcuffs, and you pretended like you were trapped. 

If he wasn’t hard then, Jesus Christ –

No distractions.

You realized you had failed to set the gimmick handcuffs correctly, twisting them a certain way on your wrist so you couldn’t reach the shim quickly. When it came time for you to escape, Joshua snapped his hands and you panicked. You glanced at him from over your shoulder with this nervous look in your eyes that shouldn’t have been arousing, but it seemed in this position, he found everything you did a little suggestive. 

He had to come up with a solution quick, one that would distract the audience for enough time while he released the cuffs. The last thing you expected was for him to suggest a kiss.

A fucking kiss.

But you agreed to it immediately, and you weren’t sure if it was to escape his wrath later or maybe – just maybe – you kind of wanted him to. Like you’d been imagining this almost every night while you touched yourself. He was leaning in now, his breath fanning your face, and for a mere instant, you thought you were going to get everything you wanted. His mouth ghosted over yours, hardly pressing his lips to yours, but just enough for the audience to believe. Even you forgot about them, because it felt like time had stopped and Joshua was going to kiss you. Really kiss you. 

It was a farce though. Of course. In that split second he had you pinned, your head twisted over your shoulder with his top lip grazing your bottom, he was able to lift his hand slightly to get to the shim, press down, and the cuffs fell to the floor as a puff of smoke exploded from below the stage. He leaned back, and your eyes followed his tongue as he licked his lips.

You were freed, and this was the first time during the entire act that the crowd showed any emotion. But you couldn’t stop wishing that you had been trapped just a little bit longer, just enough to taste him.

After the show ended and the crowd filed out, you two were finally alone, left to pick up all the props that were thrown around like confetti. The menagerie was still teeming, even though it was nearly midnight. Children were laughing. Parents could be heard running after them. Teenagers were screaming after one of Seokmin’s jump scares. But all of that seemed so subdued as you cleaned up the tent for tomorrow’s show.

Joshua kept to himself, throwing all the props in a bin and setting up the furniture in the marked areas for tomorrow. You expected to get a mouthful from him for messing up almost half the performance, but he seemed … changed. Especially after the kiss, or whatever you wanted to call it.

Setting your gloves on the stage table, you ran a hand through the ends of your hair and muttered, “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna head home. Beauty sleep and all that jazz.”

He turned, opening his mouth to agree, but then he lifted his finger to point at you. “Actually …”

Your eyes lifted to his as you spun on the tip of your heel. 

“We should go through that handcuff act again.”

You raised a brow suspiciously.

Joshua lifted his hands in surrender, a smile playing at his lips. The kind you had never seen on him before. “Not a punishment, Bunny.”

Your teeth clicked, and then you said, “Okay,” so nonchalantly he almost didn’t recognize you. The stubbornness faded, replaced with a softer side. You picked up the gimmick cuffs and walked over to him, holding them out. That smile of his hadn’t faltered, not even when he said, “I think we should try something different. I want to show you how I do it for next time.”

Before you could question him, he was pulling out a folding chair to the middle of the stage. He sat down, put his hands behind his back, and then looked at you watching in silence. “Well?” He said expectantly. “Are you just going to stand there and look pretty, or are you going to handcuff me?”

Just that one sentence made you so horny that you almost didn’t hear him call you pretty.

Stop being such a pervert, your conscience chided. Focus on the trick.

You nodded, getting closer and sinking to your knees behind the chair. The power switch was jarring, making you fumble with the cuffs as you slipped them on. Your hands were sweaty, and his wrists were hairier than you assumed. You wondered where else he was hairy – nope. Your head shook, concentrating on the task at hand, and locked the other cuff in place.

“Do you see where the shim is?” He asked, peeking just over his shoulder at you. “That should be twisted more towards the inner wrist, so your thumb can get to it.”

You did as he said, and then added, “It sometimes gets stuck though. Even you said that these cuffs are old.”

“I should invest in a new pair,” he muttered under his breath, flicking the shim. “Yeah, you’re right. I think there might be some rust here too that’s making it stick.”

You sat there, staring off into space, as his thumb swiped at the metal wedge from different directions. There shouldn’t be anything arousing about this, and yet …

“Got it,” he smirked as his thumb caught on the shim, but then your hand closed around his wrist. You felt his pulse jump as you twisted the cuff back around where he couldn’t reach the release.

“Wait,” you murmured, your own heartbeat thrumming as you circled around him, stopping in front. He looked up at you, his irises dark and eclipsed by his pupils. His back was slumped against the chair, his legs spread, and when your eyes finally flicked down, you gulped at the sight of the prominent bulge in his pristine black pants.

“I …” You stumbled over your words, your mouth suddenly feeling too dry. Your hands balled into fists and you fought the urge to just release him, to be on your way and head back home to your apartment. But he was looking at you like you held his life in your hands, and maybe you actually did. “Why did … why did you almost kiss me?”

His brow raised so high that his forehead wrinkled. “That’s what you want to know? You could’ve asked anything right now.” He exhaled, his casualness infuriating you even more. “If you help unlock the cuffs, I’ll tell you. How’s that, Bunny?”

“Absolutely not. You won’t answer me then.”

That ghost of a smile appeared on his lips again. “Okay, you know me too well now.” Joshua shook his head, adjusting his posture in hopes that would relieve some tension in his groin, but to no avail. He huffed in annoyance, and you weren’t sure if that lewd gesture made the candles flicker on or if he was made of magic himself. His gaze locked onto yours, noticing the droplet of sweat running down the side of your neck. “Because I wanted to. Because I needed to distract the crowd. Because I was so pissed off at you for ruining the act that the only way I could let out my frustration was through that, even though I held myself back.”

His words hit you like a train, like a car crash – sudden and beautiful, unable to turn away. It took you too long before you felt the sweat; your hand smacking onto your neck to wipe it away, hard enough to leave a mark. You knew it, he knew it, and it made him want to see what marks he could give you. Enough for people to know who you belonged to, who you had admired for so long, who’s cock your throat had molded to.

Your chin lifted as that fire returned to your eyes. “That’s a surprise. I can’t see you ever holding back.”

Joshua grinned, fingers twitching as he cornered you right where he wanted you. He was the one cuffed right now, but you were suddenly trapped. He shrugged indifferently. “Get these off and I’ll show you more, Bunny.”

Everything in your body was telling you, NO. This was a bad idea. You didn’t need to see more. You needed to uncuff him and go home to your warm bed and vibrator hiding under your pillow. But your hands unfurled and you were moving towards him, transfixed. He couldn’t be hypnotizing you, right? He didn’t have his signature pocket watch out; you’d studied his performances more than your own homework all those years ago. So why were you striding behind him, unlocking the cuffs, as if you didn’t have a mind of your own?

You stood as he did, swallowing hard and feeling the heat of the candles flicker around you. His height was overwhelming, veiling you, and you let him place his hands on your shoulders before shuffling you over to the table where the remnants of his costume lay. His old top hat with the rips in the fabric, the coat stained from years of wear – he shoved them off the surface as he sat you on the edge of the table, back straight.

His hand was slow, reverent, while pulling both your wrists behind your back. You felt your breath quicken when he locked the cuffs, trying to feel for the wedge, but – surprise, he duped you too. 

You were acutely aware that this wasn’t just practice anymore.

Gaze towards the empty seats, you whispered, “You’ve been looking at me differently since the costume fitting.”

“Have I?”

Your brow furrowed, and you felt his warm breath near your neck. “You talk to me like I’m this little bunny for you to play with. I’m your apprentice and I just want you to teach me.” You turned your head slightly when you felt his fingertips slightly brushing your shoulder, leaving goosebumps. “But I feel like having me in this situation with my hands cuffed behind my back is all you’ve been thinking about for weeks.”

His shoes clicked as he rounded the table, sending you a smirk. “Am I really that transparent, Bunny?”

He was in front of you now, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, bending down to be at your eye level. Your gaze didn’t waver from his, not even when he slowly slid a hand between your legs, opening them a little bit more. You swallowed, and he noticed. His palm moved further, gliding up your inner thigh, and then he felt it. The heat emanating from your core, so hot that he could feel it through your shorts. Your chest heaved and sweat slipped down your neck and into the deep, exposed neckline. There really was nothing underneath that blazer except skin you were practically begging him to touch.

His eyes flickered up to yours. “Something tells me you’ve been thinking about this too.”

You held your chin up high.

“I’ve been thinking about more than just this,” he confessed, tilting his head to the side. “Will you let me show you?”

A beat of hesitation passed. The silence felt thick and heavy. For a moment, he thought you were going to push him away, call him a creep despite how clearly wet you were, how dilated your pupils were.

But then you started to slowly nod your head, unable to think about anything besides the wet spot forming in your panties.

He confirmed with a curt nod of his head, and then walked towards his bin of props, pulling out a red, satin sash. Once he was in front of you again, he held it out, indicating that he was going to blindfold you. Bile rose in your throat, but your swallowed it down, feeling your core pulse between your legs. You nodded, and he methodically wrapped the satin around your head, obstructing your vision. 

Everything was dark, but you felt him … everywhere. He laid you back down on the table, your spine hitting the velvet runner. He pushed the rest of the props off the surface before his hands were on your thighs again, opening you up to him. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breasts practically straining against the fabric. You felt his thumb flick at one of the buttons on your blazer that was just barely holding it together.

“I’m going to take these off now,” he said, as if he were conducting something much more serious. His thumb popped another button open and revealed more of you. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you agreed. “Anything to get these stupid ears off.”

His hand paused, and suddenly you felt his mouth at your ear. Your hands twitched in the cuffs. “Who said anything about the ears?”

Her breath stilled at his words. He opened the front of the blazer, taking in the sight of your exposed chest. The cold air hit your nipples just right, turning them to pebbles and you squirmed. You had the most perfect breasts he’d ever seen – soft and warm. It felt like a crime if he didn’t palm one, just to feel the weight in his hand, to watch you gasp at the sudden touch. He threw off your heels, hesitated, and then decided to keep those knee-high socks on you. After unbuttoning your shorts, he slid them down, leaving you in nothing but your soiled panties and white rabbit ears. You had worn a lacy pair – blue, his favorite color – your wetness soaking through the thin fabric. 

You were completely exposed to him, to the world. Your eyes were completely blindfolded but it felt like you were being watched by more than just him. And somehow … the possibility of that made you even more aroused.

Joshua had to fight the urge to fuck you right there. To have you like this … bare and laid out before him like a feast … it felt like a dream come true. He could do whatever he wanted to you. Have you however he pleased. He could fuck you without waiting for you to cum and tell you to be on your merry way.

He could have all of that, and yet …

Joshua inhaled the scent of your arousal. No, he needed to make you fall apart before you got to feel even an inch of his cock.

He leaned over you, one hand gripping the edge of the table, while the other slipped in between your legs again. Pushing your panties to the side, he skimmed two fingers down your slit, feeling the slick gather. He moved his head down, licking a stripe up your torso, from your belly button to the valley between your breasts. “So fucking wet already,” he clicked his tongue, fingers pushing open your folds, playing you like an instrument. “How long have you been thinking about this, Bunny?” He asked before swirling his tongue around one nipple.

All you could do was let out a whine. Your back arched, pushing your breast more into his mouth, and he smiled. 

“Seems like a while,” he chuckled, fingers finding your clit and rubbing calculated circles. “What? Have you been going home after each practice and touching yourself? You act so tough, getting all angry when I call you, Bunny. Bet you masturbate while thinking about me saying that, huh?”

You sighed, nodding. Shame had vanished from your vocabulary. With his fingers playing with you like this, you’d tell him whatever he wanted to know. 

The cuffs on your wrists were starting to feel like a punishment. You could go without sight, but not being able to feel him, to rake your fingers through his carefully styled hair … that was pure torture. Your hands flexed, wanting to touch, but he wasn’t going to relent. This was part of the trick, after all.

He shoved two fingers inside you without warning, and your hips bucked. You felt him laugh against your skin. The hair on your arms stood up, and then his lips were at your ear again, fingers pumping in and out of you. “I’ve been thinking about doing this to you on stage for weeks,” he confessed, nipping at your earlobe. You moaned, finally understanding just how far those long fingers of his could reach. “Every time I saw you in this costume, every time you rebelled … it just made me want this more.”

His fingers pulled out of you, and you whined with desperation. You couldn’t see it, but you could hear him lapping at his fingers – loudly. “Perfect fucking pussy,” he muttered under his breath before plunging those fingers back inside you, now wet with his saliva. You mewled, so desperate for more – moremoremore. He pressed down on your clit and it felt like a dam was about to break. The cuffs were your enemy now, preventing you from clinging onto him as he finger fucked you into oblivion.

You moaned, “Joshua –”

“Call me Nocturne,” he interrupted. “That’s an order.”

“Nocturne.”

You sounded utterly pornographic, making him ache even more in his pants. He wanted to at least take his cock out, anything to relieve the tension, but he was dedicated to seeing the way you broke for him, the way your mouth formed when you came. 

Joshua added a third finger, stretching you more, and he felt your walls clamp down on him. He swirled his tongue around both nipples again and tasted the sweat on your skin. You were writhing now, needing to touch him, but this was all part of rehearsal. If you both didn’t follow the rules, you would learn nothing. And all he wanted to do was teach you … well, everything. He could turn you into the best magician possible. He could teach you everything about pleasure, make you cum like no one else ever had. He could show you a world you never thought possible. He wanted to be the one you looked to for every piece of guidance, no matter what it was.

All you needed to do in return was obey.

Your voice was hardly distinguishable as you whined, “Josh – Nocturne, I’m gonna –”

He pressed down on your clit. Hard. “Did I tell you that you could cum, Bunny?”

“I – no –”

“Then you can’t yet.” He punctuated his point by fucking those three fingers back inside of you, curling them in a way that made your hips jump. You were so wet that he could probably just slide in if he wanted to. “We’re practicing. You don’t want to make a mistake and have me start over, right?”

You choked out, “Nocturne –”

“Right?”

“Yes.”

You hardly recognized your own voice anymore. 

“Good girl,” he said, hand coming up to suddenly cradle your chin. His fingers were were slick and sloppy, filling the tent with the most lewd sounds he’d ever heard. “If you stop fighting against the cuffs, I’ll let you cum. Sound good, Bunny?”

You nodded in defeat. Your arms went limp, attempting to stay still as his thumb flicked your clit, his digits moving so fast that you thought almost wet yourself. God, you thought, please don’t let the first time I squirt be in this moment. You felt him lick up your neck before nipping at your jaw, his fingers reaching so deep inside. He put heavy pressure on your g-spot, so hard that you had no excuse but to cum. His laugh was breathy and obscene as he said, “C’mon now, Bunny.”

All you could do was break.

Your whole body shuddered, feeling a rush of liquid, cumming for what felt like forever. Whimpering his name, Joshua couldn’t help but grind his aching erection against your thigh, wring the most desperate noises from you. A puddle was forming underneath your ass and staining the velvet throw on the table. Your release was warm and explosive, coating his entire hand. It felt like letting go of a burden, of the tension that you held back from him for so long. The release was volatile, sticky, and only for Joshua to taste.

He yanked his fingers from your dripping heat, and that’s when you both realized.

Joshua lapped at his fingers, noting how it was a mixture of sweet and salty, before bending down to your mouth. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself.  The way he kissed you was greedy. Almost possessive. His tongue practically mimicked what his fingers had just done to you moments ago, and your hand twitched in the cuffs again, desperate to feel him, anything. His mouth was hot and you were surprised at the taste, how sweet you were between your legs. You felt the puddle beneath you already drying up, and your whole body froze.

He leaned back and took in your flushed cheeks. “I think I should’ve kissed you like that much earlier,” he muttered, flicking away the string of spit connecting your mouths. “Has anyone made you squirt like that before?”

“Oh, my god,” you exclaimed, doing your best to sit up. “This is so fucking embarrassing. I’ve never – not before –”

Joshua’s palm pushed you back down on the table. “You can’t run away now, Bunny,” he chuckled. “I haven’t had my fill yet.”

You swallowed, your skin prickling with panic. Even so … you couldn’t deny that this was making you wet all over again. Arousal gathered, mixing with your intense release. The way he smiled was almost evil as he took in the sight of your puffy lips, the panties still clinging and soaked through.

He flipped you over, bending you over the table now, before you could even blink. Your arms burned as he yanked you over the edge by your handcuffs. They were still so out of reach. You couldn’t get out of this even if you tried, but it wasn’t like you actually wanted that. The rabbit ears started to make a soft throb emerge in your temples. Gradually, he peeled your panties down, stuffing them in his back pocket as a souvenir. His fingers brushed down your spine, the way your ass arched over the table edge, and you shivered.

“Tell me,” he said, his lips at your ear and causing you to gasp, “do you want to be bred like a rabbit too?”

Your head swung behind you, as if that could help you see him with the blindfold still over your eyes. His fingers played with your swollen lips between your legs, leaning over you and whispering in your other ear, “Do you want this pretty pussy stuffed full of my cock?”

Head falling, you pressed your cheek against the table when you felt him slide two fingers inside your tight channel again. You pushed back on his hand, begging for more. Moans slipped past your lips like a unintelligible babble. 

“Use your words, Bunny.”

You breathed out, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He crooked his fingers inside you.

“Yes, I want to be bred like a rabbit.”

His digits slipped out of you so easily before he slapped your pussy, and your hips jumped. “Good girl.”

You heard the clink of his belt, the way his slacks fell straight to the floor of the stage. Your legs parted more, presenting yourself on full display. Your pussy was like magic – all consuming and addictive – and he watched the slick run down your thighs as he pumped his cock a few times. Aligning himself at your entrance, he paused to run a finger along the edge of your cuffs.

“Nocturne,” you practically pleaded, “when are you going to –”

He plunged inside of you, tugging at the chain between your cuffs as leverage. You felt the burn of him stretching you almost immediately. No amount of lubrication could prepare you for this. He was deep – painfully deep – and you realized then that he was stalling to allow your pussy to mold to the shape of his cock, big and long and intense. 

“That what you wanted, Bunny?” He asked, mouth at your ear again.

You nodded, cheek rubbing against the table. “Y–Yes,” you swallowed, “Nocturne.”

His chuckle vibrated against your neck, his breath boiling hot. He pulled all the way out, watching your essence still cling to him, and he muttered, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

He slammed back inside, making you cry out. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.” Another thrust. “Until you forget your own name.” And another thrust. “Until you never get a trick wrong again.”

When he shoved himself back inside this time, the sound was lewd and wet, like the loudest squelch you ever heard. You were so wet that his shaft was practically coated in you. You were more than full of him; you were fucking stuffed with his cock. He jerked on those cuffs again, making your head lift from the table. “Would you like that, Bunny?” He nibbled on your ear, and you huffed at the fullness inside of you. “You want to be fucked so hard that no one will compare to way your favorite magician fucks you?”

“Yes,” your voice was unrecognizable, almost a scream of desperation. “Please, Nocturne.”

Joshua wrapped an arm around your middle, pulling you almost flush against his chest. He fucked into you even harder this time, even faster, making sure every inch was buried deep inside you with each thrust. Sweat dribbled down his collarbone and into his shirt. His breath fanned the back of your neck, his balls slapping against your ass. You weren’t sure when, but his thrusts were so harsh that your rabbit ears clattered onto the ground. It didn’t matter to him, not when he was balls deep inside you and you were gripping him like a fucking vice.

He felt the world close in on him as your walls clamped down on his cock. The mewl you let out told him that he found your g-spot, and he ground against it like it was his job. Candles flickered in and out, and Joshua was almost certain that he felt a million eyes on him in that moment. No one was there besides you two, but he sensed them, heard them. Was that Seungkwan’s voice, or just a myriad of voices that sounded so similar to his?

He needed to focus – he was so close and so were you – but he felt spirits surrounding him. Possessing him. The voices mingled with your shared moans, mocking both of you while telling him that if he could claim you, he’d never have to worry about making ends meet. He’d have a forever home at the Midnight Menagerie. His home was here, with you, inside you, wherever you wanted him. He could have it all and more, as long as he claimed his sweet rabbit apprentice. 

Was it possible that he sold his soul after all?

His balls drew up as his hand on your stomach snaked down, slipping between your legs and rubbing rough circles on your clit. You broke almost immediately, somehow harder than before. Your legs shook and you cried out his name like an incantation, your orgasm brutal and nearly violent. You pushed back on him, letting him sheath himself so far that he had no choice but to spill his load inside you. He groaned, biting into your shoulder, as the spirits cheered him on. It felt like they were plunging into his heart, reminding him he could never leave. He was with them forever. He was with you forever.

His apprentice. His white rabbit.

As he collapsed and heaved against your neck, he almost considered never pulling out. If he pulled out, he’d never lose this warmth, his home. But he did it anyways, adjusting his posture and watching the mix of your releases ooze down your thighs. It was almost hypnotic. He wondered if he could bottle it, use it on stage for one of his tricks. He liked the idea of having a constant reminder of what you two created. How he was going to claim you every night for years to come. And that brought a smile to his lips.

Joshua pulled you up, sitting you on the edge of the table. The velvet runner was stained and halfway off the surface. Your rabbit ears had fallen somewhere on the stage. The gimmick handcuffs were twisted enough where you probably could’ve gotten out of them if you tried, but you didn’t. He removed them easily before untying the blindfold from your face, and you blinked at the bright spotlight shining down on you. Your eyes adjusted, and Joshua pulled up his trousers, tucking his soft cock back in his boxers. His button-up was stained and wrinkled, but his satisfied expression told you that he didn’t care.

And then, out of nowhere, you blurted, “I promise to never get the act wrong again.” Your gaze went to your fidgeting hands, where you traced the faint indent on your wrist from the cuffs, and you lifted your head again. “Are … are there any other tricks you want to show me?”

Joshua smirked, knowing he had you right where he always wanted you. 

Forever, said the spirits.

tag list: @taz-97 @bumbleteas @healingmv @skzbangchanniee @koliki @novawon @cherryhwa-02 @fancypeacepersona @makeitworse

[hanniehaeo]

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ ot13 texts when you try to break up with them

synopsis... you try to break up with ot13 but they won't let you...

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ pairing... hyung line x reader

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ genre... smau, texts, fluff, angst?, crack?

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ trigger/content warning... breaking up, swearing, lmk if i missed any

a/n... ooo first time doing an ot13 text! this was really fun yipee! let me know if you liked it and this is an apology for taking down the jeonghan drabble! i also changed up my title to rose quartz and serenity hehe :D

hanniehaeo navi 𝜗𝜚 taglist 𝜗𝜚 kofi

© intellectual property belongs to hanniehaeo 2025

images belong to original owners; the work isn't an accurate representation of reality

divider by: @uzmacchiato

---

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა taglist: @livelaughloveseventeen @coupsarchive @choco-scoups @markoplolo @strawberry-yeo

[macherizz]

attached (oneshot)

> idol!joshua x nonidol!reader, reader is kinda clingy

>genre : slice of life, fluff

> warnings : none

>authors note : this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now 😭

> masterlist

reader is female

WC: idk i wrote this on spot

Your boyfriend was away from home because of work.

Attending Milan Fashion Week specifically.

It was a huge mile stone in his career so naturally you were happy for him! That was until you realised how much you missed him after a few hours.

Usually on tours, you’d try your best to follow and attend most stops—but this time you got caught up with last minute errands that were super important.

Even with the amount of comforting from him days before his flight, you were still upset about how lonely sleeping would feel at night and how the house would be quieter for a few days.

Some people may have said you’re over exaggerating but can they blame you? You and Joshua have been together for years even before his career took off. In the early days where everyone around him spoke hangul, you were one of if not the only person who spoke english to him and tried your best to help him with hangul. Not that he didn’t know korean, he just wasn’t that good at it and was more comfortable with speaking in english.

