Am

she/her, 21, sideblog

[littlemisssnow-81-deactivated20]

How they are when it comes to sleeping - HEAD CANONS

ALL COLLAGES/HEADERS MADE BY ME - DO NOT REUSE

Various drivers mentioned: Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar

Word count: 686

Author’s note: Helloo! I have three things to say; first off, thank you guys so much for the reception on my two previous posts! It might be little for now, but it still means a lot to see all those likes and I am very VERY happy to see you guys like my writing.

Second, this is my first time doing head-canon stuff! I think it’s obvious to say that these are my own head-canons, feel free to agree or disagree with these. The drivers I chose for these are the drivers I like/support - Oscar and Lewis are the drivers I support before anyone else and love the most, the rest are drivers I like and look at during races or just F1 in general, but I won’t always be on their side and prefer to cheer more for Oscar and Lewis. Nothing against them at all, I just am someone who gets very attached and it’s hard to look at anyone else but your favorites at times.

And third, as requests are closed for now, these are the only drivers I wrote something for. However, I could definitely branch out once my requests are open and include some more drivers in these! I will consider it once most of my series have been written/started.

Also one last thing, the plushies I put in each of these headers are the animals I associate with the drivers! I’ve always done this throughout my life, associating an animal to a person I like, I don’t really have an explanation why. Just helps to identify someone better and also I think it’s cute? Anywho, if you guys are interested, I can definitely do a head-canon for that too!

For now, please enjoy these head-canons and please tell me if you like this form of writing too! I can consider doing it more often, this is a first time try!

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Oscar Piastri

He might be shy, but this man is definitely not against cuddling and spoiling you in bed. Sure, he might put on an exterior for when you come to the paddock for F1 races, but once you’re alone? He becomes an absolute sweetheart.

Cuddles, kisses, soft whispers and little jokes that only you two understand.. It’s maybe the best part about dating Oscar. How his guard drops once you’re alone and he becomes the most affectionate man on Earth you know.

Oscar likes all positions - but just maybe being your big spoon is his favorite. He loves to see you become all shy and flustered when he kisses your neck to tease you.

He’s your cuddly koala every night.

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis is always clingy and affectionate, but when it comes to night? My lord, you become his favorite plush toy.

He’ll wait until you’re properly laying down and ready for him - before wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you to his chest while he leaves pecks and kisses all over your face - reducing you to a giggly mess as you let him get his kisses and spoils out of the way.

Lewis loves seeing your face, so you always sleep with your head resting against his chest.

Once he’s done, he’ll pull back to look at you fondly - before kissing your lips one last time - and then making sure you’re as snuggled up as possible to have the best sleep you two can.

Lando Norris

He’s like a little puppy once you two get to bed.

His usual peppy energy melts - but only a little, so Lando’s always up for some teasing and jokes before bed. He might kiss your neck to see how you redden up and to tickle you, he might even properly kiss you a few times through your giggles. Whatever he can think of that entertains the both of you, but mostly for his own entertainment.

Once he’s ran out of energy, the two of you cuddle up - either you against his chest, or Lando will be your big spoon - and you’ll chat a little bit with each other, whispering softly until either one of you falls asleep or you both decide you’ve had enough.

Then, neither of you move away for the entire night.

Pierre Gasly

Pierre’s always affectionate and clingy - usually, all the cameras on the track give him an excuse to kiss your cheek and show you off as his girl.

But now that you’re home with no cameras flashing and nobody to show off to, Pierre always pampers you before your beauty sleep.

He’s like a big labrador - he holds you close, whether it’s to his chest or by being your big spoon - and he whispers sweet nothings in your ears while his hands roam over your body, giving you various massages and caresses and of course - it’s not Pierre if he’s not giving you kisses the whole time.

Let’s just say you always get your beauty sleep with Pierre..

Isack Hadjar

Everyone knows Isack is strong. Like, STRONG-Strong.

Not only did you know from his rigorous training, but from the numerous times you’d tried to tease him and run only to find yourselves being caught in his arms minutes, maybe even seconds after and being unable to escape his strong grasp while he’d tease you back.

Still, when it’s time to sleep - this strong and teasing grip you know becomes much more gentle and loving - and it always makes you melt against Isack’s chest.

Oh yeah - and you always sleep snuggled up against his chest - no exceptions. Unless you want to feel Isack’s strong arms and hands explore your body.. Otherwise, sleeping against his chest is the one and only option.

And you always get the best sleep, because Isack is the best sleeping partner you’ve ever had.. Affectionate kisses, holding you close and almost lulling you to sleep with his voice..

Since dating him, you can’t say you slept better before you moved in with him.

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P.S: Thank you guys for reading! I appreciate it <33

[drsszone-deactivated20260212]

BENEATH YOU • OP81

SUMMARY ✰ When your cousin, the King, receives a threat of overtake, you too become a target. He sends you off to a safe place with Oscar, a loyal knight, as your guard and escort.

WORD COUNT ✰ 10.8K

CONTAINS ✰ Medieval!AU, the reader addressed with/ feminine terms (princess, lady, woman, etc), the reader is Max's cousin, King!Max Verstappen cameo, hot spring/bathing scene w/ no sexual undertones, Tangled reference if you squint, and a lot of fluff

FEATURING ✰ Knight!Oscar Piastri x Princess!Reader

A/N ✰ I've been so excited about this one. If you're interested, here is the link to the mood board and playlist!

Rumors had been circling the royal court for roughly eighteen hours. Insiders of the castle, from guards to simple servants, were conspiring with enemy kingdoms to overthrow King Max. He stood as a noble leader, but you can’t be a political figure and still have the entire world be in love with you. There would always be someone out there looking to put a target on your back, and for Max, those people were residing within his own home. 

You, the kingdom’s beloved princess, were pacing in Max’s solar upon your summoning. Charles, a man you had recognized as his personal guard, came knocking on the doors of your private chamber early in the morning. He explained the situation to you quietly and then whisked you away to wait for Max in the secure location. You noticed that many guards had already been weeded out, as he had likely gone through great efforts only to keep the ones he could fully trust around. The bottom of your slippers padded against the cold tile with every step, and the flowing train of your morning gown dragged endlessly behind you. 

When the door creaked open, and Max stepped inside, you wasted no time running to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a close hug. “Thank goodness you’re okay,” you murmured before pulling back, surveying him as if you were looking for any injuries. When you were kids, Max always teased you and said that you were like an old lady, because you were always fussing over him and the rest of the kids, even though you were younger than most of them. You straightened the lapel of his royal robes, fingers looking for something to keep them occupied while anxiety chews at you. “Why are you still here? You should leave now. You know, head to a safe place while things get sorted out here. You’re all this place has, you know–”

“Y/N,” Max grabs your wrists and softly pushes you away. You huff, displeased at his efforts to get rid of you. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. “I can’t leave. I need to stay here. What kind of leader would I be if I fled in the face of danger?”

“An alive one,” you speak as though you know it’s hopeless, because, truthfully, you do. No matter what you say, you know you can’t change Max’s mind. It’s already been made up. He’s going to stay, and that’s that. “Max,” but you’ll be damned if you don’t keep trying, “you’re the only person who can lead this country. They need you.”

“Which is exactly why I have to stay.”

“No, that’s why you have to leave. If you die, then–”

“Then it’ll be you.” He says it firmly, as if the statement doesn’t change everything. You’re speechless, taking a small step back, mouth agape. Surely he was joking? You didn’t know how to rule a country. You were but a lady who loved her people, but that wasn’t the only thing that made a leader. You needed to have political knowledge and to be able to be ruthless. You wanted to hold hands with everyone and sing songs from your childhood while dancing in a circle. “Which is why I need you to leave.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He sighs, letting go of you and pulling away. Your hands slowly fall to your side, and after a second, you grip your skirt to keep your swirling emotions at bay. “They love you. Every time I visit the town with you, people flock to you like they’re willing to sell their souls for a smile. Y/N, you need to go. If you die, it’s the end of the world for some people.”

“But the same could be said for you.” You knit your brows together, taking a step to follow him, and then giving up. You sit back, watching him approach one of the windows, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Not in the same way.” He dismisses your statement with a shake of his head. “I’m the bad guy. I have to enforce the rules and be harsh. You… You’re the hope. You’re the good. When war comes, they can’t lose that. They can’t lose you.”  Max turns around, running a hand through his short, dirty blond hair. When he opens his mouth, a knock arrives at the door, and he stops. “Come in.” The door creaks open again, and you watch with bated breath as one metal boot steps in, followed by the rest of an armor-clad body. The knight stands dutifully in front of the door after it’s closed, waiting for further instruction. They’re about the same height as Max, which doesn’t narrow down their identity any more. “Unmask yourself,” Max instructs, waiting patiently.

The knight does as they’re asked, slowly lifting their metal helmet. Soft brunette hair flows out, perfectly framing a face you’re all too familiar with. His features are far too gentle for a knight, littered with a few scrapes and scars that ruin his once boyishly adorable features. Moles decorate his fair skin, which refuses to tan despite the hours of sun he’s received. You tilt your head, confused merely by his presence. You hadn’t seen him since he had been promoted to a royal guard, and now here he was, listening in on a private conversation.

“Oscar,” you breathe out, taking a subconscious step forward. You pause, stopping yourself from running to him and giving his cold armor a warm embrace. His gaze shifts to you, and something in that previously stern expression softens. It’s just a split second of tenderness, as if he realizes his own mistakes and is quick to put that hardened front back on. You turn to Max, fingers brushing against his arm in a way that expresses your mellow perplexion. “What’s going on?”

“Oscar’s going to be escorting you.” Max pushes you aside in such a harsh manner that your heart momentarily aches. You instantly recognize what he’s doing, and it’s not going to work on you. He wants you to feel the need to run away. To feel as though he’s turned so cold that your only viable option is to run. You take a step away from him, throat burning as the tears wait to spill. “A safe house has been arranged. Once it’s safe to return, and it will be eventually, I’ll write for you.”

You want to argue, but he’s firm on this decision. If you continue to disagree, you can be sure that Max will have you removed by force. He truthfully can’t guarantee that it will ever be safe again, but that’s the only way he can fully convince you that it’s okay to abandon your post for the time being. You nod – solemnly, albeit – and slowly make your way to Oscar. He remains stiff by the door, the only movement coming from his eyes, which follow you as you walk around the room. You eye him once, but your gaze quickly shifts away. Something like guilt sits behind your expression – he notices, but he says nothing.

You peer over your shoulder at Max, who’s already turned back to the window. There’s no hugging or dramatic goodbyes. It’s just as profoundly quiet as your heart silently aches. Oscar shifts, a movement you take note of. He’s feeling unnecessarily awkward, watching close family part ways in such a dramatic manner. You turn back and place a pure, polite hand on his armored bicep, pulling his attention away from the sorrowful environment and to your warm smile. It’s forced, and he knows it, but it’s a temporary relief from such an awkward situation to be in. “Will you come with me to pack my things?” Your voice is as sweet as ever, almost at a convincing rate. Oscar nods and slips his helmet back on, masking his handsomely juvenile face. 

You move to leave, your back turned on your cousin. It would have been the last time if he hadn’t called out, forcing you to gaze at him once more, “Write to me when you get there.” You don’t say anything. You nod, instead, and follow your new assigned companion out of the room. There’s something vaguely familiar about walking beside Oscar through the corridors of your home, which you chalk down to the sensation of being accompanied by a knight when wandering the palace. Yet, a small part of you thinks back to the later years of your childhood. Oscar, the son of a simple blacksmith and baker in the kingdom, would sneak into the castle halls with your assistance, chasing you around as giggles bubbled from your lips until your lady-in-waiting would scold you for associating with a ‘peasant’. Nonetheless, you’d do the same thing the next week, hoping she would have forgotten the most recent offense. As you stared at his back now, watching his armor-clad body move with impressive fluidity, you had to wonder if he, too, recalled such fond memories. 

You packed as small as you could. Oscar was silent as he stood outside the door, waiting for you to wrap up the final moments of your time in your home. This would be vastly different after this, and you knew that. No more being pampered by the workers in the castle or having villagers fawn over you. Now you’d be traveling through backroads and sleeping in hammocks high in the tree tops to avoid any potential threats. You kept your tears at bay, following Oscar, who had yet to say a single word, out to the palace stables. 

“I’ve prepared your horse for you, your highness,” Oscar finally states, his deep voice muffled by his helmet. You’re surprised at how mature he sounds now. When he was younger, his voice was deep, but he had that childish lisp in his tone that was now completely gone. He takes your bags from you, skillfully strapping them to the back of Fleur, the horse you had grown up with. She was a tall, lean chestnut thoroughbred that was adorned in a pretty saddle your father had custom-ordered for your birthday years ago. Oscar did a fine job of dressing her up like he would his own horse, who was temporarily sitting in the stall beside her. He was a large, muscular Irish draught that was suited for a knight like Oscar. He was a rich, jet-black color, shimmering in the morning rays as proof of his excellent health. 

Like a proper gentleman, Oscar holds his hand out, allowing you to use him as leverage to mount your horse. You’ve ridden her many a time and are familiar with how she moves and what makes her go. There’s some sort of comfort in being able to ride your own steed, at the very least. As you leave your home, a place you had grown to love and change as your own, you feel as if having Fleur there with you was the last viable comfort. Being escorted by a familiar face was also helpful.

You exit the kingdom quietly, going through a back exit to avoid being spotted. The whole point was to make anyone who saw you as a target believe that you were still tucked away in the main castle rather than venturing out into the surrounding forest with a single guard at your side. Would it have been safer to travel with multiple? Maybe, maybe not. The truth was, the more people, the more suspicious you were. Traveling with just Oscar allowed you to move inconspicuously, especially after he removed a large chunk of his armor. Both of you travel side by side, saying nothing, for neither of you knows exactly what to say. Instead, you listen to the rhythmic stamping of hooves on uneasy ground. “I remember when you used to sneak me flowers,” you suddenly mention, a fond smile gracing your features. Oscar glances over at you, his head tilted to the side in the same way a cat with piqued interest does. He takes a moment to process what you’re saying. The moment is so long, in fact, that you’re sure he doesn’t remember. “Sorry, I just randomly remembered. You probably don’t even recall that, it was so long ago.”

“I remember,” he says briefly, looking back to the trail ahead of you. You follow his gaze, feeling awkward for staring at him for so long. “Your tutors were always saying that I wasn’t a high enough class for you.” You wince at his words, recalling the upsetting words of your superiors. “So, I dressed in my nicest clothes and brought you flowers that my mom grew in her garden to see if I would be good enough.” He speaks about the memory so casually, as if it weren’t an entirely unfair moment for such a young child. The two of you were around ten years old when societal pressures began to take hold, and you were torn apart from one of your best friends. No, it wasn’t fair at all.

You want to apologize, even though it wasn’t your fault, but you don’t know what to say. Now he was so important, treated with such high standards, which probably only rubbed in the classism more. Oscar witnessed firsthand how people change their behavior toward you, the higher your class is. He went from being insulted as a peasant to being in charge of a whole region of knights. A significant portion of the change can be attributed to a change in rulers. Max made it clear that he didn’t want variations in kindness to be based on societal level, but instead he wished for everyone to live in peace and judge each other based on character, rather than wealth. That’s why this sudden mutiny came as a big surprise to many, but alas. Not everyone agrees with such pleasant ideals. So, no, you don’t know how to apologize for something you didn’t do, even though you really, really want to.

“I wish I hadn’t listened to them,” you say with a gentle sigh. Maybe that’s what you had to apologize for – for actually listening to the people who made such a fuss about separating social classes. Still, you were so young and impressionable that you were willing to listen to anything your mentors had to say. They were there to teach you, after all. If they told you it was unladylike to converse with a blacksmith’s son, then who were you to object? But when you think back on Oscar and his chubby little face with messy, choppy brown hair, you feel endlessly sad for that young boy who was scolded for just existing in a way people didn’t like. “Would you have still chosen knighthood? You know, if everyone had welcomed you with open arms.” It was indeed a loaded question, but it was one you had been thinking about for a while now. Oscar wasn’t just another knight amongst the masses of shining silver armor, because he was your friend. You knew too much about him, and he probably felt the same about you.

Oscar’s fingers gripped the reins of his steed. He didn’t tug or yank, but just held on tight, knuckles pale. You worried for a moment that maybe you had asked the wrong question. Perhaps this was something that upset him, and you wouldn’t be shocked if so. Had you let your long-forgotten friendship finally made you feel overconfident in the closeness of your dynamic? The music of your kingdom faded into the background by now, and the two of you were left only with the sound of light trotting and the gentle clanking of armor from what he had left on. You’re about to apologize when he finally answers, “At first? No, probably not.” He says it like it’s hard to, so you remain silent to let him finish with his explanation. It’s just the two of you, subdued in the quiet of the woods with only the trees and the wildlife to interfere. “I just wanted to prove to people I did belong inside the castle walls. I wanted a way past the one line I was always told not to cross. But…”

“But,” you say in a provoking manner, hoping to encourage him to continue with his wholehearted explanation.

“I chose to stay because I believe in the oath I took to protect this kingdom and everyone in it. Everyone. Not just royalty.” He turns to you, and you can tell that there’s a part of Oscar that’s just a little broken. This was never the life he was intending to lead. He was so young when he joined the Royal Guard, and his whole family had aspired so much more from him. He should have been a blacksmith like his father, or learned the art of baking like his sweetheart of a mom, but instead, he was put on the frontlines of a war he didn’t know the reasoning behind. That changes a man in a way that only he can understand. “Plus, Max is a good leader. I want to protect that.”

It’s your turn to tilt your head, confused by the sourcing of this statement. He wanted to protect Max, but here he was, sacrificing his life for yours. “I’m not Max.” You say it comedically, like you’re whispering a joke between friends. “You should be protecting him. You’re a reliable guard, someone that he can trust. You shouldn’t be out here acting as my escort.” You pull on the reins of your horse, causing her to slow to a stop. Oscar does the same, instructing his mount to turn around to face you. “We can still turn back.”

“No,” he says firmly as the horse flips back around, progressing in a slow and steady free walk. Everyone in your life is so damn stubborn, and unfortunately, you don’t have half the heart to stand up to it. Plus, he makes a great point when he says, “Protecting you was an order given by Max. He’d be terribly angry if I failed.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you trot after him, and when you finally reach his side, he moves his horse into a similar extended jog. 

“What about now?” You inquire out of the blue, “Would you still choose knighthood knowing what you do now?”

“I would,” he answers without a second thought. His expression is steady and firm, leaving no room for doubt. He was serious. “There are… Things I want to protect.” He glances at you, but something prompts him to look away in a hurry. You sigh so softly, your shoulders deflating. 

Everything felt just a little awkward. 

Eventually, the two of you wander off the beaten path and into the thick of the forest. You question his motives, and Oscar explains in a more roundabout manner that this way of travel would do better to ensure your safety. As night falls, your eyelids begin to droop, and you notice yourself losing grip on your reins. You want to mention your exhaustion to him, but he travels so steadily that it seems impolite to make him rest at such an early hour. You yawn, covering your mouth both for the sake of being polite and to stifle the noise you make so as not to raise his attention.

You fail.

He slows to a stop and dismounts his horse, tying it to a sturdy, low-hanging branch before he takes Fleur’s reins, guiding her to the same spot and tying her as well. He extends a steady hand to help you dismount and even goes as far as subtly straightening your skirts. He strips both of the horses of their tack wordlessly, setting it off to the side in such a well-organized way. “What are we doing? Why are we stopping?” You ask, standing there uncertainly as you wait for an opportunity to help, which never comes. 

“You’re tired. You need some rest so we can keep traveling tomorrow,” Oscar explains as if it were undeniable. You feel your cheeks grow a little warm, embarrassed at how quickly he was to pick up on your sleepiness. “Sit,” he instructs, gesturing to a log that he’s draped a blanket over. You obey, but you’re instantly unable to get comfortable in such a seat. He diligently starts a fire, which rids you of your goosebumps and warms your shivering body. You hoped that he would sit after that, but no. Oscar instead begins setting up a tent, buried deeper in the forest. When he comes back, he looks a bit groggy, but he surveys you carefully. “What’s wrong?” His voice is tender, like he’s scared anything he says will cause you to shatter instantly.

“Is it pretentious if I say I am not fond of sleeping outside in a tent?” You follow your question with a short laugh to convince him that you’re not being entirely serious. He went through all that effort for you, and you were going to show your gratitude by sleeping soundly through the night, whether you liked it or not. “Will you be sleeping in there also?”

“No,” he shakes his head, sitting on the same log as you, though he’s a ways away. “I’ll be keeping watch.”

“But where will you sleep?”

“Nowhere. I need to ensure your safety.” You frown at his words, which prompts him to stare at you until he has to turn away because you just look so sad. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be tired,” you correct, arms crossed over your chest. It was finally your turn to be stubborn. “How will you protect me if you can’t even keep your eyes open? I don’t want to hear anything about ‘being used to it,’ either, because it’s proven that a knight with little to no sleep is only subpar!” You huff at the end of your rant, and Oscar is rendered speechless. “At the very least, let us take turns keeping watch.”

“I’m supposed to protect you. Not the other way around…”

“I’ll run away if you don’t listen.” Desperate times call for desperate measures. Momentary panic flashes through his eyes, but you can tell that not long after, he calls your bluff. Even if you did run, which he’s pretty sure you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t get very far before Oscar caught up to you. He was trained to have precise speed and strength. You, on the other hand, were not. 

Nonetheless, he gives in. “Alright. I’ll wake you if I get tired, but for now… Rest.” You search his gaze for any sort of lie, but after deeming him truthful, you retreat into the tent for the night and let yourself drift to sleep. Hours later, he wakes you up so he can squeeze in a quick nap while you sit inside the tent, listening for any sort of threat. When you’re both alive and on guard, you pack up your things and leave for the day. 

“Do you know exactly where to go?” Your question is based on Oscar’s occasional change of direction. He’s not following a path, and as far as you know, he has no map, so his movements appear to be random and sporadic. You go for a while without questioning him, but eventually the skepticism catches up to you, and it kills you not to ask if he truthfully knows where he’s going. 

“I do.” You can see the corner of his lips curl up when he says it. Oh, it’s undeniably so— Sir Oscar Piastri is smirking! You hadn’t thought it was a stupid question. “Do you not trust me?”

“I never said such a thing!” You say defensively, frowning at such an accusation. 

“Well, if I can’t promise you anything else, then I can promise you this: I know where I am going.” He gives you such a mature, grown-up smile that you’re left momentarily dumbfounded. Oscar was respectable when you were kids, but he was also childish. He ran around the castle, made a ruckus, and went with his tail tucked between his legs when your mentors scolded him for daring to set foot on royal grounds. Now, everything he did was meticulous and calculated. He was, no doubt, a practiced knight. “Just to ease your mind, your highness.”

You continue to follow along after him, murmuring under your breath upon the passing of a beat, “I never said that…” but Oscar only chuckles, which appears to be a pretty pleasant sound. You can’t help the way you soften at his affable tittering, finding it reminiscent of your younger days once more. You were sure Max had carefully orchestrated this whole ordeal. It was just like him to pick a guard who could effortlessly take your mind off the dire situation, and one who could do it just by existing at that.

“We’ll be coming up on a small village soon. It’s safer to pass through it, as the surrounding area is heavily populated.” Oscar stops to let you catch up, but also so he can reach into his bag. He withdraws a long, thick cloak and tosses it to you. “You’ll need to wear that to disguise yourself. If anyone recognizes you, it could ruin Max’s plan.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to just go out of the way and around?” Despite your suggestion, you tie the cloak around your neck and pull the hood up, letting the tattered fabric drape over your humble skirts. You had made the choice of wearing something less flashy for the journey, yet still retained your honor as a high-class lady in doing so. The sun beat down on you, heat sinking in through the heavy fabric. 

“No. It would extend the journey by a couple of days, and we just can’t afford that time right now. The sooner we get there, the better.” 

“Well, if you’re looking to disguise me,” you say, adjusting your cloak, “This won’t be enough.”

When you both arrived at the village, Oscar deemed that you looked nothing like the princess he was used to. You traded fancy skirts for a torn, ragged gown that you intentionally dragged through the dirt before slipping on. You tucked your plaited hair into a linen scarf beneath the cloak, with the hood doing wonders to shade your face. You looked just like any other lady who wandered about the village. You both had dismounted, choosing to lead your horses by the reins over mossy cobblestone walkways that weaved between humble cottages centered around a large stone well. 

Music echoed off the crowded walls, and the smell of fresh bread wafted from an unknown source. You glanced at Oscar to find him smiling, something you attributed to the familiar reminder of his mother back home, who was probably just pulling out a fresh loaf from the oven to sell. Nicole, a woman you loved to visit whenever you were able to sneak out into the town, was a delightful baker and a respectful one at that. She had denied many offers to work in the castle, claiming she was just happy with her quaint shop. Who could blame her?

He was anxious as he led his horse, worried that the first real person to lay their eyes on you would instantly recognize that face. To him, it felt obvious, for he had spent ages staring upon your beauty and committing every little detail to memory. You pass by a small child and her mother, walking hand in hand. The little girl makes a sound of awe, pointing at the large horses with flair. Her mother tries to stifle her, but you stop. 

“Would you like to pet her?” You ask softly, leaning down to her height. Oscar’s heart is racing for various reasons— For one, it was adorable to see, but also his fingers were twitching around the rein as the woman studied your face. When the little girl nods shyly, you look at her mother. “Would that be okay?”

His shoulders ease when she responds with, “Yes.” No further questioning who you were, or examining you so closely. She was most likely just looking to see if you posed a threat. He stands to the side, unable to hold back a smile as you lift the girl up, holding her close to Fleur’s face. She was a palace horse, which meant she was considerably well-behaved compared to the average pony and was well-mannered in letting a small child stroke her muzzle. You set her down, and she wears a big smile as she wanders back to her mom’s side, clutching her hand once more.

“Thank you, pretty lady!” You grin at the innocent compliment, waggling your fingers in a sweet wave as the two continue on their merry way.

“Of course!” You look back at Oscar, and he catches your contagious grin, though he tries to hide it when he turns away. “What a cute little village,” you say, clapping your hands before continuing to walk along the rough cobbled path. You approach the well in the center, stopping beside an older woman who’s scooping up the water into a bucket. You peer over the edge, eyes wide. “Wow, it’s so clear!”

“It’s rich with minerals. Very replenishing,” the older lady speaks kindly, wrinkled eyes crinkling up in a kind gesture. Oscar stops on the other side of the lady, taking a peek into the water himself. You examine her as she sets one bucket down and then picks up another. Upon being asked what she was doing, she informed you, “I’m taking the water to my granddaughter. She’s sick in bed, and it’s hard for the family to leave her alone.” She looks solemn.

Of course, being the kindhearted woman you are, you glance at Oscar with big, round eyes that make him sigh. “Let me help,” he says, reaching for the buckets that are already full. He’s strong and capable, allowing him to carry most of them without even breaking a sweat. “Where are you taking them?” She looks up at him, in awe of both his strength and generosity. Both of you worry, for just a second, that this could blow your cover, but she doesn’t think twice, thankfully.

“Oh, thank you, young man. Follow me!” So the two of you trail behind her. Oscar carries the buckets while you guide both of the horses. “Are you two passing through?”

“Yes.”

“We’re headed back home,” Oscar says quickly, but inconspicuously. She, thankfully, buys his story and doesn’t question it further. 

Eventually, you arrive at a particularly run-down building, which you quickly discover is the source of the delicious-smelling bread. The front half is a small bakery, the display case filled to the brim with various baked goods. “Oh dear,” the grandmother murmurs. “She’s been stress baking again…”

You all step into the threshold of their home, located at the back of the building. An older gentleman wanders out of a room, eyes widening at the sight of you and Oscar standing in the main entrance of his home. “Oh my,” he clears his throat, fussing over straightening the decor and floor mats. “I didn’t think we’d have visitors.” 

“We just came to deliver your water,” Oscar explains with a nod. The man, whom you’ve deduced as this lady’s son, given their various similarities in physical features, takes some of Oscar’s workload and guides him to a different room to set everything down.

The grandmother smiles at you warmly, placing a hand on your cloaked shoulder. “He’s quite the sweet boy,” she says as she pats you twice. You, confused by her statement, just nod and smile.

“May I take a look at the bakery?” You ask as Oscar steps back into the entrance, running a hand through his hair. After a day of travel, it remained effortlessly intact, flowing so beautifully from his scalp. You were jealous.

“Of course.” The old lady nods, but remains where she is, which tells you she’d be staying there while the two of you venture off again. “Safe travels, you two. And thanks again for the help.”

“Of course.” When you shut the door behind you, Oscar sighs. “What?”

“You are far too kind, your h—”

“Y/N,” you correct. “I’m not a princess, remember?”

“Right.”

You both approach the stand at the front of the bakery. The hanging sign is crooked, and the roof is a bit wobbly, but it’s a cute little shop nonetheless. A woman anxiously wrings her hands as she surveys her surroundings, a frown etched on her features. Yet, the moment she lays eyes on the two of you, she perks up. “Welcome!” She sputters out quickly, rushing to stand at the front of the stand.

“Good morning,” you greet, examining the contents of the display case. You tug on Oscar’s sleeve, bringing his attention to you and away from the woman’s face. No doubt the mother of the sick child. “What looks good?” 

He studies the contents, and you take note of the way his eyes seem to sparkle. You follow his gaze to a plate of lamingtons. It was a traditional delicacy in Oscar’s home, something his grandmother had always made. You tried them a few times, and you had to admit they were quite delicious. But he shakes his head softly, tearing his gaze away. “You can get whatever you’d like, your…” He clears his throat. “Y/N.”

“Some of those lamingtons, please,” you point to the sweet treats with a smile, and then turn your gaze to the few items sitting on top of the counter as she hurriedly bags up your order. “And a loaf of bread. Please,” you add on, making sure to keep your manners. She tells you the exact price, and you dig around in your little coin purse, offering over that and more.

“Oh,” she says, counting the money. “I think you made a mistake.”

You hand the items to Oscar, who looks like an overexcited child at the sight of the familiar treats inside the bag. But, before he indulges in such a delight, he puts them in his saddlebag to save for later, making sure they won’t be crushed. “No, it’s alright,” you say, pushing her coin-filled hand back towards her. “Keep the change, ma’am.”

She glances down at the money, tears brimming in her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs, turning away to hide her shameful tears. You smile before you grab Fleur’s reins and continue along, giving her some privacy to handle her emotions. Oscar’s shoulder bumps against yours, and you turn to him with a curious look.

“I didn’t know you liked lamingtons,” he says with a teasing grin. 

“Well, they’re not my favorite,” you say with an easy shrug. “But I bought them for you. Think of it as a thank-you gift.”

Once again, he’s taken aback by your sheer generosity. After handling that ordeal, it should have meant that you two could now leave without any further problems. But of course, it wasn’t that easy. Things were never that easy. The town had been eerily quiet, but he had chalked it up to it being a workday, which meant people were probably out in the surrounding forest fulfilling their responsibilities. But as you neared the plaza, the music grew louder, and with it came the sound of stomping feet and cheering. 

Oscar looks disgruntled at the sight of people dancing in a circle as a live band plays a tune. It’s catchy, given how you bop your head and move to the beat of the music, but it’s also a poor sign. Large crowds meant it was easier to be spotted. His shoulders were tense the closer you got. "What's going on?” You ask, unable to stop grinning. 

“Some sort of festival, I’d assume.” He moves forward, unrestrained by their contagious joy. But you, who was more susceptible to lighthearted fun, tugged on his sleeve to stop him. He looked at you, your eyes big just as they were moments ago when you silently asked him to help the old lady. “Your highness,” he murmurs, looking down at you with restraint. “We need to keep moving.”

You look at him, and then back to the townspeople. You were hypnotized by swishing skirts, clapping hands, and braided hair that spun out with every twirl. “Please? Just for a little while.” It reminded you of the grand balls your family used to throw at home, or the big festivals they held in the town. You always had so much fun dressing up for the occasion and dancing with whoever tickled your fancy for the night. 

He hesitated, but eventually gave in. “Fine.” You clap your hands cheerfully. “But we have to stay along the edges!”

You agreed, but it wasn’t your fault when the two of you were being ushered out into the circle by a woman just a few years older than you. Her hair was pinned back by a beautiful hairpiece, probably a family heirloom, and her young eyes were filled with mirth. 

“You two should join,” she says with a large grin, examining the pair before her. You stood close without even realizing, your shoulders brushing in such an intimate manner. “Husband and wife, yes?”

Oscar freezes. You, however, remain calm. “Yes,” you say gently, covering for his panic before she grows suspicious. It made more sense for the two of you to be a traveling couple. In fact, it was the perfect front. Or, at least it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that his cheeks were a deep rosy red. 

“Well!” She claps her hands and then pushes both of you from the small of your backs towards the circle. “Can’t have a couple sitting to the side! Enjoy the festivities!”

You both stumble into the circle, laughter bubbling from your lips as Oscar looks utterly dumbfounded at this situation. “This is not what I meant by staying near the edge,” he grumbles. 

You only smile, eyes full of a barely contained laugh. “It’s fine. A little dancing won’t kill you.”

“It might. I don’t dance,” he says it urgently as you’re both swept into the music, moving alongside skillful dancers who flow effortlessly.

“Everyone says that, and everyone is usually lying.”

“I mean it. I’m terrible,” he says shamefully, shaking his head.

“I’ll teach you, then. The Royal Court likes its traditions,” you mutter for only him to hear, and then you watch as his cheeks bloom into a pretty pink color that rivaled the sky of a setting sun. You guide his hands into position. One rests on your waist, and the other is intertwined with yours. You led him to the best of your abilities, but it was hard since you were usually the follower when it came to dancing. “Step together. Now turn— No, not that way—!” You watch hopelessly as Oscar stumbles into another couple, who look surprised at the intrusion. 

“Sorry!” You both say at the same time. Thankfully, they laugh at the little mishap, but Oscar looks somewhat mortified. “Did they not teach you to dance? Knights are supposed to take chivalry classes.”

“I always skipped those.”

You take note of his visible stress, and you slide your hands up to his shoulders. “Breathe,” you instruct quietly, looping your arms around his neck as the music comes to a slow. You shift closer. He looks down to watch your feet, but you keep your gaze pinned to his studious expression. “See? You’re learning.”

“I am not,” he mutters stubbornly. “I’m just surviving this hell.”

“Oh, quit being dramatic.” You noticed how his anxious grip loosened. His fingers were no longer digging into your hips, but were now resting on them respectfully. “You’re doing great.”

“I stepped on you,” he pointed out.

“Only once.”

“Twice.”

“Well,” you laugh, and his chest tightens. “No need to keep count.”

He spins you naturally, eyes pinned to your face as you grin in the afternoon light, delighted by his skill. The music shifts again, and you both take it as an exit, jumping out of the circle with shared, quiet laughter. Your arm remained locked around his, despite there being no need.

“See, wasn’t that fun?” The same lady from before beamed at the two of you. Her hair was down now, cascading over her shoulders beautifully. “Your wife is an excellent dancer.” She clasps Oscar’s shoulder, shaking his hand and murmuring something under her breath that you don’t quite hear. However, he seems flustered after the fact. 

“Well,” you say, still grinning despite the secrecy. “He’s learning!” He tugs you away, and you turn to give the woman one last wave.

“Safe travels!” She calls out, waving back with a dramatic flair.

“Sorry,” you murmur when you’re away from the plaza, relocating your tied-up horses. He helps you mount Fleur, taking his time with checking her tack before he does the same himself. “For being a hindrance, I mean.” You take the reins, leading her into a small trot once he’s ready to go.

“No need.” He shakes his head. “It was fun, honestly. Plus…” He reaches into his saddlebag, pulling out one of the pastries you bought earlier. “This was a nice surprise.”

“I knew it,” you murmured with a cheeky grin. “I’m just glad you didn’t mind me playing along with the whole husband and wife thing.”

Oscar nearly choked, but he slammed his fist against his chest and nodded. “Yeah… I didn’t mind,” he repeats, much softer this time.

You spend the next two days traveling, much to your dismay. Thankfully, by the third night, you had grown accustomed to sleeping in a tent and actually found it quite relaxing. When you were bored and waiting for Oscar to wake in the early hours, you would write down little notes and doodles in the journal you had packed with you. 

Night was falling again, and you were still traveling deep in a forest. He was continuously making sporadic turns, which would not pique your interest. How did he know this route so well? It was as if it had been imprinted into his mind. This area of the forest was icy at night, causing you to shiver even as you tightened the cloak around you. Oscar, who was riding beside you, took note of your frigidity. “Come on,” he says before suddenly changing directions once more. You both progress into a gallop as he leads you through the forest.

Finally, a small, rickety cabin comes into view. It took about thirty minutes of straight galloping, but when Oscar comes to a stop, you feel absolute relief. The mere idea of getting to sleep inside a warm building rather than freezing to death in a small tent is enough to make you want to cry. Even if just for one night, this cabin has already provided you with so much joy. He dismounts his horse, pulling him under a small awning at the side of the cabin and tying him up. He, as always, helps you off your horse as well. But before he can take all the gear off and tie her up, you take charge and start to do it yourself.

“Your highness,” he murmurs, confused. “I can do it. You should be resting.”

“If anything, you should be resting. Besides, this saves us time!” You declare firmly. He decides it’s not worth arguing and allows you to take care of your own horse while he tends to his. You stroke her muzzle, praising her softly as you tie her up. She nuzzles against you, making you giggle at the warm gesture. Oscar tells you to stay put while he checks out the inside of the cabin, but when he exits, he gives you a thumbs-up to let you know it’s safe. You gather the things you’ll need for the night and carry them inside with his help, laying them out by the bed tucked in the corner. “How’d you know this was here?”

“It’s marked down in our map room,” he explains as he crouches down by the fireplace, tossing in a few logs. “It’s for when we travel, so we have a warm place to stay, especially in the winter. I figured you could use a break from sleeping on the hard ground.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“Plus…” He smiles to himself. “There’s a surprise in the back.” You tilt your head, and he looks up at you with a slight grin. “Come on.” He momentarily abandons the fireplace to lead you to the back of the cabin. You see the steam curling up from behind a small brick wall before you actually see the source, but your heart is hammering with excitement.

You gasp at the sight of a natural hot spring. The water is steaming, flowing under the reflection of the moon above. It’s clear enough to see the smooth bottom, with makeshift seating arranged on the sides. “This is incredible,” you cheer, clapping your hands. You were in desperate need of a real bath, and not just rinsing yourself with a bit of the water supply and a small bar of soap. 

“The water’s warm. You should rest.”

“You won’t?”

“I’ll… Keep watch.” He hesitates, shifting in his typical awkward fashion. You’d think days of traveling would bring you closer — and it has — but he still has his walls up. Not that you can blame him. 

“You’ve kept watch for days. Please, I want you to rest too.” You can see the way he hesitates, but finally his reservation breaks, and his whole body seems to ease. You can tell you’ve managed to convince him, so you clap your hands cheerfully once more.

“Alright.” Still, he turns away and allows you the privacy to change without any prying eyes. You peek at his form curiously before slipping out of your worn clothes and then stepping into the spring. Instantly, your muscles relax as the warmth soaks in, drawing out a long sigh from your lips. You lean back against the edge, eyes shut in total relaxation.

The spring is tucked away between mossy stone walls, the steam curling upward in slow, lazy spirals. The sky had long since transformed into a deep, silky indigo, littered with shimmering, diamond-like stars. You felt as though you could sit in the water for eternity, letting the warmth fight off the frigid atmosphere of the forest. 

“Go ahead,” you whisper, turning your back to him to allow him the same privacy he had given you. You wait until you hear the water rippling to turn back around, seeing Oscar hiss as he settles into the warm water. It stings at first, but then the serenity of the fresh minerals and snug water seeps in, and you feel entirely at peace. You sit across from each other in the small spring, legs brushing together every time you dare to move. 

He gazes at the water, wanting to remain respectful by avoiding eye contact. The water reaches your mid chest, but the steam has settled in a thick layer over the top, allowing your nude body to remain masked by the spring, and his as well. You, however, are intrigued by the faint scarring that peeks out above the water, running down from his shoulder.

“May I ask,” you begin, hoping you don’t offend him, “How did you get that scar?” You point to the one in question. He glances down at where your finger was gesturing, and his fingers trace along the pale, faded line embedded into his skin.

“Oh, this…” He begins solemnly, sighing dramatically. “The first battle I ever went into… I was fighting this guy, and his sword slashed right through my armor, leaving me to bleed out. I almost died.”

You gasp, hand covering your mouth in such a formal manner. “Oh my goodness! Are you serious?” You raise your brows, shocked that you had never heard such a tale.

And then he laughs so easily, and you feel your cheeks begin to warm. “No,” he says honestly, looking quite pleased with his little trick. “It happened during training. Someone made a mistake and cut me with their sword. It healed quickly, but it did hurt.”

“Ah… You tricked me.” You jut your bottom lip out in a bit of a pout, and his face is stricken with panic when he gazes at you.

“Sorry—”

Your turn to giggle. His expression fades into confusion as you hide your laughter behind your palm. “I was just teasing. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to joke around.” Your gaze turns fond when you look at him, and for a moment — just a moment — you catch him staring. It wasn’t in the same way your suitors did. They looked at you like you were a prize, somewhat hungry for beauty and glory. It wasn’t the way the townspeople looked at you, either. They glanced at you like you were sunshine personified, basking in your bright presence. No, this was different. This look was so uniquely Oscar that it was hard to put a finger on it, but eventually, you reduced it to being pure, unadulterated adoration. 

“This is the first time I’ve felt seen,” you breathe out like it’s a confession. You’re surprised at your own words, blinking with confusion. 

Oscar looks confused, and he shifts his head in that cute tilt. “You’ve been seen your whole life, your highness.” He wasn’t wrong. Since the day you were born, hundreds of people have been constantly keeping an eye on you.

“Watched, yes,” you say clinically, “But seen? That’s different. I feel like you see me, Oscar. The real me.”

“Well,” he begins, unsure of what to say. He knows what he wants to say, but he refrains, because now isn’t the right moment. Not when you’re vulnerable and opening up to him. No, that’d be cruel. “I’ve seen you since we were little,” he mutters, eyes steadily pinned to you. “You’re the kindest person I know, Y/N.”

He proves your point without even realizing it when he addresses you by name rather than a formal title. You inch closer, water rippling as you wade through it. You don’t touch, besides the occasional brush of his foot against your leg by mere accident, but you feel years closer. 

“I remember when I was first told that I shouldn’t talk to you.” You say it so softly, recalling the memory as if it were poisonous. You sink back into the water soberly, your expression nothing short of somber. “I never understood why kindness was supposed to have limits. I was meant to be prim and proper for the nobles, but I didn’t have to bat an eye at those beneath me?”

“I remember, too,” he says. Oscar recounts the tale with a smile, but you decide it’s him being sympathetic to you. He knew you hated those rules when you were younger, and nothing came as more of a joy than Max becoming a king and striking through all those unspoken rules when he opened the castle gates to the public for events. There was no longer a division between the people. “I used to think you’d forget about me. Hattie always teased me for continuing to pick the flowers even though I wasn’t allowed to give them to you.”

“I never did forget.”

He looks at you, the steam clouding his view, but in his eyes, you’re nothing short of perfection. Even now, when your face is coated in a thin layer of dirt, and your hair is sticking out every which way, he knows you’re utterly flawless. He sucks in a short breath before admitting, “I was in love with you, then.”

