Look at the starry nightsky!

...Will you come see the shooting stars with me?

[rottenherbs]

Your Champion (pt.4)

✧.* : C.D x Potter! Reader ☁︎ : Sibling bonding / younger brother angst ✎ : Harry has a heart-to-heart with Y/n in the common room, opening up about feeling left out of her relationship with Cedric, and they have a sweet moment where they clear the air and understand each other better. 𖦹 : 1.9k Author's Note: imagine teenage harry upset at the prospect of getting a boyfriend and how that might effect their relationship. OUCH ! boy has been through enough. -- This is a wrap on the Your Champion series! Please request more (if open!) ! Id love to explore other prompts. [mastserlist] Much Love, Saige

The days following your picnic with Cedric passed in a gentle blur, each one filled with small moments that made your heart flutter in ways you hadn’t expected. Cedric had begun to weave himself into your daily life in ways that felt natural—almost like he had always been there.

After classes, he would meet you by the staircase, smiling that warm, boyish smile that made your stomach flip. He’d walk with you to your next class, chatting about everything and nothing, his presence a steady comfort. At lunchtime, you’d find him sitting with you at the Gryffindor table, much to the surprise of your fellow housemates. Cedric was Hufflepuff through and through, and it wasn’t lost on anyone that he had chosen to sit with the Gryffindors, breaking the usual boundaries between the houses.

At first, no one said much about it. But over time, it became clear. Cedric wasn’t just being friendly—he was making a deliberate choice, putting himself in your world and showing everyone, in the most subtle way possible, that he was with you. And you were right there with him, laughing at the twins' latest prank or listening to Harry and Ron argue about something ridiculous, your hand occasionally brushing against Cedric’s.

Harry, for his part, had remained mostly quiet about the whole thing. He’d offer you a half-smile when you passed by, always looking out for you in the subtle, protective way he did. But there was something in his eyes—a hint of uncertainty, of holding back. It was clear he was trying his best to let you be happy, even if he didn’t fully understand what was happening between you and Cedric.

But there were moments—tiny moments—that began to grate on him.

It was one of those afternoons in the Great Hall when it happened. The chatter of students filled the air, the clink of plates and the soft hum of conversation blending together. You were sitting beside Cedric, your fingers intertwined under the table as you quietly shared a plate of pastries. He leaned in close, whispering something funny, and you burst into laughter, your eyes sparkling with happiness.

Harry, sitting at the opposite end of the table with Ron and Hermione, couldn't help but notice how close you and Cedric were. You were practically leaning into each other, your shoulders touching as you whispered back and forth. Your laughter was infectious, and he caught himself rolling his eyes before he could stop himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had made you laugh like that, couldn’t remember the last time he had seen you so relaxed, so completely content.

He was happy for you, truly—he knew how much you deserved it—but it was a lot to watch. Watching you and Cedric laugh so easily, the way his hand brushed your hair back from your face, the way you looked at each other like there was no one else in the room—it was… too much.

As if sensing his discomfort, Hermione glanced at Harry, then at the two of you across the table, her brow furrowed. “Are you alright, Harry?” she asked quietly.

Harry nodded, but his gaze never left you and Cedric. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he said, though his voice was tight.

Ron, who had been absentmindedly shoveling food into his mouth, finally looked up and caught the expression on Harry’s face. He nudged Harry’s elbow. “You know, mate,” he said, mouth full, “I’ve never seen someone so sappy in my life.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to Ron, his frown deepening. “What are you talking about?”

Ron gestured with his fork toward you and Cedric, who were now leaning in so close that it looked like they were sharing a secret. “That,” Ron said, a knowing look on his face. “You’ve been a bit of a third wheel lately.”

Harry gritted his teeth but said nothing, his gaze flickering back to the pair. You were oblivious to the attention, completely wrapped up in Cedric’s quiet jokes and the way his eyes seemed to only focus on you.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione said gently, her voice a little softer. “I know it’s not easy, but you’ve got to admit—they’re cute together.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He looked at you again, at the way Cedric was leaning over to whisper something in your ear, making you blush. It made something twist in Harry’s chest, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Was it jealousy? Protectiveness? Or just the realization that things were changing, and he didn’t quite know how to navigate it?

“I know,” Harry muttered, looking away, his voice more frustrated than he intended. “It’s just…” He trailed off, his fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He was trying to figure out how to put into words something he didn’t even fully understand. “It’s just… strange, you know?”

Hermione, ever perceptive, softened. “It’s not strange, Harry. It’s just life. You know how much she cares about you. But she’s her own person. And sometimes, that means she gets to make her own choices about who she spends time with.”

Harry nodded slowly, glancing once more at you and Cedric, whose fingers were now intertwined on the table. It wasn’t just the little gestures—it was everything about the way they were together.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

And in that moment, Harry realized that letting go—letting you live your life, make your own choices, and be happy—was going to be harder than he had imagined.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The common room was quiet when Harry finally entered, the usual murmur of chatter and laughter having died down as students retreated to their dorms. He hesitated just inside the door, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you, curled up on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, a book open in your lap. The soft light from the fire flickered across your face, casting shadows that danced with your every movement.

Harry didn’t know exactly why he was nervous—he wasn’t a stranger to having serious conversations with you. But lately, things had felt different. More complicated. He’d watched you from afar, trying his best to give you space, trying to let you be your own person, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between the two of you. Something he hadn’t been fully prepared for.

He took a slow step forward, his heart pounding slightly as he walked across the room, his shoes scraping lightly against the stone floor. You glanced up when you noticed him, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you bookmarked your page and set the book aside.

“Hey, Harry,” you said, voice warm with the familiarity that had always existed between you two. “What’s up?”

He paused for a moment, wondering how to start. He wasn’t sure what had made him feel so… off-kilter lately. Maybe it was the way Cedric had woven himself into your life, so effortlessly, while Harry still felt like he was struggling to find his place in yours.

“Nothing much,” Harry said, trying to sound casual. “Just… thought I’d come hang out for a bit.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing there was more to it than that. You had always been able to read him like an open book.

“Uh-huh,” you said skeptically. “Come to yell at me about Cedric again?”

Harry winced at your teasing, but there was a softness in your eyes that made him feel a little better, a little less self-conscious. He let out a breath, sitting down in the chair opposite you, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

“I’m not… mad, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I just…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain it. He wanted to tell you everything, but it felt childish to admit it. He felt childish for even being upset.

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. “You just what, Harry?”

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know, okay? I guess it just… threw me off when you didn’t tell me about you and Cedric.” His words came out more bluntly than he intended, and his stomach churned with the sudden vulnerability he felt. He hadn’t planned on saying it like that, but there it was. The hurt, the confusion—he couldn’t bury it anymore. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be happy… It’s just… it felt like I didn’t even get a say, like I didn’t even know about it.”

There was a long pause. You sat quietly, your hands resting on your knees as you processed his words. And for a moment, Harry thought you might be angry with him. He had crossed a line, he was sure of it.

But then you spoke, your voice softer than he expected. “Harry…”

You reached out, placing a hand on his. The gesture was simple but meaningful, and it grounded him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I just didn’t think you’d want to hear about it. You’ve had enough on your plate, and I didn’t want to add to it.”

Harry looked down at your hand on his, feeling the warmth of it seep into his skin. He met your eyes again, his gaze searching yours for any hint of resentment. But all he saw was understanding.

“I don’t know, maybe I’m being stupid,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “But I just… I wanted to be the one to hear about things like this from you. You know, the big stuff. You’re my sister. I want to be there for you.”

You smiled gently, a sad sort of smile, and squeezed his hand. “You are, Harry. You always will be. It’s just that… I don’t always know how to tell you things. You’ve been through so much, and I don’t want to burden you with all of my stuff when I know you’re already carrying so much.”

Harry felt a pang in his chest at your words, the weight of everything you had gone through. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re burdening me,” he said softly. “I’m your brother, Y/n. And even though things have changed… I’ll always be here. Always.”

For a long moment, the two of you just sat there, the fire crackling softly in the background, your hands still lightly clasped together. There was a comfort in the silence, a reassurance that, no matter how complicated life had gotten, you two still had each other.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made things weird,” Harry said, his voice breaking the quiet. “I just… I don’t want you to think I’m not happy for you. I am. I just need time to get used to it, I guess.”

You nodded, understanding in your eyes. “I get it, Harry. And I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you sooner. I didn’t mean to leave you out.”

Harry smiled, feeling the tension in his chest slowly ease. It wasn’t a perfect conversation, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that, even in the midst of everything changing, you were still his sister, and he was still your brother.

With a final squeeze of your hand, Harry let out a deep breath. “Thanks, Y/n.”

You grinned. “Anytime, Harry.”

[ilbeyourprettyprettyplease]

I DON’T SEE NOBODY BUT YOU

⋆ pairing : Cedric Diggory x FemHufflepuff!Reader

⋆ summary : cedric always sees reader at midnight in the common room, so he decides to leave her notes

⋆ tags : short oneshot, yearner cedric, fluff(?), from cedric’s perspective, hufflepuff reader , reader’s feeling are up to interpretation 

⋆ a/n : my first oneshot!! ty to anon for the request ♡ as I said this story is more from cedric’s perspective so there will be less description of how reader feels. sry in advance if I didn’t portray the plot you wanted 😭 if there are any details you want me to add feel free to tell me!! （this is a long ass authors note im sorry) I had to post this again cuz tumblr messed up the format

⚠️english is not author’s first language 

The Hufflepuff common room at two in the morning was a reserve of soft gold and shifting shadows. 

For you, it was the only time the castle truly breathed—no  bustling corridors, no booming echoes of the Great Hall, just the rhythmic crackle of the fire.

You were tucked into your usual armchair, a thick weight of magical creatures resting against your knees. It was quiet enough to hear the wind brush against the windows.

The rhythmic clack-clack of the rustic barrel entrance signalling Cedric Diggory’s return from his prefect rounds.