Once you learnt that he actually lived in America for most of his childhood, you actually got more intrigued by him.

When you saw the airport photos get released by dispatch, you admired him just as much as any fangirl did. Except he was actually yours. He looked so neat and good at the airport which only made you miss him more and more.

Once he was on the plane, he immediately texted you about how different it felt travelling without 12 other guys and how peaceful it was. You recieved shots of the clouds and skies almost every hour by him.

Atleast the plane had wifi, or you’d be suffocated by then with the temporary silence in your life.

But even with the plane wifi available, he chose to sleep most of the flight. Reasonable as he was so excited about this he ended up only sleeping for an hour last night.

Which only meant you were alone the entire time. All of your friends were just coincidentally busy too.

You’d thought about going to your parents house, but didn’t because you were too lazy to pack. So you did your chores, picked up some groceries to make a simple dinner, watched an entire drama series.

It was already night by the time he landed. You were laying down flat on your couch when you suddenly heard a buzz from your phone.

“So sorry I didn’t text you at all I fell asleep”

“It’s alright, I just did a few things here and there lol”

Just as you were about to put your phone down and start on dinner, another buzz came from your phone.

The moment you opened the message—your jaw dropped. Never in your life have you thought your boyfriend would use this angle for a photo.

“Do i look good?”

I DO NOT ALLOW TRANSLATIONS, STEALING OR REPOSTING MY CONTENT ON ANY WEBSITE/APP

[woncheolisms]

KINKTOBER 2025 - WEEK 3 - HONG JISOO

theme: SUPERNATURAL ENTITIES

this installation: sirens

pairing: hong jisoo/joshua hong x reader

synopsis: Mere days are left until you must leave your house for another, to marry a man who has been promised your hand. But a song lures you, sickly sweet, and you may just risk your family’s honor, everything you hold dear, just to listen to this melody.

word count: 3.5k

warnings: non modern au, mentions of forced marriage, misogyny, and abuse. smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, fingering, nipple play, dirty talk, corruption and dubcon (!!!!)

a/n: here we go third installation! this one is written differently bec I was going for a different vibe and time period. let me know what y’all think!

kinktober 2025 masterlist

When a woman’s human fate is destined to doom her at the hands of men who wish to control her, a siren will lure her away to greater endings.

………………………

The stomp of your foot on the ground kicks up a very minuscule amount of dust. You stomp two more times, lips pursing when you feel the leather of the shoe scrap painfully at your ankle. It will take a few wears to break it in. You have not had new shoes in a while, and your father is adamant that these are the best that money can buy.

Money is no longer an issue, of course. Not since your promotion.

You call it that, mouth twisted and distaste on your tongue, when you are alone with your mother and sisters. Not your father. Never your father. He would beat all the insolence out of you with his bare hands if he heard you being even slightly disrespectful to your soon-to-be husband and family. You see the reverence in his eyes when he carries his cart down the road their house is on, gaze drawn to the large stone walls the color of obsidian. He talks about your future father in law, one of the village chiefs, like he is writing sonnets for the gods. It irks you, how little his admiration comes from actual respect and how much of it is linked to the family’s riches.

It irks you even more that you are expected to grant them the same worship.

The market is bustling with people, hawkers advertising their goods in loud, clear voices. There’s fresh fruit, you notice, you always notice. The difference is, now you can buy it. Your mother had asked you to get some. Round, green grapes stare at you, apricots ripe and ready for you to sink your teeth into. You feel a wave of nausea boil up in you at the thought of spending your future husband’s money. Any other wife in the world would be proud to do so. She would boast about it, chin high, eyebrow ticked up in the way that says ‘Look how much he spends on me. He loves me.’

But there is no love here. There is only obligation on your end, bribed by riches and the promise of a full stomach every night. And there is only hunger on the other end, a new young thing for their shiny son.

One more nightfall until you are wed. You buy the fruit.

The walk back home is a leisurely one. Your shoes give more way as you use them, and your ankle breathes a little more as the leather stretches. You hold half an apricot in your hand, savoring the taste as its nectar invades your tongue. It’s sweet, the kind of fresh, citrusy sweet that makes you hum, eyelashes fluttering.

There’s a disturbance in the air that makes you pause midstep. Something static and charged, that pricks at your skin. You blink once, twice, frowning as you look around, and then sound hits the shell of your ear. It’s distant, yet it feels like a whisper directly in your skull, reverberating among the bones. You spin in place, trying to pinpoint the direction. And when you do, your feet move on their own accord.

The more you step off the dirt road and into the grass, the clearer the sound becomes. It takes shape as it clears, into less of a sound and more of a melody, a sweet crooning. You can make out words now, steps hurrying through overgrown greens. You hear something about the spring, something about rain and love, as you push through the bushes. You swat at them absently, hyper focused. Apricot juice runs down your fingers when you squeeze a bit too hard at the fruit still gripped in your hand. The shrubbery gives way, and you’re standing in the clearing where the river runs.

On a sharp jut of rock at the bank sits a man, his back to you. His shoulders are broad, hunched over something. You can make out the wood. An instrument of sorts. You are not blessed with the gift of music, but even you can tell how wonderful his song is, the pluck of the stringed instrument adding to his voice. It’s sweet, not the fresh, citrusy sweet of the apricot. It’s denser, like honey, and it runs over your skin like balm.

Your rustling makes him turn around, but he never stops singing. His eyes are brown like hazelnut. His hair catches the afternoon sun, tinged with deep chocolate. It falls in messy waves around his head, framing his porcelain skin. When he smiles, mid song, his lips curl just around the corners, pink and plump.

He takes your breath away.

When the song ends, he leans his instrument carefully against the rock so he can face you fully. His name is Joshua. He says he sings for the birds. You don’t know about that. Because when you ask for another song, he obliges, his beautiful voice filling the air around you, and it feels like he sings for you. His fingers move over the strings like he came out of his mother’s womb with them in his hands. His voice, that sweet sound that thrums in your veins, makes you sway where you sit on the grass, legs tucked under you, head tilted to look up at him where he sits on his rock. You want to ask him where he is from. Is he a nomad traveling through the land? He can’t be from the village. You have never seen him before. You know everyone who lives there.

But your own voice is stuck in your throat as you revel in his. His song is about joy and serenity, about peace and love. You can feel all of it thundering in your chest. A love you have felt only sparingly, in your mother’s embrace, or your siblings’ laughter. A love you can never bring yourself to feel for the man that you have been promised to. A love that seizes your heart tight when Joshua looks at you and smiles.

Your head has been stuffed with cotton, and your limbs feel like they have been weighed down by lead.

After the second song, Joshua eases himself off the rock with a grace that you didn’t think was possible, like his very limbs are fluid. He sits before you, crosslegged, and asks you how the song makes you feel. It’s a strange question, but words leave your mouth like vomit, like you cannot physically stop them from leaving.

“It makes me feel like I’m loved,” you say, “like the passion of a hundred burning suns still exists. Like life is not dull. Like there is still joy and excitement to be found.”

“There is.” He speaks sweet too, just like he sings.

You shake your head. “There is not. My life as I know it is ending.”

“As you know it.” He repeats. “More excitement lies ahead.”

You can’t help your laugh, but it is mirthless and bitter. “The rest of my life is only obedience.”

His eyes, the rich hazelnut, appraise you. You feel a thrill run down your spine, settling like a weight in your stomach.

“Then don’t obey.”

Your mouth feels dry. Tongue like rubber. “But I must.”

“Don’t.”

Your head buzzes. You blink, lazily, like your eyelids are heavy. It feels like what he is saying is the most logical answer. “Okay.”

Joshua smiles. You smile back.

Back in the village, your mother’s eyes train over the setting sun, teeth sinking into her bottom lip again and again, until it is bitten raw, until the danger of drawing blood is impending. She clutches at the rough cotton of her dress, her limbs stiff with anxiety. Her daughters are setting plates for dinner, as if nothing has happened. As if their world isn’t collapsing.

When her husband walks through the door, she nearly wails when she doesn’t see your figure following him. It’s only the man, his shoulders slumped with burden, lips flat in a line that showed tension.

“Nothing?” Her voice trembles.

Her husband’s jaw clenches, and that is answer enough. Her face crumples and she sinks to her knees, fingers clasped together in prayer. She curses herself for sending you to the markets. It was the day before your wedding. She should’ve kept you home. But her love wouldn’t let her. She wanted you to taste the sweet fruit, to feel the wind on your skin and the ground solid under you one more time before your fate was sealed forever.

The man echoes her thoughts. “How dare you let her set foot outside this house?”

She doesn’t reply. Her fingers remain clasped. She rocks back and forth in prayer.

“Maybe the sirens took her.”

She freezes. She doesn’t look at her youngest daughter, sitting on the cot, watching her parents, one praying and desperate, the other with anger seething under his skin. Her husband’s eyes bulge, the anger progressing into rage.

“You shut your mouth.” He grits. “She was to marry one of the most respected men in the village. Sirens do not come for women of her fortune.”

Your mother wants to scream. What fortune? A life where she must serve a man many years her senior, who sees her only as someone to bed, someone to cater to his whims and pleasures? This wasn’t a marriage, it was a transaction meant to benefit your father. There are greater things in this world than endless money. But her husband will never know this. She opens her eyes just enough to give her daughter a warning look, telling her to stay quiet. When she closes them again, her prayer has changed.

If the sirens have taken you, it means you will not be shackled. If any of the old widows in the village are right about the legends of sirens and their mercy for the oppressed, then that means you are now a free spirit. They all say the same things. Sirens are born from pain and violence, so they will hurt the tyrants and they will free the innocents. They will take revenge on all those who inflict pain.

On the outskirts of the village, as the sun sets over the forest, the orange hue hits the river just right, bathing it in a dreamy glow. You stare up at the sky, at its pinks and deep auburns, muscles feeling like liquid. Grass brushes over your cheeks, your calves, cushioning you from the ground. Joshua croons sweetly into your ear, head held up by his hand, laying on his side. Every few seconds, his lips brush over the shell of your ear, and gentle shivers run through your skin.

“Doesn’t this feel nice?” He whispers.

You hum, feeling warm all over.

“It can feel even better.”

You turn your head to look at him. His nose bumps against yours. “It can?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is flowery. He raises his hand, places his fingertip in the hollow of your neck, then tracks it down. Goosebumps rise in his wake. Your breath stutters. His finger stills as it reaches the neck of your blouse. His eyes never leave you once. They burn into your irises, heated, heavy.

“Do you want to feel the passion of a hundred burning suns? The kind you feel when I sing?”

You nod, entranced, captured by the fire in his eyes. Can you have that fire? Can it replace the dread of your future?

His finger moves again, dips into the collar of your shirt, brushing over the skin where it swells up to form the mound of your breast. Your lips part at the thought of him touching you in a place no man has ever touched. Under the setting sun, long shadows jut over Joshua’s face. He looks otherworldly, ethereal, like you would close your eyes and he would be only a dream. You don’t dare look away from him. You don’t dare shy away from the rarity of his touch.

You break from his stare only when he lowers his head, lips brushing over your ear again. You feel something soft and wet, his tongue, running over the shell, and you try not to tremble under the sensation.

“Will you let me take you? Here? Now?”

You are nodding before he has even finished speaking. You want to feel this more, this anticipation as it expands and takes over. You are already lightheaded at the thought of reaching the highs Joshua has promised. So when he coaxes your legs open, uses soft, uncalloused hands to brush up your skirt so he can run them over your bare thighs, and when he slots his hips between them, you don’t stop him. You don't dare stop him, afraid that he will go away and take this wonderful feeling with him. This feeling that has you arching into him when he undoes your blouse and lets his perfect lips close around your nipple, the gentlest of suckles which makes you whimper. He hums into your skin.

“Such a sweet sound.” He lilts. “The sound of passion. Don’t smother it. Let yourself sing, darling.”

And you do, especially when he pulls away to lap at your other nipple, his hands busy in your nether regions, pushing away the delicate and soaked cloth of your undergarments to thumb at your core. He runs his fingertips through the slit, exploring deeper, running over your core with practiced leisure, like he has nowhere to be. Like his only indulgence is you.

It feels like the worship your elders often demand you give to your fated man.

Your mind goes blank when Joshua rubs gently over the crest of your lower lips, the shiny little nub yearning for more. He seems to know that already, because he applies more pressure, and you moan into the fragrant air. He hums into your nipple, and his teeth nibble just barely at it. Your back arches. Your legs part even more.

“That’s it.” Joshua’s voice has dropped an octave, yet he sounds even sweeter than before. “Beautiful girl. Spread yourself for me. I will give you everything you need.”

Not want. Need. Everything you need. And you don’t doubt it. Not when you feel a finger prod at your entrance, not when it sinks inside till the last knuckle, making your jaw go slack. Another joins it almost immediately, and Joshua pulls off your nipple, now sore and wet, to look up at you. His eyes burn through you, dripping with desire, and you feel like a goddess under his reverence, like he wants you desperately, like looking at you and touching you makes him feel as good as his fingers are making you feel right now, prodding over a spongy part deep inside you that sends something zipping through your stomach, knocking all the air out of you, making you clench hard around them. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing harsher than before, just enough to make you scream into the rapidly darkening sky. The dam inside you breaks. You flood his fingers as you tremble and gasp, nails digging into his shoulder.

He kisses your cheeks through it, deceptively soft as compared to the swift ramming of his fingers into your opening, pushing into you harder and harder like he never wants this high to end. You collapse with harsh breaths, blinking through tears, wondering what the hell this feeling was, why it felt like your soul was leaving your body.

“Good?” He has a smirk on his face, shining with mischief, like he knows that you are already addicted to what he has given you. Maybe you are. You whine when his fingers leave you. You don’t want them to. You feel empty already. You want him back.

He shuffles. There’s rustling of clothes, and something prods again at your entrance. Bigger, thicker than his fingers, rounded, and it breaches, just a little, through the opening. Your lips part, eyes widening. Joshua bites his supple bottom lip, and his eyelashes flutter.

“Will you open up for me, sweetheart? I’ll make you feel so good. I promise.”

His words feel like salve, licking over your anxieties until you feel yourself relax. It’s like your muscles have a mind of their own, relaxing to his command. He pushes further, deeper, but you don’t stiffen again, not when Joshua whispers so beautifully into your ear, telling you how good you feel, how tight you are, snug, like your tiny little pussy was made for his cock. Such filthy, taboo words, but they sound like poetry as they fall from his lips. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles into it as he presses his navel finally into your perineum. Tingles zip through you, ignited again after your last high. Joshua sighs into your ear, not even audible sound, just this exhale of air that’s loaded with pleasure. Your eyes roll when he pulls back just enough to push into you again.

His pace is hurried but controlled. No part of him is sloppy or careless. He moves over you, hips undulating, the muscles of his arms suspending him above you straining under his skin. His sweat makes him look more real to you, like he isn’t a deity that will disappear if you close your eyes. Warmth, buzzing bliss consumes you as he moves in and out, rapidly until you feel him brush that one spot insistently, as if coaxing you with his body to come join him on the peak once again. And you have no trouble following him there, toes curling when it swells in your core, egged on by the words he breaths into your mouth.

“There you go. That’s it. Let go. Really feel it, my darling. Let it take you. Cum on my cock. Cum now.”

And you do, the instant his words hit your ears, as if the very force of them pulls your body over the edge. You feel the crest, the all encompassing wave of gratification swallowing you whole. You moan and cry through it, feeling how he thrusts harder, now with a more rushed focus, and you watched him, hazy as you come down, still trembling, your orgasm still blurring your edges, watching as he bites his lip, gives you the most sensual uptick of his mouth that you’ve ever seen, before he bends his head. His face crumbles, and he moans, for the first time, that littlest of sounds that makes his voice crack, and it sounds better than any song you have heard from him so far.

Warmth fills your insides, coating you, and you hum at the feeling. Like a drug burning through your veins, leaving you numb to everything except your own pleasure. Nothing else matters except this moment, the sound of this beautiful man sighing, his breath hitting your face, his hips grinding into the wet mess between your legs, his weight nice and heavy on your body. You never want it to end. You never want to go back to who you were before you knew this kind of passion existed.

Joshua laves his tongue over the skin between your breasts, like he’s trying to lick the salt off it. You push into him, arching, basking in the feeling. He travels up until he has left a trail of thin spit up your neck, to your mouth. His tongue runs languidly against yours. He tastes like sweet wine, leaving you spacey, like you are getting drunk off the taste of his saliva, your skin thrumming softly.

“You want to feel like that every day?” His words are muffled into your mouth, but you hear him clearly, almost like his voice is coming from somewhere inside your own head. You nod immediately.

“Then you will come with me.” It’s not a question.

The next morning, village ladies saunter to the wells to get drinking water. Their pots clink together, their hips sway, and hanging around them is a cloud of whispers and shocked proclamations. The village chief’s son would not be getting a new, young bride. She is free, as all women should be, from this ill-fated union. Your mother does not mourn. No woman does. Only the men who tried to gain something at your expense.

Sirens are born of violent deaths, and so they are merciful to the pain and cries of the anguished.

🏷️: @picheolin-17 , @lovelylonelinesssvt , @scarlettveemin , @shad0wcast , @iluvhosh , @littlebluehellfire , @jimzk , @lucis-noctiana , @hannieweee , @xh01bri , @ilseamamuchoamingyu , @bleudandelion , @huihye , @escoupsue , @jynxonline69 , @monstacheol , @choco-scoups , @scoupscious , @dy-kyeom , @fairwanda , @imhereonlytoreadxoxo , @nidda13 , @coupsarchive , @bleueirene , @cursedwings2005 , @unlikelysublimekryptonite , @emilliereads

[joshujin]

build this dream together masterlist

🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab

F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC pairing: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader status: updates in progress word count: 93.9k (complete) genre: strangers to coworkers to lovers, romcom

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

content warnings: fem!reader, flashbacks, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, descriptions of a crash during a race but no one gets hurt, nauseating levels of girl power, side characters portrayed by other idols (katseye, le sserafim, twice, and bts)

chapters

✦ teaser ✦ part one - 31.5k words ✦ part two - 16.3k words ✦ part three - 17.7k words ✦ part four/epilogue - 28.4k words

♫ nothing's gonna stop us now starship ⟡ hope ur ok olivia rodrigo ⟡ don't dream it's over crowded house ⟡ shoong! taeyang feat. lisa ⟡ run BTS BTS ⟡ airplane pt. 2 BTS ⟡ you are in love taylor swift ⟡ we can't be friends ariana grande ⟡ still into you paramore ⟡ team lorde ⟡ mantra jennie ⟡ shut up and drive rihanna ⟡ strategy twice feat. megan thee stallion ⟡ chasing that feeling TXT ⟡ your love jisoo ⟡ heat waves glass animals ⟡ without you david guetta feat. usher ⟡ love me like you do ellie goulding ⟡ thunder seventeen

credits: photos from pinterest (ctto); banner, dividers, edits by me

← back to svt masterlist • PERMANENT TAG LIST

[joshujin]

build this dream together (final)

part three • series masterlist • final

🔞 18+, minors DNI 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship

F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC PAIRING: joshua x fem!reader WC: 28.4k / 93.9k (oh my god.) TAGS: coworkers to best friends to LOVERS WEEEEE (tags for whole fic can be found on the series masterlist) SMUT TAGS: unprotected piv, fingering, oral f. receiving, overstimulation, cream pie, morning after sex, missionary, cowgirl, spooning position A/N: i cannot apologize enough for how long this took. i finished this through sheer guilt lol. i am still going to continue to be a bit inactive bc i've had a death in the family and work has taken over my life, so sorry for not replying to asks, comments, etc. but i'll get to them soon!!! hope u like this one! even though it's ending on a personally sour note in my life, i still loved writing this sosososo much. my fav joshua fic to date. okie bye have fun hehe.

ITALIAN GRAND PRIX 2023 FP1 "I’m so sorry… I don’t think I can do this." "Why are you sorry, Shua? Come on in."

“Because,” he croaks, voice hoarse and cracking every other syllable, “I haven’t missed a single race since I started.”

“It’s about time then! All the more reason to ditch,” you say, shrugging a shoulder. You smile at the team principal when he shoots you a severe look from down the pit wall. Your job probably entails encouraging Joshua to tough out whatever nasty bug he caught and see the weekend through, but you literally only have a handful of races left before you’re done with McLaren. You cannot be bothered with repercussions. “Don’t feel bad. This is what the reserve drivers are for. We all want you safe and healthy more than anything else.”

“Maybe not all of us,” Wonwoo mutters, side-eyeing the team principal as the man continues glaring at you. 

You ignore him in favor of Joshua. “I’m so proud of you for even getting out there for free practice. Frankly, you’ve looked horrible since we landed in Italy.”

“Gee, thanks.” He can’t even say those two words without coughing horribly. You wince at how congested and phlegmy he sounds, and it makes your own chest hurt.

You briefly wonder if this is what it’s like to be in love—if near-debilitating empathy is part of the deal. Because if Joshua was sad, you were near tears. If he was angry, you were ready to deck someone. If he was sick (like he is now), you suddenly wanted to go back to school to study pathology and find a way to eradicate germs forever (like you want to now). If this is what it’s like to be in love, you must have been in love with Joshua for so long before ever really knowing it. You’ve always been this way with him. It just feels so much bigger now that you notice it.

“What the fuck was that? Why did you tell him to ditch his job?”

“He’s still got the lead in points even if he misses this race,” you say simply. “He can afford to rest.” You don’t bother explaining why Joshua would still deserve to rest even if he couldn’t afford it.

“You don’t make that decision! This is not about Hong; it’s about the team! Did you not stop to think that the points Hong would contribute from this race would put us further up for the Constructors’ Championship?”

You’re out of your seat and walking away from the wall before the team principal can continue his line of angry questioning, leaving Wonwoo to take care of the mess you made when you encouraged your driver to drop out. Of course you thought about the hit the team would take from pulling him from the track, but the thing is, the team principal is mistaken; it is about Joshua Hong to you. And you’d let McLaren lose every single championship for the rest of time if it meant Joshua was healthy and happy.

Your driver is already parked and out of his car, pitifully swaying on his feet as you approach him. He’s struggling with removing his own helmet, and by the time you get to him, he still hasn’t gotten it off.

“God, you’re really going through it, aren’t you?” you mutter, gently slapping his hands away from his own chin.

He reaches up to shove his visor open, bloodshot eyes looking at you with so much exhaustion, you feel it seep into your own bones. It gives you pause, your fingers stilling against the buckle. 

“Shua, you look like death,” you inform him.

“Not really enjoying this never-ending parade of insults,” he grumbles.

“I'm not trying to insult you,” you insist as your fingers continue to work. The buckle releases, and you gently tug his helmet off him. He’s sweating profusely, hair stuck to every spot it touches his skin. You fight the urge to push it back off his forehead. A member of the crew grabs the helmet from you wordlessly, scurrying off to do whatever they have to to prepare Joshua’s reserve driver. “I’m just confused about why you went out there in the first place.”

His skin is pale and clammy, and it looks like it will take every ounce of energy in him to respond. He does it anyway. “Didn’t want to let anyone down,” he breathes, hand instinctively grasping your forearm when the step he takes forward makes him too dizzy.

“You’re not letting anyone down,” you assure him, guiding him into the garage. “We want you healthy.”

“You want me to be healthy.”

“Well, yes.”

“McLaren wants me on the track.”

“And who cares what they think?” you scoff, sitting him down on a bench while you grab him a water bottle. You hand it to him and he presses it to his forehead, so you grab him another one. He looks at you in confusion. “One for your forehead, the other to drink. Please hydrate.”