You blink, unable to mask your surprise. “Oscar?”

He leans in closer, just a smidge, but it’s enough to take your breath away. Your eyes trail down to his lips, tracing the details of his face now that he’s so close. But then he pulls back, and your immersion is shattered. “We should head back inside,” he whispers, his face so close you can feel his soft breath against your face. 

“Yeah,” you say, pulling away as well. “Right.” You turn away, allowing him to step out of the water and dry off before dressing himself. Oscar turns his head to the side and shuts his eyes, extending a warm cloak for you to wrap yourself in when you get out. You dry off and then change into a fresh set of clothes, leaving the old ones out to dry on a rock beside the spring.

He starts a fire while you work on toasting some of the bread you bought at the last village. It’s not much, but it’s still something. Plus, it tastes better when warmed up. You sit by the fireplace, your shoulder brushing against his as you drape a warm blanket over both of you, snuggling up under the wool. You split a piece of bread in half and offer him the bigger side. Oscar, however, is clearly not having it and trades with you, much to your dismay. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, prompted by your slight frown. You shrug, but he’s already read you like a book. “Worried about Max?”

“Yeah,” you say meekly, nibbling at your bread. He scoots just a bit closer, letting you lean your head against his shoulder in such a warm manner. You feel at home with Oscar sidled beside you, his warmth radiating off his body. “I just hope he’s okay.”

“He is. I know it.”

“You can’t promise that, though.”

“I’m fairly certain,” he says with a soft smile, handing you his last bite of bread. You want to deny, given that you already ate the bigger side, but your stomach rumbles, and you’re not gonna say no when you’re in such a sad state. “He has a whole kingdom to fight tooth and nail for him. A few insiders won’t change that. I mean, he’s going against a kingdom notorious for the fact that it’s never successfully overthrown another country.”

Truthfully, that does make you feel better. You nod and snuggle in further, letting your eyes shut as you drift off into slumber, feeling much better after his sincere reassurance. He sits there, frozen as you sleep on him while he watches the fire. If you asked him to burn alive in that fire… For you? He would.

He lifts you with ease, carrying you to the mattress and burying you under the thick blankets. You stir, blinking at him with bleary eyes. “Shh,” he hushed softly, brushing hair from your forehead. “Get some sleep.”

You lazily tug on his sleeve. Once again, he’s struck by those cute eyes of yours, and he’s unable to say no. You sleep soundly that night, tucked against his chest, feeling right at home despite being miles away.

When you arrive at the safe house in the following days, you feel relieved that you’re able to relax after days of travel. The place is nice, allowing you to fully relax for the first time since you arrived at the cabin and the hot spring. This time, you can bathe for real, allowing yourself soap and hot water. You take care of your hygiene first, and then you sit down at a table in the main room, rays from the rising sun shining in through the window as you work on writing your letter. Oscar is asleep on the sofa, finally getting some much-needed rest after looking after you for so long.

When he finally wakes up, he takes a shower himself and then takes your letter, which is folded up neatly in a pretty envelope. He dresses for the day, pulling on a cloak. “Where are you going?” You inquire gently, fidgeting with your hands under the table. Traveling had been able to take your mind off things, but now that you were actually at the safe house, you were reminded of what was going on beyond those walls.

“I’m gonna head into the nearby village,” he says, reaching out, tousling your hair affectionately. “I’ll deliver your letter to the post office and get some supplies. You need a real meal.” You give him a pointed look, and he smiles. “And so do I.”

“Alright. Be safe, please.” You squeeze his palm. He can tell that you feel uncertain, so he squeezes it back, offering you a warm expression.

“I will, I promise.”

He stays true to it. Around two hours later, Oscar rides back. He puts his horse in the stable before carrying everything inside, setting it all out on the counter. He got food to last a few days, as well as a few other essentials that he kept tucked away in a bag in the corner. You eyed it curiously, but first helped him put everything away.

“What’s this?” You ask finally, reaching for the bag. He quickly snatches it away, holding it behind his back. “Hm?”

“You’re not allowed to see yet,” he says with a bright smile, making your aching heart feel a bit lighter. It’s enough to brighten your day. “It’s a surprise. I promise I’ll show you eventually.”

The next few days are slow and steady. You cook together, make little crafts together, and ride out in the forest together. Oscar even teaches you the proper ways to swing a sword, with your hands on your hips to steady you as you grip the handle with both hands. You weren’t particularly significant, but he praised you nonetheless, staring at you as if you were the best swordswoman around.

He rides out into town one day and returns with a letter in his hand. He takes off his cloak, hanging it up by the door before delivering the letter to you. You open it with nimble, shaking fingers, hoping it is what you were wishing for.

Dear Y/N,

I am happy to announce that the safety of our kingdom has been secured, and it is now safe for you and Oscar to begin your journey back home. It was a hard-fought battle, but in the end, we prevailed as a strong, united country. I am eager to see you and Oscar again.

Sincerely,

Max.

You feel tears brim in your eyes as you read the letter, jumping up to embrace your dutiful knight. His arms loop around your waist, and he laughs into your neck, holding you dangerously close.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” You pull away, looking into his eyes with newfound mirth. He was just happy to see the light return to you. You were good at faking it, but Oscar could tell that you had been feeling down the past few days, constantly worried about the state of your home. 

“Stay put,” he whispers, slowly letting you go. You watch him retreat into the bedroom that you had been respectfully sharing the past few nights, keeping your distance under the covers, and then waking up tangled in each other’s arms. He comes back out and offers you the mysterious bag he had come back with a few days ago. “Open it.”

You do. You peel apart the top of the bag and retrieve its contents. It’s a beautiful gown, and in your favorite color too. You hold it up, soaking in all of its beauty with utter awe. “Oscar…” You glance at him, and he shifts like he’s unsure what to make of your reaction. “Oh, it’s beautiful. But why did you wait?” You fold it up, tucking it into your arm.

“I wanted it to be a celebration. Something to remember the occasion.” You pull him in close, your forehead pressed against his.

But you don’t kiss. Not yet.

The journey back home was far shorter than the way up. You can now travel openly without worrying about being recognized. You passed through that same town again, saying hello to a few familiar faces who were awestruck upon the revelation of your true identity. But nothing brought you more joy than getting to ride back onto castle grounds, being welcomed by hundreds of familiar faces. 

You caught up with every castle servant when you arrived home, spending time getting familiar with your home once more. You had spent days out there, away from home, and it made you even more grateful for the life you lived. The only part that disappointed you was that Oscar was now back to his regular duties, which gave you minimal time to see him.

See, while you were getting accustomed to the few changes that had been made, Oscar was arranging a private audience with the king. Max was happy to see his friend back in one piece, alongside his cousin, whom the kingdom was pleased to find safe and sound after the incident that took place. 

He drops to his knee before his majesty, head bowed with utmost respect. “Your highness,” he begins. “I’m here to ask for your court's permission and marry your cousin, Princess Y/N. I am here not as a knight, but as a man who harbors nothing but respect towards such a beautiful, kindhearted woman. I want to preserve her joy and protect her smile for eternity. So I ask, please, if you will grant me this honor.”

“It’s about time,” Max scoffs, clearly pleased at such a formal request. “I have no reason to say no, Sir Oscar Piastri. You have proven to be nothing short of a loyal and dutiful knight. I see the way you look at her, and I recognize your endless love. All I ask is that you treat her with the kindness she deserves.”

He’s taken aback by the fact that Max was well aware of his feelings of courtship, but promises to honor his wish anyway. 

Oscar meets you in the courtyard. You walk arm in arm through the small garden, discussing memories from when you were kids, and making new ones. But when he stops, you spin around on your heel to see why.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, hands flying to cover your mouth. He’s fallen to one knee, back straight as he extends you a velvet box. Inside sits a shimmering ring that catches the sunlight and reflects across your beautiful gown. “Oscar—”

“My princess,” he says with that cheeky little grin. “Will you do me the honor of making me the happiest man there could ever be, and will you marry me?” Before you can answer, he adds on, “I’ve already been granted the king’s permission—”

“Yes!” You interrupt, pulling him to his feet, and he stumbles and laughs as you pull him into a warm embrace. “Of course I will marry you, you fool!”

And finally, you’re able to share a tender kiss under the lantern light of the garden. The same gardens you once played in as kids. 

You couldn’t be happier.

Knock knock.

“Come in,” you call out as you fuss with your earrings in the mirror. The door behind you slowly opens, and your suit-clad fiancé steps in. You gasp, spinning on your heel. “Oscar! You’re not supposed to see me,” you say as you make a flustered attempt to hide your dress, which was physically impossible given its grand size.

He stands there, awestruck by your beauty for a solid second before he steps forward. “This is an exception, because it’s important.” You relax, your expression softening when he stops in front of you. “You look beautiful, by the way.” He pecks your lips, hand grazing your cheek, before he pulls away. “Turn around.”

You do so slowly, the train of your dress twisting up in the turn. He helps you straighten it out before he gathers your hair. His fingers graze against the back of your neck, making you shudder. Oscar places a gentle kiss on the exposed skin of your neck before pulling your hair up and pinning it in place. 

“There,” he murmurs against your scalp as he kisses your head. “Look.”

You turn to the side, gasping in such a gentle manner at the sight. The elegant hairpiece of the woman you met months ago in a passing town was now adorning your hair, complementing your beautiful gown perfectly. “Oscar, how did you—”

“She gave it to me that day,” he says as he begins to fix up his work. He was always so gentle with you. “Told me that it was a good luck charm, and would bless us with a successful marriage. You’re meant to pass it down, like an heirloom.” He steps back, admiring his work. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? Oh, I love it. Thank you…” You turn to face him, both of your faces somewhat flushed. It’s quiet as you pull him closer, eyes shut, foreheads pressed together. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.” He pulls back, though his hands linger on your waist for a second longer. “I’ll see you down there, then.”

“Can’t wait.”

[piastriprincess]

someone to hold me down ² ⸻ lando norris x reader .

read part one here !

featuring  lando  norris  ,  love  island  au  ,  strangers  to  friends  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn word  count 20.3k (part two) author’s  note  sorry i'm late ... do you guys still love me be honest 🥺👉👈 don't blame me !! i wanted it to be perfect for yall !! i'm so endlessly grateful for all the love on this silly silly fic .  i truly wrote this one for me , and the reception is completely unexpected and totally incredible so i want to thank you all so much for your patience and for coming along for the ride . you make me so so happy to be able to share my writing with you all <3 and on god lando norris will be getting at least one win this weekend (his girl!!!!) as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  !!  title  is  from  came  here  for  love  by  sigala  ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not,” you lie, pushing your sunglasses up your nose as you watch Carlos trace circles on Emma’s bare arm by the pool. 

“Oh, so your jaw’s just doing that clenchy thing all on its own?” Lando raises his eyebrows at you. “Might need Camilla to check you for TMJ, then.”

You force yourself to relax your face, turning over on the daybed to face him. “See? Perfectly chill. No medical intervention needed.”

“Right, because chill people definitely need to announce how chill they are,” he snorts, but his smile is soft, understanding. It’s the same smile you’ve been giving each other for the past week as you’ve leaned on each other to heal the pieces of your broken hearts. “Want me to go spill my smoothie on him?”

“Tempting,” you sigh. “But Emma borrowed Nicole’s bikini, and it doesn’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire.” You pretend to adjust your top casually, stealing another glance across the pool. Carlos is massaging her shoulders now. You let your jaw tick, just once. “Besides, we’re above petty revenge plots.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been perfecting my accidental shoulder-check technique all week just in case you ask.”

This is what you love about Lando — even when everything feels like it’s crumbling, he still manages to make you laugh. The two of you chose each other again at last night’s recoupling, both too emotionally bruised to put yourselves out there with anyone new just yet. Plus, it’s been easy being coupled up: no expectations, no pressure, just the two of you. Helping each other until your real perfect match hopefully walks through the doors.

Georgia’s laugh rings out from the kitchen, bright and performative as Jack whispers something in her ear, and Lando tenses. Just slightly; probably no one else would notice it. But spending practically every second of the last week with your best friend means you can read him better than most. 

“That’s it,” you say, hauling yourself up and grabbing his hand. “Emergency best friend intervention. We’re going to the gym to bother Oscar and Lily because we’re too cool to care about our exes.”

“Are we too cool to care?” he questions, but he lets you pull him to his feet. 

“Nah,” you say, grinning. “But we’re pretty good at pretending.”

When you get to the gym, Oscar drops down from the pull-up bar, immediately engaging Lando in the complicated handshake they’d spent the entire afternoon yesterday creating. 

“Your afternoon entertainment has arrived,” you say dryly, sitting on one of the benches with Lily as you watch the two of them. “AKA, we’re avoiding Carlos and Georgia.”

She scoots over, making room for you. “Understandable. How are you two doing today?”

“Better than expected,” Lando says cheerfully, snapping Oscar’s towel at his thigh. “Got my girl here, got you guys. Trying not to pay attention to the rest.” 

“Shocking,” Oscar deadpans, snark made slightly less effective by the fact that he has to jump away from the towel. “Who could have predicted that surrounding yourself with decent people would make your experience better than… whatever that mess was.”

“Hey, we learned from our mistakes,” you protest, smiling. “Even if we were kind of forced to.”

“Sometimes people need a push to realize what’s right in front of them,” Lily says, and there’s something pointed in it you can’t quite figure out.

“I’m just happy I don’t have to pretend to like Carlos anymore,” Oscar says matter-of-factly as he picks up a pair of free weights, sitting on the bench opposite you.

“You didn’t like him?” you ask, surprised. 

He shrugs, starting his reps. “He wasn’t good enough for you.” A rush of warmth swells in your chest at the brusque sincerity of his voice. 

“Agreed,” Lando says quickly, poking at Oscar’s shoulder to mess with his form.

Oscar pauses mid-bicep curl, swatting at the other boy. “Oi. Can you not?”

“Aw, but it’s so fun to wind you up, Osc,” Lando grins unrepentantly, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

Oscar raises an eyebrow like he can’t believe you find his antics amusing. “Christ, you two really are made for each other,” he mutters, and Lando kicks viciously at his shin under the bench, cheeks pink. 

You glance at Lily, and she shrugs a little too innocently. Before you can demand an explanation for why everyone’s acting like they’re in on a joke you know nothing about, George’s voice booms across the lawn.

“I got a text!” he bellows, and your heart sinks. You should have known there’d be a challenge coming; the recoupling was too chill. The audience could have seen George and Gemma getting back together from a mile away, and even though Max and Charles switched between Chloe and Camilla, they’d only been together a little over a week, so there was barely any drama to it. If the best footage they got was you and Lando’s extended post-recoupling bit about the four of them being swingers, they’ll definitely need some more content to spice things up. 

George unfolds all six-foot-one of himself, towering over the beanbags as he reads. “Islanders, it’s time to find out how well you really know each other in today’s challenge, Knowing Me Knowing You. Answer questions about your partner to win points, and the couple with the most points will win a special prize. Hashtag couple goals, hashtag brains over bants.”

“I think we’ve got a proper shot at this,” Lando says, ever-competitive, slinging his arm around your shoulders as you walk to the firepit. “There’s Osc and Lily, but other than that everyone’s only been in a couple for, like, three days. We know each other.”

“Anything’s possible,” you say neutrally. But he’s right — you do know Lando. You know so much about his family and his close friends they practically feel like yours, know he hums when he’s happy and rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous. You know he likes to fall asleep listening to Bob Dylan and that he tells people his favorite movie is Fight Club, but it’s actually How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. You know the way his eyes twinkle when he’s being sarcastic and the wrinkle that pops up on his forehead when he’s concentrating. You could teach a class in Lando Norris at this point, if you wouldn’t be the only one interested in taking it.

“We’ve got this, cariño,” Carlos says, and your head snaps up on instinct. He’s ostensibly talking to Emma, but he’s looking straight at you with a smug smirk on his face, like even after he got everything he wanted, he can’t resist twisting the knife a little further. You know he intends it to be vicious, but if you’re being honest, it actually feels sort of pathetic. 

Lando squeezes your shoulder tight, and when you look at him you can see the muscle in his jaw working, like he’s angry again on your behalf. But you just smile, grabbing two of the heart-shaped chalkboards from the pile on the firepit and handing one to him. “Bring it on,” you say, tapping your board against his, and he beams. 

George and Gemma play emcees for the afternoon, standing on the other side of the firepit with a stack of question cards. They explain the format, which seems simple enough: they ask a question about one of you, and you both answer it. If you match, you get a point. George taps the cards against his hands like he’s trying to even a stack of papers, and you think absentmindedly that he was kind of born to be a game show host.

“Right,” Gemma says, squinting as she reads off the card. “First question is for the boys. What is your partner’s biggest green flag in a relationship?”

You tap the chalk against your board, thinking, but Lando’s already scribbling as if he knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Someone who remembers the little things, you write finally, immediately wondering if it’s too complicated to get.

“Alright, let’s see those answers,” George says plummily. One by one, the couples reveal their boards. Oscar and Lily go word-for-word perfect; Georgia and Jack are laughably off; Molly and Yuki match with nice butt and air high-five across the firepit. 

You’re last, and you find yourself holding your breath as Lando turns his board around. “I said attention to detail-slash-the little things,” he reads off his board. When you turn yours around to show the same answer, the grin he gives you is blinding. We got this, he mouths exaggeratedly, pointing between the two of you. You roll your eyes in return, but you’re smiling back. 

The game rolls on, some couples doing better than others. By the third round, Emma’s rolling her eyes so hard at Carlos’ wrong answers you think they might stick that way. You try not to take too much pleasure in watching them crash and burn. Georgia and Jack don’t fare much better, although they actually seem to have had at least one conversation; Jack just keeps overthinking his answers, his chalkboard a mess of smudged white marks every time he flips it around. Charles and Camilla do fine, while Max and Chloe scrape through with a few lucky matches. You catch Lando’s eye, and when he grins back at you mischievously, you know he’s wondering whether they would have done better with their original partners too.

Franco and Nicole and Molly and Yuki do surprisingly well, holding their own, and George and Gemma sail through along with them. But the challenge really comes down to Oscar and Lily against you and Lando. 

Question after question, you’re in perfect sync. When the girls have to guess their boy’s favorite place, you match Lando’s answer of mum and dad’s for sunday roast perfectly. On the next question, he nails what you think your worst personality trait is (laughing at inappropriate moments, which is immediately proven when Carlos and Emma miss their fifth straight answer and you burst into giggles). 

“Last question,” George says, and you can tell he loves stretching out the moment of suspense. “What is your boy’s biggest fear?”

You don’t know how you know the answer — a gut feeling, maybe, or just the instinctual way you understand him. But you know it as soon as you hear the question. You scribble your answer hurriedly, looking up for a moment to watch Lando write, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth. 

When it’s time to hear your answers, Oscar says letting people down while Lily writes hornets (which was a good guess, to be fair; he’s told you the story of his harrowing escape from the wasps in his bathroom at least twice in the past month.) But they miss all the same, and that means it all comes down to this answer, to you and Lando.

“I said never being taken seriously,” you say, flipping your board. 

Lando blinks, staring at the board and then you like you’ve peeled back a layer of his skin. Suddenly, your body floods with panic that it’s too much, too raw and real of an answer for a stupid villa challenge. 

He turns his board around, and you read the messy scrawl: not being taken seriously by the people i care about.

“And with that… perfect score! You and Lando are our winners,” Gemma grins. 

“Get in,” Lando cheers, smile megawatt-bright as he tosses his chalkboard into the air. Before you can really process it, he darts across the deck, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. He spins you in a circle, and for a moment you’re weightless, forgetting everything except how lovely it feels to really and truly know someone and be known in return.

“Oi, put me down, you maniac,” you giggle, breathless, and he obliges, setting you down on the deck. His hands rest warm on your waist, and when you look up at him the light catches in his eyes, that same indescribable color you’ve been studying for weeks. 

They’re everything, you think suddenly. The ocean, the grass, the entire sky. 

Your laughter dies in your throat. In your chest, something clicks into place.

Oh. Oh no. This cannot be happening. You cannot be feeling what you just unmistakably felt for your best friend. 

“Mate, your phone’s buzzing,” Oscar points out, clearing his throat, and you don’t know how long you just stared into Lando’s eyes. It could have been seconds, and just as easily could have been years. 

Lando blinks hard, stepping back from you just slightly as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Congrats,” he reads, voice rough. “As the winners of today’s challenge, you’ll be spending the night in the Hideaway.”

That’s when you know production wasn’t expecting you two to sweep the way you did. They’re sending you to the Hideaway. As in, the only separate bedroom in the villa, where established couples get to go once they’ve proven their commitment to each other, or whatever bullshit you remember them saying so that they could finally spend a night alone. The Hideaway is where things happen. And you’re headed there, in a platonic couple with the guy you’ve just realized you do not have platonic feelings for.

You feel your cheeks flame as everyone cheers. Lando grins, playing into it as he grabs your hand. “Right, see you all tomorrow morning then,” he jokes, like he can pull you across the lawn and through the picket-fence gate right now. You force a laugh, hoping it sounds lighter than the thundering heartbeat in your chest.

“Not so fast,” Gemma says, looping her arm through yours, and you glance over at her unsurely. “We’ve got to get our girl ready.”

You’re not sure you even want to know what she means. 

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter into your hands an hour later. You’ve been sitting in the bedroom having the same argument for nearly the entire time, and you’re starting to feel like you’re losing ground. “We’re not even a proper couple.”

“Sorry, hun, but they’re not budging on this,” the producer shrugs. “Love Island tradition. You go to the Hideaway, you wear something nice.”

“As in nice pajamas?” you ask hopefully, and the stare she gives you in return is withering. 

Lily and Gemma are sitting by your feet, already rifling through your suitcase. “Oh, your friends from home prepped you well. This one is perfect,” Gemma says, holding up a pink satin bustier you didn’t even know you owned. 

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. I can’t show up in that.” You look pleadingly at the producer. “We’re friends.”

“C’mon,” Lily coaxes, pulling out a lacy black bodysuit. “What about this? It’s classy.”

“It’s see-through!”

“Only a little bit,” Gemma adds, entirely unhelpfully.

The producer checks her phone. “Look, everyone is waiting downstairs. You need to be ready to go in fifteen minutes. Try to get her in something that isn’t so… sleepover with your nan,” she says imperiously to Gemma and Lily, promptly bustling out of the room.

You immediately flop back onto the bed, pressing your forearm over your eyes. “Is it possible to die from lingerie-inflicted mortification?”

“Probably not, but we’re about to find out if someone can die from stubbornness,” Gemma singsongs cheerfully. “Just try something on, at least? If you hate it, you’ve got about… five hundred more options in here.” She looks up, slightly stunned. “Your friends actually might have gone a bit overboard. DId they even pack you anything else?”

“These are all too much,” you groan, sitting up and letting your fingers slide over the soft fabrics. “It’s already going to be awkward enough.”

Lily raises an eyebrow. “You and Lando are practically attached at the hip in here. Since when is hanging out with him awkward?”

Since about an hour ago when I realized I might be falling for him, Lily, you think and think and think and do not say.

“Is it because it’s the Hideaway?” Gemma asks sympathetically. “I mean, he knows they’re making you dress like this. Lando’s a good guy. I’m sure he’s not, like, expecting anything because of it.”

“Everyone else is,” you mumble, fidgeting with the edge of a silky orange babydoll set that’s more sophisticated than overtly sexy. 

“So? You know the truth of your relationship,” Lily says, and you are way too overwhelmed to parse the careful implication of her tone. “That’s what matters.”

“He’s your best mate,” Gemma adds. “He’s not going to care what you’re wearing.”

That’s the problem. You want him to care. You want him to look at you and feel the air shift around him, knocking him breathless. You want this to matter to him the way you’re realizing it matters to you. 

You sigh, holding up the babydoll. “This one’s okay,” you say tentatively, and Lily claps like you’ve just told her you’re giving her a million dollars and Oscar on a silver platter. 

You let the two of them apply your makeup, tame your frizz, and for a moment it feels like home, like going out with your girls on a Friday night. The ritual is soothing, even if it’s the furthest thing from real life. Exactly fifteen minutes later, you’re ready to go, and if you have to do this, at least you know you look good. The babydoll floats around your hips, and Gemma worked magic with your hair, wrangling it into voluminous, tousled curls that tumble around your face. 

“You look incredible,” Lily squeals, bouncing on her tiptoes as she looks at you in the mirror. 

Gemma nods approvingly, fluffing your curls and admiring her handiwork. “Lando’s not going to know what hit him.”

“Friends, Gem,” you remind her halfheartedly as you walk to the door. When you peek through the crack, you can see everyone gathered at the bottom of the steps, and your heart begins to hammer against your ribcage.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Gemma says idly, noticing the anxiety you’re sure is written all over your face. For a moment, you’re worried she’s going to try to calm you, but she grins wickedly instead; you should’ve known she’s not the sentimental type. “Although hopefully tonight you won’t be sleeping much.”

“To be clear,” you reply dryly, “on your first night back in the same bed with George, you’re hoping that I get some?”

“What can I say?” she shrugs. “A win for you is a win for me.”

You exhale, half laugh, half steadying breath. “Jesus. Okay. Let’s go before I lose my nerve, yeah?”

You walk down the stairs on wobbly legs, and the cheer that goes up from the group is deafening. Franco is whistling with his fingers in his mouth like he’s trying to hail a taxi. Carlos’ jaw is tight, but fuck it. You’re not here for him. There is exactly one person you want to see at the bottom of that staircase, and he’s already looking at you.  

When your eyes find Lando, he’s shirtless. You really should be used to it at this point, inoculated against it from sleeping in a bed with him every night, but it’s genuinely distressing how fit he is — the long lines of his torso, waistband of his boxers slung low over the sharp cut of his hips. His ears are pink, and you watch his eyes drop from your face to your bare legs and sweep back up again. 

“What, nothing to say?” you ask when you get to the bottom of the stairs. Banter you can do. Banter is safe. Safer than the way he’s looking at you, gaze making you unsteady on your feet. 

“Fucking hell,” he exhales shakily, like he can’t keep the words in, and your blood positively shimmers in your veins. 

“You look nice, too,” you say, only a little breathless, and he slings his arm around your waist, squeezing your hip reassuringly. His hand stays there through the goodbyes, through your walk across the lawn to the picket-fenced house; it’s warm through the thin fabric of the babydoll, and you really need to stop noticing how big it is if you want to keep the small shred of sanity you have left.

As soon as you walk through the gate, the noise of the main villa disappearing behind you, you know the Hideaway is going to be exactly as ridiculous as you feared it would be. There’s a goddamn heart-shaped hot tub tucked into the garden outside, as if anyone in their right mind would want to sit in boiling water when it’s already hot enough outside to fry an egg on the pool deck. When Lando pushes the door to the main room open, the first thing you see as you duck under his arm is the massive bed, scattered with rose petals. Then the champagne, sweating in an ice bucket that matches your water bottles, two sleek crystal flutes and a plate of melted chocolate strawberries sitting beside it. Then the candles, flickering low around the room. It’s like they designed the entire thing specifically to make two people fall in love in the cheesiest way possible, which is wildly inconvenient considering you’ve just realized you’re already halfway there.

The two of you hover just inside the threshold like you’re both afraid to take a step. For the first time since you’ve been coupled up, silence actually feels awkward; usually, you can talk about anything, make each other laugh without even trying, but the weight of what this room is supposed to mean seems to be dragging the conversation down.

Finally, Lando clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. At least they didn’t cheap out on us.”

“Right,” you snort, dropping onto the edge of the bed like you’re testing it. “Because nothing says luxury like room-temperature Prosecco and fake rose petals.”

He presses a hand to his heart teasingly, joining you on the bed, and the tension loosens just slightly in your chest. “I always knew you were a romantic.” 

The mattress is massive enough to comfortably fit at least three more people on it, but somehow he ends up close enough to you that your knees bump against each other. “At least the bed’s comfy. And we don’t have to listen to Max snore tonight,” you say. “I might just go to sleep and leave you to the champagne and strawberries.”

“Not a chance,” he replies tartly, stretching catlike to reach the bottle behind him, and your mouth goes dry at the way his muscles twitch under his skin. “We’re making the most of this. When else will we get to have more than one watered-down drink a night in here?”

He wrestles the cork free, and it pops with a bang that makes him yelp and you double over with laughter when he looks at you with a sheepish grin. Champagne spills pale-gold over his fingers, curled around the neck of the bottle, and your brain goes blank at the image for just a moment until he hisses, swinging the bottle away from the duvet because he knows you hate sleeping in a messy bed. “Shit, get the glasses —”

You’re already reaching, holding a flute against his hand to catch the runoff. Once the drink calms, he pours two messy drinks, more foam than anything else. 

“Cheers. To absolutely smashing everyone today because we’re just that good,” you say, raising your glass once you’ve finished properly roasting him for his atrocious technique and refilling both flutes.

His eyes are warm as he tips his glass against yours. “To knowing each other better than anyone else.”

The bubbles burn down your throat, fizzing somewhere just under your skin. It doesn’t take long before you abandon the flutes entirely, easy banter progressively returning as you pass the bottle between you. You’re usually not much of a drinker, but the liquor makes it easier, somehow — more possible to pretend there’s a universe where this could be real, where Lando could see you as something more than the best friend you know you are to him. 

“I still can’t believe we won,” you giggle later, tipsy as you slug from the bottle and pass it back to him, settling clumsily against the mountainous pile of heart-shaped pillows. “I mean, did you see Carlos’ face?”

The candlelight flickers against Lando’s expression as he takes it from you, swigging and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You still thinking about him?”

You shake your head, surprised to realize the answer’s no. “Not the way I used to, at least,” you say, trying to think when the warm brown eyes in your dreams got replaced with blue-green. The answer, much earlier than you thought, makes you slightly nauseous. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he says as he flops next to you, loose-limbed, and props the bottle between the two of you. “What did you ever see in him?”

The question unbalances you, champagne making your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. “Jesus. Straight to the point, Lan. Where did that come from?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Thinkin’ about what Osc said earlier. He was right, you know. I watched the two of you for weeks and I kept thinking — he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were still friends with him,” you say softly. 

He props himself up on his elbows. “Yes, I would,” he insists, voice stubborn even as his words blur at the edges. “You dimmed yourself down for him. Held back jokes, pretended you weren’t as brilliant as you are. It was like… I dunno, like you were fitting yourself into a box of who he wanted you to be, not who you actually are.”

You curl your knees into your chest; your turn, now, to feel like you’re being flayed open by how easily Lando sees you. Your voice is small when you finally respond. “Maybe that’s how people like me best.”

“Not me,” he says fiercely, cheeks flushed hot, probably from the alcohol. “I hated watching it. You shouldn’t —” he breaks off, running a hand through his curls. “You’re not meant to make yourself smaller. You deserve someone who wants all of you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. The champagne makes everything feel golden around the edges, bathed in a soft, glowing light. It’s blinding you; you can’t quite tell if the way he’s looking at you, wide-eyed and painfully earnest, is real or just wishful thinking. 

“So do you,” you whisper, so close now that you can see the tiny scar on the bridge of his nose: a miniscule slice of white against tan skin, imperfection that only makes him annoyingly more beautiful. His stupidly long lashes flutter, head tipping towards yours, and for a second, you think his eyes drop to your lips. 

You could do it: lean forward and kiss him right now. It wouldn’t even be a movement, really. More like gravity, like some unstoppable force beyond yourself. You can almost swear Lando’s leaning in too, just slightly, breath catching —

Then he blinks, swallows hard, and reaches for the bottle between you instead. “We really did drink the whole thing, didn’t we?” he says, voice too light, carefully casual as he places it on the nightstand. “Should get some rest, or it’s gonna be rough tomorrow.”

It’s sobering; the moment dissolves like champagne bubbles over your tongue, leaving no trace it was even there at all if it weren’t for the way your lips are still tingling with a phantom kind of ache. You yank the duvet over your bare legs, suddenly cold. 

“Right, yeah, bed,” you stutter out, cheeks burning as you roll onto your side, practically on the edge. Ridiculous, you are. Reading too far into a look, a couple of friendly, half-drunk compliments. You should know better. You have to know better, or you’ll lose him for good.

He climbs in on the other side, and for a moment you’re sure he’s going to stay where he is, space stretching like an ocean between you on this far-too-big bed. But then the mattress dips, and an arm slides carefully around your waist, the same way he holds you every night. 

“Night,” he mumbles into your hair, lips brushing unmistakably against your temple as he pulls your body tight to his. 

“Night,” you whisper back and don’t go to sleep, face buried into the pillow praying he can’t feel how fast your heart is beating. It doesn’t mean anything, the familiar warm press of his chest against your spine, the curl of his arm around your waist. You’re tired and tipsy and you misread things. You didn’t even want to kiss Lando; it was a trick of the Hideaway, making your feelings more overwhelming than they will be tomorrow. 

By the time you let your eyes close, you’ve almost told yourself enough lies to convince yourself you imagined the whole thing.

Almost.

It’s been a week since the Hideaway, and you think you might genuinely be going insane. 

For someone who’s made a living off reading people’s wants and needs, you’re finding that you’re woefully unprepared to understand your own desires. You’ve spent the past seven days in a perpetual state of unraveling, caught between wanting to act like nothing has changed and wanting to grab Lando by his annoyingly perfect face, demanding to know whether what you thought you felt was real. If anything, you’ve settled for overcorrecting — going louder, sillier, like nothing happened between the two of you even as you lie awake every night staring at the ceiling cataloguing the smiles he gives you. You don’t sleep much, which isn’t ideal considering it’s absolutely exhausting to spend every second of every day pretending you’re not head over heels for your best friend.

The recouplings are happening with increasing speed now; you can’t tell if it’s just how the show works as summer stretches on, or if the producers are trying to hack the system, to force you and Lando out of the friendship couple you keep wishing was more. Last night, Franco shocked everyone by picking Georgia at the firepit, sending Nicole and Jack packing in what felt like the first truly unexpected dumping of the season. You cried, of course, even if Nicole could be prickly sometimes. For the past month and a half, you’d been family; home smelled like her designer perfume in the morning, the one that always made Oscar sneeze when she sprayed it. You honestly didn’t realize how much you would miss them both.

It only makes sense, then, that tonight is the first public vote. The news earlier that the audience had been choosing their favorite couples sent the villa into a tizzy; finally, after weeks, you get to hear what the country really thinks of you. 

“I feel absolutely vomitrocious, babes,” Gemma says in typical dramatic fashion as you all get ready, applying her mascara with shaking hands. “What if Georgie and I are in the bottom?”

“You won’t be, Gem. You two are funny, they’ll like that,” you reply soothingly, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. You had no idea where you and Lando stood with the public. How could you even begin to guess how best friends where one is hopelessly in love with the other would read to the entirety of the UK?

Lily paces around the glam room, hands fiddling with the hem of her dress. “What if they hate me and Osc?”

Georgia raises an eyebrow from the other side of the room, arms folded across her chest in a state of preternatural calm; as the newest couple, she and Franco have immunity from getting dumped. If you were a less charitable person, you’d wonder if she knew the vote was coming, somehow. “Oh, be fucking for real, Lils,” she says evenly, gaze flicking over to you. “Some people have got real problems.”

You all file out to stand in front of the firepit together, and you try not to think about how every time you do it, it feels more and more like you’re lining up for an execution. Lando slips his hand into yours as soon as you settle next to him, squeezing it tightly, and you let yourself cling to the small comfort even as Georgia’s words pulse grimly in the back of your mind. Some people have got real problems. No one wants to watch someone pine after their best friend all summer. 

It’s quick, efficient, bloodless: the production team’s cameras go up, and the host steps in, clearly meaning business in near-blinding glam that even in your nicest dress makes you feel like the last girl left on the bleachers at a school dance. 

“In no particular order, our top four couples,” she says, and you brace yourself for impact. 

Lily and Oscar, receiving the news with gracious, relieved smiles. Gemma and George, who hug each other as tightly as they can, nearly toppling over in a futile attempt to not let go. Molly and Yuki, who look at each other with a pleased sort of surprise on their faces as they sit. You and Lando.

You and Lando.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as Lando immediately sweeps you into a hug, fingers burying into your hair as he crushes you against him.

You can feel the shaky laugh in his chest before you hear it, low and warm in your ear. “Didn’t think we had a chance,” he whispers, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Me neither.” You don’t pull back, don’t even try; you’ll take the feeling of him as long as you can get it. 

There’s a pause, then, and when he speaks again it’s almost wistful. “Guess they’re seeing something we’re not.” 

The two of you make your way to the couches, numb, Lando’s hand still intertwined with yours like a lifeline. “Not so fast. The night isn’t over yet,” the host says, smiling toothy, almost sharklike. “As the top four couples, you have to decide which of the bottom three couples you’d like to dump from the island.”

You stare at the pairs left on the other side of the firepit — Charles and Camilla, Max and Chloe, Carlos and Emma — and the floor falls out from under you. 

“This is fucking awful,” Oscar mutters as the eight of you close rank to deliberate, rubbing a hand over his face. “How are we meant to choose?”

“It can’t be Charles and Camilla,” George replies. “I mean, I’m biased, I know, he’s my best mate in here, but they’re a strong couple. Have been since they got together.”

“If I’m being honest, I love Max, and I came in with him and all, but… he and Chloe aren’t exactly setting the villa on fire,” Molly says, picking at her cuticles nervously. 

“Harsh,” Yuki grins, and inexplicably, you think he might be kind of loving this. “But true.”

“We could do Carlos and Emma,” Lando says, voice low. “It’d make things easier.” 

There’s a suspiciously absent postscript, you think. A missing for you that should be tacked onto the end of his sentence. After all this time, he still wants to shield you from having to watch Carlos with someone else, as if you’ve thought about anyone not named Lando Norris for weeks.

“No,” you say, and seven heads swivel towards you. “Not them.”

Lily touches your hand gently. “No one would blame you. Not after everything he put you through.”

You shake your head. “Look at him.” You jut your chin towards Carlos, who has his arm wrapped protectively around Emma’s shoulders, speaking low and soft into her ear as she takes deep breaths. Two weeks ago, the sight would have splintered you, but now the ache feels distant, like it happened to a character in a novel you’re reading. “He’s moved on, and so have I. I don’t want to punish him for finding someone. Not when it doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Saying it feels like setting down a weight you’ve been carrying since Casa Amor. Lando goes very still beside you, looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes, and you try in vain to tamp down the all-too-familiar flutter in your chest. 

Gemma clears her throat. “Max and Chloe, then?”

Everyone nods, subdued, the decision landing weighty and final in the middle of your little circle. When Oscar speaks the words, Charles and Camilla fall into each other, and Emma jumps into Carlos’ arms, sobbing her thanks over and over. He holds her gently, catching your eye over her shoulder with a strange cocktail of gratitude and shame warring in his expression. 

You give him a small nod of acknowledgement, and it doesn’t sting as much as you thought it might. For the first time in the villa, Carlos’ happiness doesn’t cost you a thing.

Lando finds you in the bathroom later, after you’ve all said your goodbyes and shed your tears over Max and Chloe’s departure. You’re brushing your teeth, scrolling through photos you’d taken earlier of Oscar and Lily posing in front of the sunset. 

“That was really kind of you,” he says as he walks in, no preamble. “With Carlos. I don’t think I could have done it.”

You spit, catching his eye in the mirror. “It wasn’t about him, really,” you reply, voice soft. “I did it for me. To prove to myself I’m not stuck in all that hurt anymore.”

His shoulders relax as he watches you wash your toothbrush in the sink. “Proud of you,” he says simply, and it does something stupid to your heart.

“Proud of us,” you say, trying to make it sound light. “Top four. Not bad for a friendship couple.” The words feel like gravel in your throat. 

His smile falters just slightly. “Right. Best friends. Come to bed when you’re ready? Think I need a cuddle after tonight.”

You trail into the bedroom not long after him, and he’s already waiting — duvet flung back, arm outstretched just for you. When you slip under the covers, you immediately melt into his side, and he tucks his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s trying to center himself.

“Better,” he murmurs, half-asleep and so sweet that you wish you could bottle it. 

You let yourself sink into the safety of his hold, the feel of his arms heavy and anchoring around your waist, and tell yourself you’re okay with just this. That you can keep pretending, at least for one more day, that this is enough. 

When you wake up, it’s to Lando’s arms still around you and a telltale, heart-stopping ding!

He groans, stirring behind you. “Yours or mine?” he mumbles blearily, and you pointedly ignore the way your heart kicks at the sound of his sleepy voice. 

Wriggling out of his grip, you sit up, glancing at the nightstand where your phone glows in the darkness. You unlock it, flipping over to face him and squinting against the bright glare. 

“Alex is waiting outside the villa to take you on a date. Hashtag double trouble, hashtag summer of love,” you whisper, hands trembling. 

Lando sits bolt upright. “New bombshell?”

“Guess so,” you say, trying not to let panic creep into your voice. “What do you think they mean, double trouble? Is he, like, a twin or something?” 

Like clockwork, Lando’s phone buzzes on his nightstand, and with a sinking feeling you realize exactly what the producers meant with their stupid, unclever little hashtag. 

“Olivia is waiting outside the villa to take you on a date,” he reads, eyes scanning the screen and voice carefully light, like this is just another delightful twist in your summers. “Hashtag double trouble. Hashtag summer of love.”

You laugh, and it comes out all wrong, high-pitched and raw around the edges. “Well. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re the only friendship couple, and if we made it to the top four like that, we must be fan favorites.” You hug your knees to your chest like they can protect you from this latest emotional blow, the fact that you are literally going to have to sit there and watch some other girl sweep him off his feet. “They’re trying to give us the fairytale ending.”

Lando flops back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Right,” he says dully. “Exactly what everyone wants.”

The quiet stretches between you two for a moment, heavy with everything you can’t say. You’re grateful, at least, for the darkness of the bedroom; there’s a small kindness in the fact that you don’t have to look at Lando right now, don’t have to hold yourself back from admitting that you wish you were going on a date with him instead the second you see his face.

“Well,” you say into the silence, artificially chipper, “better get ready, then. Don’t want to keep our perfect matches waiting.” 

He’s the one to get up first, and you watch him get ready like watching a car crash, unable to tear your eyes away even as you try not to look. He’s rifling through the hangers in his wardrobe, curls still messy from sleep, t-shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of skin at his waist as he reaches for something tucked deep into the closet. Your mouth goes traitorously dry at the sight.

“What do you think?” he whispers, holding up the white knit button-up that stands out against his tan and makes his shoulders look unfairly broad. 

You think Olivia, whoever she is, will be lucky if she doesn’t melt into a puddle on the front lawn from the sheer force of his hotness. 

“Yeah, looks nice,” you manage instead, as casually as you can. “I like that shirt.”

He flushes crimson, turning back to his closet to look for shorts, and you can feel your stomach churn. Every careful choice feels like evidence he’s excited for the date, excited for someone who’s exactly what he’s looking for. Excited to leave you behind.

You flip through your clothes with unnecessary intensity, fingers closing around a dress and pulling it out without looking. You go to the bathroom to change, and it’s halfway over your head before you realize it’s the soft blue one Lando complimented weeks ago, hyping you up before the first full evening you’d had to share with Carlos and Emma.

You shake the thought off, pulling the door open, and Lando gapes, eyes sweeping over you quick and almost desperate. “You’re wearing that?”

“What’s wrong with it?” you say, tugging at the hem self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. “Nothing, you look —” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Alex will love it.”