He usually just nodded to you, a tired but warm acknowledgement of the girl who was always reading at the common room at midnight.

But lately, the nod had lingered. He would pause, hand staying on the banister of the boys' staircase, watching the way the warm firelight caught the edge of your parchment.

It started small for Cedric. He began to notice the empty chair when you weren’t there. He found himself scanning the library’s back corners during the day or looking for the top of your head at the Hufflepuff table the Great Hall. 

However, the confidence he wore on the Quidditch field didn’t follow him into the corridors when it came to you. He felt clumsy, his thoughts tangling whenever he considered actually sitting down and talking to you. 

What if you preferred the silence? What if he was a distribution to you? What if you found him creepy?

He was a seeker by habit  —it was becoming his second habit to look for you.

The first one appeared tucked into the pages of your herbology essay, left on a side table near your favorite arm chair. It wasn't parchment; it was a torn corner of a Muggle notebook he’d found.

The common room feels much larger when you aren't in that armchair. I hope you found a quiet spot elsewhere.

— C.

A few nights later, after you’d spent the afternoon by the lake, you found another note pinned to the cover of your divination textbook.

I saw you by the water today. You looked like you were a thousand miles away. I wondered if the book was that good, or if you just needed the change of scenery.

— C.

Cedric became a ghost of a presence. He’d see you in the Great Hall and his step would stumble, a half-formed greeting stuck in his throat because you looked so focused  in your own world. He wasn't looking for a grand romance ,he was just... yearning. 

He wanted to know what you were reading. He wanted to know if you liked the smell of the common room after a rain as much as he did.

The notes became more frequent, and slightly more obvious.

Stopped by the library today. I almost stopped to ask what chapter you were on, but I didn't want to break your focus. You looked peaceful. I didn't want to be the one to ruin that.

— C.

One night, the fire had burned down to embers. You weren't reading; you were staring at the last note he’d left, tucked into the cushion of your chair.

The barrels tapped. Cedric stepped in, his robes smelling of the crisp night air and damp grass. He stopped when he saw you were still there, watching him. 

He didn't move toward the stairs this time. He just stood by the sofa, looking uncertain.

"You’re later than usual tonight," you said softly, holding up the scrap of paper. "And your handwriting gets worse when you’re tired, Cedric."

He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks, a small, sheepish smile breaking through the exhaustion on his face. "I didn't think you'd know it was me."

"You're the only one who sees me here every night," you replied. "Why the notes? You could have just sat down."

Cedric rubbed the back of his neck, stepping closer into the fire light. "I didn't want to intrude your quiet time. I just... I liked that we were the only two people awake in the room for a little while. I suppose I just wanted to be part of it."

He didn't offer a cheesy line or a grand confession. He just gestured to the empty space on the rug near your feet. "Can I stay? I don't have to talk."

You closed your book and shifted over, making room in the glow of the fire. "You can stay, Cedric. But you have to stop leaving bits of paper everywhere. I’m running out of places to hide them."

He laughed, a low, tired sound, and finally sat down. For the first time in weeks, the common room didn't feel large or empty. It felt exactly the right size

⋆ a/n : yk what there actually aren’t any descriptions of reader’s feelings my bad 😗 reblogs and likes will be much appreciated!

[sainzzreputaticn]

love is in the air ― oscar piastri

pairings: oscar piastri x longterm!gf!reader

summary: it seems like everyone in the f1 paddock is getting engaged so there’s a lot of talk about who is gonna be next

————

charles_leclerc alexandrasaintmleux

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, arthur_leclerc and others

charles_leclerc Mr and Mrs Leclerc

comments

oscarpiastri Congrats!

user1 this is the most emotion i’ve ever seen oscar express

user2 omg one whole exclamation mark?? he’s so happy that his dad go engaged

lando he’s next btw

user3 LANDO?!?!?!

iamrebeccad congratulations!! i’m so happy for youu babyy

alexandrasaintmleux thank youu!! i love you soo much

user4 it should’ve been them who got married just saying btw

yourusername congratulations guys!! i’m so happy for you!!! love you both so much

alexandrasaintmleux love you too hon!! thank youuu

charles_leclerc thank you so much dear

user5 sitting her watching her comment knowing that she’s gonna be next

user6 so guys who do we think is gonna be next?

user7 alex and lily! they’ve been together for so ling and are overall the cutest couple in the paddock

user8 george and carmen!! the power couple that they are!! like my favesss

lando oscar and yn

arthur_leclerc oscar and yn

olliebearman oscar and yn

user9 lmfao not the drivers also saying that oscar and yn will be the next to get engaged! they really are the parent couple lol

————

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe and others

yourusername summer with my favourite boy 💗

comments

oscarpiastri you’re literally the prettiest girl that i’ve ever laid eyes on i’m honored to be your favourite

yourusername osc i love you so so much baby like you’re it

oscarpiastri love you to

user1 shakespeare has got nothing on oscar man has a way with words when it comes to yn

user2 oscar saves all his words for yn and yn only and like that’s all i want in a man tbh like this dude is literally perfect btw

alexandrasaintmleux my prettiest girl ever!! i wish you were here in monaco rn!!

yourusername i wish that too!! i’m missing you so much right

alexandrasaintmleux i miss you too!! we all do also you and oscar are so cute heree

yourusername aww 🥰

user3 yn and oscar are literally my roman empire!! like wdym he’s been dating her since highschool

user4 ikrr like this is literally the relationship i want and crave for they make me so emotional ahhhhh

arthur_leclerc no no same

user5 arthur i’m single btw if you’re ever wondering :)

lando teammate stealer

yourusername boyfriend stealer

lando well i spend more time with him so i win either way

yourusername well i share a bed with him and much more so

lando rude i still win

yourusername i was here first!

oscarpiastri should i be concerned about whatever this is because i feel concerned

lando no osc go away

user5 i love whatever is going one between lando and yn cuz why they fighting like that lmao

user6 because atp lando has made yn the other woman in her own relationship

yourusername very true i’ve seen the edits bro that shit cannot be pr

lilymhe the cutestttt

yourusername love youuu!!

lilymhe love you too

user7 ladies and gentlemen hear we have the “our f1 boyfriend keeps getting stolen by a british twink” support group

lilymhe honestly real

yourusername mhm

user8 need them to get married like asap they’re literally the most oerfect couple everr

————

alex_albon lilymhe

liked by yourusername, georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and others

lilymhe I guess we’re stuck with each other now ❤️😊

comments

yourusername OMG CONGRATULATIONS!!! so happy for you guys ahhhh

lilymhe thank you so much sweetheart💗💗

alex_albon thank you ❤️

user1 oscar ask this gorgeous talented amazing stunning outstanding woman to marry you already please i’m begging you atp

user2 half of the twitch quartet is engaged i’m so emotional right now no one talk to me

charles_leclerc congrats mate! i guess this is year is our year

alex_albon thanks mate

oscarpiastri Congrats!!

user3 oh my god!! two whole exclamation marks from oscar?!?! i guess alex is his favourite colleague

lando if you play your cards right this could be you btw js saying

user4 lando being the biggest yncar shipper while fighting with yn for oscar’s love is the funniest thing ever

user5 poor george he must heartbroken!! glaex is no more guyss

user6 don’t let your wife stop you grom pursuing the love of you life (a beitish twink)

user7 called it!!! i say oscar and yn are gonna be next for sure guys trust me

————

oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, arthur_leclerc, lando and others

oscarpiastri a very special vacation with a very special person

comments

user1 propose to her you aussie boy istg you’re making that girl wait too long

yourusername you’re my very special person too babe and i love you always

oscarpiastri love you too 💗

lando right in front of my salad man really?

oscarpiastri this is literally my post get out of here bro

lando you really know how to break a guy’s heart 💔

user2 oscar is planning to propose to yn guys trust or he’s proposing to lando idek

user3 honestly you’re so real for thos comment like idek who the real couple is anymore

yourusername real same

charles_leclerc oh this is perfect! i’m so proud of you my son

oscarpiastri thank you but like please stop making it obvious

charles_leclerc but i’m proud like so proud

arthur_leclerc i too am proud my nephew

oscarpiastri 👍🏻

user4 i love how it’s so obvious to all of us that oscar is going to br proposing to yn on this trip

user5 i mean bro the caption and besides they’ve been together so long it just makes sense

user6 no because they have literally veen my favourite couple since day one like they’re couple goals!!

lando we do this more often btw just saying

yourusername yeah for work this is genuine and like by choice sooo

oscarpiastri please stop

lando no

yourusername no

oscarpiastri i give up

arthur_leclerc good luck mate

oscarpiastri thanks man

user7 oh yeah it’s a proposal for sure guys!!