He nods once, accepting the bottle after you open it for him. “Thanks.”

“Let’s get you to your hotel room.”

“Let’s?”

“Who else is going to take care of you?” 

“I’m not taking you away from the race,” he argues, shaking his head at you as he slumps against the back of the seat. “They’ll have our heads.”

“Joshua, I’m a handful of races from leaving McLaren,” you say, ignoring the wince it inspires from him. Maybe if you keep mentioning it casually enough, he’ll believe it isn’t the huge deal it is to both of you. Maybe you’ll believe it too. “And you’re primed to win your second title. What are they going to do? Fire us?”

You reckon he doesn’t have the energy to argue anymore because he says very little as you start to get him ready to leave, fighting furiously against a blush when you bring him to the private driver’s suite and realize you have to change him out of his race suit and into his sweats.

“You sure you can’t just… go home in the suit?”

He slumps into a seat at one of the tables and cranes his neck back to look at you with an unamused expression. He’s most literally drenched in sweat from FP1, and you imagine asking him to go home in his race suit would be the equivalent of asking him to swim in his own filth in the midst of this sticky summer. While sick.

“Right.”

“Don’t worry,” he coughs, waving a hand weakly at you. “If you grab my stuff out of my locker, I can change myself.”

You do as he requests, only taking a minute—two tops—but when you come back, his neck is limp, head thrown back where he immediately fell asleep the moment you turned your back on him. You sigh, shoulders sagging.

“Lord help me,” you whisper, shaking your head to yourself as you set his clothes on his lap and get on your knees.

You unlace his boots slowly, taking them off one at a time before pausing and steeling yourself for what’s next. The good news is there isn’t much to change Joshua out of. The bad news is that the shoes are the only things you can remove to stall. The next item is already his race suit. And once that comes off, all that will be left is Joshua in his fireproof underwear, and the idea makes you shiver against your will. It’s not seeing him without the suit that scares you because the fireproof garments are long sleeves and pants. But Joshua is going to want to change out of those too. And if his suit and his garments are soaked in sweat... his underwear will be too. And he'll want to change out of those. And—

“No, no, I cannot do this,” you mutter, scrambling up from where you’re kneeling. “It’s an invasion of privacy!” 

Joshua groans in his sleep at your shriek-whispering but doesn’t wake up. You call the only other person you know can help. Wonwoo shows up in less than five minutes, kicking you out of the suite so he can change your driver, assuring you he’s seen Joshua in the locker room enough times that this would not be a “gross, horrible invasion of privacy” that would make him “utterly and wholly” despise you.

After he’s changed, Wonwoo gives you the OK to come back in, and you find Joshua conscious again, smiling at you lazily. 

“See, told you I could change myself.”

“Wonwoo changed you.”

“Yeah… kinda crazy to wake up in the middle of a fever to a six foot man tugging on your underwear...”

“Okay, shush, come on. Let’s go,” you say, jerking your head toward the door. 

“Um, and where are you going?” Wonwoo asks.

You glance at Joshua, who glares at you, saying everything he wants to say without having to: You should stay here. You should do your job. You ignore him, pulling your boss aside to talk in a hushed whisper.

“Wonwoo, look at him. Do you really think he’s in any state to get back to his hotel room and take care of himself?” you ask. 

“An assistant, whose job is to do these kinds of things, can get him back to his room, where he’ll sleep like the dead for the rest of the weekend. Then, you can check in on him. After you do your job and get his reserve driver ready for Q1, which is where Joshua would want you anyway,” he says in that tone you hate—the one that reminds you he is your boss at the end of the day.

“I’m almost done!” you whisper, glancing at Joshua to see if he can hear you. You almost roll your eyes when you find the man knocked out again. “I only have seven races left after Monza. I’ve been training my replacement for three months now. Let him show the execs what he’s made of!”

You actually don’t care about the development of the race engineer stepping into your role, but you know it’s a good enough argument.

“I can’t.” 

Or not. 

“I can cover a lot for you, but I cannot give you permission to miss a race, Y/N. Not without a good reason.”

“This is a good reason!” you argue. What could be a better reason than your best friend being so ill, he can’t hold himself up?

“A good reason is you being sick. Are you sick?” he asks, making it clear it’s not a rhetorical question when he looks at you expectantly. You clear your throat in a weak attempt at a cough. His eyebrows fall flat as he glares at you. You shake your head. “A good reason would be a family emergency. Or an emergency involving a significant other. Are you either of those to Joshua?” he asks, tilting his head at you like he knows you’re in love and is daring you to say it.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being condescending.”

“No, I’m being your boss. We’re friends. Good friends. You’ll be standing up there with me as a groomswoman when I marry whatever unlucky person stumbles into my life.” You can’t help your pout. “But I’m also your boss. Getting my job done involves you getting yours done. You might be leaving at the end of the season, but I’ll still be here, and my neck is still on the line too.”

You look up at him, feeling ashamed of yourself. You have the utmost respect for Wonwoo. He’s been your biggest supporter and ally. He’s unlocked and held doors open for you for the last five years—even kicked them down for you sometimes. But when it comes to Joshua, it’s never been a choice for you. There’s very little that you wouldn’t do for him, especially now that you know you love him and especially now that you’re on borrowed time. 

“Wonwoo,” you sigh, defeated. “I’m going.”

He sighs twice as hard, shaking his head at you. “You’re unbelievable.” The shame grows. “Ever since he came into your life, you’ll do anything at the drop of a hat for that man. You’re incapable of thinking of or choosing yourself anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice sounding as small as you feel. 

“It means I know exactly why you’re leaving McLaren,” he informs you. 

It would be easy to play dumb with anyone else, but the way he looks at you so intensely—a gut-wrenching mix of satisfaction and disappointment—makes it impossible. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. He nods. 

“Yeah. Surprise, I have fucking eyes… and glasses.” The addition pulls an unexpected laugh out of you, but you quickly cut it out when he makes it clear how annoyed he is. It takes a moment for him to shake his head and speak again. “And the dumb thing is you don’t even need to leave. I wouldn’t let them do anything to you about it. Joshua—would—never,” he emphasizes the words with a fist to his open palm on each syllable, “let them do anything to you over it either.” 

Your eyes flit to the man’s form, where his body twitches randomly as it falls deeper into his sleep cycle. 

“But you’re always convinced you know what’s best for everyone and that the only way for you to make things right is to bend over backwards in the most ridiculous, impossible positions,” he says. You think this is the most you’ve ever been perceived. “You could just ask for help. You could just ask for partnership. You should know all about that.” He inhales before ending his rant with: “I can’t make you stay. But I can ask that you think about what Joshua would want too. Because I don’t know him even a fraction as well as you do, and even I know the last thing he’d want is for you to give up something you love so much because of him.”

“It’s only one race.”

“We both know I’m not talking about the race.” His eyes soften and he shrugs. “If you need to go tonight, then go. I’m not going to get fired if you don’t stay; McLaren would burn down to the ground without me anyway.” You both smile because you know it’s the truth. When his smile fades, Wonwoo says, “I just want you to think about whether you’re doing the right thing… or if you’re just doing the easy thing. Is this what’s best for you two, or is it easier for you to pretend like it doesn’t exist if you’re not looking it in the face every day?”

You don’t have anything to say to him, so he leaves, clapping you on the shoulder before he does. You both know you won’t be joining him at the pit wall. Even with all the questions he’s left you with, and even with the doubt that’s now blooming in your chest, you’ll choose Joshua.

You’ll get him back to the hotel, and you’ll take care of him all weekend, ignoring calls from the team principal and CEO. He’ll feel better by the time you get back to London, but you’ll inevitably come down with whatever it was he had and passed onto you. And he’ll miss almost a week of work to take care of you as a thank you for your service in Monza, which results in McLaren pettily benching him for the next race—an empty threat that goes nowhere since Wonwoo points out Joshua missing another race on top of the Italian Grand Prix would put the Constructors’ Championship in jeopardy.

And instead of accepting the help like your boss would tell you to, you’ll focus on just how easily Joshua let himself get in trouble for you and how quickly he comes to your side whenever he even thinks you might need him, and the guilt will set in. You’ll convince yourself that even if Wonwoo is right about everything, leaving is what needs to happen if it means Joshua won’t be burdened with you and your feelings anymore. 

You don’t need or want his input about it. You do know what’s best, at least where Joshua Hong is concerned. You’re his fucking race engineer, after all. Knowing what’s best for him is literally your job.

You and Joshua both swore you’d talk, but it turns out there’s not much talking either of you really want to do. Instead, for the next several weeks following the night in your garage, you both fall into a routine. 

Every night, you leave the Academy together since he practically moved back into your home. You make dinner together or you pick up takeout. Maybe you work some more or watch a movie or just hang out, wildly laughing in the living room like kids. But most of the time, you’ll end up pinned under him—on the couch, in your bed, against the shower wall, on the floor—begging for both a reprieve and even more. In the morning, if he wakes up first (although a seldom occurence), he lazily fucks you awake until the two of you are inevitably and embarrassingly late. You dodge Jihyo’s wiggly eyebrows, Eunchae’s huge, prying eyes, and Joshua, himself, who’s hellbent on getting you to display any level of PDA toward him—even if it’s just a touch of his arm. Then you repeat. 

And you don’t get tired of it. You can’t imagine ever getting tired of it. Your heart and body are both making up for lost time and you get the feeling that they'll never really catch up. At least you hope they never do. Nothing in your life has ever felt as good as being in love with Joshua does, and you’re getting swept up in the sensation of him loving you right back. He shows it in everything he does and says. He shows it in every glance, embrace, and kiss. He shows it every time he loses himself in you—every time he leaves a piece of himself inside you. 

So you don’t talk. You avoid bringing up what this means for you. You don't discuss his sabbatical, his inevitable departure, and your commitment to making it work regardless of where he is in the world. You start to think the words can be left unsaid—that maybe it will be easier to just cross that bridge at the end of the season. That maybe confessing your love to each other was enough to communicate everything you wanted to say anyway.

You tell yourself that as time continues to fly until it’s suddenly the girls’ fourth race and F1’s Canadian Grand Prix in Montreal. 

Saki has a healthy lead in points with Megan following and Eunchae, having climbed up in the last two races, right on her heels. You're now halfway through the season, and you're happy to see that Joshua's words stuck with them. The girls continue to huddle together in their pre-race pep talks, double check each other's helmets, cheer with near-animalistic energy for the drivers that make it to the podium, and hold each other tight when some inevitably don't make points. They also continue to bond over shamelessly catcalling professional F1 drivers, which is exactly what they're doing as Joshua's very own reserve driver, Soonyoung, approaches the pit lane to say hi to their instructor.

“Wow, you just let them treat the drivers like pieces of meat like that?” 

You swivel around in your chair so abruptly, you almost throw yourself right off of it. “Wonwoo?!”

Your body is up and running toward him before you can even fully register that the ever-elusive engineer is standing on the Academy pit wall.

“Missed you too,” he laughs when you do nothing short of throw yourself into his arms.

“Oh my god! You’re always so busy on race weekends!” For the last two years, no matter how many races of the Academy’s overlapped with F1, neither of you ever found the time to see each other even for a moment; you only really saw him during the off-season, when you would visit him to make sure you kept your groomswoman status.

“Yeah, the briefing went smoothly and our drivers are pretty much set, so I thought I’d make good use of my break and come find you,” he explains, grin wide on his face as you pull away. “You have some time to catch up?”

“Yes!” you exclaim excitedly, glancing at Joshua to find the man violently shushing the girls while the driver next to him blushes furiously. You figure you have about half an hour before they'll need you back in your seat for the race. “Yes, of course! Let’s go to the Academy suite. How’ve you been?” He smiles, following you as you start to lead him down the wall and through the paddock. 

“I’ve been really good. Busy as always. Of course, everyone misses Hong, but I’m still having the time of my life drowning in spreadsheets.” You laugh because you know it’s not an exaggeration. “How about you? How’s the Academy? How's it like having Hong work for you?” 

“He doesn’t work for me,” you correct him, rolling your eyes. “He works for Jihyo.” 

“Pfft. That man has only ever worked for one person, and it sure as hell isn’t my CEO and it’s definitely not your CEO. You’re the only breathing being in the world that can make him work as hard as he does… maybe aside from his own mom.” You glare at him over your shoulder. “What? You disagree?”

“Um, yes?” You throw the door to the Academy’s hospitality suite open, not bothering to hold the door for Wonwoo, who just laughs again.  

“Okay, well you’ve always been stubborn.”

“Don’t I know it.” You groan when you see the only other person in the suite is Jihyo. She’s seated at the break table in her Academy tee and black jeans, eyes glued to her phone as she undoubtedly sifts through emails. She greets Wonwoo without looking up. “Hey, Jeon. I see you’ve found your star engineer.”

“I have,” he nods, immediately going for the couch as you go to the mini fridge to grab yourselves water bottles. You leave one on the table in front of Jihyo, who mutters a thank you, immediately opens it, and takes several sips.

“What’s she being stubborn about now?” Jihyo asks. 

“Nothing,” you answer before Wonwoo can. He just smirks as he takes a bottle from you, his body jostling as you plop down on the other end of the couch. “How's it going without F1's best race engineer by your side?”

He snorts. “It's going. Though if you ever want to come back, you—”

“She doesn't!” Jihyo cuts in, smiling tightly at Wonwoo, who shrinks back into the couch a bit. “She's perfectly happy here, aren't you, Y/N?”

You laugh. “Eh, I'm doing okay.”

Jihyo doesn't entertain your joke. “But if you ever get tired of working for The Big Papaya,” she says to him, “I'd be more than happy to find you something to do at the Academy.”

You scoff. “Um, hello? You already have a head tech exec. Me? What the hell are you going to have Wonwoo do if not replace me?”

She shrugs. “I'd double his McLaren salary just to have him sit in my office and answer my phone if it meant pissing off that CEO.”

He grins and shakes his head. “Really enticing offer—fielding calls for you instead of overseeing the most prestigious racing series for the most successful team on the grid. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

“Do that,” Jihyo says with a nod.

“She can't keep from poaching everyone from McLaren,” you explain to him. “I'm not sure why she's so set on robbing that man of all his talent.”

Wonwoo laughs. “Does she need a reason? You of all people should know how fun it was to make him mad.”

“Fun?” you repeat incredulously. “Yeah, if you consider leaning back at a 45 degree angle while he screams at you for 15 straight minutes because you're afraid the vein in his forehead is going to explode, then yeah. That was fun.”

“Sorry, with how often you got yourself into trouble, I'd assume pissing McLaren's CEO off was your favorite pastime.”

“Ooo,” Jihyo jumps in again, thumbs still flying against her screen as she continues working without missing a beat. “Share with the class, Jeon. What kind of trouble did our sweet Mickie get up to?”

“Let's see… where to start…”

“How about we don't start at all?” you ask sarcastically. He ignores you and barrels straight ahead, rattling off memories of all the times you got your ass handed to you by Wonwoo's boss. 

“Oh, how about the last time we were all here in Montreal?” You have to fight to refrain from groaning as Wonwoo tells Jihyo why the CEO of McLaren was on the verge of strangling you that weekend. “She and Joshua thought it would be fun to spend the entire race doing karaoke instead of their jobs.”

“Oh my god, I remember this!” Jihyo exclaimed, looking away from her phone briefly to grin at you. “My entire feed was clips of your radio transmissions for weeks! You do a fantastic rendition of ‘I've Had the Time of My Life’ by the way. Joshua definitely carried the team, but entertaining nonetheless.”

“Why, thank you so much.”

“They got slapped with a time penalty for singing songs F1 doesn't have the royalties to,” Wonwoo says flatly. You roll your eyes. 

“And he still ended up on the podium, did he not?”

“Okay,” he nods and sits up like he's preparing to have an argument with you. “How about the time you two stayed up so late on a race night, he managed to forget what box meant and missed a pit stop?” 

“Thankfully, I'm a ridiculously prepared and responsible engineer that makes enough of a buffer for him to be able to afford a missed stop,” you point out haughtily. “And again, he still made the podium that weekend.”

“You nodded off and woke yourself up with your own snore.”

“Yeah, after he had already crossed the finish line!” you argue. “My job was done!”

“Oh my god, what kind of shit do you do at the Academy?” Jihyo mutters like she's second-guessing who she hired. 

“There was the time she refused to sandbag Joshua during FP; she also edged out his teammate for the podium that weekend.”

“Ah, my first-ever offense,” you hum as you nod. “What a sweet, sweet memory.”

“You were an entirely different person, huh?” Jihyo muses, smirking as she types. “She's been with me going on her third year now and she has yet to commit her first offense.”

Wonwoo scoffs. “Yeah, because you didn't have Hong around.” He sighs dramatically. “I invite you to think hard about her behavioral changes after you poached Hong.”

Jihyo rolls her eyes. “Why is that everyone's favorite word? ‘Poached,’” she says the word with the disgust only someone who has never poached employees from McLaren can be capable of. She takes a moment to think before she tucks her phone away and smiles at you. “Come to think of it, she's never pissed me off, but once Josh joined the team, her punctuality went down the drain.”

You wince as you think of all the sleepovers where Joshua refused to open his eyes in the morning and forced you into a situation where you had to dodge Jihyo's suggestive smiles all day.

“And they can't pay attention in meetings they're both in for the life of them,” she tells Wonwoo.

“I think our work speaks for itself,” you mumble.

“Sure, sure.”

Wonwoo nudges your foot with his and when you look at him, he smirks. “Speaking of you and Hong… lots of rumors going around.”

You groan just as Jihyo starts giggling the way she uncontrollably does every time she thinks of the social media shit storm that came from Shanghai's media pen. She has dozens of the memes that resulted from it saved on her phone.

“And they're all true,” Jihyo says, incredibly smug. You gasp at her willingness to divulge your own secrets. “Love is in the gasoline-polluted air.”

Wonwoo's brows reach his hairline as you hiss at her. “You have the biggest mouth.”

“We're all besties here,” she replies, shrugging.

“Oh my god, they're actually true?” Wonwoo asks, voice cracking a little from surprise. “He took the sabbatical to help you through a pregnancy…?”

Jihyo chokes on nothing, hand going to her chest as she starts coughing erratically, while you nearly spit out the water you just took a sip of. 

“Oh my god,” she wheezes, “that's a new one, oh my god.”

“What?!” you shriek. “No! No, I am not pregnant, what the fuck?!” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Where are these jobless people getting their information?! No, we are not married or pregnant or on our honeymoon or any of those ridiculous things! We're just…”

“Yes, please do tell us what you are,” Jihyo says, having recovered from her coughing fit. Voice deadpan, she sarcastically tells you, “I've been dying to know.”

You glare at nothing in particular. “We're… just… we are exploring.”

“Exploring…” Wonwoo repeats with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes. Exploring what this could potentially be… and whatnot.”

“‘Whatnot’ is code for exploring each other's bodies,” Jihyo clarifies. 

“HR is never around when you need them,” you lament.

Your ex-boss cracks a smile at that, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing when you sink lower on the couch and cross your arms over your chest petulantly. 

“I'm not shocked,” he says, waving a hand at your silent and contained tantrum. “You two were always just a matter of when. Seven years is a crazy ‘when,’ but to each their own.”

“Sorry, and who are you dating?” you ask with narrowed eyes.

“Touché, but when I do date someone, I will not take seven years to do it.”

Jihyo giggles again, earning another glare from you.

“Being bullied by you two is exhausting.”

Wonwoo sighs, shaking his head. “What a shame.”

“What is?”

“I guess I was just holding out hope.” When he notices you still look clueless, he continues. “I mean even though his email sounded pretty serious, I was hoping he'd change his mind, but now that I know the rumors are true and you two are an item… well, no chance of him changing his mind now.” He shrugs. “I guess McLaren will have good news for Soonyoung.”

You frown. “What? What do you mean?” you ask, the question obviously taking him by surprise. When he doesn't immediately answer, you tell him, “Joshua is still going back to McLaren at the end of the season. It's just a sabbatical.”

You think of the way his smile has gotten bigger, his laughs are louder, his skin glows brighter, and his eyes shine with renewed joy and purpose as he works with the girls. He has undoubtedly fallen back in love with the sport, and you’re certain you've done a good job of steering him back to where he should be when the season ends: right there, back with Wonwoo and the rest of the team.

Jihyo looks at you with a carefully blank expression. “What do you mean?” she asks quietly. “Haven't you two talked yet?”

It might have been a while since you updated Jihyo on the non-updates you have regarding your intention to talk to Joshua, but something about the way she asks forms a knot in your stomach.

“No?” you answer, perplexed. “Talked about what?” For once in her life, she looks speechless. You turn back to Wonwoo. “What are you talking about? What email?”

He looks between you and your CEO uncomfortably, but he knows you well enough to know better than to make you press him for answers. 

“Uh, Hong… he, um—he formally resigned from McLaren,” he answers, making your stomach abruptly and violently lurch. There's a sudden and unrelenting pounding in your ears, making it hard to hear the man even though he's right next to you. He fidgets as he informs you, “He didn't provide a reason why.”

“What…?” Your voice sounds so far away. “He can't do that! He can't quit! He…” It can't be true; his demeanor has improved so much since you first spoke to him about his position in Barcelona. F1 is where he belongs. F1 is not F1 without Joshua. 

You must've said the thought aloud because Wonwoo smiles weakly and says, “I mean… F1 has been around since before Joshua's mom was even born, let alone Joshua.” You look at him incredulously and he hurriedly adds, “But totally! I get what you mean!”

“When did he submit his resignation?”

Wonwoo fidgets uncomfortably, glancing at Jihyo, who simply shrugs at him. He answers, “About a week before your season began.”

You scoff. “Okay, that was months ago! He probably did that when he was still caught up in all his feelings from announcing his sabbatical.”

It's an easy explanation; he’s had months to change his mind, and now that he’s enjoying his time at the Academy, it should be clear this world is where he belongs. He must have changed his mind by now.

It's an easy explanation and Wonwoo decimates it with just as much ease. “He's going to be at MTC next weekend to complete his exit process and work with PR on an announcement,” he tells you, grimacing as he does. “He reconfirmed his availability just a few days ago.”

Your chest feels heavy and you lay a palm to it, pressing and rubbing firmly like that will help you breathe a little easier. It doesn't.

“I… I thought I was handling it.”

“Handling what?” Jihyo asks softly.

“Making him fall back in love with racing again,” you mutter. “He was right,” you say, referring to McLaren's CEO, “Joshua lost his spark, but… I thought I was helping him find it again… I thought I was helping him find his way back.”

“Oh honey,” Jihyo says, standing and making her way over to you. She sits on the other side of you and rests a hand on yours. “That was never your responsibility.”

Wonwoo nods in agreement. “Hong's a grown man. He knows what he wants and he knows what's best for him.” He says the words emphatically and they sound familiar. “That was never a burden for you to take on. Not then, not now.”

“This is his sport,” you say to yourself more than anyone. “This… is our sport.”

Jihyo purses her lips like she's begging her filter to work for once and truly mulling over what the right thing to say is. Wonwoo doesn't look any closer to figuring it out either.

“What is he going to do? This is a temporary position… what is he going to do next…?”

Your CEO squeezes your hand. “I think it's time you talk to him, babe.”

Wonwoo nods solemnly. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I assumed you knew.”

You shake your head but that's all you can manage right now to communicate it isn't his fault. “I, um.” Swallowing feels like choking back sawdust. “I should head back to the wall. The race is starting soon.”

“Of course. Let's go,” Jihyo says, standing with you. “I'm going to watch.”

“I gotta head over to the garage,” Wonwoo says, joining you. “It was nice seeing you, Y/N. I… I hope everything works out with Hong. Call me when you're free to have dinner, okay?”