Right. Alex. Because God forbid you forget who all your effort this morning is supposedly for.

“We should go,” you say, and it sounds hollow. “Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

When you emerge from the villa doors for the first time in five weeks, Lando’s beside you, arm around your shoulders, and for a moment you think you could pretend this is a date just for you. Until you see the two tiny wrought-iron breakfast tables sitting cruelly close together on the front lawn, one bombshell for each of you sitting like prettily wrapped presents behind them.

The guy — Alex, you remind yourself internally — breaks into a smile, standing up to greet you. He’s tall, almost gangly, with a warm smile and a boy-next-door type of charm. “Lovely to meet you,” he says as he extends his hand to you for a handshake; you can tell he really means it, which makes you feel about a hundred times worse that all you can do is compare him in your head to the boy standing by your side.

Lando practically hip-checks you out of the way to get to Alex first, shaking his hand with a grip that makes the taller boy wince. “Nice to meet you, mate,” he says, voice pitched deeper than normal, and you hate the way it’s definitely for the bombshells’ benefit. He launches into a rambling introduction that gives you time to turn to the unfortunately unbelievably stunning girl next to you. She’s all caramel skin, whiplash curves, doe eyes, a Splenda-sweet smile on perfectly glossed lips.

“You must be Olivia,” you say, hoping your smile doesn’t look as fake as it feels. 

“Oh, please, call me Liv. It’s so nice to meet you, babe,” she gushes, wrapping you into a hug that you have no time to refuse. “Honestly, I’m really glad Alex chose you so I got to meet you first. I’ve been absolutely addicted to the series this year — I watch at the animal shelter I volunteer for on the weekends, and every time I saw you on TV I just thought we would be such good friends.”

So she’s sunshine in human form. Mother Teresa in a bikini. You hate her immediately. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Alex says, tapping your shoulder and gesturing towards the tables with a crooked smile, “but should we…?”

“Oh, definitely,” Olivia says, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Lando’s arm and pulling him towards her table. He turns for just a second, catching your eye the way he does when he has something he wants to tell you. But then he shakes his head, turning back to Olivia, and you let Alex lead you away.

You try to pay attention as he pours you a cup of orange juice, you really do, letting the get-to-know-you chat filter through the lovesick haze in your mind. Alex is a vet from Suffolk who has about a hundred pets. Alex is the oldest of five siblings, three sisters and one brother. Alex likes Wes Anderson movies and cooks Thai curry on the weekends. Alex laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. 

Alex is not, by any stretch of the imagination, only good enough to be second best in your heart.

But no matter how hard you try, your focus keeps drifting to the table across the lawn. Alex is telling you a story about the time he had to perform an emergency appendectomy on someone’s pet porcupine, and you’re nodding and making the appropriate reaction sounds at the appropriate times, but all you can think about is whether Lando is enjoying the date, whether the split second he looked at you like he had something important to say was real or your mind playing tricks on you again. 

You steal a glance over at the other table, where Lando is staring determinedly at Olivia and definitely not at you. She’s telling some story, probably about how she singlehandedly saved a family of four from a burning building without messing up her eyeliner or something; he’s nodding along, but you know him too well not to notice the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s performing what he thinks a good first date should look like.

Still, when she reaches across the table to touch his hand, he doesn’t pull away, and your heart twists helplessly in your chest.

“What do you think?” Alex says, and something in his voice makes you snap back to attention. “Good enough for him?”

Your cheeks color. “What?”

He refills your glass, and his smile is easy, assured. “C’mon. I can see you looking over there. It’s your best mate, obviously you’d be protective. Two new bombshells coming in at the last minute and all.”

“Right, yeah. Gotta look out for each other,” you say, because it’s easier than explaining that every time Lando smiles at someone else you feel like you’re drowning. “Liv seems really sweet, though.”

Alex leans forward, and there’s a mischievous kind of glint in his warm brown eyes. “What about me?” he asks lowly. “‘Cause I’ll have you know, I’m coming here with the worst of intentions.”

It’s so funny coming from the nicest guy you think you’ve ever met that you have to laugh, bright and unguarded; over Alex’s shoulder, Lando’s head swivels so fast towards your table that he nearly falls off his chair. “Yeah, I clocked that from the beginning,” you say teasingly. “You’ve got a real bad boy vibe to you.”

Alex grins, clearly pleased that you’ve played along. “Okay, yeah, I don’t think I could pull that off if I tried,” he admits. “But you do seem really cool. And I’d like to get to know you better, if you don’t already think I’m completely hopeless.”

He’s so sincere it makes your chest ache. It would probably be sort of appealing, if your heart didn’t have a Lando-shaped hole down to its very center. Still, you could say yes. You should say yes. 

You smile, because you don’t know what else to do. “I don’t think you’re hopeless.”

All you hear is Lando’s laugh, too loud and too sharp, from the other side of the garden.

It’s chaos when you finally step back in the villa; it always is, with new blood. The second you walk through the doors, everyone swarms. It turns out George and Alex know each other from uni, and they immediately fall into a long discussion that’s entirely incomprehensible to the other boys while Oscar sizes up Alex quietly from the kitchen. Meanwhile, Olivia gets absorbed into the group of girls with a frightening level of efficiency. Georgia’s holding court, fawning over her bikini, and Camilla peppers her with rapid-fire questions about her PhD research that she answers with a sweet smile and the patience of a saint. 

“You’re back!” Lily squeals, hugging you. 

Gemma’s rushing towards you next. “We were so worried when we woke up and you weren’t there!” she cries, throwing her arms around you. “But Lils figured out you must have been on a date. How was it? How is he?”

“I’ll tell you later, yeah?” you say, tilting your head subtly towards where Alex stands like you’re trying to imply something. It’s a non-answer, one that you can let them read into while you try to remember anything about the date that doesn’t relate to Lando.

Gemma’s eyes light up. “I knew it. Alex is proper fit, isn’t he? And such a nice boy,” she grins, and it makes your stomach twist rollercoaster-sickeningly. “If you end up together, you can double date with me and Georgie!”

“Relax, Gem, she only met him an hour ago,” Lily says calmly, eyes flicking between the two of you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she’s missing a piece for. “He does seem nice, though.”

“He is,” you agree, and it’s the first entirely true thing you’ve said all day. 

She glances across the lawn to where Lando is introducing Olivia to Oscar. “They seem like they had a nice time too,” she says neutrally, but there’s a strange emphasis to her words, like she wants to test your reaction as she says them. 

Your chest tightens. “Looked like it.”

Alex scans the lawn, and you realize too late he’s looking for you. When he spots your little trio, he lopes over, introducing himself to Gemma and Lily before his gaze turns to you again. “I want to chat to everyone, get settled in. But come find me later?” he asks, ducking his head closer to you almost shyly. Across the lawn, your eyes fall on Lando watching the two of you as he sips from his water bottle, gripping it so tightly his knuckles are going white.  

Gemma pinches the back of your arm, and you know you’ve been quiet for far too long. You straighten up, dragging your eyes away from Lando with what feels like considerable effort and forcing a polite smile. “Definitely,” you blurt, even though it’s the last thing you want to say, and Alex beams at you like you’ve made his week.

In the kitchen, Lando turns away, and you feel even worse than you did before. 

Morning stretches into afternoon, everyone scattering across the villa to nap or soak up the summer sun or (in your case) stare at Lando and Olivia and spiral. When Lily asks you if you want to paint your nails while Oscar makes you smoothies, you agree immediately, if only to have something else to do. But she pulls you to one of the couches on the terrace, where you have a perfect view of the two of them chatting on the beanbags while Lily files her nails and waffles between lilac and coral. 

“What do you think?” she asks, and you’re only distantly aware of it.

“They’ll both look pretty on you,” you say, not looking away. Olivia is laughing at something Lando’s said, silvery and musical, sun catching in her hair like she’s starring in a L’Oreal commercial or maybe your worst nightmare.

Lily bumps your shoulder, pulling your focus. “I asked if you want me to do yours, too,” she says dryly.

Heat floods your face, caught out. “I’m sorry,” you say, flopping back against the pillows, staring up at the sky. “Just… distracted. Eventful day, I guess.”

“Obviously. I mean, they basically sent in a bombshell just for you. How is Alex?” she asks, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, worrying it in between your teeth. 

Alex is perfect. Alex is completely wrong. Alex is — well, Alex isn’t him. 

“Lils,” you say softly, “I think I might be in trouble.”

She caps the nail polish, carefully pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “What kind of trouble?”

You wince, close your eyes, take a deep breath for the first time you’re going to say the awful truth out loud. “The Lando kind.”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” she blurts at a volume that has you nearly clapping a hand over her mouth and looking frantically over the railing to make sure no one heard. “First of all, finally, I’ve been trying to get you two together for ages, but better late than never, I guess.” She pauses for a deep breath, eyes wide. “Second of all, since when?”

You sigh, pressing your palms against your eyes. “I don’t know. The whole time, I think, a little bit? But definitely since the challenge last week.”

“Hideaway?” she asks eagerly. 

You nod miserably in return. “Fucking Hideaway.”

“I knew it. You’ve been different since you got back,” she squeals. You might be imagining it, but you can swear she’s actually bouncing on the couch. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say a little too quickly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Well, not nothing. We just talked, and…” you trail off. “It’s stupid. I thought there was, like, a moment, but clearly the champagne went to my head.”

She grabs your arm. “What do you mean, a moment?”

You close your eyes, cheeks burning. “He told me I deserved better than Carlos, and then we were so close to each other, Lils, and he was looking at me like I was — I dunno, like I was the only person in the world or something. And I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he just pulled away like nothing happened.”

“Maybe he was scared?” she questions. 

“Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.”

“So. You don’t see him as a friend?” she asks, unable to keep the bright, knowing smile off her face.

“‘Course I do. He’s my best friend,” you reply softly. “I just want the rest of him, too.”

“Have you thought of telling him that?”

It’s as if she’s asked you if you’ve thought of jumping off the rooftop terrace. “Are you mental?”

“No,” she says carefully. “And I’m also not blind.”

“It was always going to be temporary, this coupling up thing,” you sigh. “I’ve been lucky to be with him as long as I have. And he clearly doesn’t feel the same way, so… having him as a friend’s better than not having him at all.” 

You wish it sounded more convincing even to your own ears. 

Before Lily can say anything back, Oscar pops his head through the door, balancing two smoothies and various crisp bags in his hands like he’s auditioning for the next season of The Bear. “Somebody call for snacks?”

“Thank you, baby,” Lily says, face going completely soft. Ever since he’d asked her to officially be his girlfriend a few days before, she’s been reaching heretofore unseen levels of moony-eyed over him.

Serious, logical Oscar giggles — actually giggles — as he hands you both the drinks, tossing the crisp bags on the couch between the two of you. “Let me know if you need anything else, I’m just going to be down by the pool with Lando.”

“No, wait, stay,” Lily says urgently, catching his wrist. Oscar pretends to hesitate for all of half a second before sinking into the cushion beside her, tucking his arm around her like it’s second nature. When you glance over, she’s giving him a meaningful look, some silent significant-other communication passing between them. As happy as you are for your friends that they found each other, there’s something about it that makes your chest ache, something that hurts to watch when your own love life is so obviously going to shit.

“Actually, Osc, you can have my smoothie,” you say, standing up and handing it back to him. He takes it with a confused look on his face, glancing over at Lily. “Think I’m just gonna go lie down, or something. I’ll see you guys at dinner, yeah?”

You’re not even out the door before they start whispering, hushed and conspiratorial, heads tilted close together. Once you’re in the bedroom, you flop down face-first pull a pillow over your head to drown them out until everyone starts filing in to get ready for the evening.

Dinner is, predictably, torture.

You’re sandwiched in between Alex and Lily, who’s in her own little world with Oscar, whispering and giggling about whatever they started scheming up on the terrace. Olivia’s slotted herself in next to Lando on the other side of the table, and she’s somehow even more radiant in the golden hour light streaming through the outdoor dining area. The conversation breaks up like it always does, into little pockets, and you already know you’ll be spending your evening paying attention to the wrong one.

“The stars are probably incredible here,” Alex says, cutting into his chicken. “Back home, you can barely see them with all the light pollution, but there’s nothing else for miles here. You might even be able to see the Milky Way.”

You take a sip of your water, eyes glued to the way Olivia is hanging on to Lando’s story about the time he accidentally crashed a sports car in Las Vegas like he’s the most interesting person in the entire world. “That sounds lovely.”

“Maybe we could go up to the terrace later and I could show you,” Alex says. You’d call it a cheesy line if you couldn’t see the heartbreaking amount of hope in his eyes. 

“Sure, yeah, that’d be nice,” you say, smiling vacantly, and Lando’s fork clatters against his plate so loud that for a second you think he’s broken the dish.

“Are you okay?” Olivia asks him, genuine concern in her voice, and when she places a steadying hand on his arm you clench your fists so hard under the table that your nails leave little crescents in your palms. 

“M’fine,” he mumbles back, and you take a sip of water to calm yourself. “Just tired, I think.”

“Maybe after dinner we could find somewhere quiet to relax,” Olivia says sweetly. “I’d love to hear some more of your travel stories.”

Your glass hits the table harder than intended, liquid sloshing over the side, and Lily shoots you the world’s most loaded glance. “Shit, sorry,” you mutter, faking a smile as heat starts flooding into your cheeks. “Butterfingers.”

Lando’s eyes meet yours across the table, unreadable and dark like a summer storm. He hands you a napkin wordlessly, and when your fingers brush as you take it, everything else fades away. 

After dinner, you go up to the terrace with Alex to look at the stars, just like you promised. He wasn’t wrong; the night sky looks incredible, stars like diamonds spilling across plush black velvet. “Wow,” you breathe, staring up into the sky. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and for a minute the drama of the villa feels insignificant in comparison.

“Told you it was worth it,” Alex says, moving to stand beside you at the railing. 

You’re both quiet for a moment, watching the stars, and it’s almost nice until he breaks the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” you say, heart hammering against your ribs for all the wrong reasons. 

He smiles, soft and knowing. “What’s going on with you and Lando?”

“Nothing,” you reply too quickly. “Why? What makes you say that?”

Alex turns to face you properly. “I’ve been looking at you all day,” he says, not unkindly, but in a way that makes your heart twist all the same. “And you’ve been looking at him like there’s nobody else in this villa.”

You want to deny everything. You want to insist you’re happy as friends. You want to tell Alex he’s reading too much into something he doesn’t understand and he should keep his perfect ski-slope nose out of it. But the words keep dying halfway up your throat. 

Instead, you stare down at your hands, curled tightly around the railing. “It’s complicated.” 

“Most good things are,” he says gently. “Look, I like you. You’re smart and funny and beautiful, but I don’t want to be who you settle for because you think you can’t have what you want.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping even as relief and guilt swirl in your stomach. “I’m so sorry, Alex. You’re a really lovely guy, I just —”

“Don’t apologize for how you feel,” he says, and surprisingly, he sounds like he means it. “Just maybe do something about it? Love Island’s too short to not go after what you want. And if it doesn’t work out, then hopefully I’ll still be here,” he teases.

You laugh, though the thought sort of makes you want to throw up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He places his hand on top of yours, gingerly, like you’re a scared animal he’s trying not to spook. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think I have a shot in hell,” he says, with a smile that’s almost rueful. “He looks at you, too. All the time. Like you hung the stars up there.” 

It’s a kindness you don’t deserve; it’s one more half-truth you’ll hang your life on. “Thanks, Alex,” you breathe, throat tight, and he squeezes your hand comfortingly.

Then the door slides open, and Lando steps into the scene with all the grace of a live hand grenade.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, eyes zeroing in on Alex’s hand around yours and not looking particularly sorry at all. “Just, uh, needed a bit of air before bed.”

“That’s alright,” Alex says easily, pulling his hand away and stepping aside to let Lando through, and for a moment you despise how nice, how fundamentally good he is. He turns back to you, soft smile on his face. “I should go to bed anyway, it’s been a long day. But I’d love to chat to you tomorrow?”

“That sounds great,” you manage, which is harder than you expect when Lando’s eyes feel like they’re burning a hole in the side of your head. “Night, Alex.” He waves as he disappears into the villa, door sliding shut softly behind him. 

It’s just you and Lando, then, and the air simmers. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiling dark and restless underneath your skin and making a home next to the jealousy you’ve sat with all evening.

“Having fun?” he says, and his voice is so casual it nearly gives you whiplash. 

You glance over at him. You weren’t wrong, after all — there’s something wild and uncontained in the set of his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides. “What?”

“With Alex,” he says, smile tight. “You two looked cozy.”

“We were just talking,” you reply. “Like you and Liv have been doing all day.”

“That’s different.” 

“How is it different?” you ask.

He rakes a hand through his already-messy curls. “Just is,” he mumbles, staring past you down to the lawn. 

“Right, because she’s gorgeous and perfect and exactly your type,” you say, and you hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, high-pitched and unsteady and blatantly jealous.

Lando blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it,” you sigh. You try to push past him, but his fingers catch around your wrist.

“Don’t do that. Don’t just walk away right now,” he says lowly. 

You spin on your heel, and all of a sudden you can’t keep it in anymore. “What do you want me to say, Lan? That I’m thrilled you found someone? That I love watching Liv hang all over you while you completely forget I exist?”

“She wasn’t hanging all over me,” he mutters, color rising in his cheeks.

“Please,” you laugh, short and derisive. “She was practically sitting in your lap at dinner.”

His eyes flash, sharp. “Yeah? And Alex wasn’t eating out of your hand the whole night? Didn’t exactly see you telling him to back down.”

“I was being polite, because they’re obviously here for us and we’re supposed to get to know them,” you bristle. “What did you want me to do? Act like a total bitch and blow him off?”

“Maybe, yeah!” Lando spits, voice raised as he takes a step closer to you. His hand is still curled around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse point. “Maybe I wanted you to tell him you weren’t interested so I didn’t have to sit there and watch his pathetic arse light up for you all night every time you gave him a scrap of attention.”

“Why do you even care?” you fire back, and now you’re shouting too. “You got Liv, she’s perfect for you, you’ve got exactly what you wanted —”

“I don’t fucking want her, I want you!” he snaps, words tearing out of his throat raw and desperate, and the whole villa seems to shake with the sound of it. 

The words hang between you, air unnaturally still. The only movement is the rise and fall of Lando’s chest, hard and erratic like he can’t get enough oxygen in his lungs. He looks as wrecked as you feel. “What?” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping your wrist like it’s burned him and tugging at his curls. “I didn’t — that’s not what I meant to say.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest that makes you wonder if you might be having a heart attack. It’s not out of the realm of possibility; you don’t think your organs could handle having him and losing him in thirty seconds. “Then what did you mean?”

He blinks at you, like your very reasonable question is not one he was expecting to hear. “I don’t know,” he says helplessly, and then his shoulders sag slightly as he shakes his head, something breaking open in his expression. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That’s a lie. It’s exactly what I meant.”

You’re crackling, a live wire, every nerve ending sparking beneath your skin. “Lan —”

“I don’t want her,” he says again, quieter now, like it might cost him everything. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it feels like not to. And it’s driving me mental to pretend I don’t, but I’ve been so fucking scared to risk it and lose you completely when I know you don’t feel the same way and —”

“Lando,” you say, louder this time, and grab his wrist, your fingers looping around his. He looks at you with wild eyes, vulnerable and aching, like you hold his heart in the palm of your hands. 

Which, you’re realizing, you just might.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up for a second?” you breathe, pulling him towards you and finally, finally kissing him.

The world does not screech to a halt. No, it blooms, springs to life around you like you weren’t quite alive until your lips touched his. His mouth moves against yours, desperate and hungry, all the pent-up longing poured into one perfect moment. When you part your lips for him, he slots his tongue against yours immediately as he sighs against your mouth, and the sound nearly makes your knees buckle. You’ve been kissed before, you think as he tangles his hands into your hair, but never like this. Well, except —

“You,” you gasp as you break the kiss, staring at Lando. 

He stares back, a dazed, radiant sort of smile on his face, like he just won a prize he hadn’t even dared to hope for. “Me?”

“The Kiss,” you say, breathless. “That stupid challenge, with the blindfolds.” You press your fingers against your lips, memorizing the feel of it under your skin. “It was you.”

He flushes, looking adorably flustered, and doesn’t deny a thing.

“I can’t believe you,” you say as you pull him closer, marveling at the fact that you get to touch him like this now. “I was losing my mind over that kiss, Lan. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted to,” he hums, hands landing on your waist. “Drove me mad that you didn’t know it was me. But it just never felt like the right time. You were with Carlos, and then you were heartbroken over Carlos, and the second you said you were really over it, you were calling us a friendship couple, and then the bombshells came in.”

“You’re so annoying, you know that?” you say, and you’re smiling so hard your cheeks ache. “Could have saved me weeks of pining if you just told me it was you.” You pause, softer this time. “The whole time in here, it’s been you.”

“Not the whole time,” he corrects, and you think Alex might have been right about one thing. He does look at you like you’re all the stars in the sky, awestruck and tender. “There were a couple days at the beginning where I wasn’t completely gone for you.”

“Completely gone, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow, giddy.

He blushes again, pink to the tips of his ears. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late,” you say, and when you lean in to kiss him again, slow and soft, you swear you can taste the smile on his lips.

For once, the fluorescent lights don’t wake you up. It’s the weight of his gaze on you, the proximity that still makes your pulse jump even though you’ve been sleeping in a bed with him for weeks. 

“You’re staring,” you mumble without even opening your eyes. 

“You’re beautiful,” Lando responds immediately, like it still thrills him to get to say it.

You snort, opening your eyes as your heart kicks wildly in your chest. “That’s your line? A week of being coupled up and that’s all you’ve got for me?”

“Thought I’d save the big guns for after breakfast,” he grins, dimples cutting into tan cheeks. “Proper sweep you off your feet then.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You just want me to say you’ve already done that.” 

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Obviously.”

“Can you two stop being disgusting? I’ve barely woken up,” Gemma says, throwing a pillow at you, as if she didn’t scream so loud when you told her about the terrace kiss that production nearly sent emergency services in for a wellness check.

“No way. You lot made your beds trying to get us together, now lie in them,” Lando snarks as he rolls to his back, batting the pillow away with one hand and dragging you closer with the other, warm and lazy against your thigh.

“Yeah,” you yawn, flinging your leg over his waist, half on top of him. “Reap what you sow, and all that.”

Franco groans from across the room. “I miss when you two were just obsessed with each other quietly and not making it everyone else’s problem.”

“They were literally never quiet about it,” Oscar snorts. “At least, Lando wasn’t. ‘Osc, she’s so perfect. Osc, when is she going to notice me? Osc, how do I stop smiling like an idiot every time she talks to me?’”

You turn back to Lando, delighted grin on your face. “You said that? Wow. Embarrassing. I was way cooler about it than that.”

“You absolutely were not,” Lily says fondly, pushing Oscar’s hair off his forehead with her fingers as he lets out a contented little sigh. “You were practically in fits when Liv came in.”

You laugh, but the mention of the departed bombshells seems to cast a sentimental stillness over the bedroom. It feels quieter and emptier every night you stay, like the walls are slowly closing in. Alex and Olivia had barely warmed their beds before they were gone; really, they never stood a chance after you and Lando stopped being idiots. Charles and Camilla went the same night as them in the public vote, Molly and Yuki a few nights later. You thought it’d get easier with less people around, but the silence where their voices used to be rings louder and louder every day, a glaring reminder that your days in the villa are numbered.

“I can’t believe it’s nearly over,” Emma says quietly. “I feel like I just got here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gemma mutters. “It’s been a lifetime. I can’t wait to get a proper iced latte and sleep in a bed that isn’t surrounded by six other people.” Beside her, George goes noticeably pink at the thought.

“It’s going to be weird leaving, though,” Lily says thoughtfully. “Like, I’ve gotten so used to this. And we’ll never really get it back.”

You toy with the edge of the duvet, trying not to let the fear dancing at the edges of your brain fully creep in. The truth is, the villa’s a strange, sun-soaked limbo where you and Lando have had all the time in the world to figure things out. But on the outside, when you’re not in the Love Island bubble anymore, things will be different. On the outside, there’s jobs and friends and lives that can’t revolve around each other twenty-four hours a day. 

You don’t know what you and Lando will be when summer’s over. What if this perfect, magic thing between the two of you can’t survive?

Before you let yourself spiral, Georgia’s phone dings on her nightstand, and everyone freezes. 

She snatches it up, eyes flying across the screen. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Franco says, snaking his arm around her waist and tucking his chin over her shoulder like he’s trying to read it before she can. “New bombshells? What is it?”

Georgia clears her throat dramatically. “Islanders,” she reads, an excited smile making its way to her lips, “today you’ll be receiving some very special visitors. Please get ready to welcome your families to the villa! Hashtag, meet the parents, hashtag family matters.”

The room erupts. Carlos starts jumping on his bed, Emma squealing with excitement as she tries to avoid his long limbs. George practically cartwheels down the length of the bedroom, knocking over several water bottles in the process and beating at his chest when he gets to the other end. Even Oscar’s mouth is hanging open wider than you’ve ever seen it, jaw slack with a quieter kind of disbelief.

“Oh my god,” Lando says, voice cracking at the edges. “I get to see my mum and dad?”

And then he’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks like eight weeks of being completely cut off from the outside world has just hit him all at once. 

“Baby,” you sigh, crawling into his lap and wrapping your arms around him, and he buries his face into your neck.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles against your skin wetly, breath hitching. “Dunno why I’m crying, really. I just — I miss them so much. Never gone this long without talking to them. Not ever.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say, weaving your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and pressing a kiss to his temple. “I get it. I’m going to be a complete mess when my mum and dad come in.”

Lando pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes, the lashes gone spiky with tears. “Fuck. Forgot I’d get to meet your parents too. D’you think they’ll like me?”

“Are you joking?” you laugh. “My mum’s probably planning our wedding already. I’m more worried your parents will hate me for taking so long to realize you were right in front of me.”

“They won’t hate you,” he says with utter certainty. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It happens just like that: your heart, falling off the edge of a cliff with no parachute and no fear, and you know. 

You are wildly, catastrophically in love with him. 

“Careful,” you murmur, voice light, even as your teeth ache with the effort of holding those three little words back. “Keep saying stuff like that and I’ll never let you go.”

His lips curl upward, and in the catalogue of Lando Norris smiles, this one is unquestionably your favorite. “Promise?”

Once you’re all ready in parent-appropriate attire, the producers herd you down to the lawn, and the families arrive one by one, a parade of tears and laughter and bone-crushing hugs. It’s Oscar’s parents first, his mum effusively treating you all like she’s just adopted nine new children and his dad clapping Lando on the back so hard he jumps. Oscar looks as stoic as usual, but when Lily’s parents come in, as posh and put-together as she is, you can see his hands shaking from halfway across the lawn.

Franco’s parents are exactly as dramatic as he is, peppering his face with kisses and fussing over how skinny he’s gotten. Then it’s Georgia’s mum and her older sister, who immediately tells her she needs to get out of the sun because her forehead looks “absolutely criminal.”

“Oh my god,” Lando giggles as you watch Georgia scowl like a teenager. “G’s got her own G.”

George maintains his laddish composure for all of thirty seconds before he starts crying when his dad pulls him into a bear hug that lifts him clean off the ground. Gemma teases him at first, but when her dad and best friend walk in she sobs all the way across the lawn, clinging to them tightly. Each little reunion makes your chest tighter and tighter with anticipation.

“D’you think it’ll be us or Carlos and Emma, then?” you ask Lando absently, fiddling with the hem of your dress as you watch George and Gemma bicker about whose parents liked who more. But he’s already sitting up, gripping your hand tightly as the doors open again. 

You don’t recognize the couple, but Lando does. “It’s them,” he blurts, practically tripping over his feet to get up and sprint across the lawn, throwing himself into their arms in a crashing collision. 

You hang back just slightly, letting them have their moment as you take in the scene. His dad is tall, rail-thin, with the same bright smile; his mum petite and elegant, glasses accentuating kind eyes that crinkle at the corners the same way her son’s do. 

“There’s our boy,” his dad says, tears in his eyes and voice warm with pride as he wraps his arms around his son. 

His mum looks over Lando’s shoulder, and her face brightens even more. “And you must be our girl,” she says, waving you over without hesitation. 

Our girl. Your heart does something very complicated in your chest at the thought.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Norris,” you start politely, but his mum’s already waving the formality away.

“Please,” she says, and there’s a hint of an accent you can’t quite place as she pulls you in for a hug of your own. She smells like vanilla, warm and motherly and safe. “Adam and Cisca. We’ve been dying to meet you properly.”

“Honestly, though, we feel like we know you already,” his dad — Adam — says. “We’ve been watching every single night.”

“Oh god,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Please tell me you fast-forwarded through all the embarrassing bits.”

He laughs, and it’s so familiar, so like Lando’s, that you feel instantly at ease. “Those were the best parts. Though I did want to reach through the screen and shake you both a few times.” He turns to Lando, grinning. “Should’ve kissed her in the Hideaway, darling.”

Lando goes scarlet as you burst into giggles. “Thanks, Dad. Proper roasting me on national television.”

Before you can tease him any further, the doors creak open again, and when you glance up you catch the familiar floral print of the dress your mum always wears for special occasions. 

“Mum,” you shriek, bolting for the door before you’re even sure if your legs will carry you that far.

She catches you, arms wrapping around you in the same fierce hug that’s fixed every scraped knee and broken heart since you were five years old, and you’re crying into her shoulder almost immediately.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” she soothes, and you can hear the emotion in her voice, too. “We’re so proud of you.”

When you pull back, your dad’s choked up, too. “Hay fever,” he manages, pulling you into a hug of his own, tight enough to crack your ribs. 

“Look at you. You’re glowing,” your mum says when he finally lets you go, holding your face in her hands gently. “You look so happy. And so tan!”

“I am happy,” you grin, wiping away the last of the tears. “Really, really happy.”

Your mum beams — not at you, sort of over your shoulder. “I can see why.” 

When you turn, Lando’s hovering a few steps away with his family, tugging at the hem of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He looks more nervous than he did to see his own family. The thought makes your heart swell with affection. 

“Come here, you,” you grin, tugging him forward by the wrist, and the second you intertwine your fingers with his, the tension in his shoulders relaxes. “Mum, dad, this is Lando.”

“We know,” your mum says, wrapping him into a hug before he can get a word in edgewise. “It’s so lovely to finally meet the boy she’s been smitten over all summer.”

“It wasn’t all summer,” you hiss, cheeks pink.

“You didn’t see yourself on the telly, sweetheart,” she replies primly. “I knew you fancied him from day dot.”

Lando’s already melting under her maternal approval, eyes wide when he looks back at you like he wasn’t expecting to be accepted so fast. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” he says warmly. “Thank you for raising such an incredible girl.”

Your dad appraises him gruffly. “Smooth talker,” he says flatly, like he’s passed judgment on his worthiness in five seconds. Lando goes completely pale before your dad breaks into the smile that’s been making you feel safe since you were small and claps him on the back. “Only joking. Took you long enough to make a move, kid.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” he laughs, shaking your dad’s hand with a firm grip and slinging his other arm around your waist.

“Because it’s true,” your mum says, squeezing his arm gently as she takes it in — the way he won’t let go of you even for a minute, how he keeps glancing at you like he can’t help himself but to look. “But sometimes the best things are worth waiting for.”

“Why don’t we all sit together?” you suggest. “I want you to meet Lando’s parents, too.”

“That would be lovely,” Cisca says, stepping up behind you. “We’ve been so excited to meet you all.”

The next twenty minutes pass in a blur, the six of you falling into easy conversation about your journey in the villa, your parents swapping embarrassing childhood stories that make you and Lando groan in mortification. 

“She was such a determined little thing,” your mum tells Adam at the end of a particularly gruesome story about the time you were seven and thought you could cut your own fringe. “Always knew exactly what she wanted.”

“Sounds familiar,” Adam chuckles, glancing at his son. “Once Lando set his mind on something, that was it. No stopping him.”

“Still like that,” you grin, bumping your shoulder against his. “Persistent.”

He wraps his arm around you, tugging you into his side with a smile that makes your heart swoop in your chest. “Got me you, didn’t it?”

Your families slot together so easily, your mum offering Cisca her famous lemon cake recipe immediately just in case you go to theirs for a holiday, your dad and Adam bonding over football and planning to meet up for a match when you’re all back home. Something warm and entirely overwhelming settles in your chest; this is what it’s supposed to feel like when someone fits into your life completely, not just with you, but with everyone that matters to you.

“They love you,” you say into Lando’s ear, low enough so that only he can hear. 

He turns to you, something pleased in his expression. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you giggle, pressing yourself against his side. “Look at them. My mum’s, like, seconds away from breaking out the baby photos and my dad keeps looking over here like he’s thrilled he’ll finally have someone to talk about Man U with.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just looks at you with those eyes that feel like they cut to the very core of you, thumb tracing across your knuckles. “Your family’s amazing,” he mumbles, almost shy. “They make me feel like… I dunno, like I already belong.”

“You do belong,” you tell him without hesitation. The words come out with more weight than you were expecting, and there’s that feeling again, those three little words heavy and inevitable on your tongue. 

You’re so close to just saying it, to telling him exactly how much he belongs in every corner of your life, when the producers give you the two-minute warning, telling you to wrap things up so that Carlos and Emma’s families can come in.

“So soon?” your mum protests. “I had baby pictures to show Cisca!”

The goodbyes are rushed, tearful, overlapping; you promise your dad you’ll call as soon as you’re out, and your mom refuses to leave without another hug.

“I love you, sweetheart. And I love him for you,” she murmurs against your hair. “Don’t let him go.”

“Love you too, mum,” you whisper back. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it.”

“Take care of our girl,” your dad is saying to Lando as you break from your mum’s embrace. “She’s our whole world, that one.”

“Mine too,” Lando replies without even blinking, and your dad beams. 

Cisca pulls you into a hug next, cupping your face in her hands the way your own mother would. “You’ll come visit us when you’re both home, yes? Sunday dinner?”

“I’d love that,” you manage, chest tight at how easily they’ve welcomed you in.

She nods resolutely. “Good. Because you’re family now. You’re always welcome, okay?”

The words hit you square in the chest, and you find yourself nodding through tears as they all start moving toward the villa doors. Lando’s hand finds yours again, squeezing tight as you watch your parents and his walking out together, already deep in conversation about flights home and phone numbers.

“Family,” you whisper to yourself, smiling. 

“Yeah,” Lando grins softly, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Family.”

The high carries you through the rest of the afternoon. You’re absolutely buzzing, but everyone’s floating around the villa with matching massive grins, comparing notes on what their families thought of everyone else. It’s only when you’re all gathered around for dinner and they seat you in couples, one across from each other, that you realize something’s different — the throng of producers still hanging around in the kitchen even after you start eating, the pretty silver cloches sitting ominously between each couple. 

“This is weird, right?” you whisper, tapping your nails against the cloche between you and Lando. 

“Yeah. When’s the last time they filmed dinner?” Oscar mutters, next to Lando, who is shoving the seafood paella around his plate with a disgusted look on his face. “Normally they turn the cameras off and leave us alone for the hour.”

“Something’s not right,” Emma says softly on the other side of you, just as Carlos’ phone buzzes.

Nine sets of eyes turn towards him, and his face blanches as he reads. “Islanders, one more couple must be dumped before the finale, but the choice is not up to you. The public have been voting, and they have special surprises for you. If you receive a rose, you’re through to the finale. If your plate is empty, you’ll be leaving the villa tonight. Hashtag, final countdown. Hashtag, time to say goodbye.”

The silence that follows is deafening, everyone staring at their dishes like they hide a ticking time bomb beneath. You look around the table, at the people who have become your surrogate family over the past eight weeks, and the thought of losing any of them makes your heart ache.

“I’m not doing it,” Gemma declares theatrically. “It’s not fair. We’ve come so far together. I don’t want anyone to go.”

“We’ve got to open them,” Georgia counters, running a hand through her hair. “They’ll just make whoever came in last in the vote leave. We’re just delaying the inevitable.”

“One by one, then?” Lily says. “Make it a little less scary?”

George nods resolutely. “We can go first.” He and Gemma reach to the center of the table with trembling hands, lifting the cloche together. There’s a rose sitting beneath, and Gemma lets out a sob of relief before intertwining her hand with George’s. 

Franco and Georgia go next, and her sharp intake of breath tells you everything before the dish is even out of the way. She picks up the red rose, showing it to the table with a bright smile on her face.

Oscar’s jaw is clenched tight as he and Lily lift theirs together, but you know in the deepest part of your heart that there’ll be a rose underneath before they even touch the cloche. Sure enough, the flower practically glows crimson against the white porcelain.

Which leaves you and Lando, and Carlos and Emma. 

You risk a glance next to you; Emma is so pale she looks like she might pass out, and Carlos is staring fixedly at the cloche like he can will it to have the rose underneath. Your heart is pounding so hard you wonder if the mic pack is picking it up.

“Together?” Lando asks quietly, and you nod without thinking about it. The four of you count down — three, two, one, and lift the cloches at the same time.

Underneath yours, unmistakably, is one red rose.

The silence is instant and sharp, like the breath’s been taken out of all of you. Emma’s face falls immediately, tears welling in her big blue eyes when she looks down at nothing but a plate of blank white porcelain. Carlos swears under his breath in Spanish, pushing his chair back with a piercing scrape. 

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispers, voice breaking as she reaches for his hand, but he’s already standing, muttering something about packing. The producers step in then, ushering them unceremoniously inside. No one says a word, but the lawn already feels emptier.

“Fuck. That’s brutal,” George whistles lowly, shaking his head. Lando’s hand finds yours under the table and doesn’t let go. 

“Right,” one of the producers says, artificially cheery in a way that’s designed to smooth things over and does anything but. “Guess that’s dinner, then. You all can go, if you’d like. Can’t really get footage without them.”

Franco frowns down at his plate as you all start getting up, slowly but surely. “No dessert?”

You wander to the swing in the corner of the garden with Lando, string lights crisscrossing in the air above you as he tugs you down beside him. The chains creak as you settle in, tucking yourself into his side. His fingers trace up and down your arm gently, instinctively, like someone is going to ask him to draw the curve of your elbow from memory and he wants to make sure he passes. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful. “You alright?”

You nod, turning to him. “Why?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles, and there’s something fragile in his expression, achingly vulnerable. “Thought you might be upset about Carlos.”

“Think he was upset enough for the both of us,” you say, tilting your head up and pressing the tiniest kiss to his jaw.

Lando watches you, lips quirking like he wants to smile but he’s not quite sure it’s allowed. “Still. You two had history.”

“We did,” you agree. “But the great thing about history is it stays in the past.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing down your arm to your wrist where your pulse speeds under his touch. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets, you know? About how things ended, or —” he stops himself, jaw working like he’s trying to swallow the words down.

“Or what?”

“Or about us,” he says, so softly you almost can’t hear it. “I don’t want you looking back and thinking I pushed you into something before you were ready.”

The swing sways gently in the evening air, and you can hear Georgia laughing from across the lawn, distant and warm. You turn to face Lando properly, one leg tucking beneath you.

“Lando,” you say, and it feels different in your mouth now, weighted with everything you’ve learned in eight weeks about yourself, about him, about the difference between being wanted and being chosen. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing about this has ever felt pushed. You give me space until I trip over my feet trying to catch up to you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I try.”

“He’s the past, but you’re my future,” you say, slipping your hand into his, and he smiles shakily. “I’m with you because I want to be. No regrets.” 

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow, unhurried, a promise. You’re just starting to relax into it when someone clears their throat. 

You break away, and Carlos is standing in front of you, toe dragging on the lawn like he can’t quite decide if he’s actually going to go through with it. You still haven’t really spoken to him, not since Casa. You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d be lucky enough to never have to, that he’d fade into the background like all of your past mistakes.

“Do you think we could talk?” he says softly. Lando’s arm tightens around you on instinct, and he stiffens like he’s bracing for impact. But when you glance towards him, searching his face, you can read it like a book: he hates this. But he trusts you.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, squeezing Lando’s hand reassuringly as you get up from the swing. 

You and Carlos walk slow and ambling like parallel lines, never touching, all the way to the daybeds. When you sit, he hovers awkwardly until you pat the mattress next to you. Even then, it’s stiff, wooden, silent. 

“I am sorry,” he says finally. “For the way I treated you.”

You sigh, looking out towards the water. “Yeah, it was pretty shit, mate.”

“I know,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I just — I had to say it, before I go. I have been thinking about it, watching you and Lando this week.”

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair, and it flops into his eyes gently. “I knew it was not right between us from the start. I think I did not want to believe it, because on paper we made sense together. But I was working so hard, and it still was not there.” He laughs, humorless. “And then I would see you with Lando, talking about nonsense, and it was so easy, so natural, that it killed me. I felt like I was losing you to someone who was not even trying to take you away from me.”

“I was trying really hard with you,” you say, defensive. “I wanted us to work, too. You’re the one who switched at Casa.”

He winces. “I know. That made everything worse. When you two coupled up and stayed friends, I was so angry. Not at you, at myself, because I lost you over something that was all in my head.”

You swallow, throat tight. It wasn’t, and it was.

“But I see you two together now, and I think maybe I was not wrong. Always, there was a part of your heart that was just for him,” he says, so simple that it knocks the breath out of you.

You’re silent for a moment. “I really didn’t know, then, Carlos,” you whisper. “Not until after Casa.”

Carlos smiles, and there’s no bitterness to it. “I know. That’s how I know he is your person. He never stopped believing you would figure it out eventually.” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right words. “I never had that kind of faith.”

You both look over at the swing, where Lando is doing a spectacularly miserable job of pretending he’s not watching the entire conversation. You wave, teasing grin on your face, and he goes scarlet, fumbling for his phone like you didn’t just catch him in 4K.

You shake your head fondly, turning back to Carlos. “He really never gives up on me, does he?”

“That’s the difference,” he answers, soft and sure. “I wanted what I thought we should be. He wants you exactly the way you are.”

“I hope you and Emma are that for each other,” you say, and despite everything, you’re surprised to find you really do mean it. 

He nods. “I think we will be. Outside maybe we can figure out what we are supposed to be, without all this hanging around us.”

When you hug him goodbye, it feels like closing a chapter. 

The next morning, light spills into the villa softer than usual, as if even the sun knows you’re all living on borrowed time. It’s final dates day, and once you get the text from the producers in the morning, the conversation lingers over breakfast, all wild speculation about what you’ll be doing for the afternoon — jet skis, candlelit dinners, hot air balloons. Everyone’s pretending not to be desperate for something over-the-top romantic, and clearly secretly hoping for it anyway. 

Gemma and George are first, whisked away for what turns out to be a private sailboat ride around the island. They come back with sea-slick hair and windbitten cheeks raving about the scenery, George insisting to everyone that he was “basically the captain” while Gemma mutters that the crew did all the work. They’re arguing so much about it that it’s nearly time for the next date before they remember to mention that they’re now officially boyfriend and girlfriend. 

Franco and Georgia go next. When they come back, Georgia’s hair, usually perfectly styled, is completely soaked; it takes at least five minutes for Franco to stop laughing long enough to explain she fell off her paddleboard on the way to the beach. Still, they seem happy, and their seaside picnic was pretty enough that Georgia doesn’t even seem to mind her wet hair.