————

yourusername oscarpiastri

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername to spending forever together 🥰

comments

user1 FUCKING FINALLY LETS GOOOOOOO!!!

user2 no because this is literally the proposal i’ve been waiting for!! my babies are engaged omgg

alexandrasaintmleux congratulations you guys!!! welcome to the club my loves

oscarpiastri thank you!

yourusername thank youuu!! engaged girlies club hehe we can go dress shopping together

alexandrasaintmleux omg yess!!! let me add you to my pintrest board babes

user3 this is the moment i’ve been waiting for i’m so emotional about this and it’s not even my engagement

charles_leclerc congrats my favourite son and daughter in law

oscarpiastri thank you

yourusername thank you so much father in law

olliebearman favourite son?!?!

charles_leclerc …

user4 i can’t believe it my close and personal friends oscar piastri and yn are getting married

user5 real i have a wedding invite to prove it

yourusername we’re eloping lil bro so idek what you’re talking about

charles_leclerc no whyyy

arthur_leclerc congrats!!!

user6 why has this whimsy boy been possessed by oscar’s spirit bro what is this comment

lando heartbreak genuine heartbreak btw not that anyway care

yourusername ho pls stfu thank you

lando on a serious note tho congratulations i love you guys

oscarpiastri thanks and we love you too

yourusername thanks a lot

user7 AHHH YESSS!! my prediction came true it was oscar and yn next ehhhhhh so happy for themm

oscarpiastri thank you for choosing me to be your life partner i couldn’t have asked for a better companion

yourusername aww osc 🥹 i love you so so much and am glad that i get to spend forever with you

oscarpiastri i love you too

user8 i feel so fucking single rn but they’re so cute

taglist: @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @originaldaughterofagun @bigfanofexisting @passengerprincess81 @lily-ann22 @hazeljisulatte @aerangi @bearyfast @marywantsttobattle @xyrillekl

comment to be added to my taglist

[lap90]

I love your stories and I really enjoy reading them... You could write one about Lando, where at the beginning of his career he had a girlfriend he loved very much but left to concentrate on F1 on the advice of his family and friends. But that without knowing it she was pregnant when they broke up and her family prevented her from contacting him. After 3 or 4 years she has a serious accident and spends some time in a coma and the lawyer call him through Mclaren or something, because she has no more family. This is how she finds out about the girl and what they hid from him, that is dramatic and distressing but with a happy ending?! And that she does not forgive him so easily... I know it's a lot but I'd love to read it

Thank you for your amazing work 💕✨❤️

Moving Too Fast to Catch - LN1

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: at twenty, Lando was told that love was a distraction. Under the immense pressure of his debut seasons and the "well-meaning" advice of his family, he walked away from Y/N. Four years later, the silence is shattered by a legal call to McLaren. Y/N is in a coma, and Lando is the only emergency contact left on a years-old lease. When he arrives, finds a three-year-old girl with his eyes and a folder full of letters his family made sure he never saw. wc: 6.9k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)

note: Hey besties! Sorry for not posting much these past few days, but honestly, I haven't been very inspired and I've been working on the new blog theme (I'm so excited about it!!! 🥳). Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that there might be some inconsistencies with the timeline and some of the characters around Lando, so there's no confusion! And there might be some issues with the medical points too, but I did my best 🙃🤍 Enjoy xx

The air in the small apartment felt heavy, thick with the scent of packed boxes and the underlying chill of a British autumn. Lando stood by the window, his eyes fixed on the street below rather than the girl sitting on the sofa—the girl who had been his gravity long before he ever sat in a Formula 1 cockpit.

He was twenty, and the world was screaming his name. But inside these four walls, the noise was different. It was the sound of expectations.

"My dad says it’s for the best, Y/N," Lando said, his voice cracking slightly. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. "Mark, the trainers… they all say the same thing. This is my one shot. If I’m thinking about you, about us, about when I’m coming home… I’m not thinking about the apex. I’m not thinking about the win."

Y/N sat perfectly still, her hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized hoodie—one of his. "So, that’s it? I’m a distraction? After three years, I’ve been downgraded to a line item in a performance review?"

"It’s not like that," he snapped, finally turning. His face was a map of exhaustion and misplaced resolve. "It’s just… it’s too much. The travel, the pressure. I need to be 'all in.' They keep telling me that if I don't give 100% to McLaren right now, I’ll be out before I even start."

He walked over, kneeling in front of her, his hands hovering near her knees before he pulled them back. The rejection was already starting.

"I love you," he whispered, and the words sounded like a goodbye. "I do. But I can't carry the weight of making you happy while I’m carrying the weight of a whole team. It’s not forever. I just need to focus. Please understand."

Y/N looked at him, searching his blue eyes for the boy she’d gone to karting tracks with, but all she saw was a driver looking for an exit strategy. A strange, fluttering nausea stirred in her stomach—she chalked it up to the heartbreak, the stress of the argument. She didn't know yet that it was the first sign of a life they had created together.

"If you walk out to 'focus,' Lando," she said, her voice trembling but certain, "don't expect me to be a trophy waiting on a shelf when you decide you've focused enough."

Lando swallowed hard, the guilt warring with the relentless ambition that had been drilled into him for months. Ambition won.

"I have to go. The car is outside."

He stood up, grabbed his kit bag, and walked out. He didn't look back. He believed he was doing the "right thing" for his future. He believed he was being "professional."

He had no idea he was leaving behind the only part of himself that truly mattered.

Three weeks after the door clicked shut behind Lando, Y/N stood in her bathroom, staring at two pink lines that felt like a death sentence and a miracle all at once. Her first instinct wasn't fear—it was a desperate, aching need to tell him. To tell the boy who used to talk about "one day" with her.

But the boy she knew was gone, replaced by a silhouette behind a visor.

Y/N tried the phone first. It rang and rang until a cold, professional voice informed her the number had been disconnected. She drove to his family home, her heart hammering against her ribs, only to be met at the gate by his father.

"He’s in Spain for testing, Y/N," Adam said, his voice not unkind but terrifyingly firm. He didn't let her past the driveway. "Look, we all saw how hard that breakup was on him. He’s finally focused. He’s finally winning. If you go to him now, if you bring... baggage... you’ll undo months of work. You love him, don't you? Then let him be great."

"It's not baggage, Adam," Y/N whispered, her hand instinctively hovering over her stomach. "It’s his."

The silence that followed was ice-cold. "We’ll take care of you financially, if that’s what this is about. But Lando doesn't need this distraction. Not now. Not ever."

They took his phone "for his mental health" during the transition to the main roster. They filtered his emails. They told him she had moved out of the apartment and hadn't left a forwarding address. When Y/N sent letters, they were intercepted by assistants and shredded before they ever reached the motorhome.

To Lando, it felt like she had vanished. He spent long nights staring at his ceiling in hotel rooms in Melbourne, Baku, and Monaco, wondering how she could have moved on so fast. He told himself it was for the best. He told himself she was happier without the chaos of the paddock.

The next three years were a study in contrast: Lando's reality was a blur of screaming engines, 300km/h corners, podium triumphs, champagne celebrations, and the perpetual, public adoration that came with interviews about "sacrifice" and "dedication."

In contrast, Y/N's world was defined by the soft, rhythmic creak of a nursery rocking chair, the quiet routine of midnight feedings, and the comforting scent of baby powder. Her focus was on working two jobs to maintain a small countryside home and provide a quiet life for her little girl, Daisy, who possessed her father's unmistakable curly hair and mischievous grin.

Lando became a star. He was the "Twitch quadrant" hero, the funny, fast kid at McLaren. But sometimes, during a national anthem or a quiet flight, his mind would drift back to that small apartment.

He’d check her social media, but she had gone dark years ago. He assumed she was married. He assumed she’d forgotten the boy who chose a car over her. He had no idea that every time he appeared on a TV screen, a toddler would point a tiny finger and say, "Dada?" because Y/N couldn't bring herself to erase him entirely.

He was living his dream. She was living the consequence. And the wall between them, built by "well-meaning" friends and family, remained unbreakable.

Until the rain started falling on a slick British motorway, and a truck lost control.

Silverstone. The British Grand Prix. The pinnacle of Lando’s home season. The paddock was a hive of frantic energy, and Lando was at the center of it. He had just finished a grueling media session and was walking back to the McLaren motorhome, his mind occupied by tire degradation and telemetry data.

"Lando, wait," Charlotte, his PR manager, caught up to him, looking uncharacteristically flustered. She held a phone in her hand. "There’s a call on the team line. A lawyer. He says it’s a matter of life and death."

Lando didn't stop. "Tell them to call Mark. I’ve got the technical briefing in five minutes."

"Lando, he didn't call your agent. He called the McLaren front desk and stayed on hold for forty minutes. He said your name is the only one on an old emergency contact form for a Y/N Y/L/N."

Lando stopped dead. The name hit him like a physical blow to the chest, a name he hadn't allowed himself to say out loud for nearly four years. The "distraction" he had successfully buried.

"Give me the phone," he said, his voice suddenly hollow.

He ducked into a private room, the noise of the fans outside muffled by the glass.

"This is Lando Norris."

"Mr. Norris, my name is Arthur Miller. I’m representing the interests of Y/N Y/L/N. There has been a serious motor vehicle accident. Y/N is currently in a medically induced coma at St. Jude’s. Her parents passed away two years ago, and we found your name on an old residential lease agreement and an outdated medical proxy she never changed."

Lando’s hand gripped the edge of the table. "Is she... will she be okay?"

"It’s too early to say. But the reason I am calling you so urgently, Mr. Norris, is because there is a minor involved. A three-year-old girl. Since there are no other relatives on record, Social Services will have to take her into temporary care within the hour unless a known associate can claim her."

Lando’s brain stalled. The math began to do itself in his head, a cruel, relentless calculation. Four years. Three-year-old girl.

"A minor?" Lando whispered. "What are you talking about? She doesn't have a sister."

"She’s not her sister, Mr. Norris," the lawyer said, his tone softening with a touch of grim realization. "She’s her daughter. Daisy. And looking at the birth certificate... the father's section was left blank, but the timeline... well, I imagine you can do the math."

The room felt like it was spinning at 200 mph. The walls closed in. The F1 world—the trophies, the points, the "focus" his family had demanded—felt like a tasteless joke.

"She has a child," Lando repeated, his voice cracking. "That’s not possible. She would have told me. I... I would have known."

"Mr. Norris, she is in a coma. The child is currently sitting in a hospital waiting room with a social worker. She’s asking for her 'Mummy' and she’s terrified. We need to know if you are coming, or if we proceed with emergency foster placement."

Lando didn't think about the technical briefing. He didn't think about the British Grand Prix. He didn't think about what his father would say about "distractions."

"I'm coming," Lando said, his voice shaking with a mixture of terror and a sudden, fierce protective instinct he didn't know he possessed. "Don't let them take her. I'm coming right now."

Lando walked out of the room, ignoring the shouts of his engineers. He saw his father at the end of the hall, looking at his watch.

"Lando, we're late for the—"

Lando didn't even look at him. He pushed past, his eyes blurred with tears he hadn't shed in years. "She had a baby, Dad. And you knew, didn't you? You all knew."