You nod and try your best to smile at Wonwoo as he quickly hugs you and makes his exit, feeling an inkling of guilt for ruining your first time together at a grand prix since you left. It's useless, though; you know it's a sorry excuse for a smile and that you've thoroughly ruined the happy mood. You can't help the way the disappointment paints every part of your face and body. You failed. 

You set out to do the single most important thing you would ever do for Joshua, and you failed.

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2019 "It doesn't even matter if you make podium or not. You literally just need to be above him." "I'm a little offended you don't know by now that that's just not going to be good enough."

You nod because it was the response you were 100% expecting. Of course it wouldn't be good enough for Joshua to win his first title in only his second season in F1; he has to do it in first place too. 

“Right,” you say before pursing your lips. Wonwoo raises an eyebrow at you like he's silently asking you what you expected. You wave him off wordlessly. “Okay, well. If my driver wants first place, I guess he's getting first place.”

“Mmm, that's more like it.”

The lights go out and without a beat of hesitation, Joshua's car takes off from P2, right behind Mercedes's veteran driver Ocasio in pole position.

Lights out and away we go! the commentator shouts from the stream. We've got Joshua Hong on McLaren and Benito Ocasio on Mercedes battling it out for the championship tonight with both coming into this race tied at 369 points. We're in a unique situation for this race. The gap in points between these two drivers and the rest of the grid is large enough that the next two places on the championship lineup were already decided several races ago. This grand prix tonight, here in beautiful Abu Dhabi… it might as well just be Hong and Ocasio alone on that track. This race will decide the fate of only two drivers tonight. This is a battle between 95 and 31. Everyone else will be smart to stay out of their way tonight.

“Clean, clean, keep it clean,” you whisper to yourself as Joshua defends the first turn from P3. In general, the first lap always makes you nervous because it's generally where most of the crashes in a race happen, but the first lap of a championship race? Your nerves are so tightly wound, a simple “hello” from someone right now has the power to send you into psychosis. 

As if wanting to prove you right, two cars toward the middle of the pack make brief contact, one of them wobbling dangerously before eventually losing control and crashing right into the barrier instead of making the turn. Even with Joshua far from the fiasco, you clench your muscles as you watch the other cars frantically dodge the pink car. No one else crashes.

“Alpine just crashed,” you inform Joshua. “Safety car coming out. It'll be quick, but I'll let you know if you're about to lap.”

“Copy. Is he okay?”

You watch as the marshal reaches the crash and the driver clad in pink pops up and out of his car, visibly angry as he kicks the rear tire in frustration.

“He's fine. Focus on Mercedes.” Joshua doesn't need to be told twice, giving the driver absolutely no breathing room as he stays on his ass for the next three miles. By the time they finish the first lap, the safety car is gone and full-speed racing has continued. 

Nothing changes for the first dozen laps, both you and Joshua saying very little to each other as he focuses on trying to overtake P1, and you focus on staying on top of his strategy.

“He's got him pegged,” Wonwoo groans. “This guy majored in Joshua Hong. Got a fucking minor in McLaren.” You bristle at the idea of Mercedes locking their driver in a room to study yours—his strengths, weaknesses, techniques, and strategy—for hours on end. Sure, you and Joshua did the same, but you hate the idea anyway. 

“He doesn't have him pegged,” you insist even though you don't quite believe that yourself. “He's only seen what's been broadcasted.”

“Yeah, and everything has been broadcasted,” he mutters. You don't have the emotional capacity to fit irritation alongside everything else so you don't bother glaring at him. 

Since the race first started, you've been wracking your brain for something—anything. And for the first time in 48 races… absolutely nothing is coming to mind. Ocasio is just as hungry for it as Joshua is; he's been in F1 three times as long with no title to show for it, and his contract with the prestigious works team is on the line. This is the closest he's gotten to becoming the world champion, and he's going up against a second-year driver for it. You wish you could tell yourself it’s okay if Joshua doesn't win—that he has the rest of his career to achieve so much, but this could very well be Ocasio's last chance to be something great in Formula. You wish you could. Instead, you tell yourself you'll actually have a full blown meltdown if you get this close and don't get Joshua on the middle of that stupid podium. 

Everyone else is worried over winning the Constructors’ Championship over Mercedes; you're worried over letting Joshua down over something he so badly wants.

“It's only your second year. Don't be so stressed,” you told him just before the race, even though you had zero place giving anyone advice about what to do with their stress when yours was currently completely ravaging your body.

You handed him his helmet, which no one had touched aside from you. This time, he had secretly asked that not even Wonwoo touch it today—something about feeling extra protective of his energy. He put it on and stared at you with those expressive eyes, and you saw the desperation and nervousness and doubt. You felt like you were staring at a boy. You felt like you were staring at a younger Joshua on the verge of achieving everything he'd ever dreamt of. You saw how much it meant to him.

“I'm not stressed,” he said, voice even. You didn't fall for it, though, and he knew you didn't. His mother was right; he was such a bad liar. 

“We’ll win.”

“Okay,” he said just before he flipped his visor down and turned away to get into his car. He didn't say it sarcastically—like he didn't believe you. In fact, it was very much the opposite. He said it as if just because you had uttered the words, they would be true. He said it like he really believed anything you told him was right.

And it instilled an unfathomable and unexplainable fear in you to know someone trusted you so deeply.

“Shua, how are the tires feeling?” you ask on his 22nd lap. He's the only driver on the track who hasn't boxed yet, continuing to insist the degradation feels minimal. The only reason you keep allowing it is because he never fights you back on anything, and you want to trust he’d be honest with you.

“Manageable” is all you get. You sigh and turn around and away from your monitor, watching as Joshua passes in a blur of orange. He disappears into a turn and you glare at nothing in particular. Is this the best you can do? Have your driver chase another and hope the other one fucks up?

“He has to box soon,” Wonwoo tells you. You're about to turn around to agree when something catches your eye. A single cloud—huge and fluffy and shaped perfectly like the head of a cauliflower. 

“Rain isn't on the forecast, is it…?” you ask, knowing damn well it’s never rained hard enough at Yas Marina to warrant wet tires.

Your boss makes a sound of surprise. “Rain?” he repeats. “No, it's not on the forecast.”

You frown at the big, chunky cloud as it slowly crawls across the black sky, taller than it is wide. “Did you even look?”

“I don't need to look,” he snorts. “It's never rains at—”

“Well, please look,” you say before speaking into your headset. “Shua, track check, please.”

“No changes,” he grunts.

“Clear?”

“Yup.”

“Oh shit,” Wonwoo says behind you just as Joshua asks, “Why?”

“Just checking,” you tell him. “Thanks.”

You turn back to Wonwoo, who's peering at another engineer's monitor. You lean into his personal space to get a look, and you thank whatever god exists for your eighth grade science teacher and for the other teams’ complacency with this track. If you're smart about your moves, no one will realize that the cloud you spotted is the first thunderhead heading toward Yas Marina until it’s already pouring, which the forecast estimates will be soon.

“Remind me what tires Ocasio is on?” you ask. He took his pit stop just three laps ago. 

“Hard,” someone answers, confirming what you were hoping: Mercedes changed out his tires without looking at the weather.

“Okay,” you sit back down, adrenaline flooding your system almost immediately. “The second we pit him and change to intermediates, the entire grid will hear it on the broadcast and know to check the weather, and they'll be onto us fast. How many laps can he go before he absolutely has to box?”

“I say five max,” the performance engineer says. “More comfortable with four.” That's around 6-8 minutes if Joshua keeps driving each lap at the speed he has been.

“We'll box him on lap 27,” you make a split decision and tell your team, taking the risk to push your driver for five more laps. “That gives these clouds eight minutes to cook up a storm for us.”

You switch to the private channel to notify the pit crew, telling them to refrain from bringing out the intermediates until the very last moment. 

“Shua, your air pressure is looking a little funky,” you say, even though the telemetry data clearly shows it's fine. You know he'll remember your code for the rain. “You'll probably feel fluctuations for the next five. Keep it calm and clean for now.”

“We need, like, a million code words and phrases,” Joshua said, sprawled across the floor of Wonwoo’s office. The head engineer laughed through his nose as he pored over his work at his desk—probably because you and Joshua met just yesterday and this is one of your first orders of business.

“A million seems excessive,” you responded from where you were seated on your boss's worn armchair, a McLaren relic at that point.

“Well, a million different things could happen on the track.”

You nodded. That was very true. “What about a code for…”

“Rain?” Joshua offered, looking at the windows as it poured outside. You smiled. 

“Why would I need to warn you about rain if everyone has access to the weather app on their phones?” 

He glared at you. “What if it's at a place where it never rains?”

“Then I probably wouldn't need to warn you that it's going to rain,” you pointed out, ragebaiting him. He felt familiar enough to do that with already, like an old friend.

“What if we're in Saudi Arabia… or Bahrain?!” he asked. “What if you don't expect rain but it's coming and you have to warn me?”

“Okay, but in what world would I know it's going to rain before everyone else does?”

“I don't know you,” he said petulantly. “You could be psychic. How would I know?”

You smirked, finally letting him have his way. “Okay… say I'm psychic. What should we say for rain then?” 

“How about, ‘Do you like the song Purple Rain by Prince?’”

“Way too obvious,” Wonwoo muttered without looking up.

“Fair,” Joshua sighed.

“We can work off that, though!” you encouraged him. “How about something like ‘groovy’? Get it? Because Prince? And grooves on a tire?”

“Also obvious,” the head engineer muttered again. Both you and Joshua scowled at him.

“Okay, genius, how about you tell us what the code word should be?” you asked him. He looked up from his work and stared at you both blankly. 

“If we're sticking with the Prince theme… I guess ‘funk.’”

You both stared at him. “In what context would I say ‘funk’…?”

“In what context would you say ‘groovy’?” he shot back. You bit back your laughter.

“Touché.”

“You could tell me something in the telemetry data looks funky,” Joshua said, nodding at the word. “I like it.”

“Okay, so I'll choose something that's very obviously not funky,” you added. “And then I'll find a way to give you a number and that will be the number—”

He joined in as you both finished the sentence. “—of laps until it starts raining.”

“Perfect!” he grinned. “Now. How about if there's going to be a blizzard?”

“Where the hell would there be a blizzard?!”

The memory of sitting in Wonwoo's office for hours last year, coming up with code words makes you smile a little. Joshua's line stays silent for a moment, and you know he's debating whether or not he should ask you if you're sure—not about the air pressure, but about the rain. In the end, all he says is: “Copy.”

You switch channels and tell the pit crew, “Get ready. Five laps. Don't let them see what you're up to until you have to.”

“Copy,” the head mechanic confirms.

“We should bring the other driver in too,” the team principal, who's sat smack in the middle of all of you, says. Your head whips toward him.

“You can't,” you argue. Joshua's teammate just boxed a lap ago. “If he comes back in, everyone will know something is happening and they'll find out sooner.”

“A second sooner isn't going to—”

“A second is a lifetime in F1,” you interject. You're not sure why you have to explain that to the team principal. “It will make a difference. We need every moment we can get before everyone else realizes it’s about to rain.”

“We have a responsibility to the team,” he says—a condescending reminder you don't need. Everybody knows every constructor on the grid only cares about the team.

“The other driver isn't even in the points!” you nearly shout. “Bringing him in won't help him; it will just squash Joshua's advantage!”

“No, we'd be giving them both an advantage and getting us closer to the championship.”

You fight with every fiber of your being to stop yourself from laughing right in his face. Joshua's teammate, much like Benito Ocasio's, doesn't have nearly enough points to contribute to the WCC. This truly is a battle between Joshua and the Mercedes driver.

“With all due respect, if Hong loses this, sir, the team loses the Constructors’ Championship,” Wonwoo emphasizes your point. “Our time is best spent focusing on him.”

You hate the way the team principal actually takes pause to think about it just because the point came from a man's mouth.

“As long as we get Hong to finish above Ocasio, both trophies are McLaren's,” your boss punctuates the point. The team principal purses his lips before nodding once at him and avoiding eye contact with you as he turns back to his monitor.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath as you and Wonwoo do the same.

“Breathe,” Wonwoo whispers. “You have a driver to focus on.”

You shake your head as your blood goes from a mild boil to a simmer. 

By the time Joshua gets to his 27th lap, the clouds have rolled in considerably, but none of the other teams’ radios or pit crews show any sign of boxing their drivers. 

“Everyone's so focused on the track, no one even notices how dark it's gotten,” Wonwoo says with wonder as he looks out at the circuit. To be fair, the floodlights that blanket the track are near-blinding. If you hadn't been desperately searching the circuit for an answer, you probably wouldn't have noticed either.

“Box, box,” you call loudly into your mic. 

“Boxing,” Joshua confirms as he takes the last turn before approaching the pit lane. Ocasio zooms past as he does, the next three drivers replacing Joshua not far behind. He stops in front of the garage, the pit crew doing a phenomenal job of hiding the tires until the very last second. “You sure?” he finally asks. His eyes are on you. You nod. He glances up at the sky before looking back at you and laughing. “Good thing we came up with the plan then, huh?”

You smile. “I guess you were on to something with your millions of codes.”

The team signals it’s safe to pull away and he does. As he disappears once more, you brace yourself for the commentator to announce Joshua is on wets now, but they don't. Instead, they're in a commotion over Red Bull. 

Unbelievable! Kim is attacking his own teammate, Kwon! he shouts. Even you get distracted for a moment, eyes bulging as you turn to the broadcast. You watch as both drivers, while battling for P3, go full speed down the west straight of Yas Marina, side-by-side and dangerously close with neither of them easing up or falling back as they approach the turn. One of them is going to have to give way or Red Bull will be finishing the season with two DNFs!

“Shua,” you speak to your driver. “You're four seconds out from P3, both Red Bull drivers battling.”

“What?” he asks in disbelief.

“One of them is going to crash—maybe both,” you say, 100% confident of it as they close in on the turn. If they refuse to back off, they'll either take it full-speed and lose control, or they'll brake too late and too hard and lock out. “Be careful.”

“Got it. Let me know if—”

Oh my god! the commentator shouts as Mingyu finally falls back.

Soonyoung slams on his brakes, locks out exactly like you knew he would, and fishtails wildly before crashing straight into the barrier, going at least 180mph. The car doesn't stop, catching air from the impact, grinding across the top of the barrier, and rolling several times before landing back on the asphalt upside down.

Kwon has taken a nasty crash into the barrier as Kim mercilessly takes P3 without so much as a blink! Red Bull is rightfully losing their minds on the pit wall, and the safety car is out!

“Kwon crashed; the safety car is coming out,” you tell Joshua as the car speeds onto the track and overtakes your driver, slowing him down as they approach the crash site. 

“Oh shit,” Joshua breathes as the Red Bull car comes into his view. On the broadcast, you can see smoke rising from the engine, his car looking like The Hulk smashed it between both fists, smoothed it back out, and then flattened it with the heel of his foot.

Both the safety car and Joshua pass Soonyoung just as the marshal reaches the Red Bull driver. 

“Is he okay?” your driver's voice is small.

You hold your breath as Soonyoung's unconscious body is dragged out from his car, limp with his arm bent at an awkward angle. You look away quickly.

“I don't know,” you say for the first time. Soonyoung and the wreckage of his car is taken off the track and the race resumes, with little news about whether or not the driver is okay.

"He has to be okay,” Joshua says a minute or so later. You know he's befriended the driver since Soonyoung was one of the few who didn't look at him like he was a poor piece of gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. “They would've stopped the race if he wasn't.”

“Exactly,” you say, surprised by how shaken you sound. You clear your throat and nod even though he can't see you. “Just focus on making Mingyu pay for it.”

He doesn't even bother with confirming he heard you, instead flooring it as he closes the gap between him and Mingyu. You'd almost forgotten about the rain until Joshua reaches the remaining Red Bull driver just as the first drops begin to fall.

“Here we go,” Wonwoo inhales.

What’s this? the commentator asks, bewildered. Is it raining in Abu Dhabi?

As if it heard him, the sky opens up with a boom of thunder, and suddenly, the rain comes down all at once, pounding the pavement almost violently.

“Holy shit.”

A Formula first, folks! We have a wet race in Abu Dhabi! the commentator laughs incredulously. And we've already got several drivers hydroplaning on their slicks!

Immediately, several drivers lose control, sliding all over the track like their cars are skating on ice. You have half a mind to start dancing and celebrating when you see that not only is Kim Mingyu one of them, but so are P1 and P2, leaving a wide open window for Joshua.

“Shua!” you shriek excitedly. “Two seconds to P1, and he slid off track! It's yours! Push now!”

“Pushing,” he says, passing P3 and P2 easily as they struggle to take control of their cars long enough to get them to the pit lane to change out their tires. 

Hong is breezing past these—he’s on wets! When did that happen?! He's on wets! The McLaren driver is on intermediates; we're being told he was switched out during his last pit stop right before the Red Bull showdown! Here's the radio transmission.

They show the play you and Joshua conducted and you tune out, watching as your driver zooms right past Ocasio's still, helpless car, an unstoppable, orange blur. You can't help but clap as he does, widening the gap between him and the rest of the grid considerably.

“When does the rain let up?” you ask Wonwoo.

“Can expect it to lighten in the next 20 minutes,” he answers.

“Good job, Shua!” you congratulate him on his placement. “Keep a close eye on the track for me, okay? The moment it starts drying up, we need you back in the pit to change you up.”

“Got it, boss,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Good call. How'd you know? That handy app on your phone?”

“No, even better. My eyeballs and deep knowledge of cumulowhatever clouds.”

“Amazing, thank you, cumuloso-and-so clouds.”

Joshua widens his gap from P2 to a whole minute as everyone struggles to get to the pit in the downpour, easily lapping P17-19. By the time Ocasio's team gets him on tires suitable for the rain, he's already almost an entire lap behind Joshua. To top it all off, the Mercedes driver is only on his rain tires for two laps before Joshua radios in to let you know the track is drying. He pits at the next opportunity, the team putting him back on slicks, and he pulls away, considerably faster. 

Phenomenal driving from Hong, and a truly magnificent show of expertise and talent from his engineer, Y/N L/N, the commentator says. Not only was he ahead by already being on wets by the time this history-making storm rolled in, but now, he's ahead as the track starts to dry up. Talk about intuition and foresight!

It's over and you know it. You don't say it out of fear that you'll somehow jinx it, but it's over. There are only three laps left, Joshua has lapped half of the grid, and Mercedes is so far behind, you could pit Joshua a third time for shits and giggles and he'd still be in P1.

Because you were fighting tooth and nail to keep your job last season, you were too busy trying to show your worth to your CEO to have any sort of tangible goals. Your sole focus was having another season at all; you wouldn't have ever thought a world title was on the horizon.

It isn't until he only has half a lap to go that you finally say it. “It's yours, Shua.”

“It's ours.”

He flies past the checkered flag to a roar of delighted screams and celebrations, fireworks and flashing lights, confetti and champagne, tears and laughter. As you watch Joshua's dreams come true, you get the nagging feeling that maybe his dream had become yours sometime in the last two seasons without you noticing.

You find you don't mind it.

Joshua Hong, in his second season, has won not only the Formula One’s World Drivers’ Championship, but has secured the World Constructors’ Championship for McLaren for the first time since 1998! Some drivers go their entire careers never reaching these heights, and Hong has done it in only two seasons! F1’s unlikeliest superstar has proven everyone wrong in the best way. He entered McLaren’s development program as one of their oldest participants and became a rookie with the least amount of karting experience on the grid, and now here he is: 2019’s World Champion… unbelievable, truly unbelievable. I don’t think there’s a person in the world right now who can argue how deserving the McLaren driver is of this. A job well done by Hong and a job well done by L/N. Congratulations to them and to McLaren!

The first time you met Joshua was at the McLaren Technology Center just a week after you practically begged your CEO to give you a chance with this rookie. You'd heard little to nothing about him—this Joshua Hong. All you knew was that he entered the karting program way later than any of the other current drivers on the grid, and his stats from the development program were the best you'd seen in years. Still, everyone was writing him off.

There were jokes made that he was McLaren's Cinderella—that it was a wonder he got this spot over other drivers in the program who had paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to be here. There were people who attributed his climb up into F1 as a pity pick—just someone with a rags-to-riches story to please the media and fill the spot, while McLaren desperately tried to win their first driver or constructors’ championship in years with their most senior driver. 

Even the CEO made it clear the organization's focus would remain on their veteran driver, who they thought was primed for a title. Wonwoo had also already been forced to spend most of his team's time and resources with him. You knew it was going to be an uphill battle, but almost having this opportunity ripped away from you before it was even yours lit a fire under your ass, and regardless of who was correct about who Joshua Hong was, you were going to make him bring F1 to its knees. 

When you met him in the lobby of MTC, with his manager and an HR representative in tow, he was dressed in a white T-shirt tucked into black slacks—plain and forgettable on anyone else, but almost 10 years later, you still remember every detail. You still smell the cologne he had on, the way his clothes didn't have a single wrinkle, how big his smile was as he told you, “When I heard my race engineer was a woman, my mom and I were so excited.”

You can't say you fell in love right then and there because you don't think you'll ever be able to pinpoint the exact minute you did, but he definitely already had your heart one way or another—whether or not you knew it at the moment. He was your best friend from the start. 

Which is why you’re so confused about why he would decide to keep something as big as his resignation from F1 a secret from you.

As soon as the girls’ race was over, you made your way back to your own hotel room, forgoing the media pen altogether. And instead of being able to drive yourself crazy all alone, thinking about what went wrong, when Joshua made this decision, and if you could've even done anything at all, Jihyo decided you could do all that with a friend. 

She was at your hotel room in her sweats and a bare face just three hours after you left the race.

“I told Joshua I had an emergency and to stay and help the other staff tear down,” she says when you open the door. Her arms are full of snacks and she has a small, almost nervous smile on her lips. “Can I come in?”

You answer by stepping aside and opening the door wider. She comes in, kicking her shoes off before wandering deeper into the room and throwing the snacks onto your bed.

“I got the paddock services team to open a vending machine for me and I completely raided it, but if there's nothing here you want, we can order room service,” she says, taking a seat next to her mountain of stolen snacks. “On the company card!”

“All of our meals are on the company card on race weekends,” you point out.

“Sure, but none of your meals are ever the $90 surf and turf,” Jihyo counters. You have nothing to say to that so you sit on the other side of her mountain.

“This is good,” you mutter, going for a bag of gummy bears. 

You're only on your second bear when the CEO gets straight to the point. “So… what are you upset about?”

You stop mid-chew and stare at her blankly. “Seriously?”

“I'm not asking in a dismissive way,” she clarifies. “I'm asking so we can, I don't know. Unpack your feelings? Get down to the root of this? If you're not going to talk to Joshua, you should talk to someone.”

You can't help the embarrassment that warms your skin. You don't know why you've put this conversation off for so long; if you'd had it earlier, maybe he would've told you that he resigned. But you didn't, and now this conversation is going to be three times as hard as it originally would've ever been.

“Well?”

You put the bag of gummy bears down and wipe your fingers on your sweats, grateful when Jihyo doesn't bat an eye at you.

It's hard to explain why you feel so gutted over a decision that doesn't affect you. To make it even more complicated, you don't understand why you feel almost betrayed you had to hear it from Wonwoo instead of Joshua, especially if he decided so long ago. You went back and forth with yourself for the last few hours, trying to make sense of it, and you still haven't gotten anywhere.

“I'm mad that he’s quitting something he obviously loves just because of a bad season,” you say because it's the easiest thing to pick out and you have to start somewhere.