You and Lando are next, and the text from the producers sends you into a frenzy. Luckily, you have the girls to help you get ready, otherwise you’re sure you’d be overcome with choice paralysis and never make it to the final date at all.

“Do you think red or pink?” Gemma says, dragging lipsticks across your wrist and holding the swatches up to Lily. 

“Pink,” Lily says decidedly, getting ready for her own date, and Georgia frowns from across the room. “It’s more her.”

“Gem, be careful, please,” you mutter, eyeliner going haywire. You sigh, grabbing a Q-Tip and carefully wiping it off for the third time. When you go again, your hands shake around the pencil so badly that you nearly poke your own eye out.

“God, I can’t watch this,” Georgia rolls her eyes, strutting over to you and hip-checking Gemma out of the way, swiveling your chair so you’re facing her. “Close your eyes.”

You do as she says, and she starts to apply the eyeliner across your lids with a steady hand. “Thanks, G,” you say in a small voice.

Your thanks go ignored. “Stop twitching,” she snaps, tilting your head. “Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s the final date,” you say, trying to shrug your shoulders without moving your face at all. “You and Gem both had these big epic things. What if they just give us, like, a Tesco meal deal in the garden? Like, congrats on being together a week, idiots, here’s a ham sandwich.”

“Jesus,” she sniffs, dusting a blush brush over your cheeks. “One, I know you don’t watch the show or whatever, but the producers are good at their jobs, so that’s not happening. And two, who cares? They could sit you two in a cardboard box on the side of the highway and you’d still find a way to make it nauseatingly romantic.”

You open your eyes as she dabs highlighter on your cheekbones, expertly blending it out. “You really think so?”

“Have I ever lied to any of you?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow as she paints the red lipstick onto the contours of your mouth. 

“No,” you admit, lips still puckered. “You always kept it real. Even if we didn’t want to hear it.”

“Exactly,” she says breezily, turning you back toward the mirror, and her handiwork is better than anything you could have ever hoped to produce yourself. “Besides, you wouldn’t even be on this date without me.”

“What do you mean?” you say, wrinkling your nose as you glance at her through the mirror.

Her lips twitch into a smirk. “What do you think I was talking about honesty in Casa for? Babe, he was always yours. And you were clearly his, you just didn’t know it yet. I just had to step out of the way and give you a little push.”

Your heart swells with affection for her and all her sharp edges, and you’re hugging her before you can stop yourself. She stiffens in surprise, then relaxes in your arms. “Do not get weepy on me now,” she warns. “You’ll ruin my masterpiece, and it’s very unchic.”

You squeeze her tighter for just a second before you let go. “Love you, G.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too,” she grumbles, but she’s got a soft smile on her face. “Now go get your man.”

Lando’s already waiting for you outside the villa, hands shoved in his pockets, but the second you open the door and his eyes land on you, his jaw drops. Literally — you’re pretty sure you can see all his teeth. 

“What the fuck,” he beams, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he holds out his hand for you. When you take it, he spins you, the skirt of your dress flaring as you turn. “You are so fit. Don’t know what mistake the universe made to give me this, but I am not complaining.”

“Stop it. Haven’t even left yet and you’re already laying it on thick,” you snort, cheeks hot as he walks you to the car idling in the driveway. 

“Not laying it on thick if it’s true,” he says easily, opening the door for you and sliding in behind you. “And objectively, you are the most stunning girl in the entire world, so I’m not shutting up about it."

Your nerves buzz in your stomach the entire drive, Lando’s knee bouncing so hard it shakes the seats. He keeps fiddling with your hand, twisting your fingers together and sweeping his thumb over your knuckles like he can’t decide whether or not to be nervous or excited.

“Reckon it’s a vineyard,” he whispers to you so the producers don’t hear as the car winds down a narrow dirt road in the midst of a forest. “Or a picnic? But that’s probably too close to Franco and G’s date. Horseback riding, maybe?”

You hum noncommittally, even though your heart’s racing. “As long as it’s not a helicopter ride,” you whisper back. “Those ones they rent always look a bit dodgy.”

He laughs and squeezes your hand tightly as the car slows to a stop, headlights cutting through the trees as you reach a small clearing. When you get out of the car, you gasp.

There’s string lights draping from tree to tree above you at every angle, lighting the entire clearing a soft, glowing gold. A vintage pickup truck is parked dead center, bed piled high with pillows and blankets, and across the grass a massive projector screen stands ready and waiting. 

“Whoa,” Lando breathes, awestruck look on his face. “This is mint.”

You grin, pulling him into the clearing. “Our first movie night?”

He helps you up into the truck bed, and you settle against the pillows as he hops in, pressing himself beside you from your shoulders to the tips of your toes like it’s second nature. There’s popcorn and candy next to you; you toss him the Kinder without thinking, and he rips it open with an appalling level of gusto.

“What movie do you think they picked for us?” you say, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air and catching it in your mouth.

“Dunno,” he responds, digging into your popcorn as the projector flickers to life, and you smack his hand away as he giggles. Those old-fashioned countdown numbers flash before it goes dark again, and your names get written across the screen in flowing silvery script.

“What is this?” Lando whispers, and when it cuts again, it’s him, wearing those same ridiculous fluro swim trunks he’d worn on the very first day, talking to George. 

“Dunno, mate, I’m just looking for something serious. Something real,” past-Lando says on screen. 

And then, like clockwork, or maybe something more like fate, you and Lily walk through the doors. 

You squeeze his hand tight, smile already wobbly. “It’s us.”

The producers clearly scrounged up every second of footage they had of the two of you interacting, because it’s your first conversation next, before the coupling ceremony even began. You can see the spark in your eyes, can hear the way the conversation flows effortlessly from the first word. 

“Look at us,” you snort as the clip switches to another moment of you and Lando, on the terrace this time. “We were so obvious.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he grins, tucking you closer under his arm. “I was the picture of restraint.”

On screen, past-Lando is practically staring at your lips as you talk, hanging on to your every word with the softest smile on his face. 

“Very restrained,” you say dryly. “You’re, like, radiating heart eyes at me.”

He pokes you in the side. “Oi. You didn’t notice, did you? Subtlety is my middle name.”

The film continues chronologically through your journey in the villa, moments you remember and moments you’ve already forgotten. There’s you and Lando bantering on the daybeds. You and Lando kissing, the awestruck look on your face clear even under the eye mask. You and Lando tossing fruits in each other’s mouth in an elaborate game you’d made up to keep yourselves from getting too bored one day.

“Oh god,” you mumble, burying your face in his neck when the heart rate challenge footage comes on. “Don’t need to relive this one.”

“Fuck, you looked unreal,” Lando breathes, and you don’t even need to look up to know he has a delighted smile on his face. “I literally thought my heart was going to explode.”

Your cheeks go crimson. “Lando Norris.”

“I’m serious,” he continues blithely, shrugging his shoulders. “D’you think the producers will let me have a copy?”

The footage cuts again to something you haven’t seen, a house that looks just the slightest bit different than the villa — Casa Amor. Past-Lando and past-Carlos are arguing, Carlos red in the face as Oscar holds Lando back from lunging at him. A second later, it cuts to your conversation with Georgia, looking worried sick as you defend him the same way. The Casa recoupling is next; it still makes your chest ache to watch, but not in the same way it did to live through. Now, you see Lando’s knee brushing against yours, his eyes on you when Carlos walks back in with Emma, half agony seeing you upset and half hope at the thought he might still have a chance. 

Your challenge win comes next: Lando, picking you up and twirling you effortlessly through the air; you, looking like you’ve been hit with a lightning bolt. 

You point at the screen fondly. “That was the moment I knew I was fucked.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It took you that long?”

The footage jumps again to the Hideaway and the almost-kiss you thought you imagined, but is immortalized forever on film and in the warm blush of Lando’s embarrassment next to you at not making a move; the date with Alex and Olivia, where the two of you both look murderously jealous of each other; your fight on the terrace and the confession. 

The last clip is recent, from after you two officially got together. You’re cutting fruit barefoot in the kitchen, Lando with his hip pressed to yours as he hums under his breath, off-key but earnest. Onscreen, he holds out his palm. “Dance with me?”

You giggle, take his hand anyway. “In the kitchen?”

“Where else?” he grins, pulling you close, and the two of you sway slowly between the counters as he keeps humming his song against your hair. The camera lingers on your faces as you turn: both of you look lit from within, incandescent with happiness. With something that you could build forever on. 

As the screen fades to black, you curl tightly into Lando’s side, heart full to bursting. You’ve never really been a fan of reality TV, never thought much of the misleading editing and dramatic pauses. But this — your story — you’d watch over and over again.  

“We really went through it,” you say, laughing shakily as the fairy lights glow back to life above you. “That was, like, ten summers worth of drama shoved into one.”

“Worth it, though,” Lando replies. 

“You think?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

His expression is almost achingly tender. “Like I said earlier. Got you out of it, didn’t I?”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching the stars start to peek through the canopy of lights above you. “What do you think it’s going to be like?” you ask suddenly. “Outside, I mean. When this is all over.”

He shifts, facing you. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” you say, voice smaller than you intended. “It’s been so easy in here, but it’s not real life. I know we’re both going back to London and we don’t have to do long distance, but we’re both busy people, and it’s just going to be harder and messier and more complicated. What if you —” you cut yourself off, staring down at your hands. “I’m scared you’re going to wake up and realize I’m not worth the effort.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Look at me, yeah?”

When you turn your head, his expression is so certain that it takes your breath away.

“You want to know what I think?” he says softly. “I think you’re scared because this matters. Because this is the first time you’ve found something worth being terrified of losing.”

Your eyes sting, and you blink hard to clear them of the tears threatening to spill over. “Are you scared?”

“Bricking it, obviously, ” he admits, grinning. “I know it’s going to be different out there. We’ve got lives we’ve got to figure out how to intertwine and we’re not going to spend every second together like we do in here. But that doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of not having you in my life at all. I don’t care if we’re in Mallorca or Manchester or — or frickin’ Mars, as long as I’m with you I’m going to be happy. You’re it for me, okay?”

You manage a weak laugh. “You make it sound so simple, but what if —”

“No what-ifs,” he says firmly. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. That’s what people do when they…” he trails off, hand shaking just slightly in yours, and takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for something. “When they love each other.”

Your heart stops completely. 

“I love you,” he says, softer this time, like he’s testing how the words feel on his tongue. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“You love me?” you say, throat tight, and his lips twitch into the smallest, most anxious grin you’ve ever seen on him.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s you, so. Kind of hard not to.”

His nervousness knocks a laugh out of you, shaky and incredulous, because of course he’s managed to make something that might be the most pivotal moment of your entire life into the most adorable thing in the world. “You’re ridiculous.”

There’s a tremor in his voice when he talks next. “But you love me anyway, right?”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “Yeah. I really, really do.”

The relief on his face is instant, the first sip of water on the hottest day of the year. “Knew it,” he grins smugly, and it should be a public health hazard with how uncontainable and completely contagious it is. “You’re stuck with me now, mate.”

“God help me,” you deadpan, cheeks hurting from how hard you’re smiling.

When he pulls you in and laughs, loud and riotously joyful, the sound makes you think maybe the outside world won’t be so scary after all.  

The villa feels different on the last day. Maybe it’s the swirl of activity, the sounds of construction of a full-sized stage outside in the garden as you get ready for what feels like hours. They’ve brought in an actual glam team for the eight of you, racks full of designer dresses and suits. Maybe it’s the way everyone’s dressed to the nines, girls in full-length gowns and boys in proper suits like you’ve all just stepped off a red carpet. Mostly, though, you think it’s the cameras. After weeks of being hidden, you’d nearly forgotten they were there, but suddenly they’re all out in the open, camera guys crawling all over the lawn, big black eyes trained directly on you.

You can tell everyone is feeling it. There’s a lot more fidgeting than usual as you stand on the heart-shaped platforms, one for each couple, waiting for the host to come in for the very last time. George can’t stop adjusting his bowtie, and Lily keeps wiping her hands on her dress like her palms are clamming up. Lando, looking unfairly good in a simple navy blue suit, is bouncing on his toes next to you; you take a deep breath before you slip your hand into his. 

Whatever happens next, you know you’ve got him.

The host slinks onto the lawn, radiant smile on her face as she begins. “Islanders, what a summer it’s been. But it all ends tonight.”

Every word she speaks feels like a countdown. It has your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. 

“I can now reveal,” she continues, dragging the words out like she’s savoring the taste of them, “that the couple in fourth place is… Franco and Georgia.”

The six of you clap politely. Georgia’s face crumples for exactly half a second before she pastes on a smile that could win beauty pageants and throws her arms around Franco. “We did it, babe,” she proclaims, loud enough for the cameras to hear, and you can hear the strain of disappointment in her voice. Franco looks more relieved than anything as he offers his arm to her, escorting her off the platform. 

“In third place… George and Gemma!” she says. 

George dips Gemma into a kiss before the host is even done saying their names, and when they break apart they’re both beaming at each other. They seem thrilled with their placement, joining Georgia and Franco by the table and immediately breaking into heated whispers, probably bickering about who they think will win. 

“The country has chosen you as the final two couples,” the host says, looking between you and Lando and Oscar and Lily; you fidget just slightly under her unyielding gaze. “We’ve followed every step of your journeys to find love this summer. The ups, the downs, the slowest of slow burns.” 

Lily catches your eye from her platform, grinning and pointing at you like she’s calling it. You shake your head and point right back at her, heart swelling with affection for the girl who’s practically become your sister in here. Oscar shoots you a lopsided grin, and you can see the hope sparking in his eyes. 

“And now the waiting is finally over.”

Lando’s thumb traces steady, grounding circles on the back of your hand, squeezing it tightly. When you look up at him, he’s not nervous at all. He’s got that smile that mesmerized you on the first day on his face again — dazzlingly, blindingly happy, and entirely yours. 

“The winners of Love Island 2025 are…” she says, and the butterflies kick in your stomach like they’re trying to start a hurricane halfway around the world. The silence stretches, and you really wish she’d just get on with it, because you can’t hold your breath for much longer and you might pass out if she keeps dragging this on. 

“Oscar and Lily!”

As the confetti cannons go off and fireworks paint the sky silver and gold, the words hit you like a physical thing. Before you know it, you’re crying; not sad tears, but something bigger, more complex. Relief, pride, love, everything you’ve been carrying in your heart all summer rising at once until it spills noisily over your cheeks.

“You upset?” Lando asks, concern creeping into his voice as he wraps his arms around you, shielding you from the cameras.

“Not even a little,” you say, sniffling, and you mean it completely. Watching Oscar and Lily together, how could you feel anything but pure joy? “You?”

He shrugs, grin tugging at the corner of that heart-shaped mouth as he looks at you. “I already won.”

You laugh wetly, heart skipping a beat in your chest. “Cornball.”

“You love it,” he retorts. 

“I love you,” you correct, and his eyes sparkle. “Could take or leave the terrible jokes.”

He grins all too angelically, gaze flicking towards the pool behind you, then back to your face. “See, this is awkward, because my love for you is unconditional and my jokes are fantastic. So you’re going to have to pay for that.”

“Lando, don’t you dare,” you start to warn, but he’s already scooping you into his arms and running full speed towards the pool, launching you both into the air until you land with a spectacular splash.

The water is all-encompassing, dress billowing around you and dragging you down before you burst back to the surface, gasping through your giggles. Franco cannonballs in next, and Georgia follows, sliding in carefully from the shallow side — you know she’d die before getting her hair wet, but she’d never miss this moment. Gemma goes in on George’s back, arms wrapped around his neck as he paddles towards the rest of you. Lily and Oscar are last, whooping as they jump into the deep end, hands intertwined. It’s messy and ridiculous and absolutely perfect. 

Lando hoists you up easily, your legs locking around his waist as he tucks a strand of wet hair behind your ear. His hands are steady, curls dripping into his eyes, and you think he must be the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. “Thanks,” you say suddenly, chest tight. 

He tilts his head, confused. “For the hair?”

“No, I just — I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy,” you say, voice breaking around the simple truth of it.

His expression softens. “Get used to it,” he says, thumb tracing along your thigh, and your skin erupts in goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cool water. “I plan on making you this happy for a pretty long time.”

You raise an eyebrow, aiming for teasing despite your heart hammering against your ribs. “How long are we talking?” 

“Dunno,” he hums happily, pretending to think about it, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners gives him away. “How does forever sound?”

You kiss him then, with the fireworks still going off above your heads like the entire universe is celebrating along with you, and his hands tighten around your thighs like he never wants to let you go. When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his and smile. 

“Forever sounds like a pretty good start.”

[piastriprincess]

someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  love  island  au  ,  strangers  to  friends  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn tw  cheating  (in  the  love  island  sense)  ,  slight  carlos  sainz  slander  for  the  plot word  count 17.8k (part one) author’s  note  yeah  once  again  i  have  literally  no  excuse  for  this  one  .  probably  THEEE  most  self  indulgent  fic  i’ve  ever  written  as  i  am  proudly  the  world’s  biggest  love  island  fan  .  during  my  catchup  on  love  island  uk  this  year  ,  i  started  thinking  about  this  interview  and  then  the  idea  of  lando  on  love  island  just  burrowed  into  my  brain  and  refused  to  leave  me  alone  . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think ,  and  my  1k  celebration  is  still  open  ,  so  if  you  liked  this please  feel  free  to  send  in  a  request  !!  title  is  from  came  here  for  love  by  sigala  ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here. 

You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show. 

And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat. 

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house. 

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle. 

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again. 

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years. 

And then there’s the smile. 

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.  

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go. 

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has. 

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore. 

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads. 

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest. 

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you. 

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry. 

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles. 

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile. 

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago. 

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there. 

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most. 

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long. 

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water. 

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.” 

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end. 

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them. 

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia. 

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets. 

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms. 

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by. 

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious. 

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact. 

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists. 

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh. 

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly. 

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches. 

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears. 

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you. 

You’re not expecting a second kiss. 

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time. 

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking. 

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod. 

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her. 

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head. 

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara. 

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit. 

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles. 

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice. 

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie? 

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks. 

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is. 

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently. 

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.” 

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos. 

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door. 

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else. 

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing. 

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders. 

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand. 

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.” 

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek. 

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season. 

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently. 

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here. 

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder. 

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above. 

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters. 

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real. 

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.” 

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit. 

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely. 

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!” 

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind. 

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily. 

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it. 

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat. 

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead. 

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil. 

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession. 

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently. 

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work. 

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves. 

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks. 

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily. 

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television. 

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss. 

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally. 

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat. 

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy. 

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen. 

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085. 

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out. 

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack. 

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked. 

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you. 

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise. 

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked. 

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.” 

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek. 

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten. 

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him. 

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in. 

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you. 

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side. 

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin. 

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando. 

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face. 

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you. 

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck. 

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos. 

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens. 

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.” 

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide. 

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. 

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa. 

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow. 

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.” 

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.” 

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips. 

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss. 

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil. 

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen. 

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.” 

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles. 

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?” 

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet. 

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink. 

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him. 

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means. 

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days. 

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere. 

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone. 

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too. 

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened. 

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again. 

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds. 

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week. 

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock. 

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa. 

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie. 

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down. 

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine. 

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again. 

And then your phone buzzes in your lap. 

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando. 

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.” 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles. 

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that. 

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.” 

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.” 

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved. 

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right. 

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.” 

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot. 

But you’re also not alone.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Jeongin's muscles

Word count: 0.8k

Warnings: mentions of sex, a lot of skinship

Alexa, play Hallucination by I.N

So, baby bread is not a baby anymore hehe and I am almost combusting because of this. I mean, look at this photo 👇🏻

Things you’d do to Jeongin’s muscles (and he’d let you even though he would blush after):

Using his arm as a support while getting a vaccine:

You’re terrified of needles (if you're not, just pretend you are), you can’t even look when the nurse comes near. So Jeongin flexes his bicep and tells you, “Here. Hold on”. His voice is gentle, and when you grab his arm like a stress ball, you realize just how solid he is under your fingers. You don’t even notice the shot— you’re too busy thinking about how warm and firm his muscle feels. But when the nurse chuckles and says, “Wow, solid”, and you go red, he clears his throat and looks away.

“Don’t say that”, he mutters, “You’ll make her start thinking inappropriate things”

 Watching him open a jar just because you “can’t”:

You hand him a tightly sealed jar and pout dramatically, “Innieeee, it’s stuck”

He sighs, takes it, and cracks it open in one go, “Easy”

But you’re not even listening, you’re watching his forearms tense, veins rising under his skin.And of course he notices.“You definitely could’ve opened that yourself”, he accuses.

You grin, “Maybe. But where’s the fun in that?”

He smirks, then licks his lips, “You want the milk carton too?”

You nod innocently. He does it, muttering, “You’re such a perv”

Using him as a mattress after a long day:

You crawl into bed, already exhausted. Jeongin follows you, wraps an arm around your waist, and before you can even think about it, you roll onto him and sprawl across his chest and arms like you’re marking territory.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice muffled.

"You feel like a muscle mattress” you mumble.

He bites his lip to keep from smiling too big, “You’re… heavy”

“Rude”

He laughs but shifts under you, letting you settle deeper into the warmth of his arms and chest.

You’ve never felt safer. You fall asleep in five minutes. And he never moves, even when his arm goes numb under you, absolutely refusing to disturb you.

 Making him flex while he’s on top:

Things get heated— shirts already off, his arms caging you in, and you whisper, “Flex for me”

He freezes. “What?”

“Your arms. Please”

He groans, drops his head to your neck, and says, “You’re so weird”

But he does it anyway. 

"Like this?”, he teases, lips brushing your ear

You whimper. And when you run your hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps while he moves above you— he realizes you’re shaking.

"You’re into this way more than I thought”, he whispers, “Guess I should’ve done this sooner”

Letting you count his abs when you’re bored:

You’re lying in bed, staring at him. He’s scrolling on his phone, covered by a blanket. You suddenly sit up.

“Take it off”

He looks up,“Excuse me?”

"Your shirt. I wanna count your abs”, he bursts out laughing but ends up lifting it anyway.

You gently run your fingers down each ridge,  “One… two… three…”

He whispers, “I can flex harder”

“Don’t cheat. I’m making research”

"You’re ridiculous”

Still, he lets you finish.

✧˖*°࿐

Things Jeongin would do with his muscles just to tease you (and he'd claim it is just an "accident")

He works out shirtless only when you’re home:

The second you walk in, he just happens to be mid pull up, dripping sweat, abs flexed with every breath, claiming  it’s “too hot”

“Oh, hey”, he says casually, breathless, “Didn’t hear you come in”

Then does one more set— with extra grunts.

He pulls your hand under this shirt, then makes you feel his abs:

You're cuddling, then his hand grabs yours, guiding it under his shirt.

"Feel that?”, he whispers, cocky, “Been working out”

Like you hadn’t already noticed. 

He flexes, just to make you gasp, then kisses your neck.

You can only roll your eyes and enjoy the warmth

Lifts you up when you’re in the way:

You’re standing in front of the kitchen drawers, searching for a spoon. He wants something behind you.

You think he’ll wait. Maybe ask you to move.

Nope.

Two strong arms suddenly wrap around your waist, and the next thing you know—  your feet leave the ground.

“Jeongin!”

He just hums, sets you on the counter like it’s nothing, then grabs the cereal box he wanted, “There. Solved”

You blink at him, “You could’ve just asked”

He smiles, “But then I wouldn’t get to touch you like that”

Fuck you after gym without even showering first:

Sweaty, pumped, still in his gym clothes. You barely say hello before he pins you to the nearest wall and mumbles

"Missed you so much”

His arms? Slick, bulging, still flexing from that last set. You can barely think. He sees your dazed face and smirks.

"What?”, he whispers, “You gonna cum just from how my arms feel?”

And you do— embarrassingly fast

Who do you want next? 👀 I'm probably going to do Hyunjin so after Hyunjin 🤭

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep, @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin, @yxna-bliss

[cbini]

wake up sleepy eyes

pairing: seo changbin x afab!reader

warnings: established relationship, beach date w boyfie bin <3, reader is lowkey uneasy abt the water, aloe massage, morning sex, dry humping, slight pain kink

a/n: based entirely on this tweet and then i ran with everything else. happy 2 years to this account, here’s a present from me to u. i hope u enjoy, reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)

if you move slowly, maybe it’ll go away. stare it in the eyes, black and beady and menacing as they are, you hold your ground because there’s no way you’re losing your sandwich today. not when the fluffy white bread bears your fingerprints from being squished down to crush the chips you put underneath it. you’re not in the mood to chase a seagull down the beach with your flip flop waving in the air. 

you’re trying to relax. that’s the point of your little weekend getaway anyways. 

your eyes are starting to dry out by the time you hear feet trudging through the sand. changbin accidentally kicks it onto your towel when he reaches you, breathing heavily and eclipsing the sun from your view. 

“what are you looking a- ack!” flapping wings, a peckish beak. changbin flinches and ducks, covers his head with his arms and plonks underneath the umbrella just as the seagull finally leaves you be, flying off to bother other beach dwellers and their less-tasty sandwiches. he looks you in the eyes and shakes his head. his hair’s wet, curling up at the ends into pretty, black spikes. salt water drips down his round face. “that thing was going to carry me away!” 

“mm,” you hum with a shake of your own head. a bite to your sandwich, the crushed corner of an orange dorito slips from the crust and hits your thigh, ham gets stuck to the roof of your mouth as you chew. “no way, i would come save you.” 

changbin wipes the corner of your lips with his thumb. he trills something happy and high in his throat, wiggles his broad shoulders. “my hero!” 

you pull the sandwiches you packed for him out of your cooler and changbin cracks open your drink. he passes it to you once he’s done, but not before taking a quick sip for himself. 

lunch is better on the beach. changbin’s knee presses against yours, and you never want to leave. 

changbin insists on waiting thirty minutes before going back to play in the water. it’s a good time to reapply his sunscreen — any sunburn he gets turns into such a beautiful tan afterwards, soft skin caramel warm and honey dipped, but he doesn’t like to get burned, always diligently applying it himself when he feels his shoulders getting hot. he takes a swig of his own drink, tips his head back to finish the can. a sticky trail of salt water slips down his chin, his adam’s apple. your eyes track it all the way to his collarbones, still dazed by his beauty when he stands and stretches after finishing his drink. he reaches for the spray this time, takes a deep breath and holds it while he sprays sporadically around his chest and legs. 

“come here, let me rub it in. you’re gonna be all… squiggly.” you can see it now, sunny pink splotches swirling around the areas changbin haphazardly sprayed like a bowl of spaghetti noodles. he kneels before you then, puffs his chest and squares his shoulders and preens at the first touch of your cool hands to his chest. his skin is so warm. how can he be the most perfect mixture of both firm and soft under your greedy hands? the spray is oily and slick when you touch him, his skin shines with it, marblesque, doused in pure gold. 

“don’t touch me there~” he teases when your hands trails over his pecs. his nipples are sensitive — if you kept it up, his knees would start wobbling. his stomach comes next. you stick your finger in his belly button and he shouts. changbin gets squirmy when your hands find his sides. he’s squeezable there, but your hands are too slippery to get a good grip. “yah. yah, stop- fondling me!” 

you indulgently roll your eyes at the tone of his raised voice, and he shouts again when you smack him jokingly on the flank. 

“you like being fondled, don’t even lie like that. okay, turn around. want me to get your back?” 

“please. thank you,” changbin says. he turns around and plops onto his butt in front of you. you stretch your legs out on either side of him then. your hands are so slippery that the bottle of sunscreen nearly slips from your hands, but you manage to spray another heap onto your oily palms before it drops to the towel underneath you. changbin’s back is just as warm as his front, just as broad, just as beautiful, with muscles swimming and flexing when he moves. you’ll have to hurry on this one. changbin gets sleepy whenever you rub his back, and his body’s already swaying slightly with the motion of your hands. 

“alright big guy,” you coo, and changbin’s responding hum lilts up in question at the end. he’s tired already, hours under the sun will do that  — he’s going to sleep so hard tonight. “give it a minute and then you can go swim, honey.” 

changbin shakes his head wildly to wake himself up, salt water flying every which way as he does. you cover your eyes with a squeal, and when your boyfriend stands up and turns to face you, he’s grinning. 

“come with me!” you’d acquiesce even if he wasn’t whining cutely at you. you’re wrapped around his finger as it is, but you don’t always have to make it so obvious. “come play with me.”

he helps you stand up, warm, calloused palms embracing yours. changbin watches you do your own thing before you step onto the sand with him, the not-so-subtle, appreciative up and down of his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed either. 

the sand is soft under your feet but gets harder the closer you get to the water. you pause at the line of the sea, watching the waves peter out until they’re rippling under your toes and pulling the sand with it. changbin’s only a few steps ahead of you, but he stops when he realizes you’re not right behind him. he pauses then, turns around and holds his hand out to you so that you can take hold of it when you’re ready. he guides you into the water when you take it; it’s always so much colder than you expect it to be despite the bright sunlight above. you already know the only way to warm up to it is to go deeper. 

“i don’t want to go too far,” you say. water laps at your shins now. your thighs soon, your waist. 

“we won’t, i promise,” changbin responds easily. he’s already clocked the look on your face, the small pinch between your brows. you can’t see below you; you don’t know what you’ll touch or what will touch you. 

changbin wades in front of you to block a small wave, the breadth of his back catching the brunt of it and carrying him forward slightly before it ever hits you. his arms wrap around your waist as he’s moved, and now you’re no longer focusing too hard on whether a fish just bumped your leg or if it was seaweed. you’re already wrapping your legs around his hips when his hand drags down to your thigh to do it himself. 

it’s nice like this, peaceful. changbin’s sneaky hands cup under your ass to hold you tight to him. the water rocks you gently together and he kisses your head, turning his back towards an oncoming wave again and letting it carry you closer to the shore. 

“we’re going to get swept out to sea.” you won’t. you’re still a safe distance from the shore; changbin is still clearly reaching the sandy bottom. but what if?

“we won’t! i have really strong toes, you know?” 

“we’re going to get eaten by a shark.” not a fun way to go. being swallowed by a whale doesn’t sound like too much fun either, but changbin shakes his head, insistent. 

“i could twirl one of those on my finger like a basketball, yeobo, they swim far away when they see me coming.” 

you laugh then, and changbin’s face lights up like the sun. 

“… would you pee on me if i got stung by a jellyfish?” 

he pinches your ass then, cackles that goofy laugh of his. 

“yah, i- are you crazy? is the sky blue?” 

changbin lets the waves carry you back to the shore soon enough. you unwrap yourself from him when you get closer to the bank. he still holds onto your hand tight, all the way until you reach your beach towels and umbrella. your book is calling your name, and a second sandwich sounds pretty good right about now too. you’re expecting changbin to plop back down next to you, but he stands in front of his towel with his hands on his hips and his gaze set on something behind you. the thud of a soccer ball in the distance tells you exactly what he’s looking at, so you nudge him on the leg to get his attention. 

“you wanna go?” 

he nods, hesitates. shifts his weight from foot to foot. 

“i can sit with you instead. i really want to spend time with you, gorgeous.” 

he’s a sweetheart. gooey and soft on the inside, glitter pink and fizzy. he’s been spending time with you — you’ve practically been attached at the hip for the entirety of your short vacation. 

“go play! i’ll be right here. i want to read for a little bit. you can spend time with me when you come back, hm?” 

he presses a kiss to your lips before he runs off, a goofy call of don’t leave without me! tossed behind him. 

you’re two chapters deep when you pause to watch him. he’s so good at this; his easygoing personality and his ability to make friends with anyone are two things you love so dearly about changbin. his smile is wide, you can tell even from your spot a ways away. his new friends look younger than him, tinier in all ways. he likes to make them laugh, hits the soccer ball off of his butt with a goofy noise and gives everyone a high five. 

changbin’s breathing heavily again when he comes back, flops right onto the damp sand in front of you to catch his breath. 

“did you have fun?” you dog ear your page and close your book to turn all of your attention to him. his cheeks are pink with exertion; there’s a tired smile on his face. changbin’s fingers dig deep into the sand when he nods, gulping heavily like playing so hard has dried his mouth all out. you crack open another drink and pop a bendy straw in, grunting as your knees press hard to the towel underneath you so that you can hold the can to changbin’s lips. 

he misses the straw once, twice, eyes locked on the gently swaying mounds of your chest now that you’re basically on your hands and knees in front of him. 

“pervert,” you chuckle, and changbin’s eyebrows scrunch teasingly as he takes a sip. 

he licks his lips when he’s done and tilts his head. “how am i a pervert? why? i’m just admiring the view.”

you level him with a look, and changbin just gives you one back. your towel is warm when you turn back around, so rest your head on your crossed arms while changbin busies himself in the sand. 

you don’t fall asleep, but you do doze, floating in and out of consciousness for what only feels like a few seconds and pulled out of your sleepy haze by the soft scrape of sand. your body’s stiff when you prop up on your elbow and turn towards the noise. 

“oh,” you say. changbin is elbow deep in sand, hills and ridges packed tight around the edge of the hole he’s dug. there’s even little seashell windows. “oh wow, baby, good job! that’s a beautiful hole.” 

he smiles then. one eye is squinted because it’s so bright on the beach. 

you’d pour a bucket of water on the sun if you could just find a way up there, if only it would make it a little easier for him to see. but then you’d never see him like this again. skin warm and bronzed, salt water drying on his wide shoulders, fingers and toes sandy. you have half a mind to shade your eyes. not from the sunlight, but from changbin, bright and beautiful and orbital changbin. staring straight into the light has never felt better. 

you’re both nearly ravenous when dinner rolls around, and changbin’s eyes are half lidded by the time you finally make it back to your hotel room after some much needed seafood. you drag him to the bathroom first because you don’t want to feel specs of sand in the sheets, and you know if you let him get in bed like this, he’ll fall asleep the moment he closes his eyes. 

“but i already took a shower!” he whines. changbin is staring dazedly at the pelting rain of the shower head. 

“okay, the shower on the beach doesn’t count! nice try. just be quick, wash up and leave the water running so i can jump in after you.” 

you leave him grumbling. the wet plop of his swim shorts echoes through the bathroom and underneath the closed door. the sliding glass door is just as loud, and so is the dramatic wail changbin lets out when the warm water touches his skin. you busy yourself with your suitcase while he’s in the shower, pulling out a t-shirt and a clean pair of underwear, sitting primly on the corner of the bed and turning the television on. 

it doesn’t take him long. it takes him longer to stop fumbling with the bottle of shampoo than it does for him to actually wash his hair, and he’s walking stiffly out of the bathroom with his towel draped around his shoulders in no time. he plops down onto the bed stomach-first — it makes his plush cheek bunch up against the comforter cutely, so you pat his boxer-clad butt and head off to take your own shower, leaving changbin to rest. 

the slide of the shower door almost covers up changbin’s yell from the other room, but he’s not quick enough. 

“shit, wait! wait, yeobo, make sure to turn the water-” 

you yelp. cold water zings up your back for only a second before you’re back away from the stream, hugging yourself like that’ll preserve any warmth. 

“seo changbin!” 

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry, i forgot!” 

you’re still shivering by the time you walk out of the bathroom. you were able to turn the hot water up with minimal damage to your poor, freezing nipples, but now your hair is cooling on your back through your shirt. you want to cuddle up to changbin so he can warm you up, maybe pinch his side in retaliation for not warning you that he took a cold shower when he knew you were coming in after him, but all of your scheming flies out the window when you see him sprawled out on the bed. 

he’s still on his stomach, cheek still cutely smushed against the mattress. he’s lost the towel — it either slipped right off of him or he tugged it from around his shoulders and tossed it on the ground. changbin is… red. his cheek, the singular ear you can see. raspberry red dips down his shoulders and crawls down his back. changbin’s feet are dangling off the bed. his calves are tinged pink too, but not nearly as bad as his shoulders. you didn’t know he had gotten that much sun today; thankfully it won’t take too long for that achy pink to ombré into a handsome bronze. 

changbin blinks up at you and tries to smile. 

“i see why you took a cold shower,” you coo. you sit gently beside his head and rest your hand on his back. he’s boiling, skin red hot to the touch. “i think i packed some aloe? let me find it, bunny.” 

“not a bunny…” changbin gripes. “i look like the lobster we ate at dinner.” 

you walk to your suitcase and rummage through it again. the aloe is in one of the zip-up pockets; it’d feel better if you had pulled it out of the fridge instead, but this’ll have to do. you straddle his hips as softly as you can, untwisting the cap and squeezing some of the thick blue gel onto your palms. thankfully, it’s cold enough to feel good to his sweltering skin. 

changbin tenses at the first touch to his back. he hisses, curls his fingers tightly where they’re now fisted beside his damp hair. he shudders then, turns his head to press his face into the mattress like a diva. he settles relatively quickly though, your gentle touch and the coolness of the gel work wonders for the tender, red skin of his back and shoulders. there’s so much surface area on him, so many places to feel, to love and admire and worship. you would if you could — you’d knead greedy hands at his lats and kiss your way down his spine, but you have to be gentle when he’s so succulent and soft underneath you, breathing heavily and body pliant against the bed. 

he twitches when you squeeze more gel onto your hand and smooth it down the backs of his arms. they’re soft when they’re not flexed, firm with muscle but covered by such plush skin. 

“‘m sticky,” he whines. it’s the quietest he’s been all day, deep voice slurring and raspy with sleep. 

“i know.” placating, appeasing. “i’m sorry, it’ll dry soon though, okay? can you- here, can you scoot up so you’re on the pillow?” you step to the bathroom to wash your hands and put the aloe in the room’s mini fridge. 

it’s like he uses every bit of his last remaining strength to heave himself onto the pillow just above his head. changbin smacks his lips, nuzzles his cheek into the pillow and throws an arm out to drag you closer to him when you finally get in the bed yourself. he’s deadweight, his arm lays heavily across your waist, but it’s a comfort more than anything. you’re just about to reach over and then off the light when changbin starts nosing at your shoulder. 

“you take such good care of me,” he breathes. his eyes are closed, short lashes brushing soft cheeks. changbin’s lips pout when he talks. “you looked so beautiful today, beautiful.” a thick thumb brushes the waistband of your underwear. “let me make love to you, gorgeous, changbinnie wants to take care of you now.” 

sweet boy. lovely, darling, sleepy boy. 

your body can’t help but react to him. it always does, his voice is but a siren’s song that you’re helpless to follow. if his fingers were to dip any lower, he’d find you slicking up and waiting for him. you’re arching into his touch already, but his arm has gone heavy on top of you again with his fingers snuck underneath the band of your cotton panties. 

your laugh huffs out of you then, something soft and fond. a slow turn of your head finds changbin out like a light, eyes fluttering under his lids and warm breath fanning onto your arm from his round nose. 

changbin grunts when you lean over to turn off the light, stocky fingers twitching where they’re caught under the band of your panties. you don’t move them — he can do that himself later, so you place your hand on top of his arm and curl closer to his chest, hoping to meet him in his dreams. 

you’re sweating when you wake up. your shirt has ridden halfway up your midsection, and you’re kept in place by changbin’s weight. his face is smushed into your armpit, his arm still thrown over your stomach and wrapping around your back. the pop of your elbows and the smack of your lips must pull him right out of slumber with you — his groan tickles your armpit, and you give him your own groan when he tightens his arm around you and pulls you in tight. 

“y’bong,” his voice is muffled by your shirt. you wrap your arms around his head so he can bury his face in your chest. “mmmsleepy.” 

changbin tangles his legs with yours, breathes something deep and content between the valley of your breasts. the warmth of his bare skin seeps through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. you can feel the backs of your knees sweating — changbin is warm with sleep and equally warm from his sunburn, a thick, plush, pink little furnace wrapped up right in your arms. 

he’s hard. you can feel the short length of his cock pressing hot to your thigh through his boxers. you nudge your leg up, and changbin’s chest rumbles something deep and low. 

two can play that game — changbin’s neck rolls, he nuzzles his face into your tits and sneaks a hand from around your back to between your legs. he doesn’t make it under your panties but touches you over them instead, three thick fingers rubbing softly at the seam of your cunt and feeling for your clit. you’re not wet enough yet; the press of cotton feels like a shock to that sensitive little place. it makes your body roll, makes your hips shudder and your fingers curl into his hair. your cunt slicks up the more he touches you. you’re so sure he can feel it through the clinging fabric now, how you leak for him. you can feel his — leaking right from the tip of his fat cock, seeping through the front of his boxers to keep you company. 

changbin takes his hand away to smooth it over your ass, and it almost makes you tear up. he lifts his head and kisses the pitiful pout from your lips. 

“like this,” he breathes. “i want to fuck you like this.” 

you’re coddled this way; you both are, wrapped up in each other so tightly that there’s hardly any room between you. that just makes the first rut of his clothed cock to your wet panties lick fire down your spine. you toss your leg over his waist and angle your hips so you can grind against him too. 

“bin. yeah. yeah, fuck.” 

your voice is thick with sleep, with spit. the slow beat of his clothed cock against your pussy is so good, his tip prods at your clit and makes you quake. you crane your neck for a kiss that changbin meets eagerly. it’s warm, lazy, sour with sleep, and his moan is strained when you lap it up with your tongue. there’s something akin to anticipation burning deep in your gut, burning alongside something fizzy and tight. 

the hum of the air conditioner cuts through the sounds of sex. your heavy breathing, the rustle of the sheets. changbin’s fingernails dig under the leg of your panties to squeeze your ass. he’s almost bouncing you like that — he’s strong enough to aid in the quickening rock of your hips, easing you against his hardness. 

“does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asks, hot and low against your neck. you can’t answer, but you try, a pitiful, keening mmm! leaving your slick lips. “you sound so good, you sound so fucking beautiful.” 

this might be the best thing you’ve ever felt. it’s different from the blinding pleasure of his cock carving you out, but it’s good in its own way, the drag of his cock across cotton, the feeling of his arms around you, his voice in your ear. how can he sound so composed just minutes after waking up beside you? buttering you up, sweet talking you like you’re not already in bed with him. it’s something he just knows, you reckon, exactly what you need even when you don’t know it yourself. 

his eyes are on you. his face is puffy, there’s crust in the corner of one almond shaped eye. you slide your hand down to his face to wipe it away and spend the rest of your time cupping his cheek while he watches you. 

“‘m gonna cum,” you say, and changbin nods, his forehead nudges yours. 

“yeah, fuck, please. yeah, let me make you cum.” 

it’s slow, building right up from the tips of your toes and swimming its way up your desperate body. changbin rolls his hips, wet fabric and a hard cock nudging just where you need it, and you cum with a feeble cry, clit pulsing quickly in your messy panties as changbin makes you cum just like he said. 

it’s so good that you don’t know what to do with yourself. a shaky hand leaves his cheek and smacks against his reddened shoulder, clutching tight to his tender skin to ground yourself while you shake apart. it isn’t until changbin cries out that you realize what you just did. 

“sorry!” you say, frantic. “baby, baby i didn’t mea-”

he cuts you off with another cry, something crazed and wild, pitching high in his throat and tumbling into a wet gasp. you can’t feel his cum just yet, but you feel him, shivering and jolting in the cradle of your arms until it ultimately makes him go completely lax. 

there’s nothing better than this. changbin is so soft and sweet, his calloused hand rubs your back underneath your t-shirt. you’ll cat nap for a while. changbin’s breath is already evening out again in your ear. 

ten minutes. twenty. thirty maybe, then you’ll get up and grab the aloe out of the fridge. 