He didn't wait for an answer. He ran for the car.

The lawyer, Arthur Miller, met Lando in a small, windowless consultation room just down the hall from the ICU. On the table between them sat a thick manila folder, its edges frayed. Inside was a meticulously documented trail of the life Lando had been denied.

Arthur began to lay out the evidence: copies of letters with "Return to Sender" stamped in aggressive red ink, logs of phone calls to the McLaren headquarters that never made it past the reception desk, and legal notices sent to his family’s home address that had been signed for by his father’s assistant.

Lando stared at the dates. He saw a letter sent the week of his first podium in Austria. He saw a call log from the night he signed his multi-year contract extension. Every milestone in his career was shadowed by a desperate attempt from Y/N to reach him. The realization hit him like a physical impact—his "focus" hadn't been a choice he made alone; it was a cage built around him by the people he trusted most.

He collapsed into the plastic chair, his head in his hands, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The rage was a cold, sharp blade in his chest, directed at his family, his management, and most of all, himself for being so easily led.

When he finally entered Y/N's room, the anger vanished, replaced by a crushing, suffocating guilt. She looked so small amidst the forest of monitors and IV poles. Her skin was translucent, the blue veins at her temples visible beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He sat by her bed, reaching out to touch her hand, but his fingers trembled so violently he had to pull back. He was a stranger here. He had no right to hold her hand when he hadn't been there to hold her through the morning sickness, the labor, or the long nights of a feverish toddler.

He began to whisper to her, his voice thick with tears that finally broke free. He told her about the folder, about the letters he never saw, and the phone calls he never got. He begged her to wake up, telling her he would give up every trophy, every point, and every second of fame just to go back to that afternoon in the apartment and stay.

He repeated "I didn't know" like a mantra, a desperate prayer that if he said it enough, the last four years of her struggle would somehow be erased.

He didn't notice the door creak open or the small shadow that slipped into the room. Daisy had been brought back from the cafeteria, a half-eaten biscuit clutched in her hand.

She stood by the foot of the bed, watching the man with the curly hair sob over her mother’s hand. She didn't know who he was, only that he was wearing a shirt with the same "swish" logo she saw on the television sometimes when her mother thought she was asleep.

Lando wiped his eyes, noticing the movement. He looked at the little girl—his daughter—and felt a terrifying mix of love and inadequacy. He didn't know how to be a father; he didn't even know her middle name.

He tried to offer a small, broken smile, but Daisy just tilted her head, her expression one of solemn, haunting curiosity. She took a step closer to the bed, her eyes darting between Lando’s tear-stained face and her mother’s still form.

"Are you the man Mommy cries about in her sleep?" she asked, her voice clear and innocent.

The question felt like a final, killing blow. Lando couldn't answer. He could only look at the little girl who had spent her entire life watching her mother mourn a man who was only a few hours away, too busy "focusing" to notice the world he had left behind.

The transition from the ventilator to breathing on her own had been a slow, grueling process, but finally, the room was quiet. When Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw wasn't the sterile hospital ceiling, but Lando’s face.

He looked older, his features sharpened by the stress of the last few days and the weight of the secrets he now carried. He was leaning forward in the plastic chair, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. For a heartbeat, the four years vanished, and they were just Lando and Y/N again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick with a relief so intense it bordered on pain. "You’re back. You’re okay." He reached out, his fingers hovering near her hand on the railing of the bed, desperate for a connection he hadn't felt in years.

But as the fog of the coma cleared, Y/N’s expression shifted. The warmth he expected didn't come. Instead, her eyes grew guarded, distant, and cold. She didn't pull her hand away—she didn't have the strength yet—but she went perfectly still, a silent wall rising between them that no championship trophy could ever scale.

The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating the apologies Lando had been practicing for days. He began to stumble through an explanation, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. He told her about the lawyer, the folder of intercepted letters, and the way his family had manipulated the silence.

He wanted her to know that he hadn't ignored her on purpose, that he hadn't chosen to be a "star in the sky" while she struggled on the ground. He expected her to be angry at his father or the team, but as he spoke, she only watched him with a weary, heartbreaking clarity.

"I know they did that, Lando," she said, her voice a dry, fragile rasp. "I figured it out a long time ago. I knew you weren't that cruel." She took a shallow breath, her gaze moving toward the door where she knew her daughter was waiting.

Then, she looked back at him, and the look in her eyes was worse than any anger he could have imagined. It was indifference mixed with a deep, permanent scar. "But you still left. Even if you didn't know everything… you left."

Lando felt the air leave his lungs. He tried to argue, to say it was for his career, that he was young and pressured, but the words died in his throat. She was right. Before the lies, before the blocked calls, and before the baby, there had been a choice.

He had stood in their apartment and decided that she was a "distraction" he could no longer afford. The family's interference was just the salt in a wound he had already carved. She didn't offer him a hug; she didn't offer him forgiveness. She only offered him the cold, hard truth of his own ambition.

"I won't keep you from her," Y/N continued, her voice gaining a tiny spark of maternal steel. "You can meet Daisy. You can be in her life because she deserves to know who you are. But you don't get to walk in here and demand a family. You don't get to play the hero because you finally found out the truth. You’re a stranger to her, Lando. And right now, you’re almost a stranger to me."

She closed her eyes, signaling the end of the conversation. Lando sat in the silence, realizing that while he had finally caught up to the life he had left behind, the distance between them was still miles wide.

The transition from the roar of the paddock to the quiet, rhythmic demands of a three-year-old’s life was a shock Lando hadn't prepared for. He traded his simulator sessions for a crash course in toddler survival, staying in a modest rental near the rehabilitation center where Y/N was beginning her long road to recovery.

He didn't post about his "transformation" on social media; he didn't call the team to brag about his dedication. He simply showed up every morning at 7:00 AM, his designer clothes replaced by plain hoodies that Daisy could wipe her sticky hands on.

He was learning that in this world, lap times meant nothing—what mattered was the exact ratio of milk to cocoa and the specific way a favorite stuffed rabbit had to be tucked under a chin.

Daisy, however, remained a puzzle that no amount of telemetry could solve. She didn't see the world-famous driver; she saw a man who was taking up space in her mother’s room. She treated him like an intruder, a polite stranger she tolerated only because her "Mummy" said it was okay.

The most devastating moment came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Daisy had tripped over a rug and scraped her elbow, the sudden pain triggering a torrent of tears. Lando had instinctively reached out to scoop her up, his heart racing with a desperate need to comfort her.

But Daisy had shrunk back, her face red and distorted as she wailed for her mother, her small hands pushing against Lando’s chest as if he were a threat.

He stood there, his arms empty and his chest aching, forced to watch the nurse comfort her instead. He realized then that loving someone didn't give him control over their heart, and just showing up didn't guarantee him the right to be the one who stopped the crying.

Determined to earn his place, Lando started with the small things. He spent forty minutes one morning attempting to comb Daisy’s hair before her mother’s physical therapy session. His hands, usually so steady at two hundred miles per hour, were clumsy and trembling as he navigated the thick, unruly curls he had passed down to her.

The resulting ponytail was a disaster—lopsided, frizzy, and held together by a mismatched collection of ribbons. He looked at his handiwork, then at Y/N, who was watching him from her wheelchair with a weary, unreadable expression.

He didn't make a joke to lighten the mood. He didn't complain about how hard it was. He just looked at the tangle of hair and promised he would do better the next day. He was learning to listen more than he spoke, absorbing the reproaches and the long, heavy silences that followed his failed attempts at being "Dad."

The air between him and Y/N remained thick with the ghosts of the last four years.

One evening, after Daisy had finally fallen asleep in the small cot by Y/N’s bed, Lando tried to speak about the future. He spoke of houses, of security, of "making up" for the time they had lost, his voice filled with the frantic energy of a man trying to pit-stop his way out of a disaster.

Y/N listened until he ran out of breath, her gaze cold and steady. She told him that four years of being a single mother, of hospital bills, and of watching him celebrate on TV while she struggled to buy diapers couldn't be solved with a checkbook or a change of heart.

"You don't get to fix this with good intentions, Lando," she whispered, her voice like ice. "You can’t just decide to be a hero now because it’s convenient."

Lando didn't look away, nor did he mention his family’s lies again. He simply sat back in the hard plastic chair, the same one he had slept in for a week. "I know," he replied, his voice quiet but unwavering. "I’m here anyway."

The shift in Daisy’s heart didn’t happen with a grand gesture; it happened in the quiet, messy spaces of the everyday.

One afternoon, while Lando was attempting to draw a "fast car" for her with a set of cheap hospital crayons, he accidentally drew the wheels in the wrong place. Daisy let out a sudden, high-pitched giggle—the first genuine sound of joy he had heard from her. She grabbed the crayon from his hand and began to "fix" it, her small shoulder leaning against his arm with a casualness that stole his breath.

From that day on, she began to seek him out, asking for "Lando" when she woke up from her naps and reaching for his hand when they walked the long, sanitized hallways to visit Y/N.

Y/N watched these interactions from the periphery, her silence no longer a weapon but a place of observation. She saw him sitting on the floor for hours, his long legs cramped, just to be at Daisy's eye level. She noticed that he didn't check his phone every five minutes or talk about his lap times.

Most importantly, she saw that his guilt wasn't a performance designed to get him back into her good graces. It was a quiet, heavy mantle he wore with humility. He didn't ask for credit for the sleepless nights or the endless errands; he simply performed them as if they were his penance, expecting nothing in return.

The breaking point for Y/N’s resolve came during a late-night phone call Lando took in the hallway, unaware that the door to her room was slightly ajar. It was his management team, their voices loud and frantic even through the speaker.

There was a mandatory sponsor gala in Monaco, followed by a high-stakes filming day that was "non-negotiable" for his contract. It was the kind of event the "old" Lando would have moved mountains to attend—the kind of "opportunity" his family would have insisted was vital for his future.