Jihyo nods as she grabs and opens a bag of Hot Cheetos. “Maybe it's not because of a bad season.” You know she's right; Joshua told you as much in Barcelona. “How do you know he still loves it anyway?”

“Have you seen him lately?” you ask, flailing a hand like you're gesturing to an imaginary track inside your hotel room. “The man is in love with racing! You don't look like that and sound like that and teach like that and not absolutely love what you do.”

She hums quietly, processing your words as the sound of her crunching fills the room. You can tell she's trying to think of where to guide you and the conversation next, but you're a race engineer. You're not the one who follows blindly, and now that you've started talking, you suddenly can't stop.

“Devastated is the closest word I have to what I felt when he told me he was tired of this world,” you admit to her as you think about that day you came to get him. “How can he be tired of this world? He worked his whole life for this! He's just barely approaching the peak of his career, and he's ending it before he can even get there.”

“Is it the end?”

“What?”

“Of his career,” she explains. “Is it the end of his career?”

“What else would he do?” you ask, finding it impossible to figure out what on earth Joshua would be if it weren't an F1 driver. A fucking professional LEGO car builder? A sleepy pancake eater?   

“Whatever brings him happiness,” she says easily. You open your mouth to say the obvious (of course F1 makes him happy), but she continues before you can. “Whatever energizes him instead of drains him. Why is it so hard for you to believe that this is what he might actually want? That this isn't the mistake you think it is?”

You look up at Jihyo and expect to find judgment on her face because after all, it's a good point and what kind of person would you be to want Joshua to stay with something that only brings him exhaustion? But it's the opposite. She looks at you with a sort of curious compassion, and you know she truly is trying to help you unpack this. 

“Y/N…” she sighs, bringing her legs up onto the bed so she can turn to face you fully. “Why are you really upset? Don't think about a right answer or a nice answer. First thing that comes to your mind. Why are you upset?”

“It feels like he's leaving me behind,” your mouth says for you before you can even fully process the reason for your meltdown. You widen your eyes at your own confession.

“Okay!” Jihyo encourages you, nodding. “That's real! we're getting somewhere. Why do you feel like he’s leaving you behind? Your worth isn't tied to F1. He can leave F1 and still be with you.”

“I know…” you say helplessly because you do. That's why it's so hard to understand. “It just… it feels like I tried my hardest to get him to stay in this with me, and… he still decided he was done with F1. With me.”

“He's the opposite of done with you.”

You know realistically, that's true. You two have never been closer—have never given yourself to one another the way you have in the last few months. But you can't help but tie everything you two are with this sport, and not having Joshua in it—even if you're not the one guiding him on the track—feels too massive of a change for you to comprehend.

“He's just doing what he thinks is good for him. Isn't that what you did?” she asks. “Isn't he allowed that too? He gave you that grace once, didn't he?”

The regret that seizes your heart is sharp and it leaves you breathless. She's right; Joshua literally watched you make a decision on your own, watched you prepare for months to create a new life without him, and then you didn't even give him the chance to watch you leave. You took that away from him. You left him with an incomprehensible change yourself, and you did it without even saying goodbye. And not once did he complain or hold it against you.

Giving you grace was an understatement. 

“Oh my god, I'm so stupid.”

“No,” Jihyo argues. “You're just a little lost in your feelings. That's why I'm here.”

“What I did was so much fucking worse, and I have the nerve to throw myself an all-day pity party.”

“Yeah, well… you live and you learn,” she shrugs. You glare at her and she snorts. “What? What you did was objectively worse. You're by no means a bad person, but I do agree with you. I would much rather have my best friend or situationship or fucking-whatever-you-two-are prolong telling me about their resignation than take that resignation without saying goodbye.”

“Okay!” you shout, throwing a gummy bear at her face. It bounces off her forehead and makes it into her bag of chips. “I get it! Shut up now.”

“You come to cheer up a friend and you get pelted by gummy bears,” she clicks her tongue in disapproval, fishing the bear out and popping it into her mouth even though it's covered in Cheeto dust. “Ingrate.”

You sigh. “Thank you. You're a good friend. And I love you.”

“I know,” she smirks, eating another chip before saying, “I love you too. And you're just as good of a friend. To me and to Joshua. You just need to see past your fears and let him explain.”

You frown at the idea. “What do you mean see past my fears?”

“I mean, you're so afraid you're losing him that you're just letting that be the whole picture. He hasn't even said anything to you. He doesn't even know you know!” she points out, scoffing a little. “And you've already gone and made a whole story up about how he's giving up on his dream and it means the end of his career and the end of you two.”

Your frown deepens.

“In reality… you don't know anything at all, really. You just know what your fear has told you.”

“Oh.”

“It's seriously time you guys talk.”

“I guess it is.”

“But before you do… can I interest you in surf and turf?”

It's well past midnight and you didn't respond to any of his texts or calls after the race and you didn't let him know you'd be coming, but you know Joshua will open the door and welcome you in anyway. He proves you right after only the second knock.

“Hey!” he breathes, so heartwrenchingly happy to see you.

He's in an oversized tee and white sweats, his hair damp from a shower he must have taken in the last hour. He smiles and doesn't hesitate to pull you into his arms, holding you tight against his body. Even with all the emotions warring inside you, your arms still instinctively wrap around him and you press your cheek against his chest, closing your eyes briefly. He kisses the top of your head, lips resting there for a moment.

“I missed you, my love.”

You open your eyes and your hold on him loosens.

“I was worried about you but I figured you were just napping.” He pulls away, stepping aside to let you in, and closing the door behind the both of you. “Is that what you were doing?”

“Huh?” you ask as you slowly follow him further into his room, where he has race highlights playing on his laptop on the floor, several pages of notes surrounding it. 

He laughs, looking up at you, brows furrowing a little in amusement while he bends down to clean everything up. “Napping? Were you napping?”

“Oh,” you shake your head, watching him gather every last sheet of paper before heading to the desk to put it all away. “No. I was…” After several moments trying, your brain won't supply the proper words, so instead, you just come out and say, “Joshua, I know you resigned from McLaren.”

His hold on his laptop slips, but one end was already on the table so it doesn't fall far. His back, turned to you and hiding his face away from you, is completely stiff, every muscle in his body seemingly frozen. 

“I ran into Wonwoo today,” you explain, shifting your weight nervously from foot to foot. “He let it slip thinking I knew, but… obviously I didn't.”

Joshua exhales slowly, hanging his head in what you imagine is shame. “I'm sorry,” he says, turning around to face you, already looking deeply regretful as he meets your eyes. 

You pause to take a shaky breath before you take a few steps closer. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly like he's been dreading this conversation—like he always knew this was going to be a point of contention for you. 

He places his glasses back on his face and inhales deeply before stepping forward, resting his hands on your biceps, and saying, “I was going to tell you… I promise I was. You were going to be the first person who knew—at least, outside of everyone else who had to know first… y'know, for legal reasons. My manager. The CEOs. Wonwoo. The PR teams. Lawyers… but you were going to be the first one that mattered, I swear. I haven't even told my mom.” 

“I'm not mad you didn't tell me,” you say truthfully. It's been an hour or two since Jihyo dragged you back to your senses, and you know you're being honest when you say that. Parts of you are mad but not because Joshua kept this to himself. You've kept larger things to yourself for much longer. One of those things being that you were in love with him.

His eyebrows rise. “You're not?”

You shake your head. “I'm… a little hurt and confused and… scared, I guess. But I don't think I'm mad—not about you keeping this a secret.”

He rubs his hands up and down your arms, looking at least a fraction less on-edge than he did a moment ago. “I don't want you to be any of those things, most of all scared. Nothing has to change between us. I don't want anything to change between us.”

“You're leaving F1,” you say as if that's a point to counter his. 

“F1 isn't you,” he tells you like he knew this was going to be how you felt—like he knew you'd equate his departure from F1 to leaving you behind too. “I'm not leaving you. I'm not even truly leaving F1.” You look up at him and tilt your head in question. “I'll always be a part of this world. One way or another, even if it's through you. Or just as a fan in the grandstands. I don't think I could ever fully step away. I'm just… trying something new.”

“Being unemployed?” you ask, sulking.

He laughs now, his hands coming up to your shoulders and then cupping around the back of your neck to pull you forward so he can land a kiss on your forehead. “Resting,” he says. “And focusing on something that makes me a lot happier than going vroom vroom in a car.” You can't help but grin at the phrase you recognize Eunchae saying several times in class before.

“What could possibly make you happier than going vroom vroom?” you ask, rolling your eyes at him. He returns the roll right back as he leans in to kiss your forehead again, this time leaving pecks on your cheeks, your nose, and your lips too.

“Take a wild guess,” he says against your mouth before leaning back once more.

“Me?” you ask incredulously, your panic, which had already been simmering down considerably, suddenly spiking again. 

“Yes, you,” he laughs, frowning a little like it's crazy you wouldn't connect that—as if that's crazier than leaving his sport for you. “I finally have you. I'm not going to spend the majority of the year away from you now that I finally have you.”

“Joshua, I—”

“Hey.”

“Oh my god, not now!” you shriek frantically as he pouts at your usage of his full name. “I can't be the reason you leave F1!”

“Okay, well. One, you're not the only reason, and two, why not?”

Your mouth drops open in astonishment at the question. How do you point out that this might not work without hurting either of your feelings? How do you say that he can't change his entire life for you?

Jihyo's voice suddenly cuts through your thoughts like a knife. Isn't that what you did? You suddenly have nothing to say.

“You're scared things won't work out between us and I'll have made this huge life decision for nothing,” he mutters quietly, hands coming back to your arms to rub them comfortingly. “Of course, I've thought about that. Of course, I know that's a possibility. I don't care, though. I'm not happy in F1 anymore, Y/N. I haven't been in a while, and I'm… I'm really tired of pretending I have been.” 

You sigh, knowing that if it's a case of Joshua's happiness, you've already lost any argument this could have turned into.

“If it helps you feel better,” he says, squeezing your arms, “I made the decision before anything even happened with us. I made it with a clear head… at least, a semi-clear head.” He smiles at you and you feel your resolve slip completely. “Kind of hard to think totally straight whenever I'm even in the same city as you.”

It's impossible to suppress a smile after hearing that, and he immediately laughs and pulls you flush against him.

“Is that a smile I see?” he asks, as he brings a finger under your chin to tilt your head up at him. His lips twist into a playful smirk. “Pretty.”

You glare at him. “Are you sure about this?”

“I've actually never been surer. I promise.”

You let that sink in. With Joshua, it's always been a game of hoping you can trust each other to be honest and to make the best choices, and not once has he ever let you down. You know you have no choice but to trust that this is the best path for him.

“Okay,” you finally say, nodding. “Joshua Hong is leaving F1.”

You know he's telling the truth when the sentence makes him smile widely. “He sure is.”

Laughing a little, you shake your head and scoff. “I can't believe I left F1 for you just for you to follow me.”

His smile falters slightly and his brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

Your heart stops. What is in the air in Montreal? Did you catch something from Wonwoo and his big mouth? “I…”

Your face and hesitation must give you away because Joshua's smile completely disappears now, and his brows pull down even further. “Y/N… what do you mean you left F1 for me?”

“Shua…” you stammer his name, unable to figure how to say what you know you need to. The weeks of putting off talking have led to this; you've always needed to tell him this. You just never figured out how to.

“Are you saying… did you…” His grip on you loosens. “Y/N, why did you leave McLaren?” he asks bluntly.

“Please don't be mad.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I left because… I was in love with you,” you finally say it. “I was in love with you and I knew it would ruin our careers and I didn't want to fuck everything up when you were literally at the top of—”

“Are you serious?” he asks, hands completely falling away from you now. It makes you run cold. He pushes his glasses up into his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please tell me you're joking right now. Please tell me it was solely because Jihyo poached you and you didn't throw your life away because of me.”

“I mean… I don't know that I would call it throwing my life away,” you say meekly, huffing a nervous laugh. Joshua drops his hand from his face and levels you with a flat, unamused look. You purse your lips before admitting, “I can't tell you that because it's not true.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs, though it's clear he doesn't find this funny. “Why would you do that?!”

“I told you, I—”

“No, don't say it was for me and my career, please don't say that.”

“But it was! It was for mine too! I—”

“I can't be the reason you left!”

You glare at him now, anger replacing all the complex emotions you had earlier. “I can be a reason you leave F1, but you can't be a reason I do?”

“Exactly, I can't!” He agrees with your point. You narrow your eyes at him. 

“That's so hyp—”

“It's not,” he says sharply, shaking his head like he can't believe you don't see whatever it is he does. “It's not hypocritical when you already spent five years making your entire life about me!”

“What?” you ask, your confusion stalling your irritation. “What are you talking about?”

He stares at you, breathing too quickly for your liking. Even during races, he was the picture of cool, calm, and collected. You don't think you've ever seen him like this. It drains you of your fight. Exhausted, you plop down on the edge of his bed, shoulders sagging a little.

“Look… I'm sorry I left. I am. You know how guilty I feel over it. But… I couldn't be the female engineer who fell in love with her driver.”

Joshua's face softens and he shakes his head. “No, I know. I—I'm not mad you left. I'm… I'm mad that after everything we've been through together, you had to do something as big as change your entire career because of me. For me.”

You wait for him to continue, watching as he obviously tries to gather and make sense of his thoughts. He removes his glasses from the top of his head, using his shirt to clean the lenses before putting them back on.

“You don't think it made me feel guilty?” he asks, shaking his head and leaning against the dresser across from you. “From the moment you woke up to the second you fell asleep—you don't think it made me feel guilty knowing your entire life had to be me?”

“Shua, I—” He doesn't let you tell him that you loved your time at McLaren. That caring for him wasn't just something you were paid to do; it was something you loved to do.

“I was so committed to staying happy for you when you told us you were leaving for the Academy because… because at least that meant you were going to get to be your own person without the baggage of an F1 driver constantly looming over you.” You frown at the wording. You hate it. “Just to find out now that that wasn't even the case, and you left because of me. You left because of the baggage of an F1 driver—just another thing to add to the list of things you've had to do for me.”

“You are not and have never been baggage to me. I love you,” you remind him. “I did those things because I love you.”

“And trust me, I feel like the luckiest man in the world. I'm so grateful you do everything that you do for me…” he insists, “but I don’t want everything that happens between us to be you guiding and you providing and you sacrificing. You having the burden of deciding what's best for both of us. You’ve given me F1, you’ve given me the Academy, you've given me everything you've ever had to offer me.” He pauses to catch a breath before saying, “It's my turn. You have to let it be my turn at some point. You leaving F1 and me leaving F1 aren't the same, not when you've already given up so many things for me.”

“But I didn't give you anything," you correct him. “You worked for and deserve everything you have—more than anyone else! And I didn't even have anything to do with you getting into F1!”

He exhales through his nose. “That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” 

He shakes his head and glares at the ceiling. “I spent five years, Y/N. Five fucking years with your voice as the soundtrack to the best and most thrilling and craziest and proudest and happiest moments of my life. And I thought it was the racing I loved. I thought it was the racing that made life feel so good. I swear to god that’s what I thought it was.”

His eyes come back down to you, almost pleading with you to believe him.

“But then… then, you left, and my headset went quiet and so did everything else and none of it mattered anymore and… it… it wasn’t the racing!” His voice rises again. He runs his hands over his face and shakes his head. “It was never the racing. Because it’s not worth it if I’m not doing it with you.”

As soon as the words really hit you, you stand and close the distance between the two of you. His hand comes up to rest on your waist as you cup his face.

“Shua,” you whisper. 

“And that’s not true just for the sport—life is better when I do it with you,” he tells you, eyes a little glassy as he does. “F1 was only a means to an end. I did that for my mom—to pay her back and to make her proud—but you still had me believing McLaren was my dream come true anyway. The cities I’ve loved I only ever loved because of you.”

You think you understand what he means when he says you gave him F1 now, but you let him continue anyway.

“Now, you have me thinking the Academy is the best thing to ever happen to me—that this is my dream come true now. I'm starting to think I could follow you to the depths of hell and you’d find a way to make that feel like home too.”

You laugh a little at that and he smiles at the sound. He squeezes your waist.

“I don't want to fight with you, baby, I really don't. I just… I love you, Y/N. I love you.” You nod, thumb caressing his jawline as you do. “Since we finished that first track test and every day since, I’ve loved you with everything I have. And watching you have no life outside of work because of me, get scolded for something dumb because of me, be expected to ensure I'm healthy and in tip-top shape at all times… it made me feel more like an inconvenience to you than your best friend.”

“Joshua, I never—”

“I know, but you see what I mean, right?” he asks. “Why it's so… gutting to hear that the one time I thought you were finally doing something for yourself, you were really doing it for me. Again. After all the things you already had to do for me.”

You frown, realizing he sounds a lot like Wonwoo did when he was begging you to reconsider your decisions in your last year in F1. You're always convinced you know what’s best for everyone, he had told you. He pointed out that you thought the best way to help was to bend over backwards. I know the last thing he’d want is for you to give up something you love so much because of him.

You nod. “I do. I see what you mean.”

“I wish… I wish you would've just told me. I wish you would've let me be part of that conversation, and I know you'll think that's rich because you weren't part of the conversation when I decided to leave McLaren, but…” He shrugs. “I want to be someone who can guide you and sacrifice for you and provide for you too. Now that I know you feel the same about me… I want you to know that there’s no world where this sport means even a fraction as much as you do to me. So… no, its not the same, it’s not hypocritical, and it’s my fucking turn.”

You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you lean closer to him, his legs widening to give you the space to.

“I'm sorry,” you apologize. “I'm so sorry I ever made this feel like it was just me calling all the shots and me deciding everything. That wasn't fair, and I know my decisions have caused you a lot of pain. I'm sorry.” He opens his mouth, but you shake your head and keep speaking. “I need you to know I never—not once—thought of this as an uneven relationship. I never thought loving you was a burden, and I never thought I helped you more than you did me. If anything, I was even more determined to do right by you because of the way you made me feel.

“This probably doesn't surprise you, but I've been a bad ass my entire life,” you say, coaxing a laugh out of him. You grin. “I've always been confident in my abilities, and I've always known I could do whatever I wanted. But you… the faith you put in me and the ferocity you believe in me with… you make me feel unstoppable. You make me feel loved. You say it's your turn, but you've done so much for me already.”

He snorts sarcastically. “Like what?”

“Like advocating for me at every turn during those five years together,” you say without missing a beat. If this is the game he wants to play, you have a list longer than all the tracks in F1 combined. “Giving me a best friend I never even had prior to you. Showing me what caring about something really means—beyond the accolades.”

His frown melts away, so you continue.

“Always having my back even if you knew I was wrong. Being the only person who ever took the time to get to really know me. Taking care of me every time I got sick. Getting fined several times for it because you kept skipping your training sessions.  Sharing your mom with me.” He clears his throat and looks down as his eyes get shinier. “How about swallowing all your sadness to try and be happy about me leaving for F1 Academy? How's about dropping everything and coming to London with me just because I asked even though we hadn't talked in two years?”

“Okay, I get it,” he says, voice dangerously watery. You smile, pressing the back of your pointer finger to his waterline to collect the tears there before they fall. 

“Joshua, my time in Formula has only been as exciting and fruitful and unforgettable as it has been because of you. Even now. I love the Academy so much, but having you here this season has been… it’s been a dream come true,” you tell him, borrowing his own words. “It's not anyone's turn. This is what we do, isn't it? This is how we love each other? Both of us strategizing what's best for the other one… neither of us knowing how to exist if it doesn't include the other one's dreams coming true?”

He smiles as he sniffles. “Is that what that was? Your reluctance to let me retire—was that just you thinking you were helping me hold onto a dream come true?”

You shrug a shoulder. “It's F1. And you’re… you.” 

He shrugs right back. “I'm not going back to racing every track in the world just to spend the entire time thinking about how bleak it is doing any of it without you. I can’t.”

“And I won't ever make you again. Not without talking to you first.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

You lean forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you. For everything. You have no idea how much I cherish you.”

He chases your lips to give you another kiss before he leans back and takes you in. He blows a breath out before asking, “Okay… so what now…? I've never had such a mature argument with someone. Are we just… done talking now…? Should we watch a movie…?”

You laugh loudly, rolling your eyes at him as he grins at you. “How about…” you press yourself close to him between his legs, your mouth grazing his ear as you say, “we celebrate your retirement?”

He squirms a little but doesn't move away. “Celebrate my retirement? You mean the thing you were just protesting 30 minutes ago?”

“If you're happy, I'm happy,” you tell him honestly. “So let's celebrate.”

“And how should we do that?” he asks, swallowing loudly. 

You don't bother answering, instead letting your hands fall to his thighs. Before you can even begin to let them start traveling up toward his crotch, he wraps both arms around your waist, straightens up against the dresser, and kisses you deeply. Momentarily forgetting what you wanted to do, you bring your arms up to wrap around his neck, smirking into his mouth a little when he brings a large hand to your ass and squeezes so that your hips press harder against his. 

“I love you,” he breaks away and says, his voice still emotional. “This is all I want. You're all I want.”

“I love you, too,” you breathe, pulling away and looking up at him. You grind against him subtly, smiling when you feel him hardening against you. “Will you let me show you?”

He smirks. “Nice try.” Your face falls. “We can forget about taking turns tomorrow, but tonight, it's still my turn to provide.” He squeezes your ass again mercilessly hard. 

You squeal when he uses a little nail, making him laugh. He gently rubs the spot to soothe it afterward, but you know either way, it'll bruise. Without saying anything, Joshua pushes himself off the dresser and turns the two of you around, easily lifting you up and seating you on the wooden  surface. He smiles at you softly, but his eyes are dark and hungry and you feel like you're about to get eaten alive.

He removes his glasses, folding them and putting them on the dresser beside you before his fingers find the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms as he removes it, breathing loudly and slowly through his nose when he realizes you don't have a bra on. Instead of touching you like you were hoping he would, he hooks his thumbs into the thin fabric of your sweats, pulling them off you along with your panties in one go when you lift your hips to help him.

You try not to think too much about how naked you are and not-naked Joshua is, and thankfully, he helps you with that. He starts by slotting his lips to yours, his hands holding your face in place as he does all the work of sucking, licking, and kissing. It's slow and languid and messy, and you feel the wetness gathering between your legs more with every second you stay empty. 

When he pulls away, a thin string of saliva connects your lips, and he follows it back to you, pressing a kiss to your mouth once more. You inhale sharply when you feel two of his fingers—startlingly cold—press between your legs, right on your clit like he's already memorized exactly where yours is. 

“Wait,” you whisper, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your mouth. You smile sheepishly. “Your hands are cold.” 

He watches intently and unblinkingly as you open your mouth and take his fingers into it, pressing your tongue flat against the pads of his fingers and sucking. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

You swirl your tongue around the prints of his fingers until they no longer feel cold against your muscle, and you release them from your mouth with a pop. Then, for extra measure, you exhale hot air onto them before slowly bringing his hand back to your cunt, refusing to break eye contact with him as you do. He looks so sexy like this, so smug and pleased to see you doing exactly what you want with him before he completely undoes you. It's hypnotizing. 

As soon as his fingers are on your clit again, they start to move in slow circles, and try as you might to maintain eye contact, the sensation steals your breath away and has you tilting your head back and thrusting your hips toward Joshua in desperation. He doesn't quicken his pace, though, taking his time tonight to draw out your ecstasy. Slow, firm circles.

“Shua…” you moan, eyelids fluttering as you stare at the ceiling.

“Hmm?” His hum is low. He brings his free hand up to your waist, grazing it up your ribs, and finally cupping your breast, his thumb running back and forth across your nipple gently. “What is it, my love?”