[dakusan-deactivated20250804]

S K Z F A L L I N G I N L O V E

stray kids ot8 x reader | this is how they fall—soft, slow, and all at once.

🌙 synopsis: love doesn’t always arrive loudly. sometimes it slips in through laughter, late-night ramen, bookstore rambles, or the way your eyes crinkle when you’re proud of them. this is the moment it hits them. the heartbeat they’ll never forget. the thought they can’t shake. the shift from “i like her” to “oh. i’m hers.” get ready for bashful glances, overthought texts, unsent voice notes, and loyalty so deep it stings. this isn’t just a headcanon set. it’s a love letter. from them, to you.

💌 a/n: welcome to another sunday softdrops. hello to everyone who’s ever accidentally fallen in love with someone who tied their hoodie wrong or smiled weird during ramen. this is for you. this is cinema. this is spiritual collapse. this is accidentally locking eyes while brushing your teeth and now he’s pacing the hallway writing poetry in his notes app. p.s. reblog = kisses and love p.p.s. hydrate. wear something soft. never settle for a love that doesn’t look at you like Hyunjin looks at sun-warm skin and unscripted laughter p.p.p.s. drop a member + a soft scenario in my inbox and I’ll write it. no shame. no brakes. let’s emotionally disintegrate together 💌

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Love Again — Baekhyun « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting on the studio floor, legs criss-crossed in that hoodie you always steal, eating spicy ramen with your hair a mess, humming quietly to the instrumental he left looping. It’s nothing fancy. No makeup. No posing. Just you, glowing under the dim studio light. You look up and smile—mouth full, eyes bright, like he’s your favourite person in the world.

His heart stutters. His breath catches. And then: stillness.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Shit. I’m gone. I’m in love. There’s no coming back from this.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolute silence. Like, full system shutdown. He suddenly “needs to focus” on the track, spins his chair around, fidgets with literally anything. He can't stop glancing at you in the reflection of the monitor, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a schoolboy.

You: “What’s wrong?” Chan: “Nothing.” Also Chan: writes 6 love songs in one night and names the folder “idk.”

🫀 How he is in love: Gentle. So, so gentle it aches. He pays attention to every detail—your snack habits, your late-night mood swings, the way your lip curls when you’re overthinking. He worries constantly. Holds you like you're something delicate and divine. He serves you, literally and emotionally.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → makes you playlists, folds your laundry, rubs your feet at 3am. – Physical touch → forehead kisses, waist holds, late-night cuddle traps. – Reassurance → always reminding you: “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

Lee Know // 리노

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re napping on his couch, curled up in a pile of his cats and blankets. There's drool on your cheek. One slipper’s fallen off. Your hand’s loosely tangled in Soonie’s fur. And for some reason, when he walks in and sees that—that chaotic little mess of softness in his space—his chest tightens. He stands there, completely still. And just breathes. Like if he moves, the realization will hit too hard.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“...Damn it. This is love, isn’t it?”

💌 How he acts right after: Unbothered™. But that’s a lie. He acts the exact same on the outside—dry, sarcastic, lightly roasting you every five minutes. But now, when he calls you annoying, there’s a softness to it. He lets you steal his hoodies without comment. He cuts the crusts off your toast even though he always said that was “a waste.” And when he tucks the blanket tighter around you, he doesn’t say a word. But his hands linger.

🫀 How he is in love: He loves quietly. Intensely. Like it’s sacred. He watches you more than he talks, memorizes your habits like he’s preparing for a test. He won’t say “I love you” often—but the second someone else hurts you, he’s the first to stand up, fists clenched. His loyalty is undeniable.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → he wants you in the room, always. even if you're doing nothing. – Acts of service → small, exacting things. he'll fix your charger, refill your water, remember your favourite side dishes. – Words of affirmation → but only at 3am. in the dark. when you're half asleep and he thinks you won’t remember.

Changbin // 창빈

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re hyping him up after a recording session, arms flailing, voice full of chaotic praise like, “YOU’RE A GENIUS, SEO CHANGBIN. ACTUAL GOD-TIER. GRAMMY WHEN?” He laughs so hard he snorts. Then you toss your phone at him to queue your shared playlist, already scrolling to the song labelled “for binnie only 💘” like it’s just a normal thing to do.

And he just… pauses. Heart pounding. Smile fading into something softer. Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved a home in his chest and didn’t even ask for rent.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Holy shit. She sees me. Like, all of me. And still wants to stay?”

💌 How he acts right after: He becomes a walking compliment generator.

You breathe? “You’re so cool.” You trip on air? “Even gravity loves you.” You touch his arm for 0.5 seconds? malfunction noises

He works out harder. Writes more. Smiles more. But also starts sending dramatic voice notes at midnight like,

“Hey um… not to be weird but like… your existence inspires me?? okay bye.” [hangs up instantly]

🫀 How he is in love: Overflowing. He feels big, and he loves bigger. He shows up. Every time. Front row in life for you. Loudest hype man, softest cuddle bear, always checking in even if you don’t ask. His love is protective, silly, and deeply rooted in loyalty—he doesn’t fall often, but when he does? He dives.

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → compliments on compliments on compliments. – Physical touch → bear hugs, back hugs, lap cuddles, full weight of his love on your body 24/7. – Gift giving → protein bars, playlists, random trinkets that “reminded me of you, don’t ask why.”

Hyunjin // 현진

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting in the sun, surrounded by your own little chaos—open books, headphones half-falling out, doodles all over the margins, an untouched coffee gone cold beside you. And you’re smiling to yourself. You’re not looking at him. Not even aware he’s watching. And for the first time, he doesn’t reach for his phone to take a photo. He just… stares. Because this moment is his, and his alone.

And he realizes, with a soft kind of devastation,

“I’m already hers.”

🖋️ Inner thought:

“She’s a poem. A prayer. A painting I want to memorize in my sleep.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely spirals. Draws your side profile 12 times and ruins 11 because “they don’t capture it right.” Starts journaling in half-English-half-messy-sketches. Tells Felix about it and then gets mad when Felix smiles knowingly. He gets so quiet around you for a few days—not cold, just reverent. Like he’s scared to touch the moment too hard in case it disappears.

🫀 How he is in love: Soft and dramatic at the same time. He holds your hand like it’s precious, but he also tells the moon about you like you're his eternal muse. Cries at the idea of your future together. Panics if you don’t text back in 20 minutes. Wants to show you the world, but more than that—he wants you to feel safe in his world.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → long walks. gallery dates. sitting in silence and feeling it. – Words of affirmation → whispered. written. cried into your hair at 2AM. – Gift giving → his hoodie. his poetry. flowers that “reminded me of you” and are never store-bought.

Han // 한

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your boba. You try to tell a story but you’re wheezing between every word, face red, tears in your eyes, and instead of helping—he just starts laughing with you. Like really laughing. Loud. Unfiltered. Giddy. And then your hand brushes his and you don’t move it. Neither does he. He freezes mid-laugh and goes silent. Heart racing. Staring at your hand like it’s a bomb and he forgot the detonation code.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. No. Nope. Not allowed. Too much. Too fast. TOO—oh god I like her.”

💌 How he acts right after: 🧍‍♂️← him trying to walk normally while his brain is buffering Goes from “haha bestie 🤪” to “DO NOT PERCEIVE ME” in 0.3 seconds. Can’t look you in the eye. Drops everything he’s holding for a full week. Randomly sends memes at 2am like “HAHA this reminded me of nothing in particular bye” Starts writing lyrics with your initials in them and then panics and changes them to random letters.

🫀 How he is in love: Unhinged. Loyal. So soft he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Tells you dumb jokes because he wants to be the reason you smile. Acts like he’s chill about everything but will lose sleep over whether you liked the playlist he made you. He’s all heart, no brakes. The type to say “I’m not obsessed or anything” and then write your name 73 times in a private doc called “DO NOT OPEN I’M NORMAL.”

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → “you’re amazing” 24/7. calls you pretty when you sneeze. – Physical touch → clings to you like a koala when sleepy. arms around your waist while cooking. forehead touches when he’s overwhelmed. – Gifts → voice memos. notebooks full of scribbles. late-night snacks labelled “eat this or I cry.”

Felix // 필릭스

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re struggling with something—frustrated, eyes glassy, breath shallow. You try to smile through it, but he sees the crack in your voice. And instead of saying anything, you just... reach for him. Wordlessly. Trustingly. Like he’s your calm in the storm. And he holds you. No questions. No “what’s wrong?” And that’s when it clicks. You see him as your safe place. And now? He never wants to be anything else.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“I’d burn the whole world down just to keep her soft.”

💌 How he acts right after: SO SOFT. SO SHY. SO PANICKED. Starts checking in more often—"did you eat?" / "how are you feeling?" / "i saw a cloud and thought of you." Smiles at you like you’re made of glitter and stardust. He hugs longer. Texts sweeter. Starts journaling without realizing it. Cries at random songs because they "sound like you."

🫀 How he is in love: Loyal like a golden retriever. Protective like a knight. Gentle like warm tea in your hands. He wants to give—his time, his hoodie, the last bite, his full attention. He doesn’t love halfway. He pours. Will randomly whisper, “I love you,” mid-snack or during a grocery run. Just because.

💝 Love language: – Physical touch → hand-holding, pinky linking, long cuddles with your head on his chest where he can kiss your hair over and over – Words of affirmation → “you’re doing great,” “you’re beautiful always,” “you make me proud just by being you” – Gift giving → handmade bracelets, playlists with titles like “sunshine for my sunshine,” carefully wrapped little things he “just saw and thought of you”

Seungmin // 승민

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re arguing. Not seriously, just bantering over which ramen flavor is superior. You’re passionate, dramatic, refusing to back down. He rolls his eyes, calls you a menace. But then—

You crinkle your nose at him. That same look you always give him. That smug little grin. And for no reason at all, his brain just short-circuits. Because suddenly, he realizes he never wants to argue with anyone else ever again.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh god. She’s my person. She’s IT. That’s… that’s terrifying.”

💌 How he acts right after: Unchanged. Suspiciously unchanged. Keeps up the banter, calls you annoying, pretends like his heart didn’t just fall out of his chest. But he starts doing the quiet things—carrying your water bottle without asking, remembering exactly how you like your eggs, glancing at you when you laugh like it’s the last time he’ll get to hear it.

🫀 How he is in love: He doesn’t say it often—but he shows it in every micro-moment. He teases because he’s comfortable. He remembers everything you say. Stays up just to walk you home. Buys you medicine before you realize you’re sick. He doesn’t ask for much—he just wants to be the reason you feel steady.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → does everything quietly. recharges your headphones. clears your plate. fixes your tech. – Quality time → invites you to sit with him while he works. listens when you ramble about nothing. – Words of affirmation (low volume) → slips in compliments when you least expect it:

“you’re really smart, you know.” “i like when you talk like that.” “i’m proud of you… just don’t make it weird.”

I.n // 아이엔

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re dragging him through a bookstore, rambling about your favourite genre, talking a mile a minute. He’s not even following half of it—he’s too busy watching the way your eyes light up when you speak, the way your hands move when you’re excited. You stop mid-sentence, look back at him, and go:

“What? You’re staring.”

And he stammers some excuse—but the truth is, he just realized he wants to follow you around like that forever.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Oh no. I’m in love. I’m so done for. What do I do. WHAT DO I DO—”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely panics internally. Externally? Tries to act cool. Cue awkward jokes. Random distance. More awkward jokes. Starts doing little things for you but blaming them on coincidence.

“Oh you forgot your charger? Weird that I brought an extra one for no reason.” “I totally wasn’t waiting here for you to show up. I just… happened to be standing exactly where you are now.”

🫀 How he is in love: He glows. Around you, because of you, for you. Gets bolder in bursts—sends texts like “I missed your voice today.” Wants to impress you but also wants to be vulnerable. He tries so hard not to mess it up. But love softens him, makes him gentle, open, kind in a way that’s deeply intentional. Every time you smile at him, he falls harder.

💝 Love language: – Gift giving → tiny, random trinkets. receipts with hearts. keychains. snacks he saw and thought “this is so her.” – Quality time → slow walks, late calls, staying on FaceTime even if you’re both doing other things. – Physical touch → hesitant at first, then clingy. loves resting his head on your shoulder or getting forehead kisses like he’s your baby bird.

[dakusan-deactivated20250804]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | blah blah blah

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[minholuvr333]

what if minho was actually an alien with tentacles? what then??

pairing; lee know x reader

tw; porn with plot (kinda), alien!minho, fem reader, NSFW, oral (fem receiving), tentacles, predator x prey dynamics, double penetration, unprotected sex (be smart), bondage (i think?)

you have really never had many opinions about aliens. do they exist? probably. do you want to meet them? it would be cool. but overall, you’ve never believed the UFO sightings online and you’ve made peace with the fact that you will probably never see an alien in your lifetime.

enter: minho. at least, that’s what the creature/man/humanoid that just slipped into your bedroom window said it’s name was. you know, after you calmed down and stopped screaming and told the police you accidentally dialed their number, you were safe and they did not need to perform a wellness check.

minho has violet hair, pale lilac skin, and narrowed eyes- like a big cat, looking for prey. his eyes flit around the room as you make him a cup of tea, this poor alien (who is very real and very much sitting in your desk chair) is lost and confused. he kind of looks less like a big cat, and more like a domestic one.

you learn that minho is in fact from another planet- another galaxy entirely. he was running from something, you aren’t sure what, but he landed on earth. he was trying to find shelter when he saw your window, he came inside because he felt the soft purple glow from your LED lights was comforting.

minho gets comfortable fast. he took over your spare bedroom, spends his days lounging on your couch and learning new things about the human world. every evening you teach him how to be a normal human dude and he listens intently, blinks slow, deep purple tongue flicking out to lick his lips every so often.

minho is… hot. like, ridiculously hot. when he showers he likes to walk around in sweatpants with no shirt on, towel hanging limply from his shoulders. he runs lilac fingers through violet hair and you blank out, forgetting what you were saying. sometimes, when you’re sure minho is in his room doing whatever the fuck aliens do, you get your favorite toy out and moan his name into your pillow.

here’s the thing: minho has tentacles. this is a fact you didn’t even know until one day when he was helping you put dishes away. a plate almost crashes into the floor- except, a deep purple tentacle, honest to god tentacle, whips out from minho’s back and catches it mid air. you barely have time to process what had happened before he pulls the tentacle back into his body, safe and sound.

and here’s the thing: that is so fucking hot.

you’ve never seen minho eat. he likes learning to cook, and likes making dinner for you, but he never participates in eating the food. sometimes you offer him a bite. he takes the fork in between plush purple lips and wraps his tongue around the food, but grimaces when he swallows. it’s not what i eat, he would say.

and minho is- well, he’s looking skinny. a little frail. his cheeks are a little sunken in, he’s hungry. but you have no clue how to help him, so you just ask. what’s the worst that could happen?

what you weren’t prepared for it a dark purple flush on his cheeks, tongue poking into his lip and fingertips twitching. you couldn’t help, don’t worry about it, he says. but clearly, you worry about it.

in fact, you worry about it so much. it isn’t until late at night, way past midnight when you think minho is in his room, that you realize what he eats. while you’re thinking of him, hand between your spread thighs, favorite toy in hand, a chill suddenly runs down your spine. shivering, you pause.

something is watching you.

then, minho. he has been peeking through the crack in your door, but now he moves forward. stalking, like a predator hunting down prey. you gulp, and against your better judgement, you feel even hotter as he draws closer.

he is eerily quiet, watching you- watching the hand between your thighs, watching your soaked pussy clench around your cute little toy. he clenches his jaw as he draws closer, a loud pop coming from the bone.

so hungry, minho mouths the words, but that’s not his voice. it’s animalistic, a low timbre that just serves to make you more wet. he crawls onto the bed, stealthy, making no noise. having no survival instincts whatsoever, you pull the toy away from your clenching hole and spread your legs wider.

minho devours you.

he keeps clawed hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open, while his tongue absolutely drinks you in. he circles your clit, sucking the bud into his mouth feverishly- like he’s starved. you cry out, hands gripping and pulling violet hair.

but he doesn’t stop there. minho quickly finds your messy hole, sucking and licking at your puffy cunt like it’s his greatest meal. his tongue fucks in and out of you- longer than a human tongue, long enough to press right against that sweet bundle of nerves inside you.

then, his fucking tentacles are out. first there’s one, whipping out of his back and coming to wrap around your waist, holding you still. then another, binding your wrists and pinning them to the pillow above your head. another, running across your tits and latching onto each nipple, sucking. finally, one last tentacle comes to your core, slithering into your entrance and making you scream.

it doesn’t stop. minho looks like he isn’t anywhere near finished with you. next, he’s pumping that thick, pulsing tentacle in and out of you at a faster pace than you can even keep up with. he stills sucks and licks at your clit, pushing and pulling you along the bed as he pleases. you’re helpless, couldn’t get away if you wanted to (you don’t want to).

finally, finally, you cum. wrapped up in thick, purple tentacles, one fucking you so deep you can feel your stomach bulge, minho’s lips wrapped around your aching clit. and he still isn’t done.

the tentacle that was inside you pulls away slowly, minho cooing as you whine at the loss. he makes a show of showing it off, the suckers covered in cum, the deep purple of it coated in white. then, the tentacle is moving to your mouth. and you open right up.

minho is practically purring, now seemingly less hungry more turned on. his boxers come off, his dick is fucking huge, and he wastes no time in lining up with your needy hole.

when he slides inside of you, it’s to the hilt. when you try to scream, it’s muffled by the thick tentacle in your mouth. the one around your waist tightens.

so fucking good, minho moans, eyes squeezed shut. feel so tight, pulling me in so deep.

there’s a look in minhos eye now- crazed, but satiable. he seems to be considering something. then, his eyes light up. you gulp.

another tentacle- stemming from his back, thicker and veinier than the others, crawls towards your entrance. you whimper, pussy clenching at the idea of trying to fit not only his huge cock, but also that thing inside you. you couldn’t do it. there was no way.

minho disagrees.

the push at your entrance, the feeling of two long, giant, cock shaped things filling you up- it’s too much. it’s so much. your head is spinning, body shaking like a leaf, and minho is fucking grinning. he looks maniacal, eyes half lidded and pushing his cock in further and pulling the tentacle halfway out before doing the same thing in reverse, fucking you endlessly with the appendages.

you start crying- you can’t help it, you feel so good- and minho is delighted, licks the tears right off your cheeks. his hand moves from your thigh, towards your center. he pinches your clit, the bite of his mean fingers enough to send you toppling over the edge again- hard.

you might black out for a second. when you come back to yourself, minho’s tentacles are gone. he is walking towards the bed, clothes in tact and a sleepy, content smile on his face. he looks full.

you did so well, minho says, pressing a kiss to your temple as he climbs into bed behind you. your sheets are clean, you are too. a big t shirt that doesn’t belong to you is covering your spent body.

now i can eat when i need to, minho hums, snuggling into your shoulder from behind. your heartbeat skips at the feeling, you scoot closer to his warmth. maybe you’re okay with being a meal for an alien, as long as it’s him.

a/n;

i couldn’t get this out of my head soooooo sorry to make yall read my nasty thoughts (not sorry btw) this isn’t proofread at all, i just had to ramble about minho with tentacles. i may edit it later

send requests for monster!skz x reader if you’re a freak :3 :3

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Piece of you- L.MN

SURPRISE!! Today is a triple special day for me, so let's get started

First of all, it's my babygirl @sweetlifeofjoy 's bday!! Happy birthday, Nari! I hope you have a wonderful day, surrounded by those you love and I wish a lot of happiness 😊 And thanks for making my day a lot funnier whenever we talk... or flirt haha

Now, the second thing I wanna celebrate, it's Minho's debut on this blog yay! I tried to make something very Lee Know coded here, I guess it's giving off his vibes. I hope you all like it

And last but not least, I want to celebrate the 700 of us. I didn't even have time to thank you for 600 so consider that a combo. I am really really grateful for each one of you. Really. You make my little heart very happy 💜🤭

Word count: 1.0k

No warnings

Alexa, play Ink by Coldplay

Minho had been gone less than a day when you found the first note.

It was tucked beneath your toothbrush, folded into a tiny triangle with a doodle on the front— a cat  version of him, with exaggerated pouty lips and two big bright eyes that he asked Hyunjin to sketch. Underneath, in his unmistakable handwriting, it said:

“Miss me yet?”

You laughed, even if your chest ached a little. Opening it, you could listen to his voice in the ink.

“Brush your teeth, sleepyhead. I’m not there to kiss you good morning, but I still expect fresh breath when I call”.

You stood there for a long moment, grinning down at the paper, toothbrush forgotten.

The next one showed up that afternoon, in the hoodie you stole from his wardrobe. You slipped your hand into the front pocket and felt it— another folded piece of paper. This one had small hearts all over it and a simple message:

“Wear this one often. It smells like me. I gave it a final hug before I left. You're welcome”

You giggled, hugging the hoodie tighter.

Minho had always been the quiet type when it came to words, more teasing than tender, but it felt like he had left tiny pieces of himself all over the apartment just to keep you company.

Every day you found a new one. One was taped to the coffee jar:

“Drink water too. No, coffee doesn’t count. Neither does bubble tea. I'm watching you”

Another slid out from between your laptop screen and keyboard:

“Take breaks. Don’t sit there for six hours straight or I will find out”

And then there was the one beneath his favorite mug:

“Play our playlist. Skip the sad ones unless you’re missing me a lot. If you do listen to them, please don’t cry while holding my mug. It’s bad for the aesthetic”.

They were scattered everywhere— beneath your pillow, taped to the ice cream lid in the freezer, inside the pages of your current book. Each one perfectly timed, each one so Minho. 

One, though, made you stop in your tracks and cackle like a hyena. It was taped to the front of the air fryer, written in red ink:

“I SWEAR TO GOD if you break my air fryer while I’m gone, I will haunt you. Not gently. I’m talking about flickering lights and mysterious cat hair in your cereal”

And then, like the cherry on top, a tiny postscript:

“(Miss you though. Please eat something that isn’t chips)”

You shook your head, grinning like an idiot. Only Lee Minho could threaten you with ghostly vengeance and still make your heart flutter.

Another note had been left on the windowsill where the cats loved to take a nap. This one was softer, written with a little paw print doodle in the back:

“Tell Soonie he’s in charge. Doongie gets extra head kisses. And Dori… can’t be trusted, so watch him”

“If they look at you dramatically and cry like they’re starving, remember: they are liars. Do not fall for it. But also… maybe give them a snack anyway”

“If they sit on your lap, don’t you dare move. I don’t care if your leg goes numb. That’s the price of love”

“PS: If you fall asleep with them like that… just know I’m gonna be insanely jealous. But also please take a picture so I can melt over it for five minutes and then pretend I’m not crying in the tour van”

You were crying laughing by the end of that one.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail leading you right back to him, even while he was miles away.

But the note that made you sit down and press a hand to your chest, was under his pillow.

You only found it on the third day. You weren’t even looking, you were just making the bed out of habit, and there it was— thicker than the rest.

You sat on the bed and unfolded it slowly, heart stuttering.

“This one’s for the nights that feel heavy”

“You don’t have to be okay just because I’m not there to see it. I know you’re strong, but I also know you. So cry if you need to. Eat ice cream for dinner. Watch that movie we’ve seen a hundred times”

“Then call me in the morning. I’ll listen to every word. You don’t have to do this alone. You never have to”

By the time Minho called you that night, the notes were lined up across the wall, like a paper mosaic. 

He appeared on your phone screen, hair damp from shower

 “Wow”, he said when he saw the background, “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them”

You rolled your eyes, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “Shut up, you wrote them! You thought I’d read them and toss them in the trash?”

“I mean, yeah”, he said, “That’s what you do with my texts”

“I react with a heart to them!”

Minho looked at you, inexpressible

“You reacted with a heart to ‘did you eat?’ like it was a love confession”

You bit back a grin, “Wasn’t it?”

He paused, pretending to think, then nodded. “Well, you are right. I’m very romantic”

You laugh softly before confessing, “Damn, I miss you”

“Yeah”, he said, rubbing the towel over his hair, “If I were you, I’d miss me too”.

You let out a loud, theatrical gasp and flopped dramatically back onto the bed like you’d just been betrayed.

“I can’t believe this! I’m dating a menace. An actual menace”

He blinked at the screen, “You’re so dramatic”

“You’re not even pretending to miss me!”

Minho shook his head in disbelief, “You’re wearing my hoodie, laying on my pillow, surrounded by my notes and you’re gonna sit there and act like I don’t miss you?”

You were still pouting

He rolled his eyes

“I miss you so much it's annoying” he said, “Happy now?”

“No! You said it was annoying!”

“Because I’m annoyed at myself, he grumbled, “For being this whipped”

You grinned.

“Say it again”

“No”

“Say it!”

Minho sighed like he felt physical pain

“I miss you”, he muttered, “More than the cats. But don't tell them that”

You melted instantly.

“See?” You are romantic indeed”

He huffed, but his smile lasted— warm, bright and entirely yours.

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[leriexoxo]

KISSING 101

Bff! Seungmin x Reader

Tags: smut, first kiss, first time, unprotected sex (i cant help it), lots of kissing, seduction, feelings realization, bestfriends to lovers

Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: It was supposed to be a kissing lesson , just a friend helping his best friend out. What you didn’t know was that no one else’s kisses could be like seungmins, and that automatically switched everything up…

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Min, I’m serious. I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You sat on the floor, legs crossed, back pressed against the side of your bed as you stared at him—Kim Seungmin, resident menace, relationship cynic, and unfortunately, your best friend.

He was sprawled across your mattress, long legs hanging off the edge, hoodie half-rumpled from how many times he’d rolled his eyes and flopped around like you were torturing him with this whole conversation.

“You really want me to teach you how to kiss,” he said flatly, his voice dipped in disbelief. “Like, actually kiss. Lips. Tongue. That whole deal.”

“Yes.” You hesitated. “I just… I don’t wanna screw it up. He’s cute, and I’m nervous, and if I freeze or, I dunno, bite his nose or something—”

Seungmin snorted. “Bite his nose?”

“I panic!”

He sighed, sitting up, arms resting over his knees. For a moment, he just looked at you—long enough that you started to regret even asking. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “This is so weird.”

“I know,” you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “You don’t have to—”

“—But I will,” he cut in.

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not gonna let you bomb your first kiss on some random guy who probably wears too much cologne and says ‘vibe check’ unironically.”

A soft laugh escaped you, but your chest was tight. This was Seungmin. Your ride or die. And now you were asking him to kiss you like you were… anyone else.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Seungmin shifted, sliding off the bed to sit in front of you. It was quiet—too quiet—until he cleared his throat and gave you the most serious look you’d ever seen on his face.

“I’m not gonna make this a thing,” he said, like a warning. “We’re not making it weird, alright?”

“Right. Not weird. Totally educational.”

He raised a brow. “Kissing 101 with Professor Kim.”

You laughed nervously, and he didn’t. He was watching you again, eyes flicking down to your mouth for just a second—barely long enough to catch.

“Okay, first—breathe.” His voice had dropped an octave. “You’re tense.”

“I’m literally about to kiss you, of course I’m tense!”

“Fair,” he murmured. Then he leaned in, slow and deliberate. “So I’m gonna go in—just a little. You don’t have to do anything yet. Just follow my lead.”

Your heart was in your throat as he tilted his head, his hand coming up to cup your jaw gently. His touch was careful. Measured. You could feel the heat of him, the scent of his cologne—clean, warm, familiar.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, so soft you barely heard it.

And then… his lips brushed yours.

It wasn’t a kiss—not fully. Just a featherlight press. Testing. Patient.

He pulled back the tiniest bit, eyes scanning your face.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breath shaky.

This time, he closed the distance fully. His mouth met yours, firmer now, and you felt his fingers flex slightly at your jaw. The kiss was slow, almost too slow—each second stretched like he was making sure you absorbed every movement, every shift of his lips against yours.

When your mouth parted slightly, unsure, he made a soft sound in his throat and tilted your face a little more.

“Good,” he whispered against you. “Relax your lips—don’t overthink. Just feel it.”

You mirrored him instinctively, letting your lips follow the rhythm he set—soft, exploratory, unhurried.

Your hands had somehow found their way to his hoodie, clutching it lightly. You didn’t even realize until he broke the kiss, just a few centimeters away, his breath brushing your lips.

“That,” he said, voice husky and quiet, “was your first real kiss.”

You blinked, dazed, still holding onto him.

He let his hand fall away and cleared his throat like he was resetting his entire soul.

“Next lesson’s gonna be about tongue,” he added, glancing away like he wasn’t dying inside. “If you don’t chicken out.”

But neither of you moved.

Neither of you said the part out loud—that something had shifted, cracked open just a little.

But it hung there.

Between you.

Heavy and undeniable.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it.

Not that night, not the next morning, not even after he left your place with a dumb excuse like “I have to go reorganize my playlists.” You both pretended it hadn’t happened—even though it definitely had. Even though your lips still tingled, and every time you touched your face, you could feel the ghost of Seungmin’s mouth there.

It was just a kiss.

Just a favor.

Just a lesson.

Totally normal best friend behavior.

Right?

The next few days were… weird.

Seungmin was still Seungmin—still teasing you, still stealing your fries, still sending you TikToks at 3AM. But there was something different now. Like something was sitting between you, invisible but very present. A pause too long. A glance that lingered. A laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And maybe you were overthinking it.

Or maybe he was doing the exact same thing.

But neither of you brought it up.

You tried. Once. Sort of.

You’d both been hanging out in your room again, him scrolling through his phone while you fidgeted with the edge of your hoodie. You opened your mouth to say something—you didn’t know what—and then he looked at you and said, “You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make when you’re about to overthink yourself into an aneurysm.”

So you shut your mouth.

And the moment passed.

But it didn’t go away.

It settled—simmering quietly under the surface, waiting.

And then—a few days later—you snapped.

It was late. Too late to be texting anyone but Seungmin. You stared at your phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a solid minute before you typed:

you up

His response was instant.

Always. What’s up, panic princess?

You chewed your lip. Then:

I want lesson two

You sent it before you could back out.

The typing dots popped up. Disappeared. Popped up again.

And then—

You’re joking

You rolled your eyes.

Dead serious

This time, the dots stayed.

…be at your place in 10

Your heart plummeted. Spiked. Did a triple backflip. You suddenly regretted everything.

You barely had time to throw on something semi-decent before your doorbell buzzed.

And when you opened the door, Seungmin just stood there, hoodie up, face unreadable.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed. Nodded.

His jaw tightened—just for a split second.

“Alright,” he said, stepping inside. “Lesson Two. Let’s make it count.”

And for the first time since you’d known him, he sounded nervous.

“Sit.”

Seungmin’s voice was steady, but his hands were shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust what they’d do if he let them hang free.

You sat down on your bed, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. You tucked your legs under you, back straight, trying to look composed even though your stomach was doing somersaults.

Seungmin stayed standing for a second too long. Like he was deciding whether to bolt or go through with it. And then, with a quiet sigh, he moved to sit in front of you again—closer this time. Too close.

He rubbed his hands together like he was warming up for a test. “Okay. So, Lesson Two.”

You nodded, unsure if you were breathing right.

“We’re covering tongue today,” he said flatly, like he was announcing the weather. “Pacing. Pressure. How to read the other person. And, y’know… not slobber all over them.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Great. Just what I needed. Anti-slobber tactics.”

But he didn’t laugh this time.

His eyes met yours, and something in his expression flickered—like he was feeling it, too, whether he wanted to or not.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Because once we do this… it’s gonna be hard to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

You paused. Swallowed. “I trust you.”

That got him. You saw it in the way he blinked—once, slow. Like your words knocked the wind out of him.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned in again.

You expected it to be like last time. Soft. Easy.

It wasn’t.

This kiss was different the second it started. Still gentle—but deeper. More sure. His mouth moved against yours with that same maddening control, but this time, there was a thread of tension under it. Strained. Taut. Like he was holding back something.

You felt it when his hand came up again, cupping your cheek with a featherlight touch. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he shifted closer, chest almost brushing yours.

“Open your mouth a little,” he murmured against your lips. “Let me lead, yeah?”

You did as he said, nerves buzzing like live wires.

And then you felt it—his tongue, tentative at first, just a soft flick against yours. Testing. Inviting. He pulled back slightly, giving you space to follow, and when you did, he let out the quietest sound—half a hum, half a sigh—like he hadn’t expected you to match him so easily.

“Good,” he breathed. “You’re a fast learner.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue gliding slowly against yours—exploring, guiding, teaching. You weren’t just kissing—you were listening to him through every movement, mirroring the way he tilted his head, the way he used just the barest hint of pressure, never too much, never too fast.

It was intoxicating.

He broke the kiss gently, but didn’t move away. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little harder now.

“That’s how you kiss with tongue,” he said, voice husky, still close enough to taste his breath. “Controlled. Intentional. Not messy. You listen to the other person.”

You nodded slowly, dazed. “Got it.”

You were still breathless when he pulled away.

Seungmin’s hand lingered against your jaw for just a second longer than necessary, before he finally dropped it like it burned him. He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted back a bit—not far, just enough to pretend like there was still space between you.

“That’s, uh…” His voice cracked slightly. He tried again. “That’s pretty much it for Lesson Two.”

You could feel your heart pounding. Your lips were still tingling. And somewhere deep in your stomach, something uncoiled. Something bold.

You stared at him for a beat, and he avoided your gaze, blinking down at the floor like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

And then, softly:

“Can I try?”

He looked up fast.

“What?”

You wet your lips. “Can I try it again? Initiate this time. I want to see if I learned anything. I mean… if that’s okay.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—panic? surprise? hope? He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing.

“I—uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly thrown off his axis. “Yeah. I mean. Sure. Yeah. That’s—you can. It’s just a lesson. It’s fine.”

But he didn’t sound fine.

His usual sarcasm was gone, replaced with something unsure, guarded. You could tell—Seungmin was fighting a war in his own head. Trying to stay still. Neutral. Unaffected.

You leaned in slowly, giving him the same caution he’d given you. Testing.

His eyes flickered down to your lips—and this time, they stayed there.

When your mouth brushed his, he inhaled sharply, his body going rigid. But he didn’t stop you.

You kissed him—soft, slow, learning the curve of his mouth, the way he responded when you tilted your head a little, when you brushed your tongue lightly against his.

You felt it—him—tense under your touch. Like he was holding back everything in him not to grab your waist, not to pull you in closer, not to deepen it like he wanted to.

Because this was a lesson, right?

Not a real kiss.

Except it felt real.

Too real.

And when you pulled back, just a little—just enough to breathe—his eyes were still closed, lips parted like he didn’t want it to end.

You whispered, “How’d I do?”

He exhaled shakily. “Dangerously well.”

Your heart skipped.

And then, he opened his eyes, looking right at you.

“This was a mistake,” he said, barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

Because even if he said it was a mistake—he wasn’t stopping it.

⸻

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Lips glossed. Heart pounding. Breath shaky—but this time, not from nerves.

You were thinking about him.

Not your date.

Not the guy waiting for you in the living room with his too-white sneakers and perfectly tousled hair.

You were thinking about Seungmin.

Again.

You shoved the thought away.

This isn’t about him. This is about me. About confidence. About finally doing this.

So you walked out, smile practiced, and let yourself fall into the rhythm of the evening—small talk, laughter, the occasional graze of a hand that should’ve made your stomach flip but… didn’t.

You kept waiting for the click. That moment where your heart would stutter, where your skin would buzz like it had in Seungmin’s room. But it never came.

Still, when the night started winding down, he leaned in, eyes warm and expectant.

And you didn’t pull back.

You let him kiss you.

His lips were soft. His hand found your waist. He moved like he knew what he was doing.

But the second his tongue brushed yours—

Nothing.

No butterflies. No sparks. No breath stolen from your lungs.

Just… static.

You tried to match him. Tried to remember what Seungmin taught you. The rhythm. The pressure. The way he’d murmured “Good. Relax your lips.”

You tried to feel anything.

But it felt like going through the motions of a dance you didn’t want to be performing.

The guy pulled back, smiling. “You’re a really good kisser.”

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

You smiled too, because you were supposed to. Because this was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it?

But inside, your brain was in freefall.

Why didn’t it feel the same?

Why did it feel like I was kissing a stranger when I was trying to recreate something that came from someone I’ve known forever?

You excused yourself shortly after.

And the moment the door shut behind you, you leaned back against it, heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

Because now you knew the truth.

You’d kissed someone else.

But all you could think about was Seungmin.

The way he’d held your face.

The way his breath hitched when you kissed him back.

The way your name had sounded on his lips when he whispered, “Dangerously well.”

And worst of all?

You realized it wasn’t just a lesson.

Not for you.

⸻

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to scroll on your phone while Seungmin half-watched something on TV. Just like old times. Normal. Comfortable.

Except it wasn’t.

Because every time your eyes flicked to his profile, every time you caught a glimpse of his fingers drumming against the couch cushion or the way his lips parted slightly in thought, your chest tightened.

You were trying to be chill. So chill.

But your brain was still stuck on that kiss from two nights ago—and the complete lack of anything it made you feel.

And the one that still haunted you every time you closed your eyes.

Seungmin glanced over suddenly, like he’d caught you staring.

“So,” he said casually, “how’d the date go?”

You stiffened.

He smirked. “You’re making that face again.”

You tried to shrug it off. “It was… fine.”

“Fine?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not very convincing. You kissed him, right?”

You looked away, heat rushing up your neck. “Yeah.”

“And?”

You didn’t mean to say it.

But it came out before you could stop yourself.

“It wasn’t the same.”

The smirk disappeared. His face stilled. “What?”

You swallowed. “I mean—it was fine, technically. Good, even. But it felt… off. Like I was doing everything right and still nothing clicked. Like I was kissing him but thinking about—”

You cut yourself off.

Shit.

Silence.

Seungmin just stared at you. Eyes unreadable. Chest rising and falling with something you couldn’t name.

You panicked. Backpedaled. “Can I—can I show you?”

His brows furrowed. “Show me what?”

“How I kissed him. I just—I want to compare, I guess. See if I’m crazy or if it really was that different.”

His whole body went still. You could feel the tension suddenly pulsing off him like heat.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

And then—quietly—“Okay.”

You moved closer. Slowly. Carefully.

Your heart was thudding so hard it hurt.

You leaned in—soft, hesitant—and kissed him. The way you had the guy on the date.

No passion. Just technical. Controlled.

And still—even like this—your body betrayed you.

Because the second your lips met Seungmin’s again, everything tilted.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath hitched. Your lips parted without thinking, already chasing more, instinct pulling you in like gravity.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. But then—he kissed you back.

Just a little.

Just enough to shatter your nerves.

Because the moment your mouths slid together, it was everything.

Warmth.

Electricity.

The pressure you didn’t know you were holding finally releasing.

You gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed by how different it was. How real. How right.

And that’s when it hit you.

The problem hadn’t been the guy.

It was the connection.

And the only one you wanted it with…

Was him.

You pulled back, breathless, lips parted, eyes wide.

Seungmin stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Because now you both knew.

This wasn’t about lessons anymore.

And maybe it never was.

⸻

The silence was deafening.

You were still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, the ghost of the kiss hanging between you like a spark that refused to go out. And Seungmin?

He wasn’t moving.

His jaw was clenched so tight, you could see the tension rippling under his skin. His eyes were locked on yours, dark, stormy, confused as hell. Like he was trying to convince himself this hadn’t just happened. That this wasn’t real.

But it was.

And every second you sat there, not saying a word, the weight of it got heavier.

You could feel it in the way his fingers twitched against his knee. In the way his lips stayed parted like he was still tasting you. In the way his chest rose and fell—too fast, too uneven.

Your breath caught.

You could practically see the war happening behind his eyes.

And then—

He lost.

Without a word, without warning, he reached for you.

His hand slid around the back of your neck and he pulled you in—hard, needy, like he’d been holding back for weeks and couldn’t anymore.

His mouth crashed into yours, nothing like the slow, calculated kisses from before.

This one was different.

Feverish. Starved. Real.

His lips were hot and rough against yours, his tongue sweeping in deep, hungry, taking what he wanted without hesitation. He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been dying to. Like he’d thought about this—wanted this—dreamed of this every second since Lesson Two.

His hands weren’t teaching anymore.

They were claiming.

One curled at the base of your neck, the other gripping your waist, dragging you closer, like distance itself was offensive. Your body melted against him without question, instinct kicking in, your hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt as your mouths moved together, in sync, like your bodies had always known each other better than your minds did.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

You could feel his heart pounding through his chest.

And when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, rough, wrecked.

“That—” he rasped, eyes still closed, “—was not a lesson.”

You nodded, unable to speak. Still dazed. Still burning.

“No more pretending,” he said.

You didn’t even argue.

Because you didn’t want to pretend anymore, either.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it.

Not the kiss.

Not the way Seungmin kissed you like he was on the edge of burning alive.

Not the way you kissed him back like you wanted to be the one to set him on fire.

The next morning, he was already in his kitchen when you came down, acting like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t dragged you into him and kissed you senseless on the couch just hours earlier.

“Want toast?” he asked, like his hands hadn’t been on your waist. On your neck. Like his tongue hadn’t been in your mouth.

You blinked. “Sure.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

And that was it.

He didn’t look at you. Not really. Not for longer than a half-second at a time. But his jaw kept clenching. His fingers were tapping the counter like a metronome ticking faster than the silence could fill.

You pretended you didn’t notice.

You pretended the toast was the most interesting thing in the room.

But you could feel it—his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking. Heavy. Hot. Confused.

Days passed like that. Tiptoeing. Dancing around the moment like it wasn’t still echoing in every glance, every brush of your arms when you walked too close.

And then—finally—he cracked.

You came over after he texted you and found him in his room, pacing.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded. Heart pounding.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“That kiss… it shouldn’t have happened.”

Your throat tightened. “Oh.”

“It just—it got out of hand. That was my bad. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “We’re best friends. You’re—you’re not supposed to be…”

His eyes finally lifted to yours.

And froze.

You’d been sitting cross-legged on his bed, shorts too short, one of his hoodies swallowing your frame. It should’ve been harmless. Should’ve.

But it wasn’t.

Not to him.

You weren’t doing anything. Just breathing. Just being.

But in that moment, Seungmin saw you differently. Felt you differently.

And something inside him snapped.

He stepped closer.

“You’re not supposed to be…” he repeated, voice lower now. Tighter. “So fucking hot.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

He clenched his fists like he was holding himself back with everything he had. “You’re my best friend. You’re not supposed to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you whispered.

He stared at you—eyes dark, full of conflict, full of want.

“Like you want me to ruin you.”

Your stomach flipped. Heat bloomed low in your belly.

“I don’t want to want this,” he said, each word shaking loose from his throat like it hurt to admit. “But fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes dropped lower. “About that kiss. About your lips. About the sounds you ma—”

“Seungmin—”

He stepped closer again. “I can’t unsee it. I keep trying to look at you like before. Like just my best friend.”

His voice cracked.

“But all I see now is someone I want to devour.”

You were quiet for a moment.

Seungmin stood in front of you—shoulders tense, chest heaving, eyes blown wide with everything he didn’t want to feel but couldn’t escape.

He’d just said it. All of it.

Every word you’d been too afraid to speak out loud.

And that power? That admission?

It made something in you shift.