"I’m not coming," Lando said, his voice low but unshakable.

"Lando, the penalties for missing this are insane," his manager argued. "It’s forty-eight hours. We’ll have you back before she even notices you’re gone."

"Daisy has her first developmental assessment with the trauma specialist on Thursday," Lando replied, and Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she realized he had memorized the schedule she thought he wasn't paying attention to. "She’s scared of the doctors. She needs to see me there when she comes out. Find another way to fix the contract, or don't. I’m staying here."

He hung up before they could argue further and walked back into the room, tucking the phone away as if he hadn't just put his multi-million-dollar career on the line for a three-year-old’s doctor's appointment.

He didn't mention the call to her. He didn't brag about the sacrifice. He just sat back down and picked up a half-finished puzzle Daisy had left on the bed. Y/N watched him for a long time, the familiar silhouette of the boy she had loved now inhabited by the man he had become.

The bitterness that had anchored her for four years didn't vanish, but it shifted, making room for something she hadn't felt since the day he left: hope.

"You're going to get in trouble with Zak," she said softly, her voice the most gentle it had been since she woke up.

Lando looked up, startled that she had been listening. He shrugged, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "Let them be cross. I've spent four years winning races I don't remember. I'm not missing a single second of the things I'll never forget."

She didn't say she forgave him. She didn't reach out to hold his hand. But for the first time, she didn't look away. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment that for the first time in his life, Lando Norris was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The day Y/N was finally discharged felt more daunting than any race start Lando had ever faced. The hospital had been a safety net of sorts—a place of schedules and professionals where his role was clearly defined as a visitor.

Now, as he pushed her wheelchair through the sliding glass doors and into the crisp morning air, the "real world" felt vast and unforgiving.

He had rented a quiet house in the Cotswolds, far from the prying eyes of the London paparazzi and the suffocating reach of his management. It was a place for them to disappear, even if only for a while.

The process of getting Y/N into the car was a delicate dance of careful movements and unspoken tension. Lando was hyper-aware of her every wince, his hands steady as he supported her weight, but he was equally conscious of the space she still kept between them.

In the back seat, Daisy was a whirlwind of excitement, kicking her legs against her car seat and chanting "Home, home, home" like a rhythmic mantra. Lando caught Y/N’s eye in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the hospital, and for a split second, the coldness flickered.

She looked exhausted, her face pale against the dark upholstery, but she was looking at the back of Daisy’s head with a look of such profound love that it made Lando’s chest ache with the weight of everything he had missed.

When they arrived at the house, the reality of "family life" hit him with the force of a high-speed collision. There were no assistants to unload the car, no trainers to prep his meals, and no PR team to script his interactions.

There was only a three-year-old who wanted to show her mother every single flower in the garden and a woman who needed help just to navigate the hallway.

Lando spent the afternoon in a blur of activity: he carried the luggage, he struggled with the complex locking mechanism on the new stroller, and he attempted to make a simple pasta dinner while Daisy tried to "help" by throwing handfuls of dry noodles across the kitchen floor.

The turning point of the day came in the late afternoon. Y/N was resting on the sofa, her legs propped up on cushions, watching Lando attempt to settle Daisy for a nap. The little girl was overtired and cranky, her demands for "one more story" turning into a tearful meltdown.

Instead of calling for Y/N or getting frustrated, Lando simply sat on the floor by the bed, pulled Daisy into his lap, and began to hum a low, wordless melody. He stayed there for twenty minutes, his back against the wall, until the toddler’s breathing went deep and even.

When he walked back into the living room, Y/N was still watching him. The silence between them wasn't as sharp as it had been in the hospital; it felt softer, more like a tentative peace treaty.

She watched as he quietly began to pick up the discarded toys, moving with a domestic grace she hadn't known he possessed. He wasn't the "Twitch" star or the McLaren poster boy in that moment; he was just a man trying to figure out how to be a father to a girl who didn't yet know his last name.

"You're getting better at the hair," she said softly, nodding toward the messy but functional braid he’d managed to put in Daisy’s hair earlier that morning.

Lando stopped, a half-eaten crust of toast in his hand, and looked at her. He didn't smile—it felt too early for that—but his expression was open and honest. "I've been practicing on a mop in the kitchen," he admitted, his voice quiet so as not to wake the sleeping child.

Y/N let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound that felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. "Lando," she began, then hesitated, her fingers tracing the hem of the blanket he’d tucked around her. "I still don't know if I can do this. I don't know if 'us' exists anymore."

"I know," Lando replied, leaning against the doorframe. "You don't have to decide anything today. Or tomorrow. I’m just glad I’m the one who gets to make you tea while you figure it out."

It was this domestic peace—the sight of his daughter safe and the woman he loved finally home—that gave him the final, iron-clad resolve he needed. He looked at his phone, seeing three missed calls from his father and a dozen urgent emails from his manager. The "real world" was calling, and it was time to tell them exactly what they had done.

The confrontation didn't happen in a heated moment at the house; it happened in the quiet, suffocating luxury of the Norris family home. Lando had waited until Y/N was stable, until he had the evidence—the "Return to Sender" stamps, the logs of blocked numbers, and the legal threats his father’s lawyers had sent to Y/N while she was pregnant.

He walked into the living room not as the young driver looking for approval, but as a father who had been robbed of his daughter’s first three years of life. He dropped the manila folder onto the mahogany coffee table with a sound that seemed to echo like a gunshot.

His father, Adam, looked at the folder and then at Lando, his expression remaining composed, almost paternal.

He began the same speech Lando had heard since he was seven years old: the talk of sacrifices, the narrow window of opportunity in F1, and the "unfortunate distractions" that could derail a multi-million dollar career.

He admitted to the interference without a hint of shame, framing it as a necessary shield.

"We did it to protect your future, Lando," his father said, his voice steady. "She was a complication you weren't ready for. We made the choice you were too young and too emotional to make for yourself. Look at where you are now—you’re a world-class athlete because we cleared the path for you."

Lando felt a wave of nausea so strong it made his head spin. The "protection" they were so proud of had resulted in a woman he loved nearly dying alone, a child growing up thinking her father was a ghost, and a void in his own soul that no trophy could ever fill.

He realized then that to his family, he wasn't a person—he was a brand, a high-performance machine that needed to be kept in a sterile environment. They hadn't just hidden a child from him; they had stolen his agency, his morality, and the chance to be the man Y/N actually deserved.

"You didn't protect my future," Lando said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that silenced the room. "You burned it. You let the mother of my child struggle for air while I was spraying champagne on a podium. You let my daughter wonder why her dad didn't want her."

He stepped closer, his eyes cold and unwavering. "If I ever find out you’ve contacted her again, or if you ever try to speak to Daisy without my explicit permission, I will walk away from every contract, every sponsor, and every tie I have to this name. I’m not your 'project' anymore. I’m her father. And I’m Y/N’s partner—if she’ll still have me."

He left the house without looking back, leaving the "perfect" career behind for the messy, difficult, and beautiful reality waiting for him in Cotswolds.

He had spent his whole life being told that F1 was everything, but as he drove back toward the woman who didn't forgive him and the little girl who was just beginning to trust him, he knew he had finally found something worth the fight.

The house in the Cotswolds had finally begun to feel like a home rather than a hiding place. The scent of antiseptic had been replaced by the smell of vanilla candles and the lingering aroma of the shepherd's pie Lando had attempted to make for dinner.

It was nearly midnight, and the silence of the countryside was absolute, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards. Daisy was tucked into her bed upstairs, surrounded by a fleet of stuffed animals and dreaming of the "fast cars" she now associated with the man who read her bedtime stories every single night without fail.

Lando was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a damp dishcloth in his hand, staring at a stack of clean plates. His hair was a mess, his eyes were shadowed by the kind of deep, domestic exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could fix, and he was wearing an old pair of joggers with a faint smudge of strawberry jam on the leg.

He looked nothing like the polished athlete on the posters. He looked like a man who had spent the last six months fighting a war against his own past, trying to prove he was worth the space he took up in this house.

Y/N walked into the kitchen slowly, her movement more fluid now, though she still favored her left side. She watched him for a moment, seeing the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking.

She saw the quiet, steady constancy he had brought into their lives—the way he handled the tantrums, the way he navigated her bad days with a patience that was almost painful to witness. The anger that had been her armor for four years hadn't disappeared, but it had grown heavy, a burden she was tired of carrying.

"Lando," she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned, a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes. He always looked like he was waiting for the moment she would tell him his time was up, that the "trial period" of being a father and a partner was over.

"Hey," he replied, his voice a tired rasp. "Everything okay? Do you need your meds?"

"No," she said, stepping into the warm glow of the yellow kitchen light. She stood in front of him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the tension in his jaw. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand.

"I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that day in the apartment. About the letters. About everything your family did. And I’ve realized that I can’t change the past, and I can’t forget the years I spent alone."

She paused, her gaze steady. "I don't forgive what happened. The things they did, the time we lost… I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with that. But I forgive you, Lando."

The dishcloth slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. Lando didn't say anything at first; he just stood there, the words sinking into him like water into parched earth. Then, his face crumpled. The boyish, resilient mask he wore for the world finally shattered.

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder and began to cry—not the quiet, polite tears of a man who was sorry, but the deep, racking sobs of someone who had finally been allowed to come home. He clutched her to him, his hands trembling as he held onto the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He didn't make a grand, cinematic speech. He didn't promise her a life of perfection or a world without mistakes. He knew he couldn't fix the four years he had missed, and he knew they still had a mountain of "normal" life to climb.

When he finally pulled back, his face was red and damp, but his eyes were clearer than they had been in years. He looked at her, then up toward the ceiling where their daughter was sleeping, and then back at the woman who had given him a second chance he didn't deserve.

"I'm not leaving again," he whispered, a simple, unbreakable vow. "I don't care about the noise, the pressure, or the career. I’m not going anywhere."