He leans forward and kisses the space where your shoulder meets your neck. You groan as he sucks lightly, not enough to leave a mark but just enough to make your pussy twitch. Between all three places where Joshua's body comes into contact with yours, you're hurtling toward your first orgasm at an embarrassing speed. 

“Use your words,” he says, his voice deep and breathy—the only sign that he's as affected by you as you are by him.

“Feels so good” is all you manage to say as you roll your hips into his fingers. His hand comes up from your breast to your shoulder, and he gently pushes you back, forcing you to lean away and plant your hands behind you on the dresser. With the space, Joshua bends down and attaches his mouth to your nipple, his fingers never losing their pace or pressure.

“Oh god,” you whine, trying your best to keep your legs open for him as your cunt starts to spasm.

His tongue circles your nipple just as slowly as his fingers work, wet and warm as he takes his time making you lose your mind. Your hips start to roll on their own, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you let your head fall back. His hand comes down to your hips, and you brace yourself for him to still them—to keep you from getting to your orgasm too early—but he doesn't. Instead, as he releases your nipple and starts marking the flesh of your breast (a habit he's formed every time you've slept together), he simply massages your hip comfortingly, and his fingers start to pick up pace.

“Mmm, Shua, gonna come,” you moan, your hips twitching under his hold.

He moves from your tits to your collarbone, kissing his way up your neck and your jawline. His hand leaves your hip to grasp your jaw and pull your gaze back down to him. His smile is long gone, and he already looks dazed and fucked out without having been touched at all yet; the sight has you groaning again. He surges forward and connects your lips, enveloping them with so much vigor, it's the last push you need to send you careening toward your orgasm.

You gasp against his mouth, one hand coming up from the dresser to grasp Joshua's shoulder desperately. 

“So beautiful,” he mutters against your lips before he pulls away. 

Before you can even begin to complain about it, his fingers are both slipping inside you, his thumb replacing them on your clit. Your grip on him tightens as you try not to shout, his fingers pumping in and out of you, fucking you through your orgasm. And because that doesn't seem to be enough for him, he lets go of your jaw and pulls you to the edge of the dresser, making you lean even further back until you're slumped against the wall. He falls to his knees.

“Joshua, fuck!” you gasp when he lifts his thumb and flattens his tongue against your clit.

He glares up at you from where he kneels, but you don't have the wherewithal to correct your usage of his name. He stiffens his tongue and swirls it around your clit, downright refusing to let your orgasm fade as you helplessly writhe under his hold. He eats you out like he hasn't been fed for days—feral, messy, desperate—and you actually start to wonder if you're going to survive, your body trembling as your first orgasm goes right into a second.

It feels like the best and worst thing that's ever happened to you. You feel euphoric and drunk, but you also feel like if it goes on for any longer, you'll just disintegrate under his fingertips.

“Please,” you breathe, chest heaving as your hands start to frantically grasp at nothing against the dresser and the wall. Hot tears begin to stream down your face, and you're losing control of your legs, Joshua taking it upon himself to pin one down with his free hand. “Please, please, I—oh my god, I can't, please—”

He hums against your clit, the vibrations drawing obscene sounds from you. Then, finally taking mercy on you, he removes his mouth from your pussy, makes two beckoning motions with his fingers before sliding out and leaving you empty, and lets you catch your breath. He cleans his fingers in his mouth, smiling against them at the taste before standing and leaning over you. He circles both his arms around your middle and grins proudly before kissing you softly and sweetly like he didn't almost just kill you right now. You lazily wrap your legs around him, and the moment you do, he lifts you up and off the dresser, and takes you to the bed.

He drops you on the mattress, making you bounce a little, and he stays standing over you, looking down at his work. His cheeks are a deep, pretty pink, his mouth is a little swollen, and his dick strains hard against the confines of his sweats. It makes you whimper a little.

“Aw, don't cry, baby.” His sweetness wars with the mean smirk his mouth twists into. “Don't worry, I'll give you a break.”

He plants a knee between your legs and leans over you, propping himself up with a hand by your head. He watches you carefully while he takes his time pushing your hair away from your damp forehead, caressing your cheeks, tracing the mark he left on your breast. 

“My pretty girl.” You smile faintly and breathe deeply, feeling a little more in control of yourself again. “Feel good?”

You nod, not quite able to find the energy to speak just yet. Instead, you lift a hand to rest against Joshua's chest, rubbing a silent thank you over where his heart beats erratically. After a moment, you let your hand fall to the hem of his shirt, and you pull it up his torso, revealing the cut body F1 has demanded of him. He smiles but doesn't lift his arms to let you remove his shirt completely.

So you take your time letting your hands explore his bare chest, running over and pinching his nipples, squeezing his waist, tracing his abs with a single finger—until you've reached the waistband of his black boxer briefs, just barely peeking over his sweats. You hook one pointer finger into the band, and you cup his erection with your other hand. His smile widens at the sensation, rocking gently into your hand. 

“So big,” you sigh softly. 

“I'm all yours if you can take some more,” he says, hips rolling gently against your hand. You nod quickly, hating the idea of the night ending there. You don't think you've ever needed Joshua's cum inside you more than you have tonight. 

“I can,” you insist, taking your hands back and propping yourself up on your elbows. Joshua takes the opportunity to kiss you, his tongue wasting no time finding yours. 

You don't know how long you two stay like that, just making out and lazily running your hands all over each other, but by the time you break away, you're craving a lot more than his mouth again.

“Take it off,” you whine, yanking at his shirt again. He lets you remove it this time, smirking when he sees your eyes roaming his body. You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and pull, but the angle doesn't let you get far at all. “Those too!”

“Bossy,” he mutters as he pulls his sweats off, kicking them off his legs, but makes no move to do the same with his underwear. You groan but he doesn't do anything to appease you.

Joshua finally joins you in bed, letting the leg holding him up on the ground come to rest by your hip before he wraps an arm around your waist and moves you up the bed until your head is on his pillows. Before he can situate himself above you, though, you lock him between your thighs and roll you both over until he’s on his back and you're seated on his lap, right on top of his completely hard cock. You both moan at the contact, his hands coming to your hips and gripping them bruisingly tight.

“So wet,” he mutters, eyes locked on your pussy as you try (and fail) not to roll against him. You look down and realize the spot on his boxers where you two meet is already growing wet and shiny from where you've ground your cum and arousal onto him. 

He doesn't give you a chance to feel self-conscious over it, though, because he takes one hand and slips two fingers between you, gingerly running them up and down your slit before slipping them inside you. He looks pleased when you push down harder on his hand, taking more of him in until there's nothing else to take. He takes his other hand and places it behind his head like he’s making himself comfortable for the show, and the way his muscles flex make you squeeze around his fingers.

“Shit,” he whispers when he feels you close in around him. 

“Not enough,” you grumble, lifting your hips and doing nothing short of slapping his fingers away from you. He snorts with amusement but is cut off with a grunt of surprise when you violently tug at his boxers, enough that it drags his whole body down a bit.

“Okay, okay!” he laughs, hands closing over yours. “You're gonna rip them! These are Givenchy!” As if you don't know what the tiny logo in the middle of the band is.

“Good!” you huff, pulling even more.

He laughs harder as he tries to take your hands off of him to no success. He settles for simply planting his feet into the bed and bridging his hips up to make it easier for you, and you finally, finally peel off his underwear.

You throw what you're sure are the most ridiculously priced boxers somewhere behind you as you grin and take your place back in his lap.

“You're crazy,” he laughs again. “Those boxers cost—”

He never finishes his sentence because at that moment, you hold his bare cock up at its base and you press it flat against you, rolling your hips into him shamelessly, your wetness spreading more and more across the underside of his shaft with each movement.

“I think it’s my turn,” you tell him, smirking when he actually whimpers under you. 

Feeling re-energized and a bit slighted from your earlier never-ending orgasm, you don't bother easing his cock into you. In one motion, you split yourself open on him, fighting to keep from immediately crying again when he's fully sheathed inside you. The labored breathing and soft moans from Joshua under you are a helpful distraction from the delicious burn, though.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, eyes wide as his hands find their way back to your hips.

You lean forward, lips grazing his throat after a particularly loud moan, and you hum before asking, “What is it, my love?” You try not to sound too mean when it’s your turn to say, “Use your words.”

“Fucking hell,” he swears, his hold on your hips impossibly tight. You can tell he’s fighting not to move under you—fighting to keep from driving his hips up and fucking into you uncontrollably like he has before. It should endear you since you know it's probably to help you get used to the feeling of him stretching you wide open, but it just makes you want to push him more.

“Do you like having me like this?” you ask, rocking your hips the tiniest bit. The small movement sends his hands straight to your ass. He squeezes desperately. “Hm? Do you like being able to fuck me raw like this?”

“Oh my god,” Joshua pants, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Do you like knowing you're the only one who gets me like this?” you ask, pressing a kiss to the middle of his throat. You feel his Adam's apple bob under your lips as he swallows. 

“I fucking love it,” he pants, voice raspy. You feel him twitch inside you and you know your resolve is thinning just as fast as his is. “Fuck, I love it so much. I love you so much.”

You look up from where you're hovering over his throat to find him looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. His chest heaves as he brings one hand to your face, brushing your hair back behind your ear so he can see your face clearly.

“This was always how it was going to be,” he whispers, cupping your face with his hand. “It was always going to be you.”

You don't know if he means you over F1 or you with him like this or just you in general, but whichever one it is, the words make your heart swell three times its size inside your chest. Without lifting your chest up from his and without saying anything else, you lift your hips all the way to his tip, relishing in the sensation of his cock dragging against your walls, before you slam back down. You give him no time to recover as you pick up an unforgiving pace almost immediately.

“Shua,” you gasp when both of his hands grip your ass, following your movements as you fuck yourself on his dick. “I love you.” Your whispers are staggered and hardly discernible but you know he hears you because he starts to thrust his hips up to meet yours.

It doesn't take long before his movements become frenzied, and he pushes himself up on one hand so that he’s sitting, the other arm wrapping around your waist to support you. Then, he starts thrusting into you so hard and so fast, it immediately fucks every thought out of your head, and you're rendered useless, your body limp and boneless as Joshua holds you up and fucks you like his life depends on it. Your head lolls forward until your forehead is resting against his.

You lock eyes with him and neither of you can seemingly look away as you both inch your way closer to a climax. You don't think anyone has ever looked at you the way Joshua has—not in this moment and not even when you were still at McLaren, trying your hardest to be nothing more than best friends. It's hard to even explain, but you think it’s the closest way he can tell you he loves you without saying it outright. You hope he feels the same when you look at him.

“‘m close,” he pants, immediately turning you over and pinning you under him once more. 

Joshua keeps his arm wrapped around your middle, bringing you as close to him as he can. He continues pounding into you, his dick kissing your cervix and balls slapping against your ass with each deep thrust. Both sensations have you curling your toes and digging the heels of your feet and your fingernails into his back.

“I could stay in you forever,” he tells you. “I could do this for fucking ever. God, I never want to stop.”

“Come in me,” you beg, tears escaping the corners of your eyes again. “Fill me up, Shua. Please, come in me.”

His hips snap forward harder and rougher as he starts to struggle to keep his head up, his forehead finally coming to rest against your shoulder just as you start to come.

“Shit!” you breathe, every place you're holding Joshua tightening around him without your permission, including your cunt. 

“God,” Joshua grunts against the sensation of you clamping down on his cock. “Oh fuck, so close.”

You barely hear the words over the rush of blood in your ears as he chases your orgasm mercilessly. Your pussy flutters around him uncontrollably, spasming up and down his shaft as the feeling of helplessness and overstimulating pleasure return from earlier.

“Joshua!” you shriek, hand flying up to the headboard above you and pushing against it to ground you as his movements begin to violently thrash you further up on the bed.

You feel the delicious, burning heat of him inside you before he tells you it’s happening.

“Coming,” he gasps, “I'm coming, I'm—fuck!” He thrusts several more times before he starts to slow the roll of his hips.

You feel him dripping out of you, and you smile at the feeling, knowing he filled you up just like you begged him to. You hold him close to you and breathe deeply as he finally stops and collapses on top of you, the aftershocks of pleasure slowly spreading from your core to every other part and corner of your body like a slow-moving magma.

You both lay there like that for several minutes, waiting for your hearts to stop beating so fast, and when your breaths return to normal, Joshua carefully slides out of you, presses several kisses to various parts of your face and body, and helps you up and into his restroom where he insists on running you a bubble bath despite it being the middle of the night. You have zero desire to object.

He sits you in between his legs, carefully and gently washing your hair and skin as you two talk and, at some point, start laughing over his boxers—him teasing you for being so desperate and you teasing him for spending almost $400 on underwear (“It was a brand gift! I'm literally a Givenchy ambassador!” “I don't care, it's ridiculous!”). 

The conversation fades, and you wonder how long he's been holding back since you got into the tub when his hand comes down your body to rest between your legs once more. Neither of you say anything as he starts to gently rub your clit, the other hand massaging your tit from behind. He peppers kisses on your skin as you tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder, your eyes zoning out on the ceiling as he pulls one, last orgasm out of you for the night. He whispers all sorts of things about how much he loves you before he moves to get you out of the tub, dry you off, and prepare you for bed. You don't remember much from there, aside from being tucked into his bed, his chest against your back as you both fall asleep. 

When you wake up, it's to Joshua's hand around your breast and his cock poking at you between your cheeks. You groan, sleepily grinding against him without opening your eyes. 

“Morning,” he rasps, laying a kiss on your shoulder.

“What time is it?” you ask, voice muffled by your pillow. 

“Early. Plane doesn't take off for another few hours.”

You do nothing aside from grunt and push your ass back onto him in wordless consent. His hand starts at your shoulder, caressing down your curves with the back of his fingers until he reaches your thigh. He turns his hand over palm down against you, slipping it over your thigh and lifting until his knee slots between your legs, propping your top thigh up on his. 

“Okay?” he asks, his own voice so thick with sleep, you're a little surprised he has the energy for this. 

You yawn and nod. 

“Wanna hear it,” he says closer to your ear this time, his lips grazing you. 

“Keep going,” you say, still managing to sound whiny even half-asleep.

He hums in approval as he starts to press down on your clit in an effort to get you wet enough for his size. Without opening your eyes, you bring your hand to your mouth and spit as much as you can, then you bring your hand down and reach for his length between your legs, pumping the wetness onto him a few times. You feel him bury his face in your hair, his nose pressing against the nape of your neck as he curses under his breath.

“Can I go back to sleep?” you ask sleepily.

“Of course, baby,” he says, kissing your shoulder again before removing his hand from you and bringing his head back to his own pillow. You frown and open one eye. When he doesn't touch you again, you open both eyes and turn halfway toward him. You still can't see him but you're too sleepy to turn any more than you already have. 

“No, keep going.”

“Hm? I thought you wanted to—”

“Yeah, while you fuck me,” you explain. “I think it’ll be nice.” You turn back to your side and close your eyes. “Come on.”

He laughs through his nose but obliges, his hand coming back to your clit. 

“Put it in.” 

“Babe, I—”

“Just do it, Hong.” It's not much more than  whisper and it carries only a tiny fraction of the authority you know you're capable of, but it’s as much as you can manage when you're basically asleep and still trying to boss him around.

You don't remember if he said anything else, but the next time you feel something pulling you out of your sleep, it's because Joshua's cock is sliding in between your folds and into you from behind, his hand holding your thigh against his own to keep you open for him. You're not sure if it’s been seconds or minutes since you asked him to fuck you, but you sigh happily. 

He takes his time fucking you, like he always does when it's morning sex. It's lazy and slow and sometimes both of you end up falling asleep before anyone can even have an orgasm, but it's some of your favorite sex with Joshua. It's close and intimate, and there’s something about needing each other being the first thought either of you have in the morning that makes you feel extra loved.

At some point, Joshua must wake up a little more because he hooks your leg on the inside of his elbow and brings it up higher to thrust deeper. He also massages your tit with more fervor and hooks his chin onto your shoulder, kissing, sucking, and nipping at your skin desperately. The jostling wakes you up too, and when you open your eyes, you realize you're both facing the full-length mirror hanging on the wall, and Joshua's gaze is zeroed in on you already.

He had thrown the covers off you while you were asleep, and you find that he has the perfect view of his dick disappearing into you. You inhale sharply, your breath coming back out as a moan.

“Good morning,” he says again, this time his voice completely coherent, though equally breathy as before. “Still okay?”

You nod quickly, a hand coming back to thread your fingers into his hair. “Oh, Shua,” you breathe, scratching his scalp. He hums against you, eyes fluttering at the feeling. “I love you so goddamn much.”

He smiles into your skin. “I love you, baby.” His hips still as he reaches up and over to kiss you on the lips. He mutters, “But now that you're awake, I'm going to come in you, okay?”

You bite your lip as you nod, and it’s clear that however long he was fucking you for, Joshua was holding back in an attempt to let you sleep. Now that you're awake, the man drives into you brutally, all the while watching you come apart for him in the mirror. The last thing you see before you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut is the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

As you tilt your head back into him, the hand under you goes from your breast to your throat, his fingers splaying across them, and from the way his hips become frantic, you know he likes how that looks in the mirror. You're not sure what it is, but just the mere thought of that brings you straight into the throes of your orgasm.

“That's it,” he breathes, fingers pressing against your throat a little more firmly. “Oh yeah, that's it. Come on my fucking cock, baby. Fuck.”

“Shua…” you whine.

Just like the night before, you feel his climax before he warns you, your cunt filling with hot, sticky streams of Joshua's cum. He holds you against his own body tightly, biting down on your shoulder as he finishes, rolling his hips slower and slower until the waves of bliss slow to a gentle tide.

“Mmm, Sh—mmugh,” you groan nonsense, officially fucked stupid from the last several hours.

“I know,” he agrees, laughing a little as he pecks your cheek. “But unfortunately, we have to start getting ready for the airport, my love.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You open your eyes and glare at him in the mirror, ready to start an argument, but he’s not looking at the mirror; his eyes are on you—the you in bed with him. And he’s looking at you like he’s wondering how he got so lucky, his lips curled into the softest, gentlest, and sweetest smile. It wipes away the exhaustion you feel, and you turn away from the mirror to meet his eyes.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go.” 

He nods once and begins to pull away, but you hold him where he is.

“But not before you remind me how much you love me.”

He grins at that. “Easy. I love you so much, I'm starting to think it’s the thing I'm best at.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even better than dr—”

“Yup,” he says resolutely. He spanks your butt lightly and jerks his head. “Now come on. Time to get up.”

You smile. “I love you too, by the way.”

“Good. Admitting that I quit F1 because I'd rather be near you would be awkward if you didn’t.”

You laugh as he detaches himself from you and drags you out of bed with him. 

JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2019 "Y/N, can you come to the garage?" "Hey, you're on the radio early… shouldn't you still be relaxing? The race doesn’t start f—" “Somebody touched my helmet."

Joshua watches from across the pit lane as you violently tear off your headset upon hearing that, not bothering to respond to him at all. You practically throw yourself out of your seat, and he bites his laughter down as he returns Wonwoo's headset to him.

“You're ragebaiting her,” the head engineer says, shaking his head.

“A necessary evil,” Joshua claims, grinning. 

The other engineers seated next to you smirk in amusement as you stomp away, screeching, “It's been five fucking years, people! Why are we still breathing anywhere near Joshua Hong's fucking helmet?!” so loudly, even Joshua can hear you from across the lane. 

A mechanic from another team squeaks as he dives out of the way to avoid your rampage. Instead of heading straight to the garage like Joshua requested of you, you do exactly what he predicted you would. You turn to go toward the driver's suite, where the extra helmet you keep in case this ever happens again is locked away safely in Joshua's locker. Though after the absolute crashout you had last time it did happen two years ago, he knew no one would ever actually go near his helmet again.

As soon as you're out of sight, every McLaren engineer previously seated with you on the wall comes running across the pit lane and into the garage.

“Okay, everyone!” Joshua shouts, ushering them all to join the pit crew and hide in the corner furthest from the garage door. “Places, places!” He turns to the performance engineer that works on his team with you. “Gap to surprise?”

He looks down at his tablet, where a live feed of you stealthily being followed by a McLaren intern and a GoPro shows you exiting the driver's suite with Joshua's helmet. 

“Gap to S1, 7.9 seconds,” he answers.

“Copy. Jesus, she’s fast when she's mad. Alright, remember: stay hidden and I'll bring her around,” Joshua says to everybody as both Wonwoo and the engineer join the rest of Team McLaren. “As soon as you see her, you jump out and yell—”

“Shua!” you practically bellow before you even enter the garage.

Joshua scrambles away from the team, quickly hurrying to meet you out in the pit lane. He turns out so fast, you jerk back in surprise. 

“Hey! So fast!” he breathes, smiling. He curses his horrible acting abilities when you immediately narrow your eyes at him.

“Who the fuck touched your helmet?” you ask. He realizes now that your eyes are narrowed in rage more than they are in suspicion. 

“No one, actually,” he laughs, smiling sheepishly. 

“Huh?” your anger dissipates quickly and it amuses him even more. “But I got your helmet…”

“Right, thanks!” he points at it, tucked under your arm and against your waist. “But that actually isn't my helmet.”

“What?” you ask, irritation immediately coloring your voice. He knows it’s because anybody that pretends to know more about him than you—even if it's Joshua himself—annoys you. “What are you talking about? Of course it's your helmet. I literally put it in there before FP1 on Friday. This is your hel—”

“No,” he says again. He switched out the spare helmet once you left after Qualifying yesterday. “It's yours.”

You frown. “Huh…?

“It's your helmet,” he repeats. He nods at it. “Take a look.”

His spare helmet is an exact replica of his main racing helmet. Both are a pretty gradient that goes from pink to blue top down, with black doodles all over it—street art of everything that makes Joshua Joshua. The state of California, the Korean flag, palm trees, a guitar, the One Piece logo, a taco wearing a crown, a cross, the year his mom was born, the outline of a car that's just vague enough to be McLaren-approved but only you two know is supposed to be an Integra (which is what he raced as a teenager). Each repeats endlessly to cover the entire helmet. 

This helmet—the one you're holding—was created by the same artist Joshua commissioned for his. It's the same gradient and the same style of street art, but instead, it's not only everything that makes you you, it's covered in memories you've both shared over the last five years. Memories of every moment you've both laughed, cried, and raced through. Memories of every moment Joshua fell deeper and deeper and hopelessly in love with you. So many that none of them need to repeat at all to cover the helmet.

He knows you realize it the moment you look down and scrutinize the helmet for more than a second.

“Shua… is this…”

“The flag of your home country,” he starts reciting as he watches where your finger traces. “The first car we raced together. Your headset. The hanbok Mom made you wear when we went home to LA for Chuseok.” 

You smile softly at the memory, and he feels his heart crack a little more knowing he’s losing someone who loves his mother just as much as he does.

“A finger heart for your secret K-po—”

“Shut up,” you mutter as you quickly move on. He laughs.

“Your childhood pet. Chocolate from Belgium. An arcade coin from the first time we went to Miami.” He clears his throat as you get to the night he realized he was in love with you. “‘Hola!’ for—”

“The night you pretended to be fluent in Spanish,” you finish, laughing. The sound is watery and you sniffle. Joshua has the decency to draw little attention to it, simply pressing the back of his hand to your eyes as he continues.

“A cumulonimbus cloud.” 

You snort at the fact that he actually learned what it's called instead of guessing, like you've both grown accustomed to. He names every single thing until you find the lettering scribbled in his own handwriting just above the visor of the helmet. 

“‘Copy, L/N'?” you tilt your head as you read it.

Joshua smiles. Without a word, he walks over to his car parked right outside the garage. He fishes his own helmet out of it and looks down at the addition he requested when he commissioned yours. If he stares at it too long, he knows he'll fall to his knees and beg you to stay with him, so he quickly looks away. He turns the helmet over and shows you.