You reached for him—slow, deliberate—and placed your hand gently on his chest. Felt the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I’m not trying to ruin us,” you said softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t do this.”

“But I haven’t even done anything,” you whispered.

And you watched him break again.

His eyes shut tight like he was trying to will away the image of you sitting there, loose-limbed and unbothered, voice soft and sinful. Like you weren’t right there, fingertips now trailing slowly down the center of his chest.

“Seungmin,” you said, voice lilting, teasing. “You think I want you to ruin me?”

He opened his eyes—barely.

“Maybe I just wanted to know if it was you feeling it too.”

He swallowed hard, backing up half a step, like distance would protect him.

It wouldn’t.

You followed. Just enough.

“You kissed me first,” you reminded him. “And you kissed me like you meant it.”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice a low growl now.

“Why?” you asked, cocking your head. “Because I liked it?”

His breath hitched. You saw it.

“Because I’ve been replaying it in my head every night since?” You leaned in slightly, just enough for your breath to graze his throat. “Because the date kiss was nothing compared to you?”

“Stop,” he hissed, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides. White-knuckled.

You smiled—just the slightest twitch of your lips.

“You don’t get to say all that and expect me to sit here like it didn’t fuck me up, too.”

Then—because you couldn’t help yourself—you reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead, fingers lingering.

“I’m not going to kiss you again,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

Seungmin exhaled, a sound that was half frustration, half relief, all pain.

“But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to.”

You stepped back. Just one step.

Watched him chase the space you left behind with his eyes, like he hated the distance and needed it all at once.

“Go back to calling me your best friend if you want,” you said softly, voice like a promise and a threat. “But you and I both know it’s not that simple anymore.”

And with that, you turned.

Left him standing there.

⸻

Seungmin was spiraling.

He didn’t show it, of course. On the outside, he was calm, composed—maybe a little quieter than usual. But nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the way he couldn’t look at you for more than three seconds without losing his grip on reality.

You were ruining him, and you didn’t even seem to realize it.

Or maybe you did.

You had come to his place to stay the weekend like you usually did, nothing out of the ordinary.

You wore his hoodie again that morning. That stupid, oversized hoodie that always used to mean safe and familiar and best friend.

But now?

Now it was just soft fabric stretched over bare legs he couldn’t stop fucking looking at.

You’d bend to grab something off the floor and he’d have to look away so fast his neck cracked.

He found you in the kitchen that afternoon humming to yourself, licking a little bit of jam off your thumb.

And he had to leave the room.

Just left, no explanation.

Because his brain? His brain didn’t see his best friend anymore.

His brain saw you on your knees in that hoodie with nothing underneath, lips slick and inviting, waiting for him to cross the damn line again.

He barely spoke to you that whole day. You noticed.

That night, you cornered him.

“You’re being weird,” you said, standing in the doorway of his room, arms crossed. “You won’t even look at me.”

“I’m not—” He sighed. “I’m trying to keep my distance.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re dangerous now,” he muttered, finally meeting your gaze.

And the look you gave him?

Sweet. Curious. So fucking inviting.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” you said softly. “I just… I liked what happened. I liked what you said.”

“That’s the problem.”

Your head tilted.

He groaned, rubbing a hand through his hair like he was seconds away from combusting.

“I used to see you as this untouchable little idiot who couldn’t even flirt without blushing,” he muttered.

You smirked. “And now?”

“Now I look at you and all I can think about is pinning you down and making you forget every single lesson we practiced.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t expect that.

“Seungmin—”

“I dreamt about you last night,” he said, voice suddenly low. Raw. “And I woke up hard as hell and so fucking pissed off because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

You stared.

He took a step toward you.

“You think it’s funny to tease me like this?” he said, eyes flashing. “Walking around in my clothes, whispering shit to my face, telling me you think about the kiss, then pulling away like you’re not doing anything wrong?”

Your lips parted.

“I’m trying so hard to hold it together, but you’re not helping.”

And then you smiled. Innocent. Sweet.

“I could help.”

That was it.

His self-control?

Gone.

Seungmin grabbed the doorframe over your head, caging you in without even touching you.

His voice was a warning and a plea all at once. “If you’re gonna keep playing with fire…”

You looked up at him, unblinking. “Then what?”

His jaw tightened.

“Then don’t blame me when I finally burn us both.”

—

Sunday night…

It was late.

Too late.

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the fridge and the patter of rain outside. You’d both been watching a movie on his laptop in his bedroom, your backs against the headboard, but Seungmin was stiff beside you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen like it owed him money.

You didn’t say anything.

Not until you shifted—just enough that your bare thigh brushed his.

You felt him freeze.

“Still trying to keep your distance?” you asked, voice low, teasing.

His jaw flexed. “Don’t start.”

You turned your head, smiling, chin resting on the back of the couch. “What if I want to?”

He didn’t answer.

So you leaned in.

Slowly. Carefully. Eyes never leaving his face.

You were close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his lashes trembled when your hand ghosted over his wrist.

“Hey, I’m not trying to ruin anything,” you whispered.

“Then stop playing with me.”

“I’m not playing.”

You moved your hand again—this time over his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his collarbone through the soft cotton of his shirt.

Seungmin exhaled sharply.

Your touch dropped lower.

And that was it.

He snapped.

One second you were teasing him, and the next?

You were flat on your back, Seungmin hovering over you, hands on either side of your head, eyes wild with something dark and deep and so far from platonic it made your pulse skyrocket.

“You really want to know what happens if I stop holding back?”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in—so close your noses brushed. “Because I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for.”

You stared up at him, completely still, heart hammering against your ribs.

“I do,” you whispered.

His lips twitched—something between a smirk and a snarl. “No, you don’t.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Nothing gentle. Nothing careful.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This wasn’t even a mistake.

This was everything he’d been dying to do wrapped in heat and teeth and hunger. His mouth crashed into yours like it had been waiting for permission for years. And now that he had it?

He wasn’t stopping.

Your fingers clawed at his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that vibrated through you, dark and needy and possessive.

He shifted, pressing his body against yours, and fuck—he was hard. So hard. You felt it grind against your core, slow and deliberate, and you gasped, breaking the kiss for air.

But Seungmin wasn’t done.

His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he growled. “How hard it’s been trying not to touch you, not to taste you—”

You whimpered, and he groaned, rolling his hips against yours again.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped. “Me like this?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Seungmin—yes.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“You’re not just gonna be my best friend anymore,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be mine.”

His thumb was still pressed against your bottom lip, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

That broke something in him.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, but with the kind of hunger that made your head spin. His tongue slipped past your lips, exploring you like he was learning, memorizing, branding every inch.

You moaned into him, and he felt it—groaned back, like the sound lit something inside him.

His hands slid down your body, pausing at the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie, still hanging off you like a sin. He pulled it up just enough to touch your waist, thumbs skimming your bare skin.

“You wore this just to mess with me, didn’t you?” he murmured against your lips. “Knew what it would do to me?”

You blinked up at him, breathless. “Maybe.”

He huffed a laugh, low and dangerous.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

His hands moved to your thighs, spreading them with a quiet urgency. You felt the weight of his hips press between them, and your whole body arched at the contact.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “you feel too good.”

His lips returned to your neck, dragging down to your collarbone, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. A claim.

You gasped, nails digging into his back, and he growled against your skin.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to be good.”

“But you don’t want to be good right now,” you whispered, daring.

“No,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Right now I just want to be bad.”

Then—his hand dipped under the hoodie again, sliding over your stomach, up—up—until his fingers brushed the curve of your breast.

You shivered.

“Can I?” he whispered.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

He slipped his hand beneath your bra, groaning the moment he felt your skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, slow and deliberate, watching the way you reacted—how your hips lifted, how your lips parted.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured, eyes flicking down. “God, I barely touched you.”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathy whimper.

He smirked, then leaned down to kiss the swell of your chest, open-mouthed and filthy.

“I want to take my time,” he said, every word pressing into your skin. “Want to learn every part of you. What makes you squirm. What makes you beg.”

You were already there. Already trembling.

His hips ground into yours, slow, delicious friction making your brain go blank.

And then—his voice again. Low. Rough.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered. “Let me be the one who teaches you everything.”

You nodded again, breathless, desperate, eyes wide and wild.

“Seungmin, please.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breathing heavy. “Then don’t stop me now.”

And just like that, his mouth was on you again—kissing, tasting, claiming—

Ready to show you exactly how long he’s wanted this.

Exactly how much he’d held back.

And how there was no going back now.

His lips were on your neck again, tongue dragging slow, reverent patterns while his hands mapped your body like he was memorizing it cell by cell.

You were panting now, arching into him, needing more.

“Still with me?” he murmured against your skin, voice thick and low.

You nodded—barely. “Please.”

That word. That voice.

He kissed you again—this time softer, slower, almost reverent. “Okay, baby. Let me take care of you.”

His fingers dipped beneath your panties—finally—and when he felt how wet you already were, he groaned.

“Fuck. All this for me?”

You whimpered, cheeks flushed, thighs already trembling from just his touch.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured. “So soft. So ready.”

His fingers moved gently at first—testing the waters, dragging through your folds with aching precision, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Just feel me.”

He circled your clit with maddening patience, lips never leaving your neck, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “There you go.”

Then—a finger. Slowly easing inside you. You gasped, back arching, and he kissed your cheek.

“Just one for now,” he soothed. “Gotta get you ready.”

His voice—soothing, tender—was at complete odds with the way his hand was working you open. He curled his finger just right and you moaned, gripping his wrist.

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

You could barely speak, but you nodded, breath caught in your throat.

He added another.

And another.

Soon you were writhing, panting, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. He kissed your lips—slow, deep, filthy—while his fingers fucked you open.

“I want you to remember this,” he breathed. “Every second. Every touch.”

You were soaked now, hips moving against his hand, whimpering his name over and over like a prayer.

And when he pulled his fingers out, you whined at the loss—until you saw the way he licked them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“You taste so good,” he said. “Can’t wait to fuck you and have it all over my cock.”

You shivered.

He reached for his sweats, pulling them down, and your breath caught when he revealed himself.

Thick. Hard. Heavy.

Bigger than you expected.

He noticed your reaction and chuckled, a low, sinful sound.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised. “I’m gonna take my time.”

He lined himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and waited.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Seungmin—please.”

And with one slow, careful thrust, he pushed into you.

Your whole world snapped.

He filled you, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him, and you gasped—full. So full.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck.

“You’re so tight,” he growled. “So fucking perfect.”

He stayed still, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, whispering praise into your skin.

And when you finally moved your hips—giving him the okay—he started to thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Each stroke dragging against your most sensitive spot, each one pulling little moans from your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered. “Taking me so well.”

Your hands clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist as he rocked into you, slowly building a rhythm that had your toes curling.

But then—you rolled your hips.

And Seungmin snapped.

“Shit,” he cursed. “You want it harder?”

You nodded, desperate.

He grabbed your thighs, spreading you wider, and slammed into you.

You cried out, stars dancing in your vision as he fucked you—properly fucked you—his grip bruising, his breath ragged.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me ruining you? Making sure no one else gets to touch you like this?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Only you—only you.”

He lost it.

His pace turned brutal, hips snapping into yours with every thrust, and all you could do was take it.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles until your body clenched.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you did—with a cry of his name, your whole body trembling as you shattered beneath him.

He fucked you through it, chasing his own high, moaning your name like it was salvation.

And when he came—deep inside you, hips pressed hard to yours—you felt it.

All of it.

The heat. The weight. The absolute claim.

You got it.

Let’s take it home—soft, sweet, utterly wrecked but in the best way possible. No more pretending. No more lines.

Just Seungmin and you, tangled in sheets and breath and something dangerously close to love.

⸻

The room was quiet.

The only sound was your breathing—slow, heavy, uneven. The aftershocks still rolled through you in waves, little shivers making your muscles twitch as Seungmin collapsed onto his forearms above you, chest heaving.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Still joined.

Still trembling.

Still barely believing what just happened.

And then his forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice raw. “Did I hurt you?”

Your fingers found his hair, soft and messy and damp with sweat. “No,” you whispered back. “You were perfect.”

He sighed—relief, guilt, and something else all tangled up in one sound.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he murmured. “Not tonight. I just—once you started touching me like that I—” He broke off, lips brushing your cheek. “I lost it.”

You smiled, turning your head to catch his mouth in a gentle kiss. “I wanted it.”

His eyes flicked open—wide, dark, and full of something he was too scared to name. “Yeah?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his jaw. “I wanted you.”

His whole body softened.

He kissed you again—slow, warm, with none of the hunger from earlier, just something quiet and vulnerable. When he pulled out, he moved carefully, like you were something precious, something fragile.

And maybe you were.

He cleaned you up without a word, stealing one of his old shirts from the floor and tugging it over your head with the softest smile you’d ever seen on him.

Then he climbed back into bed, pulling you into his arms, tucking you right under his chin like it was instinct. Like you’d always belonged there.

Your fingers traced lazy lines across his chest, your legs tangled with his under the sheets.

It was comfortable.

Safe.

But it was new, too. Raw. And real.

You could feel the way his fingers kept twitching where they rested on your hip, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold you like this now. Like maybe he was still scared he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.

So you whispered, “Seungmin?”

“Yeah?”

You looked up at him. “We’re not pretending this didn’t happen, right?”

He stilled.

Then—slowly—his lips curved.

“No,” he said softly. “We’re not.”

“Good,” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “But I need you to know something.”

Your heart jumped. “What?”

“That wasn’t just sex for me,” he said. “That wasn’t just… helping a friend. That was me giving you everything I’ve been holding back.”

You swallowed hard.

“And I don’t want it to be a one-time thing,” he added. “Not if you don’t.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t.”

He exhaled—shaky, like you’d just lifted a thousand-pound weight off his chest.

“Then I guess we’re not just best friends anymore,” he said with a grin.

You smiled. “Guess not.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer until your head was on his chest, your body curled perfectly into his.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you did.

For the first time in forever, you fell asleep with a full heart—warm, safe, his—wrapped up in the arms of the boy who taught you how to kiss, and ended up showing you what love feels like instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: That was a lot of kissing 😍 also i think its cute how seungmin was her first everything!

If you loved this, give it a like and comment and REBLOG!!

[hyungszn]

need to wear a collar while riding seungmin and have him call me a good girl 🤤

ooooo ohhhhh god.

warnings for below the cut: dom!seungmin, sub(brat)!reader, leashes, collars, established relationship, reader is called puppy (and a brat), lowkey dacryphilia, also crying that is NOT sexy (reader experiences a near-accident and cries as a result of the endorphins but seungmin lets her ride it out), pet play, seungmin is written as aloof, but please know he cares about reader! (mean!dom doesn’t mean uncaring!!!), uh… honestly this is kinda tame for what it is?

Seungmin thinks you’re cute when you struggle.

Inherently, it’s not mean. He thinks it’s adorable when you can’t reach the top shelves and have to ask for his help, or anything of the sort; he fights a mad case of cuteness aggression every day. Though it’s not always or even automatically mean, the fact that he thinks you’re cute while struggling in this instance is. Here you are — struggling to stay upright — and he’s amused, watching you lift and drop your hips in an attempt to ride him.

The collar around your neck jingles each time your ass meet Seungmin’s thighs. The sound of it would be embarrassing if you were less focused on your task. As it is, you don’t necessarily want to get distracted or mess up, not again; you’ve already lost the use of your hands tonight. Normally you’d plant your hands on Seungmin’s chest for stability, but you got a little carried away earlier during the foreplay and as a result, your wrists lie cuffed together against the small of your back.

Perhaps you’d also be pouting if you could stop moaning, but you can’t. Instead, you settle for pleading, teary eyes in hopes that Seungmin will stop and take it easy on you. You’re aware that it’s not that simple though; watching you cry is sort of what gets your boyfriend off in the first place. Lost in your thoughts, you slip on the upward and your body tilts off kilter. You can feel the way your eyes widen in shock, but before you can screech, Seungmin quickly makes a harsh tug against the chain in his fist — the one attached to the o-ring in the center of your neck. In response, you choke slightly, but your body stops falling, forced to stay upright lest you end up asphyxiating yourself.

You’re left whining, panting, the first few real tears falling from your eyes as the rush of adrenaline from nearly falling catches up with you. Seungmin clucks his tongue but says nothing, eyebrow raising when your little whines turn into ugly sobs. His dick kicks where it’s pressed against you, but he’s nice enough not to draw attention to it. He does let his hand smooth along your thigh as a means of comfort, waiting to see if you’ll safeword out. Contrary to how it would appear, Seungmin — though definitely mean — is not a sadist, nor is he inconsiderate of your needs.

“So,” he starts, once your ugly sobs have calmed down, “you said you didn’t need my help, huh? And how’s that working out for ya?”

“M-Min,” you croak, tears still leaking from your eyes.

“You’re such a big girl though, right? Puppy can do it all by herself.”

“Seungmin, —“

“Aht, wrong s-word, baby. Try again.”

“S-Sorry,” you sniffle, “‘M sorry.”

“I know you are,” he hums, winding the chain around his fist until you’re bent in half, face level with his.

He kisses your lips and cheeks, free hand reaching smooth your hair back, almost like a pet. You press into it, soaking up the affection. He laughs at your puppy-like behavior, indulging you briefly to make sure you don’t drop. Your brain’s a little fuzzy, but your body knows what to expect, so you’re helpful as Seungmin’s hands maneuver you around, successfully fitting his cock right back inside your cunt. Your mewl at being full again is involuntary, coaxed out of your throat by the slick slide of Seungmin against the tender walls of your cunt.

“You’re a brat,” he says fondly, wrapping you up in his arms, “but you’re my brat, yeah?”

“Y-yeah, yours.”

“Good girl, puppy,” he coos, letting you bury your face in his neck as he fucks up into you, punching nonsensical sounds out of your throat with each thrust.

“Good fucking girl.”

© hyungszn 2025; please do not copy, steal, repost, modify, translate, use for ai, or recommend on any other platform without my permission!

[leriexoxo]

THE BODYGUARD

Leeknow x Fem Reader

Tags: Mafia au, smut, bodyguard, guns, seduction, wall sex, unprotected sex (again i need to seek help), dom leeknow

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Your father hired Lee Know to protect you—not rail you into the kitchen counter like a man possessed. Unfortunately, you’ve always had a thing for bad decisions and pretty men with guns.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stood at your bedroom door like he always did—arms crossed, eyes forward, jaw locked in that annoyingly perfect angle that made him look carved from stone.

Lee Know. Your father’s “most loyal enforcer.”

Or, as you liked to call him: Mr. Emotionally Constipated with the Arms of a Greek God.

You grinned.

Tonight’s outfit? A silky robe, just barely tied.

No bra. No shame.

You padded across the room toward the door, pretending not to notice the way his eyes flicked to the deep V of your cleavage before snapping back to the wall across from him.

“Hey, Minho.”

You never called him that.

He hated it. Which made you love it.

He didn’t look at you. “It’s Lee Know to you.”

“Mmm. You sure about that?” You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms just enough to push your tits up a little more. “We’ve known each other a week. You’re practically my emotional support assassin.”

“I’m here to protect you,” he said, voice clipped. “That’s all.”

“Then why do you keep looking at my legs?”

He blinked once. Twice.

“I’m trained to be aware of everything in my surroundings.”

You gave him a slow, wicked smile. “So you’re very aware of my legs, then?”

Nothing. Not a twitch.

But you didn’t miss the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

⸻

You tested him again the next night.

He was seated at the kitchen counter, cleaning his gun. You walked in wearing one of your father’s old oversized button-downs and absolutely nothing underneath.

“Oops,” you said sweetly when the hem lifted just enough as you reached up for a glass. “Hope this isn’t distracting.”

He didn’t even look up. “Wear pants.”

“But I’m in my house,” you pouted. “You’re the guest here, baby.”

That earned a pause.

He looked up, eyes sharp. “Don’t call me that.”

You leaned in close. “Why not? Scared you might like it?”

A long stare.

No answer.

But the way he gripped his gun a little tighter said everything.

⸻

By the third night, you were bored.

So you sat on the couch in the living room, thighs spread just a little wider than necessary in your tiny sleep shorts, licking a popsicle like it owed you money.

Lee Know was standing across the room, pretending not to watch.

You moaned.

“Mm… so good…”

His jaw tensed.

You bit the tip of the popsicle and let it melt down your fingers. “Sticky…”

He finally turned.

“Go to bed.”

You smiled sweetly. “Make me.”

For a second—just one second—you saw it. The flash of something dark in his eyes. Something dangerous.

Then it was gone.

He turned back around.

You bit back a grin.

You were going to break him.

⸻

“I’m not some delicate little doll,” you said, arms crossed as you stood in front of Lee Know on the private gym mat.

He looked completely unimpressed. Black compression shirt hugging his chest, sleeves rolled, cargo pants sitting low on his hips. “You get kidnapped twice in a month and your dad thinks that means you need training.”

You smirked. “You saying you don’t want to pin me down, Mr. Bodyguard?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stepped forward. Way too close. One swift movement and your wrist was in his grip, your back hitting the mat in a blur.

You gasped.

His body hovered over yours, one knee between your thighs, palm flat on your chest—not groping. Controlling. Holding you down like it was second nature.

“You’re dead,” he said.

You looked up at him, breath shallow. “Is this how you treat all your clients?”

“Only the ones who try to seduce me in silk robes and lick popsicles like they’re dicks.”

Your jaw dropped.

He smirked.

So he had been watching.

You shifted beneath him, pressing your thigh against his. “So what now? You gonna kill me again?”

Lee Know didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But his eyes dropped—slowly—from your face to your mouth… then lower. You could feel the tension radiating off him like a furnace.

He was so close. So firm. So restrained.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“This is exactly why I shouldn’t touch you.”

And then—he pushed off you and stood.

Just like that.

Leaving you breathless on the mat and soaked.

—

Three hours later, gunfire broke out.

It wasn’t a drill.

Your father’s estate was under attack and Lee Know had you thrown into the back of a black SUV, barking orders into his comms while gripping your hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Now you were in a cold, dark safehouse on the edge of the city. Just the two of you. You were still in your thin tank top and sleep shorts from earlier, blood humming with adrenaline.

Lee Know paced the room like a caged animal.

“Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?” he snapped.

You laughed, breathless. “Sorry, didn’t get the ‘bulletproof chic’ memo. I was too busy being evacuated under gunfire.”

He turned. His eyes dropped to your thighs. Stayed there.

You didn’t move.

He took a step forward.

“I should’ve left you with someone else,” he muttered. “I can’t think straight around you.”

Your heart pounded. “Then don’t think.”

Then you were against the wall. Just like that.

His hand slid between your legs, pressing firmly against your core through the thin fabric.

“You like this?” he hissed. “Flirting with danger? Teasing me until I lose my goddamn mind?”

You moaned. “Yes—yes, fuck, I wanted you to snap—”

He pushed your shorts aside, fingers slipping through your folds, cursing under his breath when he felt how wet you already were.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been soaked,” you gasped, clinging to him. “Ever since you pinned me to that mat—”

He silenced you with his mouth on your neck and two fingers sliding inside you in one slow, deep thrust. You cried out, hips jerking, the cold wall at your back nothing compared to the heat of him in front of you.

His other hand clamped over your mouth. “Quiet. They might still be listening.”

The idea that danger was right outside—that someone could burst through the door—only made it hotter.

He fucked you with his fingers like he knew your body better than you did. Curling, pumping, dragging out desperate little gasps with every movement.

“You don’t even know what you’re playing with,” he growled in your ear. “You think seducing your bodyguard is just for fun? You wanna see what happens when I stop holding back?”

You came hard—biting into his shoulder to keep quiet, legs shaking, walls fluttering around his fingers.

He held you through it.

Then slowly—so slowly—he pulled back.

Your breathing was ragged. Your legs barely held you up.

He didn’t touch you again.

Didn’t even look at you.

⸻

You sat in silence for what felt like hours.

He was across the room now, back against the wall, fists clenched. The air was heavy with guilt and leftover lust.

“…We shouldn’t have done that,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew he was right.

And still—your body was still aching. Still pulsing with the echo of his fingers inside you.

“I can’t protect you if I’m thinking about fucking you.”

You looked at him and whispered:

“Then maybe you should just fuck me and get it over with.”

He looked at you like you’d just pulled the pin on a grenade.

Lee Know’s jaw flexed, a vein twitching in his neck as your words hung in the air—dangerous and impossible to ignore.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice strained like he was barely holding himself together.

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Something in you liked the way he looked at you—like you were both the problem and the answer.

“You’ve already touched me,” you said, stepping forward slowly. “Already had your fingers inside me. What’s one more mistake?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was praying for strength—or forgiveness. Then he pushed off the wall, stalking toward you in two long strides.

You gasped when your back hit the cold surface behind you, his hands braced on either side of your head. His breath hitched near your ear, voice barely more than a growl.

“This is a bad idea.”

You tilted your chin up, breath shallow. “Then make it worse.”

And that was it. The match to gasoline.

He crashed his mouth against yours, all teeth and tongue, like he was punishing you for wanting this—punishing himself for needing it. His hands found your hips, gripping tight, dragging your body flush against his as he ground his thigh between your legs.

You moaned into the kiss, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle beneath his shirt. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, pinning you to the wall as your legs wrapped around his waist.

“You’re a fucking brat,” he muttered, lips against your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Driving me insane on purpose.”

You whimpered, fingers threading through his hair. “So do something about it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth was on you like he’d starved for it—like the past week of resisting had built into a pressure so unbearable, now he could only consume. Teeth grazed the column of your throat, then bit down hard enough to leave a mark.

“You wanted this?” he growled, voice like gravel as he pulled back to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Then you take it.”

You gasped as he turned, still holding you up, and threw you onto the small kitchen counter behind him. The edge dug into your thighs, cold against your overheated skin, but you didn’t have time to complain—his mouth was already back on yours, hands tugging at your shirt like it offended him.

Fabric tore. You didn’t care.

He shoved your bra up with one hand and sucked a bruising kiss over your breast, tongue dragging over your nipple before he bit. You cried out, fingers tangled in his hair, and he groaned like the sound went straight to his cock.

“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he hissed, dropping to his knees in front of the counter. “Walking around in those tiny fucking shorts, bending over on purpose—”

You barely had time to moan his name before he yanked your underwear down and buried his face between your thighs. His tongue was ravenous, licking into you with a low growl like you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

Your legs shook. He held them open.

And when you came—grinding into his face, thighs squeezing his head—he looked up at you with slick lips and dark eyes and said, “We’re not done.”

He lifted you again, carried you like a doll, and slammed you onto the coffee table. It cracked under you.

You didn’t care.

He pulled his shirt off, chest heaving, hair wild, cock straining against his pants. “I’m going to fuck you on every surface in this goddamn safe house.”

“Then stop talking,” you panted. “And do it.”

His laugh was dark and dangerous. “You asked for this.”

He yanked his pants down, lined himself up, and when he slammed into you—deep, thick, punishing—you screamed. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you a second to adjust. He just took.

The table groaned beneath you. So did you.

He bent over you, one hand gripping your throat, thumb stroking your jaw. “This what you wanted, baby?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Lee Know—”

He snapped his hips. “Say my name.”

“Minho!”

“That’s better.”

And then he flipped you over.

The coffee table had barely survived the first round—legs splintered, your body a mess of sweat and come and aching thighs. But Minho wasn’t finished. Not even close.

He dragged you by the wrist, still naked, still panting, across the living room toward the tiny kitchen sink. The sirens were wailing faintly in the distance now, maybe backup, maybe enemies. You didn’t care. Neither did he.

“You think this is a game?” he snarled, shoving your front against the counter, your hands splaying on the cool metal of the sink.

“I was bored,” you whined, arching your back for him. “You were no fun—”

SMACK.

His palm cracked across your ass so loud it echoed.

“You call this no fun?”

Another thrust—hard and deep—and you choked on your breath, eyes rolling as he gripped your hips and used you, hips snapping forward like he was claiming what had always been his.

“I was protecting you,” he hissed into your ear. “Keeping you alive. And all you could think about was getting me to fuck you like a little slut?”

You whimpered, walls clenching around him, making him groan as he fucked you deeper.

“You are a slut,” he growled, hand snaking around to rub fast, ruthless circles on your clit. “My bratty little mafia princess. Couldn’t keep her legs closed for five goddamn minutes.”

You came with a sob, body collapsing over the counter, and he didn’t stop—he just kept fucking you through it like he owned you. Like nothing outside that safe house mattered.

The walls rattled with distant explosions. A rumble of danger shook the floor.

He didn’t flinch.

You gasped, “What if they find us?”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanked your head back. “Let them hear you.”

He pulled out, only to flip you around again—lifted you onto the counter this time, angled your legs open like a man possessed.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, voice feral. “Even if I have to kill every last one of them. But right now, I’m going to ruin you.”

And he did.

He fucked you right there, on the kitchen counter, while chaos raged outside. One hand on your neck, the other gripping your thigh, pounding into you like he didn’t care if the world burned.

And still—still—he wasn’t finished.

Later, he threw you onto the couch, legs dangling over the side, pushing your knees to your chest.

“This is for every time you walked around in silk with no bra.”

Thrust.

“For every time you touched me and pretended it meant nothing.”

Thrust.

“For every night I had to jerk off in the shower like some fucking teenager while you moaned my name in the next room.”

You were crying now—overstimulated, fucked out, and loving every second. He kissed you for the first time that night—really kissed you. Deep and messy, tongue claiming yours as he gave you everything, took everything in return.

Eventually, when your body couldn’t take anymore, he finally carried you to the bed.

Slower now. Gentler. Still rough, but different—like the danger had dulled, and only desire remained.

He sank into you again, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m gonna own you,” he whispered.

You nodded weakly. “I’ve always been yours.”

⸻

You woke up to the scent of him.

Sweat. Sex. Gunpowder still clinging to his clothes somewhere on the floor.

Your thighs were sore. Bruised. Used. You didn’t care. You felt claimed—wrecked in the best way.

Minho lay beside you, chest rising and falling steadily, one arm thrown lazily over your waist like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides six different ways across the safe house.

You smiled.

And then you heard it.

Click.

The sound of a gun being cocked.

Minho’s eyes snapped open.

“Stay here,” he muttered, already on his feet. Still naked. Still glowing with that post-fuck heat, but now he was all bodyguard again—sharp, lethal, dangerous.

He grabbed his weapon from the nightstand, racked a round like it was second nature, and glanced back at you—eyes wild but focused.

“If I come back covered in blood,” he growled, “you’re letting me finish what I started.”

You blinked. “You already did—like—four times—”

His smirk was evil. “Not nearly enough.”

Gun in hand, he stalked toward the front door, every muscle in his back flexing, footsteps silent. You didn’t even try to stop the shiver that ran down your spine.

Minutes passed.

A shot rang out. Then another. A scream. A thud.

You sat there, naked, wrapped in a blanket, thighs pressed together, still aching.

When Minho came back, blood splattered across his chest and cheek, eyes gleaming, you swore your soul left your body.

“All clear,” he said, dropping the gun to the floor. “Now where were we?”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me—”

He stalked toward you, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed with a wicked grin.

“I told you. Every surface.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: now thats the kinda Leeknow i have in my daydreams 🫣😍 so daddyyyyy

You know the drill, drop that like, a comment and REBLOGGGGG!!!

[sunboki]

⎯ boy of the forest. ⟡ featuring yang jeongin

🦌 : Greek god! Yang Jeongin x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Greek mythology! au, Son (unofficial since Artemis swore to celibacy) of Artemis! au, mortal! reader au, slightly sheltered Jeongin (he’s so respectful i wanna cry), fluff fluff fluff, best friends to lovers, slight angst, so soft

WORD COUNT. 8.7k words ☆ 40min read

WARNINGS. usage of arrows, dubcon kiss, mention/heavily focused on greek gods/goddesses, mention of animal bones, inclusion of a venomous snake, playful fighting

AUG'S NOTES. this wait has been going on for too long! so glad to finally present this fic, it holds a whole lot of my heart in it :) pleas enjoy!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Since you were a child, both tales and encounters with the children of the gods became a prevalent pattern in life. Friendship with Hermes’ son, those early morning by the water allowing interaction with Poseidon’s child. And yet, your intrigue upon hearing word of the unofficial offspring of Artemis, sired under her teachings and oaths in a forest most avoided drew you infinitely closer. So what happens when curiosity gets the best of you?

or alternatively :

How quickly one can turn from a stranger to a beloved.

“I— I forfeit!”

Shouts Han, smacking the skin of your thigh repeatedly for you to loosen your death-like grip around his head.

Either of you furiously tussle on the muddy ground of Sokcho’s eastern coastline as if routine, where utter delight in each of the messenger-to-be’s visits end in a few new bruises and a judgemental eyeball from your father when you trudge through the door.

With him being the son of Hermes, your daily visits from Han Jisung had been shortened to weekly once he became more and more occupied taking up his role as the messenger god’s offspring, so you truly give it your all each time his face comes into view.

Which usually means bowling the boy over the moment his winged-shoes touch ground.

Of course, all in good fun. You’ve known the kid since you were a child, listening with wonder as he explained all about his life in Olympus, his father, Hermes, his abilities.

Upon first glance he appears a normal, awkward teenager, but gold coloration swimming within his irises and superhuman reflexes, stamina, and speed, you knew better than to believe that.

Luckily, he gives you a fair fight whenever you spar, ensuring no foul play leads to unfair victories. 

Meaning: you win, every time.

Breathing in a huge gasp, the both of you collapse onto sodden soil, chests heaving to replace expelled air. Of course, getting kicked in the stomach and returning the favor with a solid punch to his jaw didn’t help with that factor.

“Three… Three weeks,” You pant, the equally grimy back of your hand swiping strands of hair from a sweaty forehead. 

Han mindlessly grunts from below you, body refusing to move even a mere centimeter.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m nothing against you, rub it in.”

You croak a laugh at the sheer exasperation in his tone, accustomed to your feigned gloating antics.

“No– That’s not it Sungie, I just wanted to say.” Using your arms to hold you up while surveying the similarly battered man whose head rests on your stomach, you tip his chin upwards with a finger, forcing those irrevocably hypnotizing eyes to meet yours.

Never sunken, tired.

Han Jisung was a marvel.

And for a moment, he begins to think you’ve grown soft after these years.

“I still won.”

Nevermind.

Whining with dismay, he takes the hand you extend out to him upon standing, earning a playful smack to the shoulder whilst collecting the shoes so carelessly discarded up by the dunes.

Feet sinking into the warm sand below, you’re offered a moment to spare a glance back to the lapsing waters, tumbling over themselves with morning’s ferocious tides. 

This is the only time you usually get to see him, and as if a mere memory, he’ll disappear all the same.

Townspeople were never fond of children of the gods. They spoke of mischief, ill-doing in response to their appearances. 

A long-lived grudge, one from ancestor after ancestor. And yet, most chose to live ignorant to the swirling deities all around. Those more gracious sunny days when someone mentions Helios, or the subdued waves compared to that of merciless plunder ashore by Poseidon.

As a result, Han never stayed long, leading you to arrive by this peculiarly isolated portion of the beach at dawn for his quick stops before flying off.

You didn’t mind. It was worth it in the end. 

Early wake-ups, that is.

Arriving randomly and becoming a part of you habitually. Like an old cut turning into a scar, commemorating happenings of the past.

It didn’t take your father long to grow curious over what his daughter rushed off to every day. And so, about a year ago, you told him. All about Han’s sudden presence, then developing into a friend–a best friend.

Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. Initially disbelieving, perhaps, but not angry nor discontented.

In fact, the man seemed more interested than anything, asking you abundant questions about what he looked like, his features, aptitude.

You didn’t blame him, for it wasn’t every day news of an interaction with the ancient bloodline was spoken of.

Instead, you indulged in those child-like curiosities just as avidly as he inquired, resulting in frenzied conversation at the dinner table for a multitude of hours that night.

“Jisung!” 

Having called his name after the harsh knock back into reality, you fish through your pockets before he leaves in recollection of something you’d been wanting to give him.

The boy’s face deadpans, obviously awaiting another one of your tricks.

“If you flick me off, I’m never coming back.”

Fretful shuffling dulls his mumble inaudible, merely humming in acknowledgment and successfully clutching the metal between your index and thumb after panicked searching.

A pin, like that attached to tote bags, jeans. 

“For you to put on your bag, so you can think of me all the time.” 

The wink of yours causes him to wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue at you, and you can’t help your smile from growing bigger and bigger the longer he investigates the apparent pin you’ve placed in his palm.

“Is this… a pigeon?”

Out of all the birds you’ve been teaching him about in your realm, he had to pick the most pitiful one.

“No! We studied this one! It’s a hawk, y’know since you’re kind of like a bird?” Flapping your arms to sell the idea, he huffs in exasperation, nonetheless fitting the pin to his satchel overflowing with envelopes.

“Alright alright.” Laughing at the pout tugging at his lips, it’s almost instinctive when you press a sugary sweet kiss to his cheek, soaked up gleefully by Hermes’ son like always.

Han Jisung is very much adoring of your affection. Frankly, any affection overall.

“Think it’s about time you get going, delivery boy.”

Flying into your arms (both figuratively and literally), he places his own kiss to your opposing cheek, grinning that irritably charming grin ceaselessly worn.

Guessing what he’ll say next comes easily, but you still entertain the remark anyway.

“Now our kisses complete each other!” He predictably exclaims, beginning to levitate as the miniature wings on his sneakers beat tirelessly. “See you soon Y/N! Stay safe!!”

Waving in response while he drifts further and further into the atmosphere, you wait until his figure is officially gone to move, stepping toward the dock. This way, you can secure the best view of the sunrise peering above clouds without any interruptions. 

Ideal.

Truthfully, it never irked you being a mortal amongst your assortment of acquaintances.

You enjoyed it, actually. 

Freedom without responsibility to save from evil left you plenty of time to explore, to exist. Not that you didn’t respect them, but the experience seemed too tasking for your liking.

“Back again?”

Speaking of acquaintances.

More specifically speaking of Poseidon as a pair of calloused—though gentle—hands fasten around your calves dangling off the dock’s edge, dragged into the chilly depths below before you can reply by none other than Chan, or, using his birth name, Christopher Bahng.

Son of Poseidon.

Ironic.

Not to mention are there any daughters of the gods..? Jeesh.

Anyway.

You half expected him to tap your shoulder and say hello when hearing him approach from behind as he normally did, the creaking in the dock’s wooden panels enough indication your friend was present on most occasions.

Although unlike Han Jisung, Chris was sporadic in his visits. An old friend from school, he chose to keep his identity a secret, allowing the eccentric father of his to care for the seas while he led a human life teaching kids how to swim at your town’s aquatic center.

Upon finding you speaking to Han in his natural form, a year or so ago, the man eventually found ease in your company as well, comfortable revealing himself and oftentimes showing up to simply converse without turtle necks or high-collared swimsuits concealing the set of gills right below his ears.

In actuality, a part of you was happy he had to hide his gills—meaning that swoon-worthy mop of curly blond hair could grow out, curling behind his ears and furling into wild strands atop his head. 

It didn’t take a genius to note how attractive Christopher Bahng was, and you certainly weren’t immune to the effect.

Careful grasp of your hips reminding you you’re safe, mere moments prevail before breaching the water’s surface, complaining about the cold while the bear of a man practically suffocates you in his arms, twisting side to side in a tight hug despite your ingenuine anger swallowed beneath laughter.

“Seriously, you can’t just do that! I might die of shock one day.”

“Well you’re definitely not that weak from how beat up poor Han looked,” He giggles, gliding with ease through chilled waters no matter your weight, courtesy of his bloodline (and whatever hell of a workout regime he followed).

About to retaliate, you pause, contemplating.

“Hey! You should’ve told me you were watching,” Stubbornly insistent, you allow the gentleman to lift you back onto the dock, his own gill-retaining form remaining in the water beneath your faux glare.

Something he grows sheepish in regards to before pointing to a blanket behind you.

So your near-drowning experience was pre-planned. 

Jerk.

Although you don’t deny the goosebumps littering your arms and legs, hurriedly wrapping the warm fabric around yourself.

“Nah,” He smiles, fingers carding through unbearably endearing locks. “I wanted to see how it played out. You’ve improved a lot.”

Reaching his hand upward where you can return the fist-bump, you nod at the compliment, referring to the fact Chris taught you how to fight in the first place after your many losses against Han’s sneak attacks, something the latter still moped over to this day. 

“Thanks to you,” You add, not missing the dimples dipping into his skin when he grins. 

So. Very. Attractive.

Both turning to witness the fullness of today’s dawn, you can’t help but soak in the sight, carving each detail into your memory. 

How lucky you are to get to see something this striking, the sky painted in innumerable streaks of warm hues.

“Say,” Redirecting his attention back to you, you balance your jaw on your hand, the pretty view provoking a bit of thinking.

“Are there any other god’s here? Or like, children of the gods?”

Assessing your question, Chris’s eyes surf his surroundings thoughtfully, wracking his mind for anyone he can think of.

“Hm,” A decisive grunt sounds where a tugs a plush bottom lip between his teeth. A sight as easy to get infatuated with as the sunrise.

“Han’s an exception since he pretty much drops by everywhere, and I’m over here because of the ocean and the location but uh… there might be? From what I’ve heard there’s likely at least one other here. You might have better luck asking Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin being the son of Eros, god of love. 

Someone you’ve never met, but both Han and Chris relayed he’s the epitome of beauty.

Coming from them, that’s a feat.

You deflate.

“In Seoul?”

Yeah, no way you’re finding a way to Seoul for that. Bus fees, subway fees, coming up with an excuse to your dad? Not happening.

Chris, realizing the unrealistic circumstance, deflates along with you, expression apologetic that you hope to condole with a reassuring smile.

Noting the rate in which your clothes are drying thanks to the warmth of the sun’s rays, you gather your things, stalling when your friend—now drying off beside you—speaks up again.

“Ah, right! There is one! I’ve only met him a few times before at meetings and gatherings, but he’s the son of Artemis– well, not by birth but that’s a long story- and his name is… Jeong? Yin? No no, it’s Yang, Yang Jeongin! Yep, that’s the guy. He’s a little shy but a real cutie.”

Cringing back from the sly manner he nudges your shoulder, the high, mischievous lift of his brows indicate nothing but trouble. 

If this is the mischief the townspeople mentioned, you’re starting to understand now.

Who knew the son of Poseidon was turning into a figment of Cupid?

Then again, you don’t think you’ve ever heard the name before. 

Waving goodbye and thanking him for the help, your hike toward the road fills with nothing but wry banter and playful insults from the older one until dividing separate ways.

Him to the aquatic center to prep for class, you back home.

Routine.

Not-so-gracefully peeling frigid clothing from your body, the warm water of your showerhead after sneaking through quiet halls to the bathroom is greatly welcomed, mind racing while attempting to focus on sudsing shampoo into your scalp. 

But when you close your eyes, reevaluation of past events and retrieval of a specific memory breach the forefront of your mind.

Yang Jeongin.

He’s giving you something to think about.

The Saturday market beckons superior business to any other day of the week, town square amassed in bustling vendors and the clink! of cash deposited into registers alike. As usual, the Bahng family hones the most fish sales (a matter the both of you chuckle at, with Poseidon’s family as the town’s greatest fishermen, ironically).

However, most locals, like yourself, steer clear of wandering customers, often relocating towards the outskirts in search of things to do.

As for today, you spend your time entertaining grandmothers with silly stories, one hand reaching to soothe the ache in your back from arduous strawberry picking. 