Y/N didn't say anything, but she didn't pull away. She simply took his hand and led him out of the kitchen, turning off the light and leaving the ghosts of the past in the dark. They walked up the stairs together—a driver who had finally found his pace, and a woman who had finally found her peace.

Twelve months had passed since the silence of the ICU was replaced by the chaotic, beautiful noise of a toddler’s laughter. The transition hadn't been seamless; there were still days when the weight of the lost years sat heavy in the room, and moments when Y/N would catch Lando’s eye and he would see a flicker of the old hurt.

But they had stopped trying to be the couple they were at twenty. They were building something new—something forged in the fire of truth rather than the fragile innocence of youth. Lando had learned that honesty wasn't just about telling the truth; it was about showing up when things were hard, messy, and unglamorous.

On the track, the "new" Lando was a revelation. The paddock noticed the change immediately—the frantic, nervous energy of his early years had been replaced by a grounded, iron-clad composure. He was faster because he was no longer racing to escape his life; he was racing to get back to it.

His podium interviews were shorter, his focus sharper, and he had gained a reputation for a quiet, unwavering maturity that commanded respect from every corner of the grid.

He still flew the McLaren colors with pride, but the team knew that the moment the champagne was sprayed, he was headed for the heliport. The "distraction" his family had feared had become the very thing that made him a champion.

Daisy had become his shadow. She knew exactly which days the "vroom-vroom" car was on TV, and she had a miniature McLaren cap that she wore with a pride that made Lando’s heart swell every time he saw it.

She didn't just know who her father was; she knew him as the man who could make the best pancakes, the man who read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with all the funny voices, and the man who always, always came back through the front door.

The trauma of the hospital had faded into a blurred memory, replaced by the security of a father who had fought the world to be by her side.

Y/N’s love for him was a garden that had been reclaimed from the frost. It was careful, protected by boundaries and nurtured by the small, everyday acts of devotion Lando provided.

She still had her "bad days"—moments of phantom pain or flashes of resentment—but she no longer faced them alone.

She watched him now as he sat on the porch of their home, the setting sun casting long shadows across the grass. He was holding Daisy, who had fallen asleep mid-sentence, her curly head tucked under his chin. There were no cameras here, no PR agents, and no roaring engines.

Lando looked up and saw Y/N standing in the doorway, a soft smile playing on her lips. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave her was a promise kept. He reached out his free hand, and she took it, her fingers interlacing with his.

The world outside might still be screaming his name, but in the golden light of the Cotswolds, the only sound that mattered was the steady heartbeat of a family that had finally found its way home.

They weren't perfect, and they weren't the people they used to be, but as they stood there together in the quiet, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter

[landosaints]

prince charming -> oscar piastri

in which oscar intends to walk away with you in his arms, all starting with a dance.

STARRING -> oscar piastri (op81) x reader

WARNINGS/TROPES -> acquaintances to lovers, modern royalty au (oscar is prince of australia), reader is royalty, skinship (lingering touches!!), soft (and sometimes flirty) banter, shy!reader, oscar is actually a gentleman, one kiss at the end <3

ARI SAYS -> the idea was inspired by @verstarris charming mind! prince oscar clicked instantly in my head and i had to do this asap so

ARI'S PLAYING -> bewitched, laufey

WORD COUNT -> eight hundred sixteen (816)

"may i?"

the voice is familiar, one that stirs up a feeling of timidness in your heart as you turn to meet the familiar smiling face of oscar piastri, crown prince of australia and your sweet acquaintance after many balls like this one.

he's offering his hand to you in practiced ease, and you do your best to nod and gracefully bow before him, taking his hand before he slowly walks you to the dance floor.

"you can loosen up. i'm not doing this for a show." oscar has a small smile on his lips as you swing out in front of him as due tradition, shakily inhaling before you come to meet him in the middle. his hand comes to your waist with practiced ease, and your hands join as he starts to spin you across the floor.

"i am as loose as i am going to be tonight, i fear." you try to sigh lightheartedly, and oscar doesn't press you on the matter, nodding as if he understands how you feel.

"let's have fun together. we can talk and catch up as we normally do." oscar's hand is reassuring on your waist as the two of you sway in time with the music.

"marriage candidates aren't boring you too much, are they, prince charming?" you quirk an eyebrow after gaining the strength to let your body do the moving as you conversate with oscar. he rolls his eyes, dark eyebrows scrunching together slightly as he heaves a sigh.

"not too much. i am becoming bored of how many nicknames they can all come up with." oscar softly jabs, and you smile up at him, noting the way his eyes glint at you. "what's the worst one you've heard this week?"

oscar pauses for a moment, cocking his head to the side as he thinks. his dark brown hair whisks with his movement, falling back into his place as he starts to laugh. "one girl called me 'osc-y wosc-y' at dinner, in front of my mother."

"'osc-y wosc-y'? i would have died if i were in that situation." you giggle at the light dust of blush garnishing oscar's freckled face, and he clears his throat, nodding. "i did die. on the inside, of course."

that makes you laugh aloud and lose your footing for a split second, almost stumbling over your own feet. oscar's quick to pull you tight to him, hands flying to your waist to steady you as the music comes to a close.

clapping brings you from the slow-motion daze you felt like you were in moments earlier, and oscar brings his hand to your cheek, lightly pushing a piece of loose hair away as he smiles.

"you okay there?" he asks softly, raising an eyebrow as his hand grazes the skin of your cheek before dropping by his side.

"n-never better." you shyly respond, pulling away from the close proximity to politely bow and clap in thanks to the orchestra for the dance. oscar is too busy trying not to laugh to focus on clapping, and he ends up clapping a little bit too long.

flustered, he clears his throat, and you can't help but laugh aloud, throwing your head back as oscar looks at you with a certain type of fondness in his eyes.

"another dance, please?" oscar softly pleads, stepping close to you to be heard above the din of another peppy violin solo starting off the next dance.

"careful, oscar. people may think you want to marry me after a few too many dances." you teasingly drag your finger down oscar's button-up, and he just smirks under your observation, body tensing slightly as he leans and whispers, "maybe i want that."

the way your cheeks start to bloom and flush is nothing short of embarrassing, and you smile softly, nodding anyways as you again swing out from oscar and bow to him.

"then, if you're ready to face the consequences of your oh-so-gentlemanly-actions..." you return your hands to the position you danced in earlier, and oscar nods, smirk softening into a pleased smile before he cuts you off.

"if only you'll let me add to my already flattering ways," he's pulling you in as part of the dance, slyly pecking your cheek with his lips before you spin away from him. no one would have even noticed the kiss oscar had just given you—he was so nonchalant with it no one could tell what had just transpired between you two.

cheeks warm from being swooned, you can't even find it in yourself to respond to him, content with the biggest smile you can muster as oscar matches it. he continues to spin you around on the tiled dance floor, heart fluttering with the idea of your shared dances becoming something more.

a prince can hope, can't he?

arinote: MEOWWW okay i'm a sucker for prince oscar </3

[boxbox81babygirl]

Insomnia – OP81  

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader 

Summary: When sleep won’t come no matter how hard you try — and Oscar is there anyway. Every time. 

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21 

When insomnia kicks in again, it finds you the same way it always does — 

sitting on the cold kitchen floor at two in the morning, a plate balanced on your knees, eating quietly like you’re afraid to wake the walls. 

It never takes him long to notice. 

It’s like he can feel the moment you leave the bed — when the scrolling stops, when pretending sleep might come if you just try harder finally becomes pointless. When your body gives up but your brain refuses to follow. 

This time, when he finds you, it’s leftover cake from your brother’s birthday. the kind your mum insisted you take home, wrapped too carefully, like she somehow knew it would end up meaning more than just dessert. 

“Wide awake?” he asks softly. His voice is low, still thick with sleep. 

You nod, then hold the plate out to him. 

“Want some?” 

His eyes are heavy, lashes clumped together, hair sticking up in ways he’d never allow during the day. He could’ve stayed in bed. You wouldn’t have blamed him. This was yours to deal with. 

And the fact that he didn’t — that he followed you out here half-awake, barefoot, shirt wrinkled — makes something tight and guilty twist in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

He lowers himself beside you, back against the cabinet, knees drawn up. His shoulder brushes yours. 

“You didn’t,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat, 

“I woke up because you weren’t there.” 

You swallow. 

He takes the fork, steals a bite of cake, then nudges your shoulder gently with his. 

“You okay?” 

Your eyes stay fixed on the plate. 

“My brain won’t switch off,” you admit. “It’s like it’s running ten conversations at once and none of them are useful.” 

He hums, listening. Not interrupting. 

“I tried,” you continue, words spilling now. “Counting breaths. Scrolling. Staring at the ceiling. But the second it gets quiet, everything gets louder. Every embarrassing moment I’ve ever had decides tonight is the night it wants attention.” 

Your voice wavers. 

“I’m so tired.” 

He shifts closer. 

“I hate that I can’t just… sleep,” you whisper. “I hate that it makes me feel so useless. Like I’m too much work. Like one day you’re going to get sick of following me into kitchens at stupid o’clock.” 

His hand finds yours — warm, steady — fingers lacing with yours like it’s instinct. 

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re not useless.” 

You scoff softly. “Feels like it.” 

“It might feel like it,” he says, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, “but that doesn’t make it true.” 

You finally look at him. 

“I don’t wake up because I have to,” he continues. “I wake up because I want to know you’re okay. Because if you’re sitting on the kitchen floor at two in the morning, I don’t want you doing it alone.” 

Something inside you cracks. 

“I don’t mind the nights,” he adds. “I mind the idea of you thinking you’re a burden.” 

Your eyes burn. 

“I’m scared this never goes away,” you confess. “That my brain will always be like this. And one day you’ll decide it’s easier without me.” 

He shakes his head immediately. Sure. Like the thought never stood a chance. 