Keep it cute, Hong.

“Joshua…” 

He doesn't have time to correct you because you throw yourself into his arms, the two helmets making it awkward and clunky. Neither of you care. He holds you close to him, resting his lips on the crown of your head briefly before turning to press his cheek to it. He purses his lips tightly to will his tears to stay where they are as you hug him tighter than you ever have.

Joshua loves you. He loves you more than he's loved anything or anyone else. He loves you more than he loves F1, and he thinks there's a possibility he might even love you more than he loves himself. And that's why he'll continue to be supportive and he'll continue to cheer you on ferociously. Because as heartbroken as he was when you first told him you'd be leaving, and as much as the crack in his heart continues to lengthen and deepen every day you two get closer to the last grand prix, he craves your happiness more than he could ever crave your presence there with him.

His heart begs him to be selfish with you every day. It begs him to tell you he's in love with you, and although he only realized during the 2018 Spanish Grand Prix, he knows with every fiber of his being that he fell in love with you the moment he saw you standing in the lobby of MTC. It begs him to tell you that he'll always be in love with you.

But you're off to bigger and better things. Things that don't involve being expected by a bunch of misogynists to wait on him hand and foot. Things that don't involve having your talent and achievements attributed to him. Things that just won't involve him, period.

And if that's what's good for you… if that's what's best for you, he has no business saying any of these things to you. He reminds himself of that as he holds onto you now. 

“You're my best friend,” you say.

“And you're mine. You always will be.”

You both stand there for a few more moments before you pull away and say thank you. He smiles and wipes your tears away, thankful his are gone now.

“Come on, one more thing to show you.”

“What, did you buy me a matching F1 car too?” you ask, laughing.

“Damn, I should've thought of that,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval at himself. “But no. Something else.”

He leads you into the garage, and when the team sees you, they all scream, startling you backward and into Joshua's chest. Flustered, you apologize and step away. He wishes he could tell you to just stay there. Let him hold you like that. 

Joshua frowns at the team as they all scream wildly different things, creating a confusing chorus of “Congratulations!” “Surprise!” “Farewell!” and one, insanely loud “PLEASE DON'T LEAVE” from the team principal, who came around to becoming your biggest fan after you and Joshua won the title in 2019. 

“Guys, what the hell,” Joshua mutters.

“You didn't tell them what to say and you know this team needs very specific instructions,” Wonwoo says before he hugs you and congratulates you. 

You go off to hug everyone and thank them for the surprise party, and Wonwoo takes your spot next to Joshua.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” he asks. Joshua sighs. Your boss has known since the very first year, becoming his confidant in all heartsick manners. 

“I can't.”

“You can.”

Joshua looks at him wordlessly. They've discussed this enough times; the engineer knows well how much Joshua wants—how much he needs to see you do something for yourself.

He sighs and nods. “Well, you did a really good job with this. I gotta give it to you, Hong.”

“What?” he asks, eyes returning to you.

“I didn't think you could do anything better than F1, but I think you love her a little better than you handle a car.”

“I could've told you that,” he says bitterly.

Wonwoo claps him on the shoulder before heading to the catered lunch and desserts Joshua had arranged for this. 

“This is what's best for her,” he mutters to himself. You turn from the mechanic you're talking to and your eyes scan the garage, lighting up when you find Joshua. You beckon him over. “This is what's best for her.”

He takes a deep breath and heads to you.

“Babe, I'm home!” Joshua shouts before he stops and realizes your apartment, though he moved out of the hotel and has been living with you for months, is technically not his home, as you two never truly discussed it. He shrugs the thought away, knowing that even if you decide it’s too cramped in here for an ex-F1 driver, he'll still make a home out of wherever you are no matter where he lives.

There's no response as he drops his backpack on the floor next to the door and kicks his shoes off. He could've stayed the night in Woking after spending the morning taking care of his exit papers at MTC, especially since Wonwoo and the others asked him to dinner, but the thought of just coming back to the apartment and being with you seemed so much nicer than sleeping in a hotel room alone ever again. So instead, he took the first train back into London and miraculously made it back while the sun was still out. 

The entire train ride home, he thought he'd be sadder. He thought that maybe he'd be assaulted by memories of karting and racing in the development program and making his way up into Formula One. He thought he might even cry, but after signing all the papers, having a media briefing with the PR team, and recording several different video messages for social media, he finds that although he knows he'll miss that part of his life sorely, more than anything, he's just relieved.

He's relieved you're back in his life, he's relieved he's inspired by his work at the Academy, he's relieved he doesn't need to worry about potentially ruining another engineer's career because of his apathy to the sport. He's relieved that after everything, it turns out you love him just as much for just as long as he's loved you.

“Hello?” he calls, checking the bedroom, the spare, and the restrooms before pulling his phone out. You don't answer the call, so he texts, catching just as he presses send that he accidentally called your apartment home again.

The Academy is empty. The first place Joshua checked was the auditorium, where most staff meetings took place. Then, he checked the conference rooms, the classrooms, the simulation room, even the cafeteria. The Academy has literally never been this empty since he started.

“Hello?” you answer your phone on the first ring.

“Hey, I'm here… where are you…?” Joshua asks, looking around outside Jihyo’ office like someone will magically appear.

“I'm at the Academy,” you say simply, though there's an undercurrent of mischief in your voice that makes Joshua pause and narrow his eyes at nothing in particular.

“Okay… where?” 

You suppress a giggle. “Have you checked everywhere?”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yes!” he says, feeling a little crazy.

“Really? Even the one place you've trained yourself not to check?”

It feels like a light bulb going off above his head. He glares. “I'll be there in a minute and you should expect to be punished, having me run around a school like this.”

You laugh before saying, “Okay, well you are at school so let's keep this PG.”

“Vom.” He hears Jihyo in the background. You must shove her because a string of curses leaves her mouth next.

“Not what I meant but I can arrange for that tonight,” he says, smirking now as he heads to your garage.

“See you!” you say giddily before hanging up.

Joshua thinks he understands what’s happening when he gets to your garage and finds the door rolled up, a trail of confetti leading to the track, where an Academy F4 car sits, backlit by the nearly setting sun.

“What the hell…”

He walks out to the track, looking around and finding more nothing and more no one. When he gets to the car, he realizes it's not-at-all a normal Academy car. He squats down to admire it closely, absolutely awestruck.

It's the exact same pink-blue gradient of his F1 helmet, with his name and racing number plastered on the side in the same style of graffiti he knows the LA artist he commissioned for his gear does. It's also covered in signatures and messages by the girls that read things like “Best driving instructor ever!” “JHONG IS FOR THE GIRLS” “F1 Father Hong” “Can you get me a ginger chew sponsorship?” “Thank you for my imminent illustrious F1 career” “Joshua GIRLYPOP Hong” “We love you!” “I won't forget you when I'm in F1 and more famous than you” “95 FOREVER,” and a ton of others. It's easy to tell which ones are Eunchae's. Most of hers include something about how beautiful and smart you are and how lucky he is to know you. He laughs to himself at all of it, touched beyond belief.

This brings him to tears faster than anything at MTC did.

“The girls designed the livery themselves.”

He turns from where he's crouched and finds you at the mouth of your own garage, smiling at him widely with your hands behind your back.

“What is this?” he asks, hearing the emotion in his own voice. 

“A congratulatory present,” you say, walking over to him. He stands just as you reach him, stopping short a few steps. “You're reaching a new milestone, Hong. You need to be celebrated.”

He watches you as you obviously suppress a wide and knowing smile.

“Have anything to tell me? Maybe something about what exactly we'd be celebrating right now?”

Joshua sighs, blushing at having been caught trying to arrange something before finding the right time to tell you twice now.

“I'm staying at the Academy,” he says. “Jihyo offered me a full-time job, and I'm starting as the permanent Head Driving Instructor next season… but it seems like you already knew that.”

Your smile becomes unrestrained now, and it makes his chest feel so warm seeing how happy hearing that information come from him makes you even though you already knew.

“Now that you've been promoted,” you say, nonchalantly making his heart stop, “Jihyo is now my one and only best friend. Did you think she wouldn't tell me?”

“And what exactly have I been promoted to?” he asks as he feels his mouth unconsciously curling into a smirk. 

“That wasn’t the point.” You blush a bit.

“Right.”

“I have something else for you.”

He frowns. “What's better than a car?”

You bite your lip as you carefully move your hands from behind your back and present him with his F1 helmet.

“A matching helmet,” you answer.

It's not his F1 helmet. It's the same in every aspect, except this time, instead of repeating the original icons, it has new additions. The sesame balls from Shanghai, a LEGO piece, the smash burgers from his first day of work, each girls’ racing number, pancakes, the McLaren logo, an email addressed to “CEO,” his Integra (except now it's an actual Integra), and a ginger chew.

"I thought it would be cute to display both of ours side-by-side at home or something," you tell him, very obviously smitten with his choice of words regarding your apartment.

“Babe…” He shakes his head. He actually has no words. You sigh like you've been thinking about what you're going to say to him for a long time now.

“I love you, Joshua,” you say, the happiest he's ever seen you. “I'm sorry it took me so long to say it, and I'm sorry it took me so long to see you've loved me for as long as I have too. I should've seen it a long time ago. You are the best when it comes to loving me. I'll be happy if I can measure up to even a fraction of that.” You don't let him protest to tell you that you surpass it and more. “But now that you're home,” you say, smiling widely at the word, “I'm going to spend every day making sure this works—for both of us. 

“No forcing your path because I think I know what you need. No worrying that you're not doing enough for me because you've already done so much.” He sniffles, turning away from you briefly to wipe at his eyes. “This is a partnership. And if we're getting the chance to team up again to build something great… we have to do it better this time. We have to build this dream together. Right, Hong?”

You cock an eyebrow at him and he grins, shaking his head in disbelief—disbelief that you're real, you're his, and that this is his life. Disbelief because this world that he's found feels too good to be true. But he's never going to question it; whatever it takes, he's keeping all of it for as long as he can.

“Copy, L/N,” he answers.

You grin right back, and he takes the helmet out of your hands before finally throwing his arms around your waist, pulling you in, and kissing you senseless. Your hands cradle his face as you kiss him back, your mouth curved into a smile the entire time you do it. 

Joshua's happiness threatens to make his heart burst, right there, in the middle of the Academy track. If the heartache of losing you for those two years meant he'd always have this to come back to at the end, he knows that without a doubt, he'd go through it over and over again. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I know. I love you too.” 

He presses a few more pecks to your mouth before leaning back and admiring you in the light of the setting sun.  

“So is that what this is?” he asks, smirking. “A partnership?”

You roll your eyes. “Have we ever been anything else?”

He nods. “Touché.”

“Besides,” your blush deepens as you brush a stray strand of hair away from his forehead, “you already called me Mrs. Hong. It would be awkward if we weren't partners.”

He rolls his lips between his teeth shyly, leaning in to bury his face in your hair. “Hmm, Mrs. Hong sounds nicer the more we say it, huh?”

You giggle, slapping his chest as you push him away. “A conversation for another time,” you say, stepping away and winking at him. “For now, there are some other people who want to celebrate you.” 

You nod in the direction behind him, and he turns to find the entire Academy staff and class, the fence to the grandstands behind them open from where they quietly snuck onto the track. As soon as he turns, they scream, “Welcome home!” while Jihyo and her assistant pop their massive confetti canons, and Sophia and Saki spray what he assumes is non-alcoholic champagne everywhere.

Joshua laughs as both you and he are soaked by the two girls, confetti flying in the breeze as he, for the nth time in the last 24 hours, thinks about how fucking lucky he is. The staff and girls all carry signs that congratulate him or welcome him home, and when he spots Eunchae's, he snorts.

MCL ACADEMY DREAM TEAM OTP 4EVER

“We saw you kiss!” she shrieks. “You can't deny it anymore! You're welcome for getting you together, by the way!”

He rolls his eyes and laughs as she joins her friends in spraying each other. He gets to one last sign at the back of the crowd, and his smile slowly fades.

I am, I have always been, and I will always be proud of you.

All his effort to keep his tears at bay go to waste because as he looks up to find the person holding the sign, Joshua can't help the tears that immediately begin streaming down his face.

“Eo—eomma…?” 

She has tears in her own eyes as she nods, smiling at both of you. It’s clear as day to see how honest her sign is.

“Go,” you whisper, nudging him forward. 

The Academy parts to allow Joshua through to his mother, who he sweeps into a hug, crying in her arms like a child again.

“Aigoo… it’s such a happy occasion," she whispers, her own voice sounding just as emotional as he feels. “Don't cry anymore.”

“Eomma,” he breathes, shoulders shaking. “I've missed you so much.”

“What's there to miss, hm?” she asks, rubbing his back as she pulls away just enough to look up at him. She wipes his face with the heel of her hand. “I'm always here. I'm always here. And I'm so proud of you, Joshua. So proud of you for everything you've done, for being so brave, and for always being so kind and sweet and good.” She desperately tries to keep from crying any harder. “I couldn't have asked for a better son.”

She pulls him into her arms once more, the two of them standing there embracing in silence for several seconds.

“By the way, I'm glad you finally got the girl,” she says in Korean, breaking the silence. He smiles. “I always thought she would make a good daughter-in-law.”

“Yah, eomma,” he whines, rolling his eyes and pulling back. After a moment, he smiles. “But yes. She will be a good daughter-in-law to you.”

His mother squeals, slapping his shoulder repeatedly before she catches sight of someone over it and starts beckoning frantically. He looks over just in time to see you join them. His mom opens their arms to you, pulling you into what Joshua imagines is the happiest, most wholesome group hug he's ever been a part of.

“Thank you for flying me out, darling.”

“I'd buy you a house out here if you let me,” you say, smiling.

“Never,” she sighs, resting her head against yours. “But if you ever want to buy yourselves a home in LA… well, I wouldn't hate that.”

“We'll see,” Joshua says, laughing. “I still need to sell my house in Barcelona.”

You look pleased at that. “Yes! Your Spanish wife and Korean-Spanish kids have got to go!”

“Eh?!” his mother looks at him incredulously.

He gives you a flat look. “Okay, seriously, you need to tell me what you're talking about. Why do you keep saying that?”

“Hello!” Jihyo suddenly pops up over your shoulder. You smile at her without breaking the group hug. “Hate to interrupt a beautiful family reunion, but I do have to let you two know we actually do need to file paperwork regarding your relationship with HR, so please do that first thing on Monday. Thanks!” 

She quickly scurries off as you scoff and excuse yourself to follow her, shouting, “Oh, so now we care about HR?!” as you do.

Joshua's mom steps away from his arms to turn and watch you, tilting her head at you and Jihyo curiously. “So. Am I going to end up adopting that cute, scary girl as my future daughter-in-law's sister?” 

“Jihyo?” he asks as he throws an arm around her shoulders, watching as you two bicker and Sophia cackles while soaking both of you in champagne, too high off the celebration to be scared of her CEO. His mom nods. Joshua laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

“The more the merrier,” she says, smiling. After a moment, she cranes her head to look up at Joshua. “I love the life you've built for yourself. I can't wait to see what you and Y/N build together."

Joshua watches as your face splits into a smile at something Jihyo says, and the two of you suddenly set your sights on Sophia, chasing her down and tag teaming to corner her and her bottle. He thinks of your years at McLaren, and he looks around at the Academy staff and the girls and the way everyone here has only ever wanted the best for one another—none more than you. And he knows whatever the two of you build here, and anywhere else in the world… the best part of it will be having done it with you.

“Me neither. I can't wait.”

THE END 

A/N: pls. i'm emotional. i love them so much. ugh. bye.

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EPILOGUE

LAPD RADIO TRANSMISSION DISPATCH: 7-Adam-16, we have a code 23109 and a code 23103. Several vehicles without license plates. Last seen on the intersection of Wilshire and Western. UNIT 7-ADAM-16: 7-Adam-16 inbound on Wilshire. Requesting another unit for pursuit.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

The crowd disperses with shouts and screams as at least three police cars descend on the finish line, where Joshua just won an $800 pot not even a minute ago. He grabs the rest of the cash from the host’s hand and pockets it quickly, grunting as his friend shoves him toward his car before throwing the door to his own open. 

“Turn your radio on!” he screams at Joshua before disappearing into his Honda and whipping his car around and away from the commotion. 

Joshua does the same, cursing repeatedly as he throws his car into gear, honking desperately as people run in all directions. Once he finds his open, he floors it, his exhaust roaring as he does. He turns the dial on the radio that he and his friends had absolutely no business installing in their cars before unclipping the mic from its mount and resting it in his lap.  

He climbs up his gears, body jerking each time he does. Joshua wasn’t even supposed to come out tonight; last week’s race had added more than enough money to his savings to get his mom off weekend shifts for the entirety of the next three months if she wanted. But like he constantly does, he let his friends manipulate him into coming out and entering a last-minute race. Just one measly reminder that he’s close to earning enough to get his mom to completely quit one of her jobs, and Joshua is in his car, speeding to wherever the night’s activities are. If he gets arrested tonight for street racing, he’ll set his mom back so far. She works a grueling schedule so he can get through school and make something of himself, not so she can bail him from jail and pay a huge ticket and a fee to get his car from the impound lot. He curses at himself. He really should’ve stayed his ass at home and just studied for his calculus quiz. 

“If I get arrested, I’m literally going to fucking kill you,” Joshua says over the radio.

He throws the gear into fourth in one clean motion, the shift gate clacking as the tachometer chases the red line. The engine of his ‘96 Integra GS-R screams as his car jerks forward, widening the distance between him and the flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. 

“You’re not getting arrested,” the voice over the radio crackles with static, but Joshua can hear the laidback, cocky attitude clearly. It grinds his gears. “As your hyung, it is my responsibility to make sure I get arrested before you do.”

“LAPD. PULL OVER.” The cop’s voice booms over his car’s PA speaker, agitated and antsy.

“For the millionth fucking time, you’re not my hyung!” Joshua shouts. 

He glances quickly over his shoulder to assess the gap between him and the lights on his ass. He turns back forward, making the split decision to drift right, knowing his GS-R will handle it a lot better than a cop car can. He yanks the e-brake, swinging the rear through the turn as his tires squeal and smoke curls into the air behind him. Just like he expected, the police car doesn’t quite make the abrupt turn, forcing it to a stop to keep from barreling right onto the sidewalk. 

“We are the same fucking age, you asshole!” Joshua continues his rant as he tries to take advantage of the gap he just gave himself. 

“Jeez, you seriously need to fix that sailor mouth of yours. Do you know any other words aside from f—”

“Fuck you!” Joshua’s head is on a swivel as he crosses Vermont Ave. , and when he sees no flashing lights, he shifts down to third. 

“Love you too.” There are a few beats of silence before he says, “Okay, it’s been five minutes. I think I lost my pig. Where are you?”

“Just crossed Vermont,” Joshua mutters. 

“What?”

“I just crossed Vermont!” he shouts in irritation, his knuckles turning white as he grips his wheel. 

“That could be anywhere, bro. Wh—”

“I just passed the liquor store you get your cigarettes from, you asshole.”

“I sense you’re a little anxious. Understandable. I think what would make this better—”

“I truly need you to shut the fuck up right now and just let me drive,” Joshua interjects, kicking back into fourth gear when he notices a cop car several blocks behind him, lights off and slowly driving through the intersection. It’s obviously searching for cars without license plates—cars like his.

It takes just three seconds after that for the lights to start flashing blue and red again, but Joshua’s headstart is strong enough that he thinks he can lose them one more time. Then, he will never race ever again. He’ll never even drive ever again. 

“Dear god, if you are listening, if I get out of this without a ticket or getting arrested,” Joshua whispers, “I will become a born-again good boy, and I will get a normal job mopping floors. I swear it.” He turns onto another street, immediately regretting it. “Fuck!”

It’s 2 a.m., but it’s Koreatown, it’s the weekend, and he’s close to several bars and nightclubs, and this street is lined with patrons—drunk patrons. He immediately turns on the next intersection in an attempt to get away from anyone fortunate enough to remain uninvolved in his problems, but the detour puts him back a few seconds, and the next time he sees the flashing lights, they’re a lot closer than they previously were. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he breathes, feeling his panic coming to a head as he tries to breathe through it. Panic will only muddy his thoughts, and that will only narrow his options.

“Where are you now?” the radio crackles alive again.

“3rd,” Joshua answers. 

“Perfect. Jun finally fucking woke up. Go to the garage and wait it out ‘til the cops leave.”

“Cool, and how the fuck am I going to do that with a cop on my ass?!” Joshua shouts, glancing left and right as he approaches an intersection. 

“Leave it to hyung.”

“You are not my—”

“Drift left.”

“What?”

“DRIFT LEFT.”

Without thinking about it, he drifts left as he enters the intersection, tires screaming as a familiar silver Civic EK hatch also drifts left from the opposite direction, effectively taking Joshua’s place in front of the police car. The tinted window comes down just enough to fit a peace sign out of it in his direction, then the EK is gone, the police happily chasing him down instead. 

“You’re welcome! Get to the garage and stay there until it’s safe to leave.”

Joshua doesn’t argue, immediately making his way to Jun’s big brother’s garage. “Thanks, dude,” he breathes after a few minutes. He doesn’t receive a response and he hopes it doesn’t mean his friend has been arrested. Annoyed as he might be about the race and some loser calling the cops on them, he still wants his friends safe in their beds at the end of the night—or in their case, the beginning of the morning.

Hours later, when Jun gets the all-clear from his brother and Joshua returns home, he doesn’t have much time to think about anyone else’s whereabouts because his mother is waiting for him with dozens of questions, and well. Joshua is a horrible liar. 

“This is about to be the best vacation of my life.”

Joshua grins, thumb caressing your hand where it’s joined with his over the middle console. Your hair whips at your face but you pay it no mind, very obviously enjoying the rental convertible coup more than you care about the potential tangles you’ll have to wrestle with later. 

“Better than—”

“Yes, because none of the places you’re about to name can be considered vacations because they were 100% race weekends,” you point out. Joshua pouts and you grin. “But I obviously wouldn’t trade any of them for the world.”

“Mmm,” Joshua hums, bringing your hand to his mouth to leave a kiss on it. “Nice save.”

He lifts your hand a few centimeters from his face to admire the rock on your finger. It’s already been a few months, but seeing the engagement ring he chose and he bought and he proposed to you with on your finger still gives him the best kind of chills.

“Okay, okay,” you giggle, wriggling your hand out of his. “Eyes on the road, mister.”

“I’m a professional driver.”

“Oh sorry, do professional drivers suddenly have no need to focus on the road?”

He smiles, slapping your thigh playfully and laughing when you squeal. “Are you ready to answer Mom’s millions of questions for you?”

You nod, completely unfazed, as you usually are when it comes to most things regarding his mom; the two of you are the best of friends—talking on the phone far more often than even he does—but he fears you’re overestimating how laidback she’s going to be about her only son’s wedding. He already knows she’ll be testing your limits until after the wedding is over. 

“Yes, I’m excited to talk to someone who isn’t convinced I should go down the aisle in a kart.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You roll your eyes but smile all the same. “Right. Anyway, I hope she’s ready for my millions of questions.”

Joshua frowns, laughing a little. “What questions? You know Mom never got married.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have fabulous taste and correct opinions, you silly man.”

“Okay, fair,” he nods as he pulls into the gated community where the house he bought his mom as soon as he broke into F2 resides. It’s another 10-minute drive through the winding hills before he parks in her private driveway, the backyard view of LA already visible even from the front lawn.

“Oh my god, this is gorgeous,” you say, mouth ajar as you stare up at the house from inside the car. 