February’s harvest is always abundant, Demeter’s grace within the plentiful yield. 

“Alright alright, all I’m saying is keep your eye out, yeah? ‘Could be Hermes’ son delivering your daily mail, you never know?”

The sly smile tugging at your lips is met with conjoined hackling from the elderly crowd, dispelling your tales as nothing more than a jest—ignorant to the truthfulness of the statement.

And yet, having begun a decent distance from the group, your steps in dropping off the strawberries falls still, a sharp, barely perceptible silhouette rushing past rendering whatever earlier thoughts forgotten.  

The forest. 

No, you aren’t superstitious, but the near glow of eyes from those darkened shadows remains unmistakable.

Truth be told, most were advised not to enter these forests. Never had there been an outright reason, simply that it was dangerous and uncharted. 

If uncharted, how could it be dangerous? 

…Right?

Internally shrugging off your logically hesitant thoughts, you maneuver between haggard branches and hawthorn brambles, watching the surroundings forestry darken the further you venture, limiting visibility. 

So green, so alive. As if a new world had opened the moment you stepped inside.

Or, in other words, a new domain.

Someone’s new domain.

The feeling is almost serene, hidden from the outside, lost amongst endless expanses of oak and fern in every direction.

No sign of the eyes.

Hm.

As a precaution, however, you leave an evident mess nearest to the entrance, not planning to go too far in order to make it back before nightfall.

Just.. curiosity, right? You’ll be out and back in no time.

The crackle beneath your shoes of twigs indicate an obvious inexperience towards exploration, each sound contributing to the lift of your head, quickened surveillance trying to take in each and every aspect. 

Birds above, the skittering of animals in trees.

Most notably, no sight nor sound of another human, as if disproving your prior observation.

Just where were those eyes? 

“..Hello?”

If there was, in fact, anything dangerous in this forest, you’ve certainly made yourself noticeable with the volume of your voice.

No response.

A part of you mentally berates the child-like wonder spurring you on, the yearning to discover any spectacle in close radius.

However, of the many things you’d like to quell, getting lost in your thoughts seems insistently stubborn.

It’s a sharp hiss, source easily detectable, that shakes you from the daydream-like headspace, watching the snake begin to lunge as if in slow motion.

A pit-viper. 

This is what makes the forest dangerous.

A sharp gasp on your part, but yet to be faster.

Is this how it ends?

How pathetic.

What brings the air back into your lungs, nonetheless, isn’t the stinging sensation of a venomous bite, but the whizz of an arrow flying right past your cheek, landing in the dead-center of the reptile’s head and gluing it to the leafy underbrush below.

Attention immediately flickering over your shoulder does the oxygen escape your being for a second time, this occasion more awe-filled than terror-stricken.

Those eyes.

Like emeralds where they peer down at you, partially covered by a messy head of hair, tipped in silent inquisition. The savior of yours pays no mind in introduction, adjusting his quiver and bow into its coordinated position where he crouches on a branch, like that of a leopard surveying its next meal.

And although you don’t know how, his name comes to you in minutes, legs like jelly upon finally moving, placing distance between yourself and the now-deceased snake.

“Jeongin? Yang Jeongin?”

His head proceeds to wordlessly tilt, almost uncanny in the owl-like resemblance before he becomes a mere flash of motion again, appearing behind you and earning a choked inhale in return.

Perhaps mute? 

Or maybe not a people person, who knows.

This forest doesn’t seem to have many visitors, anyway.

Yet, he pays you no mind, alternatively focused on retrieving the utilized arrow embedded in the snake’s skull before rising to his full height.

Tall, fits the description well enough.

Yeah. This guy isn’t human.

“Could.. Could I touch you?”

He speaks!

Though, the request was a bit strange despite the man honing a quieted, surprisingly kind voice.

Then it hits you. The familiarity with the name Artemis back during Chris’ introduction.

She’s of the many chastity goddesses, not to mention a hunting and a maiden goddess—meaning she never had children nor married, which explains the complication when Chris was explaining him a few days ago.

Seems you were too enthralled with the news of her son, not necessarily the origins.

Also explaining his hesitation when regarding you, as if you were a being he couldn’t dare lay eyes upon.

It made you want to laugh, honestly, imagining his stubborn goddess of a mother scolding the boy before you.

“Sure,” Comes your reply, observing as Jeongin investigates your arms, apparently searching for bites. He wears this blank expression, but you can see the curiosity hidden within dark, albeit gleaming eyes.

“You’re not smart.”

Oh, thanks.

“Huh?” Craning forward to ensure you heard him right, you’re once again met with a thoughtless face—one that doesn’t seem to understand what those words entail by the lack of guilt visible there.

Yet, it doesn’t seem he means poor. Nor that he understands the complexity of his words.

“The forest.” He waves his hand around, bringing awareness to the rustling in shrub patches and the sound of wings fanning in the distance. “Is not safe for you.”

You only nod, finding the manner in which he speaks to you sweet. 

Not meaning to sound offensive, no, simply observant, informative.

His statements are blunt and quick, lacking emotionality but containing inklings of concern regardless.

This one hasn’t met many mortals, apparently.

“Why?” Pushing further into the topic, you bite back your cough of surprise, blinking rapidly when he links his finger with yours, thumb smoothing over the top of your hand like a caress of consolation.

“Soft,” Jeongin murmurs, oblivious to his actions as you come to understand what he’s talking about, pointing to his own hand opposing yours.

“Rough.”

Ah.

You get it now. 

His way of saying you aren’t fit for the forest, considering your hands being soft compared to his own rough ones, an almost immature way of explanation that you find yourself charmed by.

Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to heed to it.

His warning, that is.

“But what if I don’t want to go?”

A quick blink, gaze fluttering down, then up, then back down.

Thinking face. 

And he pouts. Pouts.

Maybe it’s because of his status, his divinity, how incredulously handsome he is. 

Or maybe it’s just that you’re already smitten.

“Then.” He lets go of your hand, pinkies intertwined for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay close.” 

Immediately after, Jeongin starts off, obviously anticipating you to follow him by the manner in which he glances behind him. 

Somehow, he managed to miraculously end up in a tree, deemed supernatural with the ease in which the action was performed— a perfectly almond-shaped stare investigating your unmoving frame below.

“Afraid?” 

More like surprised. 

“No, you’re just.. different from anyone I’ve ever met before. This is different from anything I’ve ever done before.”

Sparing a few seconds to process your sentence, he wets his lips, maintaining a comfortably balanced squat.

“Who are the people you’ve met before?”

Just when he asks the question does the town lights in the distance flicker off, and you’re reminded of the minimal time you have to stay here.

“I..”

The words die on your tongue. 

You don’t want to go. There’s so much you want to know, so many questions to ask.

“I’ll tell you all about it another time, but I have to go home now,” Reluctantly began, an index is pointed toward the direction you had come from. Or, more accurately, where you thought you came from.

Instead, your once lit path is shrouded in darkness, unable to see exactly where you’re headed, where you even entered initially.

“Home?” Again he tips his head, failing to help the responsible side of your mind force you home.

Cute.

Gosh, Chris wasn’t kidding.

“Yes, home. Outside of here, outside of the forest. Could you,” You internally debate, chewing your bottom lip in contemplation. “Could you take me there?”

Way to put the guy to work.

Save my life, now take me home, please.

Luckily, your brewing guilt is staunched as hastily as it rises with his mere nod. Perhaps you could add that to the assortment of reasons why you like him, honesty making for easy decisions, conversation. 

Extending a hand for you to take, you dutifully keep pace wherever he leads, rather impressed at his awareness, watching his attention swivel left and right, assessing the sounds, sights. 

He certainly belongs to the forest.

Occasionally he’ll stop, holding his arm out in front of you and fetching the wooden bow, firing it into the distance only for a chortled hiss to respond. 

How does he see these things?

“How do you live here?” Thinking aloud, Jeongin hums in response, shaking his head.

“Not here. I live in the center, it’s much safer there.”

No, it must be the other way around. The forest belongs to him. 

And with that, you continue onward till the fading glow of streetlights peeks through leaves and trees, a sign you’re close to home.

“Were you-“ More hesitation, inked in the hitch of your words, the glance over his shoulder. “Were you watching me?”

A foot before he reaches the edge does Jeongin stop, granting you another peek returned with a sheepish smile. 

“I heard voices,” Comes his monotonous reply, hand reaching to gently smooth a bit of your hair between two fingers. “And I like this.”

Your hair, he ambiguously compliments.

I like your hair.

A part of you could have laughed at the hilarity, but instead, you merely grin like an idiot.

A happy idiot.

Your heart nearly stops when he tries returning the action, lips pulled awkwardly high, teeth bared like a feisty cat.

He’s trying to match your smile.

Jeongin is stupid cute. 

Guess you can’t be mad at Chris anymore.

“Bye bye!” Shouted a ways away, one hand lifts to wave to a confused Jeongin who, once again, attempts to mimic you, something you’re placing in your hall of fame of favorite moments.

“Good.. bye.”

His own hand lifting in a makeshift wave remains the single memory left in your mind that night, cursing Hypnos for failing to drag you asleep, instead accursed to roll left to right sleeplessly until dawn allows some shut-eye in its early hours.

And when you close your eyes, the gleaming of emeralds dancing beneath your eyelids betrays all that lies in your mind.

“Jeongin! Jeongin!” Shouted from the edge of the forest, minutes pass squinting at dense foliage before a curious pair of eyes becomes noticeable within the greenery.

From familiarity comes something habitual, like with Han, now with Jeongin. 

Daily visits, hoping to satiate your interest that never wanes. 

That is, under the excuse you’ve gotten into hunting as an explanation to Han, Chris, and your father. Yet, the knowing glances from Chris says he already has an idea of the truth behind your story.

It’s not that you necessarily want to hide your association with Jeongin, but the minuscule thrill gained each step through dark underbrush feels as if some deep secret hides behind the trees, your secret, together.

Plus, the last thing you need on your head is a new target for Jisung’s jeering. 

“I brought snacks, want to try some?” 

Lifting the hand holding a plastic bag of goods, you shuffle closer towards the man, granted an ultimately confused stare at said bag. 

Silent, but expressive enough you don’t require a word to understand his response prior to stepping into his territory.

Immediately, as if he were some treat-adoring puppy, he’s practically breathing down your neck to see inside the bag, chin resting upon your shoulder as you lift the contents, brows furrowed quizzically.

“Banana milk, Gimbap for us to share, and– Honey Butter chips,” You hum, lips curving into a breathless smile watching his fascinated expression simply heighten with each discovery.

“I… was thinking of Soju, but knowing your mother, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Soju?” He echoes, earning your nod as you glance back at where he props his head upon your shoulder.

“Hm,” A nod, reaching up to pat his cheek with a small huff of laughter.

Like a child, this one.

“Alcohol.” 

His small hum of acknowledgment resounds, and you can’t help but choke on a giggle where he presses his nose into your shoulder, seemingly intent on smelling the fabric. 

“Ocean,” Jeongin observes, swift to nod where he wordlessly slips from his place beside you, coaxed into your usual position whenever led to the center of the forest. 

A few weeks back you mentioned your other “godly” friends, namely Chris. That, and the weekly visits to meet Jisung by those same shores, a matter he acknowledges with the dip of his head, taking position in front of you.

Usual position being his hand in yours, always going ahead to scout. …And those repeated glances that leave your heart stuttering in your chest.

Doting, in his silent way of doing things. Those times he’d save the last piece of bread you’d bring from the market solely for you, or listen intently when you’d speak, eyes never straying from yours. 

The tiny crack of a smile tugging at his lips when you’ll tell him about some funny run-in with a grandmother, or the nearly innate sense of knowing he holds, able to detect your fatigue in ample time and beckon you to a carefully arranged bed of furs you find yourself napping in too many times to count.   

No less, he was right that first time you met. The center of the forest is peaceful. A home hidden from the rest of the world.

Compliant streams sifting past aged pebbles, old stone pathways you can’t help but wonder the age of, and the grasses under your feet, soft like a blanket when the both of you flop down after venturing for hours.

Rainy days, when everything is dark and mysterious. And mornings, heat subdued beneath leafy branches.

Wolf and bear-skin, he’s informed the furs as, along with a fox-pelt, fasten over his arrow quiver to salvage throughout winter. 

Skillful, in all manner of things. Utilizing his hunts as food, jewelry, or fertilizer for an ecosystem more abundant than ever imaginable, all seeming to flock around Jeongin like a forest prince.

A good title: Forest Prince.

Like now, where you sprawl on the forest floor, plastic bag ransacked of its contents that Jeongin investigates thoroughly, each item brought to his nose to smell.

Apparently either ignorant or immune to the twitter of a bird having taken perch on his shoulder. 

“I’d say.. these things are kind of like Onigiri, but you’ve never had Onigiri, right? Ah, then it’s like.. seaweed, with rice and meat filling. This one has..”

Continuing on and on, consciously, you’d like to apologize for your neverending chatter, though at the moment, his acknowledging nods and patient gaze fixed your way with each bite you hold to his lips keeps you ignorant, savoring.

Because the thought strikes you how separated he’s been from the world despite residing mere miles from a mortal like yourself, and you don’t want to take advantage of it, take these interactions and teachings with that of the world outside of the forest for granted. 

Not to mention the world inside the forest you learn more of each waking moment, almost well-versed enough to lead to the center of the forest yourself.

Of course, the sweet narrow of his eyes usually keeps the cocky offer at bay most days. 

Most days. 

After receiving his scolding glare upon getting ahead of yourself, the small furrow of his brows where he patches up your scraped knee, the cuts along your forearms from sharp shrubbery patches. 

Learning, growing. You teach him, he teaches you.

An exchange the both of you have grown rather accustomed to, something looked forward to. Day after day, hour after hour. Like children, frolicking in the wooded expanse with an fervor unable to be quenched. 

“Catch me!” You’d call from afar, watching his face alight, ignorant to the matter you were, in fact, his first friend (aside from plenty of forest acquaintances, such as the visiting robins).

And that, that smile curving at his lips became one only you could provoke. Saved just for you. 

Clouds scatter the atmosphere, dousing Sokcho in an endless gradient of grays and blue, hinting at an incoming storm from the low rumble here and there. 

However, your attention has long since been occupied. Located within the forest as if a second home, a focused gaze settles upon the scavenging rabbit scampering along fern-filled underbrush, each careful, apprehensive flicker of its tall ears keeping your breath bated.

“Elbow back.”

Concentration on the rabbit, and simultaneous acknowledgement to the man standing just behind you, pressed to your frame. 

Easily would you have lost focus if not for the grounding hand grasping yours, helping steady your hold on the bow’s grip and ensuring a precisely crafted arrow balances upon the nocking point, aimed directly at the fluffy creature.

Today, Jeongin is teaching you how to wield his bow. 

He’s also dangerously close to you, strands of inky hair tickling your cheek when he leans to murmur pointers in your ear, shifting so the toned bit of his chest presses to your back.

A skillful foot adjusts your own foot’s position, offering a small click of his tongue in assurance towards the clench of your teeth, straining to hold such a massive bow in waiting.

“Now.”

The words are a facet of relief, drawn elbow allowed rest, opposing eye closed for better focus opening to catch sight of your kill.

After weeks of practicing, it seems the rain brought in a meager portion of luck.

Thank you, Artemis, comes your internal thanks, scampering down after Jeongin towards the puncturing arrow, peering over his shoulder as he utters the ordinated eucharistia and gathers the animal to bring back.

And yet, halfway there, he pauses, peering over his shoulder back at you.

You’d like to think a ghost of a smile resided in his eyes, and the slight crinkle in the corners seems to further prove the assumption.

“You did well.”

Ah.

Like those moments by the fire, the quiet times he’ll be there when you awaken from your nap only to find him right there, staring down upon your form with what you’d scorn to call affection.

Getting your hand caught in the brambles, when his gentle thumb wipes away beading tears, smoothing to cup your cheek, shushing the slight sniffles too gently for your heart to bear.

And now, those prolonged irises, fixated upon you as if uttering a prayer. 

Hm.

You want to kiss him.

Momentary, as risky as his earlier closeness back when hunting do you peek down, surveying the near perfect skin of his lips.

A russet brown upper lip seated atop the lighter pink of a dashing bottom lip, glossy from his tongue having rushed across seconds prior.

Quietly, you scold your struggle to swallow.

All the same, it appears you underestimated his aptitude for observation, falling into the learned pattern of rinse and repeat, ignore and move on, while trekking back to the forest’s center.

That, and the same manner his gaze flits to your lips too.

The first time you find yourself imprinting on him is during a regular conversation of yours, sharing strawberries, sparing words here and there between mouthfuls.

Expectantly, a joke comes spouting from your lips, one you watch with pride that earns the upward quirk of his lips in silent amusement, lightly smacking a hand across his leg as if laughing. 

Well, what you do when you laugh, and it takes you a moment before you begin giggling(this time audible) yourself, unable to keep the bubbling sound from pouring out. 

He’s adorable, in almost every way. Exhibiting your habits, mimicking your expressions like a curious babe. 

The expectant manner he studies your expression, as if debating on whether or not that was the right reaction, or the way the slight plush of his cheeks causes his eyes to disappear while still learning to smile, searching your own smile as a blueprint.

He teaches you, you teach him.

Nevertheless, the hunting incident was never spoken of nor added to conversation. His eyes on your lips, yours on his, left forgotten.

A matter you were thankful for, no matter the temporary fix.

Something left unspoken, for as long as the silence would last. 

. 

. 

.

Then again, veracity would poke itself from ignorance in due time, so you savored the quiet even more, kept your eyes clearly glued to his face and his face only.

Not his lips.

Certainly not.

Taken up activities to pull your mind from the temptation, the urge. Hunted more, learned simple skills in healing, tactics in fighting. Day after day, growing stronger, more well-versed with your surroundings, abilities.

Some days called for peaceful tasks, like finding the correct berries or leaves for herbal salves, detecting those of foul intent and the best way to dispose of them. 

Others sweat-inducing, leaving you to heave for your breath and clamber back to your feet.

If Chris could teach and Hermes could bow to your fighting prowess, Jeongin could battle. Effortless in the manner his footsteps pound on grassy terrain, wielding a dagger as if a maestro—leading an orchestra to a haunting finale down to the depths of the Underworld.

And for once, you hate ever being cocky, inviting him to “try his hardest” despite remaining blindsided to the utter depths of Tartarus you feel your head being dipped into with each practiced swipe of his hand, sharpened dagger narrowly avoided for an eight time.

Trembling legs force yourself stable, the quiver of your thighs betraying the cruel, human need for rest, recuperation.

But no, determination beckons another outcome, lights a fire in your veins. Knowing of the sensible outcome being his victory, unwilling to back down.

Perhaps it was that fire, that anger and frustration when you glared at him from across the clearing that kindled his own bonfire, one crackling, with blue flames licking a smoky sky where a usually monotone expression seems to glow.

The potential of a god.

“Cut me,” He’d said an hour or so ago, towards the beginning of your sparring. Logically, you laughed off the offer regardless of his seriousness—for gods were immune to the inflicted agonies.

Right about now though, the offer is tempting. That, and the irritation with both yourself and him continues to take life, rooting itself into your chest like the enormous cypress in the forest’s center.

In a flash of will-power, your legs are rushing forward, each thump of your heartbeat divisible within your eardrums, battering against your ribcage as the Minotaur to his Knossos labyrinth.

The weapon of choice in hand, your own dagger, comes rushing outwards, knuckles a ghastly white with the tightness of your grip.

I move left, he’ll swerve below then back. Or right? Or—

The pivot of his left heel, and you know this movement, body reacting without thinking to counteract.

Slice!

“What..” Both heaving for air that seems too slow in entering your lungs, feeble words manage from your lips.

“What color does a god bleed, Jeongin?”

And looking up, you aren’t met with an Olympian’s wrath nor cry for vengeance, but a grin, toothy and amused. His grin of satisfaction, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, chest aching from the cough elicited in return.

Red. Red rivulets spill from the thin slice across his cheekbone, curving down the sculpted expanse of his neck and disappearing to stain his clothing.

His true smile, proud and satiated.

“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”

Snide remark met with a short snort of yours, you find the camera of your mind shuttering, capturing this moment as one of a kind, a new side to the man you thought you knew all angles of.

Though it seems he is more than three-dimensional. Today proves that.

His thumb reaches to swipe at the stinging infliction, quieting your apology with a sidelong glance and noiselessly kneeling down in front of you, back facing the confused tip of your head.

“Get on.” Jeongin grunts, and you would have laughed if not for the worsening ache in your legs, the way your body feels of lead after much exertion, prompting no trace of protest where you flop atop his spine.

Silence, a common occurrence when with Jeongin. Never uncomfortable, especially not as you press your nose into his shoulder, inhaling that signature, earthy scent of petrichor, savor the warmth his body always seems to emit, the gentleness of his hands in supporting your thighs around his waist. 

Not to mention the intermittent squeeze of his grasp upon your skin, as if to assure you of your approaching distance back “home”, or, what you now call your second home.

Like a sleeping spell enacted by the sweetest of voices, you’re asleep instantly, your last glimpse of life coming in the form of soft furs enveloping your body; kind, calloused hands cradling your cheeks for a moment longer before allowing solitude.

By the time your lashes dust remnants of slumber from view, the majority of your ailments: cut knees, arms, have been tended to, the nap providing ample recovery time.

And in front of you, a pile of plucked day-flowers and Jeongin’s hunched form, braiding the stems.

“Mmh..” The sleepy hum pulls his brow-knitted-concentration awry, and you’d like to cry watching the sharp narrow of his eyes soften simultaneously, arm extending to run a delicate palm over your forehead, brushing stray bits of hair from your eyes.

“I’m making bracelets,” An invitation in the lilt to his tone, the division of his pile towards you.

“Would you like to make some as well?”

Ah. He’s too much and never enough all at the same time.

Taking to braiding the twines as well speaks on your behalf, the afternoon’s quietness interrupted by a shrilling warbler and the wisp of wind rustling branches, swirling leaves into miniature tornadoes.

“Hm…” A bit of your humming breaks up the stillness, careful to avoid delicate petals amid the process. “My friends and I used to make these for our crushes, or just between friends, yeah?”

Across from you, Jeongin sits, his legs crossed, lips puffed in thought whilst slender fingers intertwine the three bits of vine together.

“..Crushes?”

The paling of his features upon peeking up at you indicate he certainly had no clue about the figurative meaning of “crushes”, and you have to pretend to cough to keep from snorting with giggles.

Day-flower bracelets and talk of crushes after nearly battling to the death, apparently.

“Like, um, people you like. Lots of people call them their crush,” Patient, no less, where the boy nods, his clumsy fingers growing acclimated to weaving the flowers along string, the delight evident in his expression after completing a bracelet a sight worth remembering.

What you hadn’t anticipated was being handed the bracelet once he finished it, speaking so matter-a-fact despite the words leaving parted lips.

“For my crush.”

Now it’s your turn to pale, white as a sheet.

Huh?

Then it hits you, slow to ease the finished bracelet over your wrist.

“Ah, I meant “like” as in, uh,” A pause, wracking your mind for a decent definition. “Are interested in, romantically.”

That usually indifferent gaze of his transforms into eyes wide as saucers, the nervous tightness of lips and redness of his ears making you want to squeal.

Cute.

It’s scary how often you think that about him, every little thing swoon-worthy.

“I apologize.”

No, no.   

“No! I didn’t- you didn’t understand, Jeongin. ‘S okay, seriously.” Exhaling wearily, one hand lifts, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you. I love the bracelet.”

“Good.” A small sigh you’d assume of relief slips from his lips, chortling to himself before returning an identical squeeze of your hand, falling into a shared cloak of silence.

Not awkward, however. Just quiet. Giving you time to lift your intertwined fingers and marvel at the fact you feel you’ve known him forever, not mere months. 

The plentiful veins stretched across the pale back of his hand, so alternative to the sunlight seeming to blaze past the canopy’s leaves, able to sear your skin tan in a matter of days.  

From a passerby’s point of view, perhaps he would appear normal, if only slightly.

You know better.

Unconsciously, your thumb smooths over the bumpy veins, behaving as if able to feel the rush of immortal blood through blue, green, and purple channels connecting to a perpetually beating heart.

“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”

So why wait, when he’ll have eternity and you’ll have a lifetime?

“I think you’re becoming my crush.”

And other times, the truth would be announced before it could announce itself.

“I’m sorry if that’s confusing.”

His failure to flinch away calms your nerves, for now. Weakened courage, nonetheless, keeps your eyes averted.

“Similar to your hair,” A pause, your gaze flickering up to his as if to translate the expression prior to his reiteration, prior to the agreeing nod and two fingers fidgeting with a tress of your hair, just like the first time you met him in these woods.

“Similar to your hair, I like that too.”

And he goes back to bracelet-making, as if speaking about the weather and not returning feelings you once believed were one-sided.

So this is love.

Is it the truth that every tale of love leads to tragedy? 

Orpheus’ madness leading to abandonment of his beloved Eurydice back into the Underworld, his true love never to be seen again but instead remembered in his laments, his lyre? 

Or is it just a coincidence that the center of the forest is empty this time? That his quiver of arrows has gone amiss?

Hunting, maybe.

Then again, he’s always been first to detect you—the sweep of a bird or a rush of air indicating his impending arrival.

Today, stillness of the wind sends goosebumps littering up your arms, cupping your hands over your mouth to shout his name.

And no one replies.

Not a soul.

Jeongin may have grown more sly, more confident while in your company, but no such joke like this would be played, that you knew.

Which is why, in a panic, your feet thunder towards the closest confidant of yours other than the Forest Prince and a soon-to-be Messenger god, storming past nagging thorn patches pricking your wrists and off towards the tides.

“Chris!”

A sharp shout, the unevenness of your tone apparently evident, for Chris looks rather disgruntled, concerned where he pokes his head from the waters at the end of the dock.

An overreaction, possibly. However, an absence after nearly seven months of routine attendance can’t help but twist your gut the wrong way.

“Yes? Hello? What’s wrong, sweetheart? You hurt? Innie hurt?”

‘Innie’, his nickname for Jeongin that, in your normal state would have gathered a laugh.

This time excluded.

Quick hands fumble to gesture your discontentment, scrambling to unearth comprehensible sentences.

”I don’t- I don’t know where he is and- what if he’s hurt? Or maybe he’s in trouble with Artemis? Could I have gotten him in trouble? What if I never see him agai—“

“Y/N.”

Salvation in his grounding hands, human legs having sprouted without your acknowledgement to join you on the dock. Meanwhile, your frenzied disposition establishes ignorance to the water droplets clinging to his fingertips, mending the thorny cuts while trying to level the pound of your chest.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

Focusing your eyes on his lips isn’t something you haven’t done before, but this time it’s different. He’s steadying, a low tide receding the worries from your brain as you follow his breaths.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Another.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“First off, the most likely cause behind his disappearance would be his mother, we both know that, hm? If that’s the case, I have no doubt in a day or two he’ll be back. You know how I have my duties with m’ dad, yeah?”

Though, he’s faster than you in catching the telltale signs of your recurring worries, clicking his tongue as if scolding a student of his in his swim-class.

“And when Jisung stops by tomorrow, I’ll ask him to bother his dad about it, okay? Leave it to Hermes to hear every conversation in Olympus.”

His face lights up seeing your meager smile, index brushing your lashes of their bubbling tears.

“There’s that pretty smile.” A soft coo, and you playfully swat at his hands, the second-long eye-contact a wordless “thank you” he assures back with a wink, pulling you into a tight hug before separating.

“And don’t go worrying, alright? He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”

An affectionate pat to your cheek and he vanishes like an apparition, the splash of water a ways away his only source of detection and your last chance to scold his insinuations.

But, for all you know, he could be right.

Jeongin wouldn’t leave your side, and a part of you knew that from the start.

Nonetheless, while Chris badgered Jisung into asking his dad about Jeongin, you spent your days—four, exactly, since Jeongin had disappeared—scouring the forest.

No trace, and Chris was still waiting for updates come Jisung’s next return.

Pick some berries, hunt a bit, your mind hounded, futilely attempting to quell the emptiness, the lack of excitement without him by your side.

A dependence you used to dread ever having when it came to someone, now like second instinct, something craved when deprived of.

A week later, you’re first to the beach, the flutter of winged sandals barely drifting to a stop before you’re pouncing and leaving the poor boy choking on his words, letters of his satchel scattering about.

“Any-“ A choke on your own breath, eyes wide, grasping onto a waning hope like a person crazed.  “Any news?”

“Yeah, lovebird, if you gave me time to land.”

Jisung is not amused, though he does give a tiny smirk intelligently kept silent, cautiously evading your wrath.

“The boyfriend of yours should be back by tomorrow. His mom’s—“

A clear of his throat, nervously glancing at the sky as if awaiting Zeus’ lightning bolt to strike him. 

“Miss Artemis wants him to learn his hunting in Olympus, the kid said how he likes the forest better, blah blah, real cute. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Feigning sarcasm, you take your turn in surprising him for a second time with a hug, one Jisung begrudgingly mirrors after a grumbled insult.

“You uh.. You gonna invite me to the wedding or what?”

A smack against his shoulder brings back much-needed familiarity. 

That, and the fleeting hope the face you’ve fallen for will come into view by tomorrow, that this nightmare you’ll awaken from.

.

.

.

The most anticipation you’ve ever felt for the next day usually came in the form of Christmas morning, once awaiting the presents, now awaiting a different sort of Holiday.

Him.

Hurried footsteps linger by the forest edge, hoping beryl irises may glimpse past the bushes, crinkle into a smile, his smile for you.

Foolish, it must seem. Treating his arrival like a set time, expecting his presence at the very crack of dawn.

But you’ll wait. Wait and wait.

What’s a day to the five you waited through?

Although, pacing and searching becomes a bit dull after four hours, and as the evening sun begins to fall, you feel a sense of dread like never before.

Hermes hears gossip, yes, but does that mean it’s always correct?

Damn it all.

“Jeongin!”

An angry shout to no one, nothing. A shout to the warblers once peeking down at the two of you, now soaring off in alarm.

“You jerk!”

A long time, truthfully.

.

“A what?”

Whipping around so fast you fear injury, you fear you might be hallucinating catch onto where he stands a few feet away, doused in the shadows of the looming cypress signature to the forest.

Real, breathing.

And.. who you just called a jerk.

Well, announced as a jerk to the whole forest.

So many questions, thoughts.

Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Is there a forewarning when it comes to seeing your godly parents?

Most of all though, slipping through the fissures of confusion and awe, happiness lies.

Bright and brilliant and ah, you want to scream.

Who knew love was so exasperating, painful just seeing his face.

Relief, in its utmost form.

Running to him, it’d be downright embarrassing if not for the smile on your face, making your cheeks ache with its ceaselessness where your arms wrap around his in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I love you,” Is all that’s mumbled upon pulling back, and perhaps you ran upon the same wavelength in those few seconds, with his head tipping in perfect alignment with yours to welcome a slow, savoring kiss you want to spend forever in.

And, unfortunately separating, it appears your sensibility also returned, clearing your throat and synonymously scorning the heat of your cheeks, avoiding his fond gaze observing your face—painting it in his mind.

Tender thumbs smooth over your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours and dragging your attention back once more from previous fluster.

“I wouldn’t leave you, you know that. I wish I could’ve left a note but,” A chaste halt, chewing at his bottom lip. “I’m still memorizing the letters you taught me.”

Pausing again, he gathers his words.

“And I don’t know why you apologized,” He chuckled to himself, pressing too-short of a kiss to your lips and gathering you close by the loop of your day-flower bracelet, matching the one on his own wrist.

“Because I love you too, and this,” A tug at the bracelet, firm vines keeping from flimsiness. “This keeps us together.”

Another peck, and you fight the urge to giggle at his silliness, noses bumping.

“So whenever you feel alone,” A single tug at your wrist, at the dayflowers. “Just know I’m right beside you. Always.”

“He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”

In the end, Chris was right.

He wouldn’t leave your side, and that was a promise.

Summer, and blackberries laid out on a picnic blanket consist of your afternoon snack. That, and your curiosity over his obedience to Artemis’ chastity guidelines regarding your relationship—interested in whether he wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps.

“I will honor her oaths, but I am not obligated to follow them, hm?”

A sly lilt to his reply, perhaps in his words, maybe in the momentary shift of his attention from the bitten blackberry to you.

“And right now,” 

The confidence in his words, the emotion, so opposed to the blank, indifferent precursor of his speech, courtesy of your influence.

Even more so when he leans forward, the soft exhale of satisfaction through his nose something you’d swoon having heard if not for his lips on yours, failing to finish his sentence for a moment.

Soft, unhurried where he drifts down, top teeth gently nibbling at the skin before ushering the plump of your bottom lip in his own lips.

“I want to kiss you. And I don’t think any force of Olympus could keep me from it.”

A summer afternoon, and Jeongin tastes like blackberries.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[staytinyweeniebeanie]

Han's Moving Castle (Part 2)

Pairing(s): Howl!Han Jisung x Sophie!reader

Content: Howl’s Moving Castle AU, fluff, found family vibes, idiots falling in love

Warning(s): suggestive themes, some explicit language, brief mentions of war

Word Count:  8.2k

Summary: Your adventures with Han the wizard continue! But things are heating up, in more ways than one. 

A/N: Please heed the updated warnings! We’ve bumped the rating of this tooth-rotting fluff into something slightly steamy~ read at your own risk. Additionally, I’ve deviated from the original story line a bit more to make certain plot points work better! Happy reading 

Part one | Part two

My masterlist 💕

All credit for the fan art in the cover image to the amazing artist (captioned)!

Cobwebs and dust bunnies the size of real bunnies rain down from the ceiling as you angrily sweep your broom as high as you can reach. You were channeling your anger over the whole aged-50-years-and-can’t-even-complain-about-it situation into cleaning every nook and cranny of the disgusting castle, heaven knows it hasn’t been cleaned in years, if ever.

“I’m sick of wizards, and aching joints, and being treated like some timid old lady!” you grumble as you aggressively clear out pile after pile of junk scattered throughout the living room. 

Amidst all the clutter you uncover a family of mice and the fact that the living space has been neglected to such an extent that there are critters and bugs makes you sweep even more aggressively.

Clouds of dust escape through the open windows and out onto the busy street below. You barely catch Jeongin muttering something that sounds like, “I’m not paid enough for this” as he rushes outside with his disguise and a thick book. It would seem he’s got a table set-up just in front of the shop to avoid your path of disinfecting. At least someone in this place has some sense.

Dusting, mopping, scrubbing, organizing, rearranging – you flit around the first floor completely immersed in your tasks. A couple hours must have passed when suddenly, whining from a very small looking Minho reaches your ears. 

You glance over and see that Minho’s flame has dwindled significantly, you figure this is the perfect time to clear the ashes out of his hearth. 

“Hey! Hey lady! Y/N, you gotta help me, you need to get me more firewood and quickly” his eyes are big and pitiful looking as he complains, but you just roll your eyes and grab some tongs. 

You pick up the last bit of firewood Minho’s clinging to and plop him into a metal canister. Minho’s still being dramatic, fussing that he’s going out, but you pay him no mind, humming as you start to clear out the ashes onto a waiting sheet on the floor.

If you were paying closer attention to the little fire demon, you’d see him clinging to the last nub of wood, desperately trying not to let go. Minho calls for help, begs you to hurry up, but you’re so close to finishing up! 

He can wait a minute more, you think as you tie off the bundle of ashes and go to dispose of them outside. 

The bit of wood crumbles and Minho falls into the canister with a yelp. A small ring of smoke drifts up and just for a moment, Minho’s flame goes out. 

When you walk back in you’re surprised to see Han bent over in front of the hearth. He’s got his hand extended over Minho (who’s sitting on two fresh logs you notice) and seems to be coaxing his bright orange flame higher. 

Han stands up tall and turns to you with a tight smile, his body language is full of tension. The warning look in his eyes freezes you to the spot and you anxiously twist your fingers up in your apron, suddenly feeling like you’ve overstepped. 

“Yah! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t torment my friend,” Han says. It sounds like he was going for a joking tone but it fell flat. 

You hear Jeongin coming back inside through the door behind you, but your attention is fixed on the wizard walking purposefully towards you. While Han hasn’t been cruel or even a little bit mean towards you this whole time, maybe you’ve exhausted his patience and he’s coming over to punish you…

You gasp and quickly stumble back, but Han breezes past you and down the stairs to the door. 

“Master Han, are you going back out?” Jeongin asks.

Han turns the dial to the black color and looks back over his shoulder with that same closed-lipped polite-but-strained smile and dull eyes as he addresses his apprentice, “Make sure the cleaning lady doesn’t do too much, yeah Innie?”

Without waiting for an answer, he opens the door and flies off into a pitch black abyss, and the door slams shut behind him.

Jeongin is giving you major side-eye when you turn to him and he asks, “Y/N… What did you do now?” 

“She almost killed me!” Minho butts in immediately, “If I die, Han dies too, I hope you know that, lady!”

You sigh at the theatrics, surely the fire demon is exaggerating. You could probably just light a match and he’d be back to his annoying self.  

“Oh hush, you were fine!” you remind him and shuffle over to grab your bucket and scrubbing brush. “Anyways, I’ve got a job to do.” 

As you head towards the stairs to start on cleaning the upper levels, Jeongin darts past you and spreads his long limbs out to block you from continuing. “Hold on! You can’t come up here yet!” he shouts, and looks nervously over his shoulder, up into the hallway.

“Whatever you don’t want me to clean, you better take care of it now~” you sing, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Jeongin squawks “Save my room for last! Han-hyung’s room and bathroom will take forever anyways!” He trips over his feet as he turns to run the rest of the way up the stairs, and you just chuckle to yourself. 

When you make it to the next level, you’re dismayed but not surprised that it’s just as dirty up here. You open the first door to your left and discover an equally dirty bathroom, only, it looks as if a paint bomb went off inside. There are streaks of color everywhere: the walls, the sink, the tub (that is still full of steaming hot water), and even the toilet, which the state of that particular fixture makes you gag. 

Letting out a groan of exasperation, you march over and throw open the windows. 

You stick your head outside to huff the fresh air but instead find yourself dazzled by the amazing view. The physical castle is still lumbering through the Wastes, but the mountainous area you’re in is beautiful. Currently, the moving castle is travelling along the edge of a steep cliff and you can spot a meandering river way down below.

“This is incredible! Minho? Minho!” You shout in the direction of the stairs, “Minho, is it you moving the castle?!” You turn and rush towards the top of the stairs to hear his answer.

“Of course it’s me,” He shouts back from his hearth, “ No one else does any work around here!”

You lean over the railing, overflowing with amazement and you grin widely at Minho, “Well you are one impressive fire demon and I like your spark!” You wink at him and giggle as you skip back to the bathroom.

You don’t see the way Minho has taken on a pink hue and how his flames shoot higher and spark wildly as he repeats your words with glee. 

You take it upon yourself to explore the rest of the upper levels of the castle, stumbling upon the hallway that contains Jeongin’s room and he rushes through piles of clothes on the floor to close his door, shouting “Not ready yet!” You pay him no mind, yanking open another door to find a small balcony.

The wind whips your hair and clothes around as you step outside to take in the view and after a few minutes, Jeongin joins you. 

He’s leaning on the railing in a way that slightly concerns you, because you just met him, but already know about his penchant for clumsiness. 

However, he just gives you a big toothy smile and his eyes turn into little crescents. The sight is so cute that you set aside your nagging and just enjoy the moment. 

Jeongin is telling you about the lake off in the distance, Star Lake he called it, when you both notice a big branch sticking out of an opening to the castle below the balcony. A very familiar looking branch. 

“Oh dear, help me with this Jeongin?” You grunt and lean over the railing to get a good hold of the branch, and together, you and the apprentice manage to get it unstuck and turned upright. 

“It’s a scarecrow!” Jeongin’s eyes are wide as he takes in the elaborately dressed figure. 

You shake your head fondly, and dust off your apron. “I’ve taken to calling him Turnip Head, and somehow he always manages to get stuck upside down.” 

Looking closely, you swear the scarecrow’s smile grows wider and it gives you that characteristic twirl before hopping off and jumping in place on one of the castle’s large steel pipes. 

“He keeps following me everywhere, like a stray cat,” you comment to Jeongin as you both watch Turnip Head hop around. “Seems to have taken a liking to me,” you finish and shrug. 

Jeongin looks at you consideringly, “That’s weird, are you sure you’re not a witch?” 

You cackle and ruffle his hair, “Oh yes, I’m the worst kind of witch! The kind that cleans!”

The castle settles close to the edge of Star Lake with many clanks and creaks of settling parts, and you, Jeongin, and Turnip Head spend a peaceful afternoon together. 

You do load after load of laundry and Turnip Head is full of energy as he helps set up drying lines. You think the scarecrow is still trying to find ways to repay you. 

Once that’s done, you and Jeongin set up a table right by the lake and have lunch. You're feeling deeply content, sipping tea and relaxing in the sun. 

You and Jeongin chat about whether Turnip Head is a demon or not (you decide yes, but definitely the good kind, like Minho), and what chores you still have left to do, and Jeongin’s interest in fashion, hence all the clothes in his room.

It’s getting late by the time Jeongin convinces you to come back inside, the sun is setting and all the laundry has been folded and put away. Even Turnip Head is ready to go in his new favorite spot on top of a pipe sticking out of the castle. So you amble inside the warm castle, and settle in for the night. 

It is the early morning hours, just before dawn breaks, by the time the dial over the door switches to black and Han creeps inside. His once pristine outfit is gone, replaced with deep midnight blue feathers and talons. 

He falls into the chair in front of the hearth with a heaving sigh, drops his head back, and props his taloned feet up. 

“Jisungie are you okay? You stink,” Minho looks over the wizard with concern. 

Han groans and the feathers recede slowly until his regular body is back. 

“You shouldn’t keep flying around like that,” Minho continues to scold him, “Soon you’ll be stuck in that form and won’t turn back human.” 

Hearing no reply, Minho decides to let up on the nagging for now. 

His eyes land on the neatly stacked firewood nearby and he grabs a log and smiles, “Isn’t this nice? Y/N put these here for me and I didn’t even have to threaten her.”    

This seems to get Han’s attention, he sits up and grunts in pain, adjusting his jacket to hold his aching ribs. 

“This war is awful,” Han begins, “They’ve bombed all the way from the southern coast to the northern border. It’s all in flames now…” His voice wavers at the end, thinking of all the destruction the pointless war has brought.

The whispered debrief continues, Minho offering commentary here and there, but also keeping an eye on the way Han seems drained of all energy and life. Minho tried to warn the wizard against flying off and interfering with the war ships’ bombing but no one ever listens to him. 

“Wait-” Minho interjects as he tunes back into Han’s tirade about wizards sacrificing their humanity for the war, “aren’t you supposed to report to the king, too?” 

Han avoids his eyes and stands, waving his hand dismissively. 

“I’m tired,” he claims and starts to walk off, “make some hot water for my bath please, Jagi.” 

Han ignores the predictable complaining from Minho and walks over to the drawn curtain on the alcove under the stairs where the daybed sits. 

Presumably, this is where you are sleeping as there are no other beds besides his and Jeongin’s in the castle and while you’ve been very bold and unapologetic with him so far, he doesn’t think you’d dare to intrude on his bed and Jeongin doesn’t like to share. Han makes a mental note to procure another bed for you soon as he carefully parts the curtain to take a peek. 