“Then we learn how to live with it,” he says. “Together. Every night it shows up.” 

You lean into him before you can overthink it, forehead resting against his shoulder. His arm wraps around you instantly, like he’s been waiting. The smell of his shirt — him — settles something in your chest, quiet in a way nothing else ever manages. 

“You don’t have to be quiet about it with me,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.” 

The thoughts don’t disappear. Not completely. 

But they slow. Enough to breathe. Enough to exist in the warmth of his arms, the low hum of the fridge, the shared fork tapping softly against the plate. 

You don’t realize how tired you are until your body sags against him. 

He notices. 

“You’re fading,” he murmurs. 

“Not asleep,” you mumble. “Just… less loud.” 

A soft breath leaves him. 

“That’s good enough.” 

He shifts carefully. 

“Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.” 

“I don’t think I can walk,” you admit. 

“Okay,” he says immediately. 

He stands first, then turns back to you, hands steady as he helps you up. You wobble — exhausted, unbalanced. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. 

And then he lifts you. 

One arm under your knees, the other firm around your back, pulling you against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You curl into him instinctively, fingers clutching his t-shirt, face pressed into the warmth of his shoulder. 

“You didn’t have to—” 

“I know,” he murmurs as he walks. “I wanted to.” 

The hallway is dim. The apartment quiet. His steps are slow, careful — like he’s afraid moving too fast might wake your thoughts again. You focus on the steady rhythm beneath your ear. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

When he reaches the bedroom, he nudges the door open with his foot and carries you straight to the bed. Lowers you gently. Like you’re something fragile. Something precious. 

But he doesn’t let go. 

He climbs in after you, pulls the duvet over your legs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist, the other settling between your shoulder blades. His hand spreads there, warm and grounding. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You nod, eyes already closing. 

“Can you… stay like this?” 

A quiet breath against your hair. 

“Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. Then your forehead. 

“Try to rest,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here if your brain starts up again.” 

And when it does — because it always tries — it’s slower this time. Easier to ignore. Because every time a thought threatens to spiral, his arm tightens just slightly. 

Like he knows. 

And for once, sleep doesn’t feel impossible. 

🏁 Requests are Open!🏁

So, this honestly was written at 2 am on a wednesday night.

I hope you like it!

xoxo babygirl

[formulafantassies]

Soft launch? More like catapult - OP81

Summary: your relationship between you and Oscar has been private for the last eight years. You met him before the headlines and the championship fight. Together you decide to keep your relationship private, not because you’re a secret, but because the relationship means more to you both to share it with the world yet. So when you finally attend one of his races, the final race of the season, it seems like the perfect place to accidentally announce it to the world. 

Warnings: secret relationship, reader x oscar, fluff

A/N: I am attempting some SMAU inserts throughout, be nice! Requested by my lovely anon 🍁

Masterlist

You met Oscar before the press had even learnt his name yet. 

Back when he was just a boy with a crooked grin, and hands that fidgeted when he was nervous. Back when the paddock felt like a distant dream for you both, before the weight of expectation settled into his shoulders like a permanent fixture. 

He wasn't famous when you met. You were just two kids, riding bikes outside their houses in the hot Melbourne sun, sharing stories about teachers you hated and laughing like the world wasn’t going to snatch him from you. 

Oscar had promised he would never lose you. And you had said you didn’t want to be in the spotlight. 

It didn’t happen as a dramatic conversation, it wasn’t a fight. It was just an equal agreement between two people who had slowly fallen in love with each other, to keep their relationship between them and only the people who needed to know, would know. 

You liked it better that way. 

There was something special about having a love that didn’t need an audience to exist. Something grounding about that the most important moments, the ones that mattered, belonged to you and Oscar. 

@F1_updates 

Does everyone agree that Oscar is the most mysterious man on the grid? Like does this man even have a personal life? 

@gridmoments 

What’s this man actually hiding? No scandals, no drama, no girlfriend… 

@oscarpiastri 

Not hiding, just private. Focused.

You sat on the floor of your apartment, scrolling through your phone, your back resting against the cold leather of your sofa, his hoodie pooled around your body, the faint smell of his aftershave still lingering around the collar. 

Another race weekend, where you overthought everything. Whether or not you should go to support him, instead of quietly watching races from home, wiping tears on your own as you watched him stand on podiums. But you had agreed, it was best to keep what you had sacred. 

The world got the cool, calm, reserved Oscar, but you saw the real version. You saw the man who was charming and funny. The one who would belly laugh at your jokes, run you baths when you were sick, rub your stomach when you had cramps. A man who would take you on long night drives and bought you McDonald’s fries at midnight. 

It wasn’t until one day. You woke up to your phone buzzing. Messages, notifications and a cryptic message from Oscar. 

❤️ liked by maxverstappen3, lando, olliebearman and 3,763,320 others

oscarpiastri the best day

comments

user1 ERM OSC WHO'S THAT???? user2 are we soft launching now? charles_leclerc I like the photo of the sky user3 charles what do you know charles_leclerc i know nothing user4 maybe we can wear down lando lando i plead not guilty

@YourGridGossip 

Oscar Piastri soft launches possible girlfriend? 

@gridmoments    

We need someone who’s good with matching hands 

@MaxVerstappen 

You lot got nothing else to report on? 

As the rumours swirled across platforms about who Oscar’s ‘secret girl’ is, your curled into his chest on your sofa, exhaustion heavy in his bones. 

“Are you mad at me?” he murmurs, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Like for posting something like that– I know we agreed–” 

“Osc, I’m not mad.” You say, as you run your fingers through his curls. 

“You know,” he begins, “I don’t just give away the best parts of my life for free.” 

You lean into him again, placing a kiss on his cheek. “And that’s why we work, love.” 

The championship year doesn’t feel real. It feels like holding your breath under water for months at a time. 

Every race counts. Every point. Every Sunday morning you wake up with your heart in your mouth, knowing that the outcome of a season could hinge on a single corner, a single mistake. 

You had finally agreed that you would come along to the final race, the deciding race of the season. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go, it was just that you didn’t want to take the spotlight away from the man you love. You didn’t want him to lose focus or for people to wonder who the mysterious girl in the papaya garage was. But after Oscar promised that he wouldn’t lose focus, that you could pretend to be a friend of Hattie’s, you agreed. 

@SkySportsF1

Oscar Piastri is currently leading the championship by just 4 points against teammate Lando Norris. 

@gridmoments    

Help, I am not okay. 

@lando 

Pressure? What pressure? 

@OscarPiastri  

I have a lucky charm 

You sat in the McLaren garage, wedged between Nicole and Hattie. Hands grasped in your lap as you hear radio messages, strategy calls and Oscar’s calm voice repeating tyre degradation. 

As you watch from the garage, lap by lap. Every overtake, every near miss, every flag waved, the reality sets in. After just 3 more laps, Oscar could become world champion. 

And as the chequered flag fell, time felt like it slowed down. Like you were watching it happen from outside of your own body. Engineers cheered, his parents collided into a teary hug, Zak and Andrea cheered from the pit wall, and before you could process your thoughts, you tossed the headset onto the desk in front of you, running toward Parc Ferme, holding the hem of your dress as your sandals slapped against the hot tarmac. 

Your boyfriend. Your Oscar. The World Drivers’ Champion. 

You don’t even realise you’re crying until your vision blurs completely. 

He rises from his car, pumping his fists into the air as the crowd screams his name. Reporters, presenters, all circled him. But he only saw you. 

He always found you. In a crowd full of people, even after all this time, even after winning one of the biggest titles in motorsport, Oscar always found you. 

You finally see his face as he lifts off his helmet, small red indents in his skin, teary eyes and a winner’s smile. He moves without thinking, vaulting the barrier, ignoring the marshals, pushes past family, friends, colleagues. 

You both know this wasn’t a part of the plan. But your heart hammers against your chest and as a poet once said, the best laid-plans of mice and men go awry. 

When he reaches you, there’s no hesitation. His hands cradle your face like they’ve done a thousand times before in private. His forehead gently resting against yours. 

“We did it, baby.” he breathes. 

“You did it.” you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Osc.” 

And when he kisses you, it’s not quick, it’s not careful, it’s not hidden. 

It’s a kiss that has been waiting, patiently. That carries the weight of a love grown in strong, quiet places. 

The crowd goes silent. 

@F1 

ERM – DID OSCAR JUST HARD LAUNCH HIS GIRLFRIEND? 

@YourGridGossip   

GIRLFRIEND? 

@gridmoments 

SOMEONE CHECK THE HANDS. SEE IF THEY MATCH!!!

You pull back, your eyes wide, acutely aware of everything around you. The cameras flashing, the crowd, the reality of it all coming into view. 

“Erm–Osc..” you whisper, “We–” 

He laughs against your lips, his forehead still gently resting on yours, as he turns to face the cameras. 

“I know,” he says, “But how could I not kiss the love of my life after becoming champion?” 

He reaches his fingers toward your cheek, brushing the tears from your eyes. 

“I didn’t win this alone.” 

The noise didn’t settle. Headlines, tweets, photos, stories, all come rolling in. Questions flood your feed, and Oscar, stands beside you, through it all. 

The press conference invites more questions, journalists asking the questions everyone is dying to know. 

“Oscar, how long have you been with your girlfriend?” 

He looks over to you, tucked into the crowd, sat between Zak and Andrea. You smile at him, a silent ‘yes you can tell them.’

“Well, we’ve known each other since we were kids, but we’ve been together for eight years now.” 

“Why did you keep it a secret for so long?” 

“Sometimes, you just want a special thing to be yours a little longer, before they belong to the world.” 

You smile. A small, warm grin appearing across your lips at his words. Because now the world knew. Now you weren't just a phone call after a race. Or a hand in an Instagram photo. You were now, you and Oscar.