Joshua hops out, already collecting your bags and dropping them on the front step before coming back for more. Your stay in LA would be extended, lasting through to right before the next season at the Academy starts, but it wasn’t even that you two overpacked; you just came with months worth of gifts from the past season, both from you and Joshua and from Jihyo. 

You follow suit, scoffing whenever he pushes your hands away from grabbing anything.

“The rock on your hand is too heavy, you shouldn’t carry anything else,” he jokes, smirking as he plants a kiss on your forehead. “Come on. I’ll get the rest later.”

He leads the way to the front step, but you pause just short of it, staring at something in the distance. He turns to look at you. “Hey, whose car is that?” you ask, pointing. 

His eyes follow your finger and he frowns. A ‘99 Honda Civic EK hatchback sits at the other end of the U-shaped driveway, opposite from where you two entered. It’s technically off-property, far enough away that Joshua can pretend his heart doesn’t stop at the sight of it, but close enough that it makes him want to get back into the car, go back to the airport, and fly right back to London. 

“Um…” 

It isn’t the silver he remembers, and it doesn’t have any of the stickers or dents and dings it has in his memories, so there’s that. But it is restored to near-new quality, sporting a beautiful sky blue wrap and deep blue Volk Racing TE37 wheels, and while subtle enough to pass as a normal car, it’s a little too specific of a street performance car to be in his mom’s neighborhood. 

“I… don’t know…” he says, hoping it’s the truth. 

“Really nice,” you comment, craning your neck like that will help you see more than you can. “You see those calipers? And the fitment of their wheels?” Then, you snort and ask a question that validates Joshua’s fears. “Does Mom have street racing friends too?”

“Come on,” he urges you, quickly turning toward the door and ringing the bell. 

“We should walk down and look at it,” you continue talking about the car. “I want to see what kind of brake kit they have. Then maybe you can tell me about your—”

“Kids!” his mother screams as she throws the door open and does nothing short of assault both of you with kisses, hugs, and questions she gives neither of you time to answer. “How was the flight? Were your seat neighbors good? Or did you waste all that money on first class again? Oh my god, did you rent that? A convertible? Seriously? Oh my god, show me the ring! Oh, it’s beautiful. Oh, look at it. Look at you.”

“Eomma, whose car is that?” Joshua asks, jerking his head toward the hatchback. 

“Huh?” she asks, looking up from where she’s ogling the ring on your hand. You turn to Joshua with your eyebrows raised and he knows you can hear the anxiety in his voice. He clears his throat. “Oh, that’s—”

“Ahhh, I can’t believe this.” Joshua’s blood runs cold as the door opens wider, the undisputable owner of the EK standing before him. “How lucky of me to catch you while I’m here, Joshuji.”

“Look who stopped by!” his mom exclaims excitedly. After a few beats of awkward silence, she scolds him. “Joshua, say hello to your friend, what is wrong with you?”

The man laughs but waves a hand. Still, Joshua offers him a flat “hey.”

Yoon Jeonghan grins at the two of you. He still keeps his hair long and dark, though it’s currently pulled back by the sunglasses atop his head, helping show off his uniquely beautiful and very mischievous face. He’s dressed in a leather jacket, a white tee tucked into black slacks, and panda dunks. He’s a grown up, slightly more fashionable version of the same kid who served a 5-year prison sentence on Joshua’s behalf when they were 17. 

“Wow, you’re even more beautiful in person,” Jeonghan tells you, making your fiance clench his jaw. He notices, of course, and it feeds the fire that’s always burned off of Joshua’s discomfort and irritation, his eyes shining with amusement. “Yoon Jeonghan.”

He extends his hand and Joshua’s own mother releases your hand to transfer it to his, and he gets the irrational desire to call her a traitor. Joshua’s eyes go down to your hand in Jeonghan’s, and his heart squeezes as he looks at the ring on your finger. You shake hands with his childhood friend, having no idea that this man knows enough secrets about your fiance to end the engagement and send you running for the hills.

“Y/N L/N,” you tell him. 

He smirks. “I know.”

“Are you the owner of that EK?” you ask excitedly. 

“Ah, I am,” he says proudly, nodding. “She’s been around for quite a while.” His eyes slide to Joshua as he finally releases your hand. “Joshuji and I were still in high school when I first got her.”

You look over at him. “And you didn’t recognize it?!”

He tries not to show his irritation, but he knows his nostrils are flaring. “It looks a lot different than it did back then.” His shortness seems to get you to understand his discomfort extends beyond just being surprised by an old friend he didn’t expect to be here. You tamp your excitement and let the questions stop there, tucking yourself back under Joshua’s arm and rubbing his back as you do.

“She sure does,” Jeonghan agrees, smiling nostalgically. “Well, I just came by to say hi. I recently came back to town and reached out to eomma-nim to see if I could stop by and catch up. I had no idea you two were on your way until I was already here.”

“Jeonghannie brought me rice cakes!” she gushes. “Come on, let’s all eat them!”

“No, no, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head when Joshua’s mom starts protesting. “I’ll let you two rest after all your travels,” he tells you and Joshua, “but Joshuji, we should catch up. I’ve moved back to LA.”

“Oh” is all he says. His refusal to be any more hospitable to Jeonghan doesn’t deter the man.

“Number’s still the same if you want to grab something to eat,” he informs him as he bounds down the steps past you two and fishes his keys out of the pocket of his pants. He turns back toward the three of you, walking backwards as he drops his sunglasses back down to his face and runs a hand through his hair. Joshua—pathetically—wants to cover your eyes. “Or, you could just stop by Jun’s garage. I’m helping him out right now. Bye, eomma-nim!” Then, he points at you and smiles. “Lovely meeting you, Y/N. Something tells me I’ll see you again. ‘Til next time!”

He turns and saunters off Joshua’s mom’s property, toward the same car that got her son out of hot water all those years ago. 

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Joshua lies, nodding and giving you a tight smile. “Just… surprised is all.”

“He seems… interesting.”

“That’s one word to describe him.”

He can think of a million others, too, but as the day drags on and Joshua continues to ruminate on the interaction, all he can actually think of is if Jeonghan’s re-entrance into his life is a harbinger for something a lot worse—something that could ruin everything he’s worked for up until now. Including you.

He knows the only way to find out is to take the bait. When you fall asleep that night, he grabs the keys to the rental and heads to a place he didn’t expect to ever visit again: the garage that completely re-routed the course of his life.

BONUS CONTENT

just some random stuff i thought would be fun to include :)

Hong sabbatical Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 5:00 Good morning, sir. I’ve thought about our conversation quite a bit, and for the sake of giving the organization as much time as possible to prepare for the next season, I am officially tendering my resignation from McLaren as a main driver. Attached you’ll find a formal letter for your records.  Thank you so much for the last seven years and the opportunities that came with it; I will never forget my time here. I’m committed to making this transition as smooth as possible, so please let me know when it’s a good time to come to the facility for any exit processes I need to complete. Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’ll always be rooting for McLaren. Best regards, Joshua Hong

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 5:03 bruh. wrong ceo. p.s. ?!?!?!?!!!!? Sent from iPhone

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 7:19 Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I think your email address auto-populated when I wrote “CEO.” Any chance we pretend this never happened and you don’t tell Y/N about this?

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 7:20 maybe.. but need a favor. Sent from iPhone

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 8:53 Can I know what the favor is before agreeing?

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 8:54 ofc. i’m not a monster 🙄 numbers for girls looking v good—better than they have since we started f1a (good job). if ur really resigning from mcl, let’s talk. i want u to stay with us permanently. u can say no ofc. but i will be telling MY BEST FRIEND that u accidentally sent this if that’s the case. not a threat. just a crazy coincidence that will 100% happen if u say no. so. Sent from iPhone

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 12:22 Meeting Invite: Today, 12:30 (1h)

———

RE: Hong sabbatical Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 12:23 Meeting Invite: Today, 12:30 (1h) Jihyo Park has responded “Yes”. kinda rude for u to take so long to reply and then send an invite only 8m before the meeting but ok? stop by the caf and get me a bbq beef bowl tho Sent from iPhone

———

Hong x F1A Contract Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 20:47 Hello, Permanent Head Driving Instructor Joshua Hong :) Per our discussion today, you’ll find a copy of the contract we negotiated and signed attached, as well as a handbook of benefits and resources for our full-time employees. HR will complete your onboarding and will reach out to you separately to schedule a full orientation. I’ve also asked them to walk you through our policy for intercompany dating. Just in case you’re interested in that.   This information will be handled with discretion and will remain on a need-to-know basis until we are ready to inform “best friends” and the PR team.  In all seriousness, thank you for agreeing to this, Hong. I’m truly grateful for what you’ve already done with the students, and I’m excited to see what heights you, Y/N, and the rest of the staff can elevate them to.  Jihyo Park (she/her) CEO, F1 Academy f1academy.com  

———

RE: Hong x F1A Contract Hong, Joshua <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Monday, March 3, 21:08 Jeez, are you still at the Academy?  Anyway, appreciate you for being so flexible about meeting today… and I guess for calling your lawyer and demanding they draw something up on the spot… even though I assured you many times I could wait. I know we haven’t started the season yet, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as fulfilled as I do here. I wouldn’t have ever thought to take up teaching, so thank YOU for thinking of me and offering me the temp position—and now the permanent position. It kind of feels like I’m benefitting more in this “favor” to you, but I won’t complain.  Regarding the intercompany dating policy, I could pretend I don’t need that, but because I know you have functional eyes and a very big, wrinkly brain, I will simply say… thanks for your foresight. Go home and sleep please. – Josh P.S. I am working on the “best friend” situation. Please stop rubbing it in my face with the quotes, whether in person or in email -_- Sent from iPhone

———

Hong CEO <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Wednesday, March 5, 8:17 So my best race engineer wasn’t enough; you had to take my best driver too?  Sent from iPhone

———

RE: Hong Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: CEO <[email protected]> Wednesday, March 5, 8:19 First pick from the Academy for the next two years. And before you try to fight me on that, remember that the next classes of girls will be raised up by your very own driver. Bet you can imagine how well they’re doing. Jihyo Park (she/her) CEO, F1 Academy f1academy.com  

———

RE: Hong CEO <[email protected]> To: Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> Wednesday, March 5, 8:20 Make it three years and consider it done. Also, stay away from Jeon. You can’t have all my employees. Sent from iPhone

———

RE: Hong Park, Jihyo <[email protected]> To: CEO <[email protected]> Wednesday, March 5, 8:20 Deal. Also, don’t tell me what to do :) Jihyo Park (she/her) CEO, F1 Academy f1academy.com  

[berryshuasz]

life after build this dream together:

[thedensworld]

One At A Time | H.Js

Pairing: Husband Joshua x reader

Genre: fluff, angst, dad au

Word Count: 2,8k

Summary: What starts as a simple breakfast disagreement unfolds into something deeper.

Joshua truly hadn’t expected last night’s lighthearted debate—Korean breakfast or American breakfast—to spiral into something this serious. To him, it was just a casual comment. He missed Korean food, that was all. After having pancakes, eggs, and bacon nearly every morning for months, a simple thought had slipped from his lips when you asked about breakfast plans.

“Seaweed soup and grilled corvina sound good,” he’d said, tone soft and hopeful.

“But I want bacon,” you mumbled from the bed, half-buried under the covers.

Joshua had smiled gently, brushing it off. “Then we can have bacon, love.”

Your reply came quickly, tinged with a tremble he hadn’t expected. “But you want soup and corvina. I don’t like corvina. Why do you always suggest food I don’t like?”

That’s when it hit him—he was too late to register the warning signs. You were eight months pregnant. Eight months into swollen ankles, midnight cravings, restless sleep, and unpredictable waves of emotion. The woman he married—the composed, collected, sharp-witted woman—had become someone entirely new these past few months. Still you, but softer in all the fragile, hormonal ways pregnancy seemed to bring.

And that’s how you ended up sitting alone at the dining table the next morning, quietly picking at a breakfast of cereal, scrambled eggs, and fruit. No bacon. No corvina. Just silence and the sound of your spoon tapping the side of the bowl.

Joshua passed by on his way to the kitchen, pausing just long enough to lean down and kiss your temple. “You should’ve woken me up, love,” he murmured, guilt sitting heavy in his chest.

You didn’t respond. Not even a glance.

Here we go again.

Joshua sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, wondering how a conversation about soup and fish had turned into this chasm between you. But then he caught sight of your hand resting over your belly, fingers unconsciously tracing tiny circles.

And he remembered—this wasn’t just about breakfast. This was about the enormous love growing inside you. A love neither of you fully knew yet, but already ruled your every word.

He exhaled deeply, turned back, and grabbed a pan. He needed to cook some bacon before your breakfast finished.

Next on your list was the laundry. Without a word, you made your way to the closet and reached for the heavy, overflowing laundry basket. Joshua’s heart nearly stopped when he turned the corner and saw you struggling to lift it.

“Love, it’s heavy—lemme help,” he said urgently, already closing the distance between you. His hands gently took the basket from your grip before you could protest.

“You’re not supposed to carry things like this,” he added softly, his voice lined with concern.

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t fight him either. You simply let go, allowing him to carry the basket down the hall to the laundry room. A small victory, he thought.

Joshua set it down with a soft thud and turned to see you right behind him, sleeves rolled up, already grabbing handfuls of clothes to toss into the washer. It was a simple chore, nothing demanding, but the way you bent slightly, the way your feet shifted to balance your weight—he couldn’t help but worry. Eight months along, and still determined to move like you weren’t carrying an entire universe inside you.

“How about you rest and I’ll finish this later, love?” he offered, stepping closer, voice low and hopeful.

You simply shook your head, silent, and brushed past him to grab the soap from the shelf. The faint scent of lavender detergent filled the room as you poured it in without missing a beat.

Joshua exhaled, lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing would stop you. Not swollen feet, not aching legs, not even his gentle pleading.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a mix of admiration and helplessness. You were stubborn, fierce, and endlessly capable—even while carrying his child. And despite his worry, he couldn’t help but love you more with every quiet act of defiance.

Still, he made a mental note to sneak in a foot massage later.

*

“Still mad at me, baby?” Joshua asked softly, testing the waters as the last of the sunlight slipped through the curtains. The living room was bathed in a warm, fading glow, and the quiet hum of the television filled the air. On the screen, an animation played at a normal volume, cheerful and bright—but Joshua could tell you weren’t really watching. The way you sat there, motionless on the couch, spoke louder than any words.

He set the steaming plate of lasagna—the meal you’d mentioned craving days ago—on the dining table before turning toward you. For a moment, he hesitated, watching how the light framed your face, how your fingers toyed absently with the hem of your sweater. Then, with a quiet sigh, he peeled off his oven mitts and made his way to you.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he murmured, lowering himself to a crouch in front of you. His hands came to rest gently on your knees, thumbs tracing slow, tender circles against your skin. “I didn’t know my words hurt you that much. Let’s eat, yeah? I made lasagna.”

You didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed fixed on the screen, though your lips pressed together in that familiar way that made his chest tighten. Joshua studied you in the fading light—the soft rise and fall of your shoulders, the quiet defiance in your silence, and the exhaustion that shadowed your eyes.

He could feel it—the edge of another wave of emotion about to crash between you. The room was heavy with the kind of stillness that always came before something broke.

“Talk it out, remember?” Joshua’s voice was gentle, almost pleading, as he stayed crouched before you.

You let out a deep sigh, your brows knitting together as though holding back a storm. Then your hands came up to cover your face, muffling the tremor in your breath.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you whispered, voice barely steady before it broke into a quiet sniffle.

Joshua’s heart clenched. He stood immediately, gathering you into his arms without a second thought. “Hey, what are you talking about, baby?” he murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles along your back.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your quiet crying, the small, broken gasps against his chest. Then, between sobs, came the words that made his whole body still.

“I don’t think I can be a mother.”

Joshua’s hold tightened, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you closer to him. “No, baby,” he said softly, his voice trembling but sure. “You’re gonna be an amazing mother. You already are—she’s so lucky to have you.”

You shook your head against him, voice shaking as it slipped out between hiccuped breaths. “I can’t even let out my emotions with words. What if I keep suppressing everything? What if it affects our daughter?”

Joshua pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to your cheeks. The ache in his chest deepened as he took in your swollen eyes, your trembling lips, the raw fear that had been quietly building inside you for weeks.

The room had grown dim, save for the soft flicker of the TV light painting shadows across your faces. In that silence, he could feel the weight of your worry—honest, human, and heartbreakingly tender.

He didn’t rush to fill it. He just held you closer, whispering against your hair, “Then we’ll learn together.”

*

Generational trauma is real, Joshua thought, especially now that he had to face it firsthand. His family hadn’t been perfect either—there were years of misunderstandings and quiet distance between him and his parents. But with you, it felt different. The weight of responsibility rested solely on the two of you. No one else could carry it.

The topic of children hadn’t come up until your second anniversary. You both avoided it, perhaps out of fear of burdening each other. Joshua had told himself he didn’t want to pressure you; after all, you’d be the one making greater sacrifices. But deep down, it wasn’t just about timing—it was about pain neither of you had ever spoken aloud.

There were hurts. Old wounds. Unresolved memories neither of you dared to unearth.

It wasn’t until his mother stepped in, after an argument that caught everyone off guard, that things began to unravel.

“I know you two don’t want to mess this up,” she said calmly, eyes soft but firm. “But no matter how perfect you try to be, you’ll make mistakes. It’s scary—but that’s what being together means.”

Her words lingered with Joshua. A week before, he decided to test the waters. He showed you pictures of his friends’ children, casually mentioning how cute they were, how nice it would be to have your own someday.

“I think it’s time we have ours,” he said gently, watching your reaction.

You smiled faintly, but your eyes didn’t match the curve of your lips. Days passed. Then a week. You grew distant, quieter. And Joshua, though patient, couldn’t ignore the heaviness that had settled between you.

When you finally spoke, your voice trembled. “I don’t think I can give you a child.”

He froze, unsure how to respond.

“It’s complicated,” you continued, tears threatening to fall. “I—I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

That night turned into a long, unfiltered conversation—one that neither of you realized had been waiting years to happen. Words spilled like a flood, all the emotions and fears you’d both buried deep surfacing at once.

“It’s scary to think I might fail my kids,” you said quietly, sitting across from his mother at the dinner table. “Just like how mine failed me.”

Joshua’s mother looked at you with the kind of understanding that only experience could bring. “You’re not afraid of having a child, sweetheart,” she said softly. “You’re afraid of your childhood—and how it might shape your choices.”

Silence followed, thick and fragile. You took a shaky breath.

“I’ve been trying to heal,” you whispered. “I’m working so hard to end this… this generational trauma I’ve carried. But sometimes I wonder if I ever truly can.”

Joshua reached across the table, his hand finding yours. He squeezed gently, grounding you.

“Y/n,” his mother said, voice low but steady, “the fact that you’re trying—to heal, to protect your future child from what you went through—that’s already a gift for your unborn child.”

Your lip quivered as tears welled in your eyes. And that night, the two of you sat there in quiet understanding, tears falling freely.

“One at a time, baby,” Joshua whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he held your trembling figure on the couch.

“We’ll do this together, okay? One step at a time.” His hand moved in slow, comforting circles across your back while the other brushed gently through your hair, untangling strands damp with tears.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing and the muffled sound of the clock ticking on the wall. Joshua just stayed there—steady, patient, his warmth wrapping around you like a promise.

After a minute, he pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. Your eyes were red, lashes still wet, your lips parted as if caught between words you didn’t know how to say.

“Now…” he murmured, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his gaze tender but firm. “You can tell me slowly, love. How you’re feeling.”

“I feel really bad seeing you do everything even after I treated you badly,” you whispered, voice unsteady, eyes fixed on your trembling hands. “I can’t even explain why I acted that way. I just—there were so many emotions all at once, I couldn’t even register what I was feeling.”

Joshua nodded softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me now,” he said gently, his tone calm, patient—an anchor in your storm.

After a brief pause, he asked quietly, “What emotion did you feel the most?”

You hesitated, shoulders rising and falling in a small, defeated shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe… disappointed?”

His brows drew together slightly. “At me?”

You shook your head. “At myself.”

Joshua’s heart softened. He reached for your hand, his thumb rubbing slow, reassuring strokes over your knuckles. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “There’s nothing to be disappointed about. You’re doing so well.”

Your lip trembled as you whispered, “But I treated you badly… and you’re still nice.”

Joshua’s smile lingered, soft and sad, the kind that carried both understanding and heartache. He squeezed your hand gently, drawing you closer until your forehead met his shoulder.

“Being nice isn’t something I do for you,” he said quietly, his voice steady against the weight of your guilt. “It’s what you deserve. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you don’t know how to say it.”

Your chest rose and fell, uneven with the breaths you tried to steady. The warmth of his body seeped into you, grounding you, melting the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered, your words breaking halfway through.

Joshua pulled back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushed away the tear that slipped down your cheek. “Don’t say that,” he murmured. “You deserve someone who stays when things are heavy. Someone who listens. That’s what love is, isn’t it?”

You looked up at him then, eyes red and glistening, and something in his gaze made your throat tighten. There was no judgment there—only quiet devotion, a steady kind of love that had weathered every storm you’d thrown at him.

“I just don’t want to hurt you again,” you said, voice trembling.

He shook his head, a faint smile curving his lips. “Then we’ll learn from it. Together.”

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You’re allowed to have bad days, love. You’re allowed to break down. It doesn’t make you unkind. It makes you human.”

You nodded slowly, a shaky breath escaping your lips as you leaned into him. His arm came around you again, pulling you close until your heartbeat began to match his—steady, patient, forgiving.

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by fading light and unspoken promises, it finally felt like you could breathe again.

*

Five years later, the house that once echoed with late-night sobs and whispered reassurances was now filled with laughter—tiny footsteps running across the living room, toys scattered under the couch, and a high-pitched giggle that could melt away even the hardest days.

Your daughter, Hana, sat cross-legged on the rug, her small fingers carefully peeling the wrapper off a strawberry candy. Joshua was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, humming softly as he brewed coffee. You watched the two of them from the sofa, heart full. It was strange how quiet peace could feel after everything you’d gone through to reach it.

“Mommy,” Hana’s voice broke through your thoughts. She turned to you, holding the candy in both hands like it was something precious. “Can I give this to the boy outside? He looks sad.”

You blinked, following her gaze toward the window. Outside, a little boy sat on the curb, his chin tucked between his knees, shoulders slumped.

Joshua looked up from his mug, catching your eyes. A smile slowly tugged at his lips—soft, knowing. You felt it too—that same tug in your chest, the kind that reminded you of the night you once told him you were afraid of failing as a mother. And here she was, the little girl you feared you’d never be ready for, already showing a kind of empathy that made your heart ache in the best way.

You nodded gently. “That’s very kind of you, sweetheart. Go ahead, but don’t forget to say hi first.”

Hana grinned, hopping up as her curls bounced. She slipped on her shoes clumsily before rushing outside. Through the window, you and Joshua watched her kneel in front of the boy, her small hands extending the pink candy. They talked for a moment—he hesitated, then smiled, taking it shyly.

Joshua came to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “She’s got your heart,” he said softly.

You leaned into him, eyes never leaving your daughter. “She’s got ours,” you whispered back.

For a moment, you both stood in silence, watching her share a laugh with the boy outside. The sunlight caught in her hair, and something inside you—the same part that once carried fear and doubt—finally felt whole.

Joshua pressed a kiss to your temple. “See? You’re an amazing mother,” he murmured, echoing the same words he once said years ago.

This time, you didn’t argue. You just smiled, tears glinting at the corners of your eyes, watching your little girl spread the kind of love you once had to learn to believe in.