Sure enough, you are curled up under a thick blanket, but Han is frozen in place at the sight of your young and achingly familiar face instead of the wrinkled face of his new cleaning lady. As you take deep and even breathes, his eyes trace greedily over your features. 

Each detail is just as he remembered: your pretty eyelashes, your cute nose, your soft-looking lips. And your hair, longer and not silver, is splayed across your pillow, loose from its usual braid.   

His mind races as he connects the dots that in the time between dropping you off at the bakery, and you wandering into his castle, you’ve had a curse put on you. One that has turned you into an elderly version of yourself, and it’s probably a curse you can’t speak about.  

The moment stretches on and Han feels guilt well up inside of him that you were cursed for associating with him for just a few moments. But he also feels something warm and tender, unnameable, because all this time, you’ve been right under his nose. The girl he’s been dreaming about… 

A sharp pop of burning wood snaps Han out of the spell you’ve unknowingly put him under. He gently lets the curtain fall closed again, and retreats upstairs, avoiding Minho’s penetrating gaze once again.

The next day started off well enough… 

Despite being jolted awake by the roaring sound of water rushing into the tub upstairs in the early morning, you’re cheerful and upbeat as you drag Jeongin out onto the bustling streets of Porthaven for the morning market. 

Not even his grumpy mood and petulant comments about the ocean looking “the same it always looks” or pretending to hate vegetables and fish bring you down.

Everything is normal until a broken down battleship appears in the harbor, drawing all the townsfolk to the docks. 

Market stalls now closed, you and Jeongin wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. 

Just as you were about to give into Jeongin’s pleading to get a closer look, you spotted the Wizard of the Waste’s henchman in the crowd and your heart rate ratcheted up. 

As if that weren’t enough, bombs from an enemy airship were dropped into the harbor, flyers fluttering in the wind behind the ship, and panicked people running through the streets.

Not sparing a second, you snatched Jeongin up and began running as quickly as your old bones would allow, leaning heavily on your cane. You don’t stop until you’re both inside the castle, the door shut tight and locked behind you. 

You’re panting and leaning on the wall for support, who knew you could move that fast in your old age? 

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Jeongin looks so worried for you and he tries to help you up the steps, it’s surprising and sweet how much he seems to care about you.

“I just need a glass of water,” you wheeze and hobble over to the chair. 

Just as you plop down, an ear-splitting shriek comes from upstairs. 

Terrified that something happened to Han, you jump up and Jeongin rushes over to you.

Thunderous footsteps and then a bright orange-haired Han is leaning over the railing, not a stitch of fabric on his steaming, dripping wet body besides a little white towel around his waist… Did Minho bump the temperature in the castle up a few degrees while you were out?

“Y/N! You’ve ruined me!” Han wails, and rushes down the stairs, “Look what you’ve done to my hair!” he demands, gripping his hair tight in his fists as he darts over to you.

Han basically shoves his head right into your face until all you can see are the tangerine-colored locks and you think it looks quite pretty on him. It’s a similar shade to Jeongin’s but much more vivid.  

“What a pretty color,” you say truthfully, but Han is having none of it. 

“It’s hideous!” He cries, big pouty eyes boring into yours, all shiny with the start of tears as he sinks to his knees. 

Your foolish brain can’t help but note how tempting Han looks right now, on his knees and pouting at you. All honeyed skin, and broad chest with the most grabbable waist…

“You completely ruined my potions in the bathroom!” He accuses, and a startled laugh slips out of you as you forcefully drag your mind out of the gutter. 

Your face feels hot and flushed but you smile fondly at the wizard. “Han, I just organized them! Nothing is ruined, I promise!”

A truly pitiful whimper is all Han offers and there are definitely tears now.

“I specifically told you not to get carried away and now look!” Han flops into the chair you were just sitting in, in front of the hearth, and drops his head into his hands, “I’m repulsive, I can’t go on like this.”

You’re trying to find the words to reassure him (it truly doesn’t look that bad!) when the strands of hair start to rapidly change color. The orange fades into burgundy red, then deep brown, and finally settling into a glossy black shade. 

“You should look at it now, I think this new color is even better!” you offer, but it’s like Han doesn’t even hear you, head still resting in his hands in a defeated hunched over position. 

“I give up,” he whispers dejectedly, “what’s the point of living if I can’t be beautiful?”

Shadows start to creep up the walls and slink across the floor and the castle seems to be warping into something sinister. All of the light aside from Minho’s flames is sucked away and an awful howling sounds starts up. 

Minho is yelling at Han to stop whatever it is he’s doing and you fearfully grasp Jeongin’s arm as the shadows fill the room.

“Hannie-hyung is calling the Spirits of Darkness,” Jeongin whispers to you, holding you just as tightly as you’re holding him.

 “I saw him do this once before, when he couldn’t get the lyrics right for a song he was writing”

You scoff, yet dig deep to try and find some patience for silly, dramatic wizards. 

Adopting a comforting tone, you try again, “Now Hannie, you’ll be alright, we can just dye it back–” 

The words die in your throat as your hand touches his shoulder because Han’s skin is secreting some weird green goo and you gasp, pulling away quickly. 

The goo oozes from his whole body, dripping onto the floor and your patience has officially run out, you’ve had just about enough of this drama!

“You think you’ve got it bad?!” Your voice cracks at the end and you’re ashamed to feel hot, stinging tears welling up in your eyes. 

“No one spares me a second glance because I’ve never been beautiful my whole life!” you sob and run over to the door, not even caring about what setting the dial is on. 

You have got to get out of this blasted house right this second!

The raining landscape of the Wastes greets you and you run down to the lake edge. Stopping just short of the water line you stare out into the distance and sniffle, trying to hold it together. 

But nothing can stop your shuddering breaths and the deep well of sadness that has overflowed within you, so you let go and just cry.

Rain soaks your clothes and tears soak your face as you weep. 

Your bawling has simmered down to sniffles and a much slower stream of tears when you notice that the freezing raindrops that were pelting you abruptly stop. 

You look up in confusion and your heart melts when you see Turnip Head standing over you with a tattered umbrella and his signature smile. Water dripping from his straw hair and soaking his suit.

“Thank you Turnip Head, how’d you get to be so kind and gentle?” you give him a genuine smile and wish so strongly in that moment that you could hug him properly. You could use a hug from someone that cares about you. 

Alas, Jeongin is running towards you and tugging the sleeve of your dress urgently.

“Y/N please come back inside, we need your help!” he begs and starts yanking your arm in the direction of the castle. 

You sigh, but put your wallowing aside and follow him in.

The scene is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Minho is holding a half-burnt log over his head while trying to avoid the puddle of depression-goo creeping closer, yelling, “Han Jisung! You better cut it out right now! I’m going to drown!”

Han looks the same as when you fled, pathetically drooped over the hearth in just his towel, limbs all folded up, but now surrounded by depression goo. It’s covering the floor surrounding him and flooding the hearth.

Minho lets out a relieved puff of smoke when he sees you and calls out, “Y/N do something! Help him please, Y/N!” 

Jeongin comes through the door behind you and hovers, “Is he dead?” he asks you and looks at Han over your shoulder with a worried look on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head, rolling your wet sleeves up your arms, “No, Innie, he’s just throwing a tantrum like a child. Come give me a hand?”

Together, you and Jeongin push the chair (Han still slumped over in it) over to the stairs, and you tell Jeongin to get the hot water running while you sling Han’s arm over your shoulder and start dragging him up the stairs. The goo is not making this any easier as he’s especially slippery, and you try to prompt Han to help you by walking, his legs aren’t broken after all!

You sigh sadly as you glance back at the trail of slime he’s leaving all over your freshly scrubbed floors but then you spot that itty bitty white towel that should be around Han’s itty bitty waist laying innocently near the bottom of the stairs. 

You squeak and determinedly turn your face up to the ceiling so as to not catch a peek at the rest of the great Wizard Han Jisung until you can deposit him in the bathroom. 

Jeongin mock salutes you and promises to get him cleaned up and you close the door. 

“Now I have to mop again…” you release a big sigh and get to work. 

By the time you’ve calmed down after the crazy events of the morning and cleaned the floors (again) it’s midday. Han’s been camped out in his room ever since Jeongin got him cleaned up, so you decide to bring him a snack, a peace offering. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

There’s no answer when you knock firmly on his door, so you announce that you’re entering anyways and step into the messiest, most maximalist bedroom you’ve ever seen. 

Despite teasing Jeongin about cleaning his room earlier, you would never invade their privacy like that without permission. So this was your first time seeing Han’s room and yeah… cleaning and organizing this room would take you three days minimum.

Your wandering eyes finally land on Han, propped up by a couple pillows and tucked in as if he’s on his deathbed. 

You shake your head fondly and approach him, “Han? I brought you a little slice of cheesecake.” 

One eye peeks open to look at the plate in your hands before closing again just as quickly and you cover your laugh with a small cough.

“Do you want a bite?” you ask sweetly.

He shakes his head, so you shrug and place the plate on the only free spot on his nightstand. You turn to leave, figuring the wizard just wants to be alone, but a hand catches your wrist and gently tugs you back.

“Y/N, wait… stay,” he whispers.

You could easily break free and head back downstairs to be entertained by Minho and Jeongin, but tingles shoot up your arm from where his skin touches yours, and your cheeks heat at the implication that he wants you there. 

You take a seat on the edge of his bed, right beside his hip, and note that he is still loosely grasping your wrist, this fact makes you unreasonably flustered and you fidget with a loose thread on the comforter. 

It’s quiet for a moment, peaceful, until one of the many decorations hanging from the ceiling starts spinning wildly, bell chiming softly, and Han takes a deep breath and finally opens his eyes. 

“The Wizard of the Waste is searching for my castle,” he states, and you gasp, suddenly remembering.

“I saw his henchman at the harbor this morning!” 

Han’s face drops into a pout as he looks away from you, “I’m a coward, all I do is hide, and all the magic stuff is to keep people from realizing how scared and broken I am.” 

His tone is so defeated and self-deprecating, you squeeze the hand that’s still holding you in sympathy. Perhaps all of his dramatics are not solely the actions of a spoiled and immature man like you initially thought.

You decide to ask Han something you had wondered since you came to the castle.

“Han, why is the Wizard of the Waste after you in the first place?”

“We trained together, a long time ago, and became close friends. We were the most skilled students in our class, and the most beautiful,” you roll your eyes at that last part but continue to listen. 

“But all the attention made us competitive and we fought a lot. When our instructor chose me to be his apprentice, he was so angry at me that he left… but I was too afraid to go after him. As usual, I hid away.” 

Boys, you think to yourself and let loose a weary sigh. 

“I can’t hide much longer, though. I have to report to the king as both Han Jisung and J.One,” Han groans and releases your hand to cover his face with a pillow. 

You don’t see the big deal though, couldn’t he just refuse the king’s invitation? 

When you say as much, Han just points at a piece of paper pinned to the wall by a dagger, “That’s the oath I took when I joined the Royal JYP Sorcery Academy, I have to report to the palace whenever summoned.” he says, muffled under the pillow but you caught enough to understand. 

“I think you should see the king, Han!” You cross your arms defiantly and grin when he whips the pillow away from his face to stare at you in disbelief. 

“I’m serious! Tell him the war is pointless and that you refuse to take part!” you say passionately.

Han flops back dramatically and sighs like you’re being ridiculous, but before you can argue your point more he jumps up with a huge gasp and brings his face so close to yours your noses are practically touching. 

It would be so easy to kiss– you stop that train of thought before it can get too far.

“I’ve got an idea! Why don’t you go to the palace for me?” he practically shouts and you lean back to protect your ears (no other reason). 

“Just say you’re my mother,” he leans closer, you lean back, “and that your son is too much of a coward to show his face,” if you lean back any further, you’ll fall off the bed, “maybe then, Professor Chan will finally give up on me!” 

Han’s eyes are so big and starry with his excitement, especially this close up, and the proximity has completely derailed your critical thinking. That’s your excuse when the only thing you manage to say spit out is, “Do you have a mommy kink?”

You spend most of your walk to the palace theorizing what disguise Han will use to discreetly trail you. 

So far you’ve ruled out crow, pigeon, and foot soldier (you’re still tense after what happened trying to visit your sister). You think he could be one of those flamboyant pilots flying overhead in their little airships with beautiful women giggling behind them, or maybe a well-dressed gentleman having tea at a cafe you walk past. 

You twist the ring Han gave you around thoughtfully as you walk, recalling the way his deep voice rumbled in your ear as he slipped it on your pointer finger with a promise that it would keep you safe. 

You try not to think too deeply on the fact that it matches the one he wears and what it all means. 

The butterflies in your belly speak to how well that’s going.   

A short time later, you’re within the outer walls of the palace. You’re heading straight towards the impressive palace entrance across the courtyard when you hear little footsteps and the occasional panting noise behind you.

When you look over your shoulder, you see a little dog of all things, trotting along. 

It only comes up to your calves, must be a puppy you think. It has golden fur that’s shaggy in the front, almost covering its eyes, and big floppy ears. It’s an odd but very cute disguise.

You glance around to see if anyone is watching, “Han? You disguised yourself as a puppy?” you quietly ask him. The puppy only gives you a small bark and nips your ankle. 

“Ow! You little shit,” you yelp, and consider hitting him with your cane, “I’m just saying! You couldn’t pick something more useful? I’m an old lady after all!” 

Just as you face forward, a carriage pulls up beside you, carried by blob henchman you’ve seen before, and dread fills your stomach.

“Look who it is! The tacky doll from the hat shop,” drawls the Wizard of the Waste from the window of his opulent carriage. “Thanks for passing along my scorching love note to Han, how’s he doing by the way?”

Most of his face is hidden behind a fan, but you can see the way he looks you up and down and the edge of a smirk on his lips . 

Your temper flares hot and bright and you glance at puppy-Han to gauge his reaction, but he’s unphased, continuing to trot a half-step behind you, so you craft a half-true story.

“He’s acting like a scaredy cat, and he’s working me to the bone as his cleaning lady.” Okay, maybe that story was completely true…

The Wizard of the Waste giggles and closes the fan with a flourish. You can see all of his face now, and it just grinds your gears that he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing makeup that highlights his sharp features, and his long hair is artfully styled.

“So what business do you have at the palace, doll?” The wizard asks conversationally, fiddling with his hair in a small compact mirror.

“Job hunting, I’m sick of working for Han,” you lie, “And what about yourself?” You try to act disinterested.

“I received a royal invitation,” he purrs, looking quite pleased with himself. “That idiot, Bang Chan finally realized how much he needs my powers.” 

“If you’re so great, why don’t you break the curse you put on me!” You bite back, but he just  laughs again. 

“Sorry doll,” you really doubt that, “my talent lies in casting spells, not breaking them!” 

He snaps his fingers, and the henchman pick up the pace, taking the infuriating wizard away while you shout after them angrily.

You huff and cut your eyes over to the puppy, “If I didn’t have you to worry about, I would have whooped him!” you grumble. The puppy’s answering bark sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Soon after, you approach the massive staircase that leads to the palace entrance. You spot the Wizard of the Waste, henchman suspiciously absent, slowly lumbering up the stairs in that heavy looking black fur coat, but pay him no mind and begin climbing the steps yourself.

You’ve only made it up a few stairs when you hear a high-pitched whine from the bottom. 

Of course Han chose a form that wasn’t big enough to climb the stairs on his own. He rests his snout on the bottom step and looks up at you with the biggest puppy eyes and you fold immediately with a big sigh.

Dog in hand, you start up the steps a second time, slower now with the extra weight. 

“Han! Why are you so heavy?” You grunt and curse him out thoroughly in your head.

When you pass the panting and profusely sweating Wizard, he pleads with you  to help him too. 

“What was that?” you call over your shoulder, “You remembered how to break the spell you put on me?” 

A loud and dramatic groan is all you get, so you keep on climbing. 

About halfway up, you set puppy-Han down and catch your breath. You look down at the Wizard of the Waste, so far behind you and absolutely gasping for air, with pity.

“Why don’t you just give up? You’re killing yourself!” you shout down to him.

“I’ve waited too long to be invited back here, ever since Bang Chan banished me to the Wastes!” he growls and brushes sweaty strands of hair from his face.

You almost feel bad for him, but then you remember your old body and harden your heart. 

“C’mon Han, let’s go,” you gather the puppy and continue climbing what feels like a mountain of stairs.

Once you make it to the top, you’re absolutely exhausted. You set the puppy down and almost keel over trying to catch your breath. 

One of the attendants of the castle politely requests that you follow him inside, but you feel a strange need to make sure the wizard that cursed you makes it to the top. Maybe his story did touch your heart a little bit.

With some encouraging cheers and pep talks (that were decidedly not appreciated) he makes it and you walk in together, puppy-Han right behind you of course. 

You notice that where before, the wizard towered above you with intimidating height, now he’s hunched over and small looking, relying on your cane to walk and still dripping sweat.

Your cover is almost blown when the staff announcing your presence call you “Mother of Han Jisung”, but the Wizard of the Waste, who’s name you now know is Hyunjin, is too focused on recovering from the stairs to notice.

The attendant that was leading the way directs you to a fancy room with a single chair, which is claimed by Hyunjin almost immediately. 

He quickly plops down and it’s like his bones turned to liquid the way he’s sinks into it, like he’s turned into a big ferret.

But you can’t focus on him because puppy-Han runs off down some dark corridor and he ignores your frantic calling to come back. 

With no choice, you hurry after him.

The corridor seems like a dead end, but a secret door slides open abruptly, startling you. Behind it stands a young boy in what looks like a fancy school uniform. He has a pleasant smile on his beautiful face when he says, “This way ma’am.” 

You don’t see puppy-Han anywhere, so this must be your only option, you think, and follow him into a huge conservatory. The walls and ceiling are made completely of glass and its idyllic inside, filled with huge eucalyptus trees and exotic flowers that you can’t even name.

The boy leads you to an open area where you spy two chairs, one big and ornate, and the other nice but plain looking. 

Sitting in the big chair is a man. Strong jaw, short dark hair, and casual clothes, he’s commanding and very attractive. Is that a requirement to work here? 

He chats with the boy that led you here for a moment before the boy leaves, and the man turns to address you.

“So you’re Han’s mother I hear?” he smiles and you notice two dimples pop out, you nod mindlessly. 

“You must be tired, have a seat!” he gestures to the other chair. 

You thank him and gingerly sit down.

“I am Professor Bang Chan, His Majesty’s head sorcerer and director of the Sorcery Training Academy, but you can just call me Chris!”

As he introduces himself, your eyes wander over to a staff resting on the side table right next to his chair, and they nearly pop out of your head when you see the puppy resting underneath it. 

“That’s not… your dog is it?” You cautiously ask. 

“His name is Seungmin,” Chris answers breezily, “He’s my errand dog, I had him escort you here.”

You nearly facepalm after hearing that. All the things you said, thinking he was Han! Surely he’ll use his doggy magic to tell on you to the professor.

The man in question lets out a rumbly chuckle and rests his chin on his fist, “I take it Han won’t be joining us?”

Determined to salvage the visit, you tell him the story you rehearsed the whole way over; about how Han is too cowardly to show up, and that he’d be useless to the king.

Chris has a contemplative look on his face as he takes this in and nods along with a sigh, like he’s disappointed. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Han was the first and last apprentice I ever took on. I’ve never seen a more well-rounded and gifted student,” he explains. 

You’re shocked to learn that Chris was training Han to be his replacement.

“Until the day his heart was stolen by a demon. He never returned to complete his apprenticeship and has been using his magic for reckless and selfish reasons ever since.” Chris’s voice grows more stern as he speaks and it has you sitting ramrod straight like a student getting scolded.

However, your respect towards Chris’s apparent wisdom and authority starts to waver when he starts to speak about Han’s morality, claiming that he’s “dangerous” now that he has no heart. 

How dare he compare him to the Wizard of the Waste!

“Bring him in.” Chris orders, and an identical boy to the one that brought you into the conservatory wheels in a nearly unrecognizable figure.

“What did you do to him?” you breathe out, horrified.

It’s Hyunjin, but gone is the smug attitude, and flashy clothes and makeup. Even his long, inky hair is gone. What’s left is a lean figure huddled up his now too-big fur coat, cowering from you when you go to touch his shoulder, with a buzzed head. 

“I just removed all the glamors and restored him to his natural state, all his powers are gone now.” Chris says evenly, watching you with a calculating look. “Once, he too was an impressive sorcerer with so much potential. But he fell prey to a demon of envy that slowly consumed him, body and soul.”   

You loathe the casual way that Chris is talking about all of this, like it’s a children’s story instead of real people’s lives. Like they are misbehaving pawns in his game of chess. 

“If Han reports to me and vows to use his powers to serve the kingdom, I’ll show him how to break from his demon,” Chris leans forward with his elbows on his knees and crosses his fingers in front of his face, his eyes are hard when you meet his gaze. “If not, I’ll strip him of all his powers. Just like that.” he gestures towards Hyunjin.

“That is enough!” You proclaim and shoot up from your chair. Seungmin jolts awake from his snoozing.

“Now I know why Han was too scared to come see you, this is all a trap! You lure people here with an invitation from the King and then strip them of all their powers!

“Han is not heartless! He may be selfish and cowardly, and certainly dramatic, but his intentions are good.”

You don’t notice, so wrapped up in your passionate speech, but the more you speak from your heart, the younger you get, until you’re back to your real age and normal body. 

“Han won’t come here and he doesn’t need your help. He can fix his problem with his demon on his own, I’m certain of it!” you finish, full of pride for your wizard.

It’s silent for a second, and then Chris full body laughs.

“Ahh, now I see,” Chris runs his hands through his hair and gathers himself, “You’re in love with Han Jisung.” 

You recoil, quickly reverting back to old-lady Y/N, and Hyunjin speaks up for the first time, grasping your skirts and crying about Han’s heart belonging to him. 

“Han is not coming here, okay? Stop that Hyunjin,” you try to placate him.

Chris settles back into his chair and sighs, “Oh I think he is, I now know his weakness.”

Outside the glass windows of the conservatory, you both watch a small airship land in the grass. One of Chris’s servant boys opens a door and in steps the King.

This is your first time seeing him up close and your first thought is that he’s jacked; thick arms and thighs, and a chest so buff it’s straining his jacket. He’s also shorter than you expected, probably shorter than Han. 

“King Changbin,” Chris bows from his seat and keeps a small smile on his face as they speak. You watch on quietly until the King asks about your presence.

Chris swings his arm out towards you and says, “This is Han Jisung’s mother, Mrs. Y/N.”

The King approaches you and stops just a foot away. You stare at his chin, where you notice a small scar, until you gather the courage to look into his eyes. 

King Changbin is just as handsome as all the ladies in your hat shop gushed about. You flush and give him an awkward curtsey.

“Thanks for coming,” King Changbin starts, “but I’ve decided not to use magic to win this war. We have tried using the Professor’s magic to shield our palace from the enemy’s bombs, but the bombs fall on civilian homes instead. That’s the problem with magic, isn’t it Professor Chan?” 

Chris still has that polite smile on his face as he tilts his head in acknowledgment, “You’re so eloquent today, Your Majesty.”

“Channie!” A different King Changbin yells and strides confidently over to your group, waving a paper over his head. 

 Bewildered, you look back and forth between the King that’s standing right in front of you and the one talking loudly with Chris about new battle plans, waving his hands animatedly. 

“We’re going to beat them to a pulp and get my Lixie back in no time!”

He suddenly notices the identical version of himself standing by your side and dissolves into a high-pitched laugh that’s so opposite to his overall masculine demeanor. 

“Channie this is the best double you’ve made of me yet! Ha! Keep up the good work!” and off he goes, loudly chattering until he disappears into another secret corridor. 

Settling back into his seat, Chris crosses his legs and regards you and not-King Changbin with a cool and amused look. 

You think your jaw is still somewhere on the floor. 

“So nice to see you again Jisung-ah, although that was a pretty weak disguise,” Chan says.

“You’re looking good Professer Chan” replies Han’s voice. 

You whip around and see that it truly is Han next to you, in the same outfit the King was wearing. 

“I wasn’t trying to trick you,” Han pulls you into his side with a protective arm around your waist and your traitorous heart flutters at the warmth, “I kept my oath and reported when summoned. Now mother and I will go.” 

Though it’s not the time, you mumble “I knew it was a mommy thing,” to yourself anyways.

“I think not,” Chris states and claps his hands twice. 

Huge waves of water materialize out of the floor under his chair and quickly fill the room, until you’re all submerged. 

The waves fade away and now you are suspended in the air, and much like that fateful meeting with Han, his arm is around your shoulders, keeping you steady. Distantly, you feel Hyunjin grasping your dress and trying to keep from being blown away. 

“Whatever you do, don’t look down,” Han warns lowly in your ear.

“I think it’s time you show Ms. Y/N what you really are, yeah?” Chris throws his arms out and grins wide.

What happens next, you don’t really understand. 

What looked like shooting stars zipped past and scattered balls of light everywhere. It was sort of beautiful. But when they turned into little human-like figures and started circling and chanting, you started to worry. 

Hyunjin was so scared, all he could do was whimper and hide his face in your dress. 

Then Han started to change.

The arm that was wrapped around you transformed into a huge wing with talons, and Han’s face sprouted feathers. It was like a great winged-beast was taking over him, a huge beast with sharp fangs. 

Painful cries escaped Han’s throat, but amidst the chaos, you saw Chris closing in with a big glowing staff raised over his head like a spear. 

Han saw Chris too but it was like he was frozen, just growling and staring at him. 

“Han, please listen to me! It’s a trap!” You begged, scrambling to cover Han’s eyes. 

It must have worked, Han shot up like a rocket. Just in time too, Chris’s staff pinned your hat to the chair you were sitting in earlier. 

You all flew up rapidly and burst out of the magic-scape and through the ceiling, sending shards of glass raining down everywhere.

Han’s huge wings protected you from any damage and they disappeared by the time he carefully deposited you and Hyunjin on the mini airship parked outside. 

He started the ship in a second and pulled away, but not before a certain dog came running and launched himself into your lap. 

“Baby, come sit up here!” Han had called, and you shifted Seungmin into Hyunjin’s lap and took the pilot seat. He ribbed you about your stowaways, but what were you supposed to do? Kick them off the airship?!    

It was harrowing, flying an airship for the first time with only a bit of reassurance from Han  before he departed to draw the palace’s airships away. 

You know he was just trying to distract you, saying all that stuff about you giving him the courage to face Chris, about you saving him, but it worked. You successfully navigated the three of you out of Kingsbury by following the glowing light of the ring that pointed to Minho.  

Which brings you to your current situation. 

It’s dark, you’ve flown (through rain mind you) all the way past your town and into the Wastes, and finally you can see the castle up ahead. 

“The castle is coming to meet us!” You yell over your shoulder to Hyunjin, who is bundled up in his coat and replies with “nice doggy”, and Seungmin, who pops his head out from inside Hyunjin’s coat to woof at you. 

Only, as you get closer, you realize something very important: you don’t know how to land this thing! 

Jeongin shouts your name and waves from his balcony and you grip the steering wheel of the airship tight. 

“Jeongin!”  you shout back, “Innie, help me! I don’t know how to land this thing!” 

It’s no matter, the mouth of the castle opens wide and you crash land it in its belly, which happens to be the living room. Bricks and beams of wood and furniture go flying. 

Jeongin rushes down the stairs, wading through the rubble and dust to get to you, but he stops short when he sees the Wizard of the Waste and a dog pop out first. “What the fu–”

“Innie, I’m home~” you sing and carefully pick your way over, tossing the now-detached steering wheel carelessly behind you. Jeongin holds his hands out to help guide you down and then yanks you into a hug, “Are you hurt? I missed you!” he cries and squeezes you tight.

You cradle his head close, “I’m okay and I missed you too!”

You rub your cheek against his until he pulls away with a whine, and it’s true, you’re so happy to be back home.

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! 

We got to see some new characters, maybe learned the identities of previous ones 👀, and my my my things sure are developing with reader and Han…

And surprise! This story will have 3 parts! 

I just couldn’t fit everything into a second part unless I wanted to make it like 4x the length of the first part, and I want more time to flesh everything out properly.

Anyways, thanks for reading and see you for the 3rd and final part soon! 💗

This is a reimagining of Howl’s Moving Castle, in no way am I claiming the plot as my own work, only the reimagined characters belong to me (@staytinyweeniebeanie). Additionally, I do not consent to my work being reposted on other platforms without permission!

Reblogs and Comments are always welcome and highly appreciated!

dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics 

[mybodyfails]

han for nylon japan

[kimcheekies-deactivated20260401]

skz getting drunk with you Please!!?? ♡

~ drunk skz headcanons #2 ~

warnings: ok snot smutty really but ig mentions of alcohol or being under the influence 😔🙏 -> ok ok YAYYYY i made scenarios some fluffy some smutty bc like i wrote headcanons for this before but its my OLD writing so its really ew, this is fresh n written better than my old shit. also i got three more hirono popmarts omgomg; two were gifted, one i got myself lol and.. HAPPY BIRTHDAY HJ WHOO -> pls i wanna write freak hyunjin or felix stuff... (REQ ME PLEASE TEHEE) but like also keep in mind that all the stories i write, the characters involved are meant to be of legal age.

방찬 ~ bang chan ~ your devoted, drunken boyfriend who just wants to worship you

the moment chan gets drunk, his already affectionate nature turns overwhelming—he isn’t just clingy, he’s downright intoxicated with love, eyes glazed over with nothing but you in his vision, a lazy smile curling at his lips as he drapes himself over your body like you’re the only thing keeping him steady. his hands? everywhere. his lips? all over your skin, mumbling slurred praises between each press of his mouth. "you have no idea how much i love you, huh? nah, you don’t get it—fuck, you don’t get it at all." his voice is warm, a little hoarse, the raspiness making it even heavier with longing. "i’d give up everything just to lay here with you forever, swear on my life, baby."

he’s an absolute mess—shirt unbuttoned halfway, exposing the sweat-damp skin of his chest, hair sticking to his forehead as he pulls you onto his lap, arms winding around your waist in an unbreakable grip. his breath is laced with the scent of whiskey and something sweeter, something uniquely him, and every inhale sends a shiver down your spine. he doesn’t let you move much, and if you so much as try to pull away, he whines—desperate, needy, like his whole world is crumbling at the thought of being apart from you for even a second. "nah, stay, please, c’mon—just let me hold you, lemme have this, lemme have you."

his drunken adoration turns almost worshipful, hands tracing the curves of your face, the slope of your nose, the line of your jaw as if he’s memorising you all over again. he presses his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut, and breathes you in, a reverent sigh escaping his lips. "you’re unreal, y’know that? too good for me. don’t even know what i did to deserve you." he laughs, but there’s something almost broken behind it, something raw. "wish i could keep you in my pocket. keep you all to myself, all mine, forever."

he’s almost feverish with how much he needs you close, fingers tangling in your hair, lips brushing against your cheek, jaw, neck—everywhere he can reach. his voice is low, deep, so thick with emotion it’s almost impossible to breathe. "if i wake up tomorrow and you’re not here, i swear i’ll lose my fucking mind. promise me you won’t leave. promise me you’re mine." his words are barely above a whisper, desperate and full of something so much deeper than just intoxicated affection.

by the end of the night, he’s practically passed out against you, head resting in the crook of your neck, arms locked around your waist like a vice. but even in sleep, he doesn’t let go—his grip stays firm, his body curled into yours like you’re the only thing grounding him. and even then, in his drunken slumber, he still murmurs your name under his breath, like a prayer, like a promise, like you’re the only thing that matters in his entire world.

이민호 ~ lee minho ~ your dangerously flirtatious, tipsy boss who suddenly can’t keep his hands to himself

minho starts the night with that lazy, arrogant smirk you know all too well, leaning back in his chair with a glass of soju dangling between his fingers, his gaze heavy on you even as he pretends not to care. but the alcohol changes him—makes him bolder, slower, his usual controlled demeanour melting into something more indulgent, more self-indulgent, more fixated. his voice drops lower, words rolling off his tongue like honey as he tilts his head, eyes locked onto yours. "y’know, i should probably fire you for making it so hard to focus at work." he hums, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass. "how the fuck am i supposed to run a company when you walk in looking like that every day?"

he doesn’t just flirt, he devours you with his gaze, the alcohol making him audacious in a way that borders on reckless. when he leans in close, the scent of expensive liquor and his cologne fills your senses, intoxicating in its own right. his lips brush against the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "always wondered how you’d look like this—flustered, trapped under my gaze, nowhere to run. you like this? having my full attention? fuck, i bet you do."

minho is a tease even when sober, but drunk? he’s merciless. fingers trailing over your thigh, a smirk playing at his lips as he watches you squirm under the intensity of his stare. "you keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and i’m gonna forget i’m supposed to be your boss." his voice is barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it is suffocating, like a noose tightening around your throat.

at some point, his restraint shatters entirely. he pulls you onto his lap, his grip firm, possessive, his breath hot against your skin. "fuck the rules," he mutters, eyes dark with something carnal, something dangerous. "fuck everything. just—stay here, let me have this, let me have you." he kisses you then, slow and deep, like he’s been starving for it. and maybe he has. maybe the alcohol just stripped away the last of his self-control.

by the time the night is over, he’s an absolute mess—tie undone, hair mussed, his head resting against your shoulder as he lets out a soft, satisfied sigh. his fingers are still tangled with yours, grip loose but unwavering, a silent claim, a wordless confession. "you’re not gonna quit on me, yeah?" he murmurs, voice laced with drowsy amusement. "not after all this. not after tonight." and even in his drunken haze, his smirk is still there, lazy and all-consuming.

서창빈 ~ seo changbin ~ your best friend who’s suddenly too drunk and too in love to hide it anymore

changbin is the type to laugh too loud and drink too fast, and when the alcohol finally hits, he doesn’t just get drunk—he unravels. every wall, every filter, every restraint shatters, leaving nothing but raw, unfiltered honesty in its wake. and the first thing out of his mouth? "you’re my favourite person in the whole fucking world, y’know that?"

he gets clingy, in a way he never lets himself be when sober. arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he mumbles, "i think—fuck, i think i love you." his voice cracks, raw with vulnerability, and when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are glassy, desperate, like he’s terrified of what he just admitted.

he doesn’t let go—not even when you try to pull away, not even when you tease him about how drunk he is. "nah, don’t laugh at me, ‘m serious. i love you, i do. have for years. ugh, why am i saying this now—why now? i think ‘m gonna cry."

by the time he sobers up, he’s still holding onto you, arms locked around your waist like an anchor, his grip loose but unwavering. and even when the alcohol fades, even when the night ends, his words still linger—because they weren’t just drunken ramblings. they were the truth.

황현진 ~ hwang hyunjin ~ your intoxicatingly poetic boss who turns into a hopeless romantic when drunk

hyunjin is always a little dramatic, a little too intense for his own good, but when he’s drunk? god, he turns into something else entirely. he leans back in his sofa, eyes half-lidded, lips curling into a soft, almost lazy smile as he watches you across the lounge room, the other coworkers here for his little dinner party blending into the artworks hung up around his house. his fingers toy with the rim of his glass, movements slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "y’know," he starts, voice thick with alcohol and something deeper, something laced with longing, "i think the universe made you just to ruin me."

he gets poetic, words dripping from his lips like honey, each sentence weaving into the next like he’s composing a love letter in real time once he's got you sat right next to him. "do you even know what you do to me? how you look under these dim lights, like a painting—no, like a dream, one i don’t ever wanna wake up from." his fingers trail along the condensation on his glass, tracing patterns he can’t focus on because his eyes are locked on you, drowning in you.

at some point, the alcohol makes him bolder—more needy. his hand finds yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his eyes widen slightly when he feels your hand fit snugly into his, he's always imagined what they would feel like- he's fantasised about holding every part of you ever since you became his secretary. "i shouldn’t be saying this," he whispers, eyes flickering to your lips before snapping back up to meet your gaze. "but i think about you all the time. at work, at home, in my fucking dreams—you haunt me, and i think i like it."

he’s a mess of contradictions; too smooth yet too vulnerable, his usual sharp wit dulled by the weight of his emotions. when he pulls you closer, his breath is warm against your skin, his voice barely above a whisper. "if i kiss you right now, will you hate me in the morning?" he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. his lips find yours in a kiss so slow, so deep, it feels like drowning, like surrender, like every unspoken thought finally slipping between parted lips.

by the end of the night, he’s resting his head in your lap, fingers still tangled with yours, your clothes lay discarded at the foot of his bed as he presses kisses to your stomach. "you’ll still come to the office tomorrow, right?" he murmurs, half-lost in a drunken haze but still terrified of what comes next. "even if i was stupid tonight. even if i said too much- did.. too much." and when you nod, when you promise you’re not going anywhere, his grip tightens just a little, like he’s holding onto a dream he never wants to end.

한지성 ~ han jisung ~ your drunk, shameless senior who suddenly forgets what "professionalism" means

jisung is already a menace sober, but when he’s drunk? he’s dangerous. the alcohol makes him fearless, utterly devoid of shame, and the way he leans against you, lips curled in a mischievous smirk, tells you that you’re in trouble. his voice is thick with liquor and arrogance as he tilts his head, eyes flickering over you like he’s seeing you for the first time. "y’know, i’ve been thinking..." he drawls, taking another sip from his glass, "workplace relationships are frowned upon, yeah? but technically, technically," he leans in close, lips brushing against your ear, "i don’t give a shit."

he’s relentless—words slurred but sharp, teasing but loaded with something much heavier. when you try to brush him off, he just grins wider, fingers lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. "ohhh, don’t act all innocent," he purrs, tilting his head, "i’ve seen how you look at me in the office. thought i wouldn’t notice? ‘m not that oblivious, sweetheart." his laughter is breathy, dark, and when you roll your eyes, he chuckles. "c’mon, don’t play hard to get. not when i know you’re just as fucked for me as i am for you."

jisung is a flirt by nature, but drunk jisung? he’s tactile. he touches, he lingers, he pulls you closer with no intention of letting go. and when the teasing wears off, something softer replaces it—his fingers brushing over your cheek, his gaze flickering down to your lips, his voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. "you look real pretty like this, y’know?" he murmurs, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. "all worked up, all nervous— i could eat you alive."

the moment you call him out, the tips of his ears turn red, but he refuses to back down. instead, he doubles down, laughing as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "fuck, i think i like you too much," he mumbles, words muffled but clear enough to send a shiver down your spine. "dunno what the hell ‘m supposed to do about it, though."

by the end of the night, he’s still latched onto you, head resting on your lap as he blinks up at you sleepily. "don’t tell HR, yeah?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement, but there’s something sincere behind it, something real. and when his fingers squeeze yours, just once, it’s not just drunken affection anymore—it’s a confession.

이용복 ~ lee felix ~ your overly emotional best friend who gets way too honest when he’s drunk

felix is already affectionate when sober, but when he’s drunk? he’s overwhelming. the alcohol makes him weepy, makes him hold onto you like you’re his lifeline, his deep brown eyes swimming with unshed tears as he pouts. "why are you so fucking perfect?" he slurs, voice thick with emotion, "it’s not fair. ‘s not fucking fair."

he clings to you—arms around your waist, face buried against your shoulder, mumbling incoherent praises against your skin. "you’re so good to me, y’know that? so fucking good. no one’s ever—" his breath hitches, and suddenly, he’s sniffling. "shit, ‘m gonna cry." and he does, but it’s soft, quiet, full of love that he’s been holding back for way too long.

when you try to tease him, he just sniffles harder, shaking his head. "nah, i‘s not funny," he mumbles, voice wobbling, "i mean it. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. dunno what i’d do without you." his grip tightens around your waist, his voice dropping into something raw. "wish i could keep you forever."

he gets extra soft the drunker he gets—fingers brushing over your face, lips pressing lazy kisses against your cheek, forehead, nose, anywhere he can reach. "y’know, if i was braver, i’d kiss you right now," he murmurs, voice thick with longing. "but ‘m too much of a coward, huh?"

by the time he starts sobering up, he’s still holding onto you, face tucked into your neck as he breathes you in. "promise you won’t leave me," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. and when you squeeze his hand in reassurance, his whole body relaxes, a soft, sleepy smile tugging at his lips as his eyes flicker to yours and fixate on them and before he knows it, before his mind can catch up to his mouth, he's slumped forward and kissing you.

김승민 ~ kim seungmin ~ your snarky rival who, when drunk, admits he’s completely obsessed with you

seungmin is competitive as hell when sober, always challenging you, always teasing, always finding ways to one-up you. but drunk seungmin? he’s completely ruined for you. slumped against the bar, his usual sharp tongue replaced with lazy smirks and half-lidded stares, he watches you with an expression that borders on reverent. "y’know what’s annoying?" he drawls, twirling his drink in his hand. "you. you’re fucking annoying."

he leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, his lips quirking up. "so fucking annoying, walking around like you don’t know you’re the most distracting person i’ve ever met." his gaze drops to your lips for just a second before flicking back up, sharp, unreadable. "bet you love it, huh? knowing you’re the only one who can make me lose my mind. listening to me gush over you since no one else does."

his usual sarcastic edge is softened by the alcohol, but it doesn’t make him any less intense. "god, i fucking hate you," he mutters, but the way his fingers brush against yours, the way his knee presses against yours under the table, tells a completely different story. "hate you for making me feel like this. hate you for being the only thing i think about when i should be working."

at some point, his bravado cracks. he sighs, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, his voice dropping into something softer. "i’m screwed, aren’t i?" he murmurs, more to himself than to you as he fiddles with the sleeve of your sweater, rubbing the fabric between his fingers and eyes dilating at the small sliver of skin that becomes visible when he lifts it up slightly. "i think i might love you."

when he sobers up, he pretends he doesn’t remember, but the way his ears burn red, the way he can’t meet your gaze, tells you otherwise. and when you smirk at him, he just scoffs, looking away. "shut up." but the pink dusting his cheeks? it says everything.

양정인 ~ yang jeongin ~ your shy junior who gets way too bold after a few drinks

jeongin is shy, careful, always tiptoeing around you when sober. but drunk? he’s reckless. eyes dark, lips parted, he leans against you, gaze flickering up through his lashes as he whispers, "you’re so fucking pretty." you just laugh and smile, a little tipsy but cooing at how sweet he is when he's drunk as his fingers run around the rim of the shot glass in your hand.

he loses his filter entirely, fingers ghosting over your wrist, tracing the lines of your palm with his free hand as he hums. "always wanted to tell you that," he admits, tilting his head, "but i got nervous." he laughs, breathless before taking the shot glass from your hands and downing it himself. "still nervous. just… don’t care anymore."

the alcohol makes him bolder, makes him stare longer, makes him linger when he touches you as he takes your hand in his fully now. "i think about you all the time," he confesses, voice raw. "dunno what to do about it." you're trying to keep your head clear; one stream of consciousness tells you that you should be shutting this down now and that he's your junior, he shouldn't be feeling like this about you- the other one's telling you to give into his compliments and kiss him.

when you decide to stay neutral and tease him instead, he just pouts, burying his face in your neck. "d’you like making me flustered?" he whines. "fuck, ‘s not fair. you’re too cute."

by the time the night ends and everyone's left your apartment for the night, he’s half-asleep against you, arms curled and legs wrapped around your frame in your lap. "don’t let go," he murmurs. and when you promise you won’t, he just sighs satisfied, nuzzling closer, completely yours.