❤️ liked by oscarpiastri, lando, maxverstappen3 and 2,000 others

y/username proud of you since day one.

comments

oscarpiastri my girl maxverstappen we can breathe again, it's finally out lando I'm proud I kept this a secret for so long y/username we all are lando

[anundyingfidelity]

(drawing too)

[niki-phoria]

baby, kiss me through the phone

(gn reader / fluff / 768 words) in the middle of the night, oscar calls because he misses you

it’s well into the morning when OSCAR PIASTRI calls you. dawn has begun to stretch across the world, golden rays of light peeking through the dark sky. his hotel room had offered little comfort. the freshly linen sheets and clinical smell only seemed to serve as harsh reminders that he wasn’t with you. wasn’t home. 

you’d picked up on the first ring. you always did when he was away. even when you reluctantly crawled into your side of your shared bed at night, you had promised to turn your ringer on high to ensure you didn’t miss anything. i’m always here, you promised him. even when you’re halfway across the world.

“osc?” your voice is soft and even through the grainy phone speakers. he can vaguely hear a show playing on your living room television in the background. oscar can almost picture you; you’re curled up on your couch with a bowl of dinner sitting on the coffee table only half-paying attention to the show’s melodrama. you crack the blinds just enough to watch the snowfall outside. heat blasts through your vents at a temperature that would make him whine if he could feel it. 

“hey,” oscar whispers into the darkness. he clutches his phone a little tighter in his hand as if pressing his ear closer to the speakers will somehow bring you closer to him. he closes his eyes. he can almost picture you sitting in front of him. 

“is everything okay?” you’re shuffling now, moving to turn the tv’s volume off. there’s a tilt of concern in your tone and oscar curses himself. you had always been so attentive. “you’re up early.” 

“yeah, yeah, i’m fine,” he says, nodding along. he rolls onto his side and catches a glimpse of the hotel’s alarm clock. three numbers stare mockingly back at him. 2:47. oscar’s voice falls lower though there’s no one around to hear him. maybe it’s the darkness getting to him. or maybe it’s the crushing feeling of his own vulnerability, the walls he had carefully built around himself wavering. “just couldn’t sleep.” 

oscar never could sleep well when he was away. there was always something missing. someone missing. i feel so lost without you here, he had whispered to you one night. oscar’s arm rested across your waist with your back pressed against his chest. the words were muffled by your hair as his breath ghosted against your skin. he traced lazy shapes against your hip as you tangled your legs together beneath the sheets. it’s like i can’t breathe. 

you had taken his hand into your own after that. oscar remembers the feeling of your lips just barely brushing against his knuckles. your skin felt cool against his own. your fingertips traced against his calloused palms with an almost unfamiliar kindness. he remembers how his cheeks burned and his heart beat faster in his chest. he remembers feeling safe. 

on the other end of the line, you hum softly. sadly. “i just got home,” you say. you’re shuffling again, pulling your legs up onto the couch and stretching across the cushions. oscar smiles softly. “work wasn’t too bad. we’re almost finished with that project i was telling you about.” 

“yeah?” oscar pulls his phone away for just long enough to put the call on speaker. he leaves the device face-up on the mattress beside him as he curls further into the citrus-smelling duvet and half-fluffed pillow. he closes your eyes, letting your voice fill the quiet room. “what did you make for dinner?” 

“just some noodles,” you say. “they’re pretty good. i’ll have to make some for you.” 

oscar hums. “maybe when i come home,” he says absentmindedly. “you can show me the recipe." 

you smile. oscar can hear it in how your voice becomes a little higher at the end and the shift in your tone. the thought fills him with more warmth than the hotel’s heater ever could. “i’d like that.” 

“and i thought about going shopping this weekend,” you continue. oscar hums along to your words, already finding himself getting lost in your stories. you always knew exactly how to comfort him, even when you were a million miles away. 

you continue until oscar goes silent on the other end, his responses having eventually falling into the sound of steady, deep breathing. you smile softly to yourself, curling further into the hoodie you had stolen from him. the smell of oscar’s cologne had worn off a few days ago but the fabric was comforting all the same. “goodnight, oscar,” you say into the quiet. “be safe. i love you.” 

notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! would love any f1 reqs :)) oscar piastri how i love you so, wrote this at midnight pls forgive any mistakes, title from soulja boy - kiss me thru the phone

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or reblogging!! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my f1 masterlist <3

[lap90]

Hiyaaa! Could you write something like a driver's sister (who's in f2) finally getting an fp1 session in an f1 car (preferably mclaren for plot purposes) but gets into a really bad crash at the end of the session

The crash obviously affected the car and because the mclarens are technically fighting for a championship, mclaren fans start bashing her for driving recklessly(and because of misogyny because cmon people will do anything to hate on women)

So then her older brother and a few other drivers defend her in press conferences, which gives her motivation and when she completely heals she comes back but this time for a whole weekend and scores a podium in the race?

(Sorry if this is too long 😭)

Prove Them Wrong - F1 Grid

pairing: brother!lando x sister!fem!reader summary: Y/N Norris is currently leading the F2 Championship. She is fast, focused, and finally getting her shot in the McLaren for an FP1 session. But when a mechanical snap sends her into the wall at 50G, the world doesn't see a rookie making a mistake. They see a girl who doesn't belong. Facing a storm of online hate and media scrutiny, Y/N is ready to hang up her helmet. But Lando isn't about to let his little sister quit, and the grid isn't done with her yet. wc: 4.6k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)

The carbon fiber cocoon of the cockpit felt tighter than your F2 car, or maybe it was just your chest constricting. The steering wheel was a computer screen in your hands, glowing with more data than you’d ever had to process at 200 miles per hour.

"Radio check, Y/N. Loud and clear," Tom Stallard’s voice came through, calm and professional. He was Oscar’s race engineer usually, but today, he was yours.

"Loud and clear," you replied, forcing your voice not to shake.

You glanced at the monitor mounted on the halo. In the garage next to you, Lando was already strapped in, his eyes visible through his open visor. He looked over, gave a quick, sharp nod, and then turned his focus forward. He wasn't your brother right now; he was the benchmark.

"Okay, Y/N. Track is green. Bite point find, launch when ready."

You dropped the clutch. The McLaren MCL39 surged forward, the anti-stall kicking in smoothly as you rolled down the pit lane. The world vibrated, a low, angry hum of the Mercedes power unit behind your spine.

"Pit limiter off."

Bang.

The G-force hit you instantly. The difference between F2 and F1 wasn't just the speed; it was the violence of it. The braking efficiency, the downforce—it felt like the car was clawing into the tarmac.

For the first thirty minutes, you were sensible. You built up the temperature in the tires, learned the braking points, and kept your nose clean.

"Pace is looking good, Y/N," Tom said, his voice sounding genuinely pleased. "You’re matching Lando’s sector one times. Boxing for Softs now. We’re going to do one push lap before the session ends."

"Copy," you breathed out.

You boxed, the crew swarming the car like angry bees, swapping the Mediums for fresh, red-walled Softs. This was it. The glory run. The chance to show the world that you weren't just Lando Norris’s little sister.

You went back out. You warmed the tires. You found your gap in traffic.

"Mode Push. Charge on," Tom instructed. "Give it everything."

You flew.

Turn 1 was perfect. You hit the apex so cleanly you barely felt the curb. Through the high-speed section, the car felt glued to the floor. You saw the delta on your dash turn green. You were two-tenths up. Two tenths.

Adrenaline flooded your system. You were doing it. You were actually doing it.

"Purple sector two, Y/N. Keep it up," Tom said.

You approached the final sector. It was a tricky, high-speed corner entry, requiring absolute commitment. You knew you could take it flat out; the data said the car could handle it.

You turned in.

Maybe you carried too much speed. Maybe a gust of wind caught the rear wing. Maybe you hit a patch of dust just millimeters off the racing line.

The rear of the car snapped. Violent and instant.

"No!" you gasped.

You counter-steered, your hands a blur of motion, trying to catch the slide. For a millisecond, you thought you had it. But the McLaren had become a pendulum, the weight swinging back the other way with terrifying force. The tires shrieked, a high-pitched wail that cut through the engine noise.

The gravel trap rushed up to meet you, but you were moving too fast. The gravel didn't slow you down; it just skipped you across the surface like a stone on water.

The tech-pro barrier filled your vision.

CRACK.

The impact knocked the wind out of you instantly. The world spun in a sickening blur of orange and gray. The car ricocheted off the barrier, spinning twice before coming to a halt in a cloud of carbon dust and smoke.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your hands were still gripping the wheel, knuckles white. The front of the car was gone. The front wing, the suspension, the nose cone—shattered. The front left wheel was dangling by a tether.

"Y/N? Red flag, red flag," Tom’s voice was urgent now, stripping away the calm veneer. "Y/N, are you okay?"

You tried to inhale, but your lungs felt like they had collapsed. A sharp pain radiated through your ribs and your wrists throbbed from the kickback of the steering wheel.

"I..." You coughed, the taste of metallic adrenaline in your mouth. "I... I lost it."

"Are you unhurt? Check your limbs."

You wiggled your toes. You moved your fingers. Everything worked, even if it hurt. But then you looked at the chassis. The floor—the expensive, crucial floor—was cracked down the side. The gearbox was likely toast.

The shame hit harder than the barrier.

"I'm okay," you whispered, your voice cracking, tears pricking your eyes instantly. "Tom, I’m... the car. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

Back in the garage, the cameras cut to Lando. He had climbed halfway out of his car when the red flag dropped, watching the monitor. He saw the replay—the snap, the heavy impact. He saw his sister’s head slump forward against the halo.

He didn't look at the damage. He didn't look at Zak Brown, whose face had gone pale. Lando just ripped his gloves off, throwing them onto his seat, and stared at the screen, waiting for you to move.

"She's okay," Will Joseph, Lando's engineer, said quickly over the garage comms. "She’s speaking."

Lando let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, but his jaw remained tight. He knew what was coming next. He knew the media, and he knew the fans.

On the track, you unbuckled your belts, your hands shaking uncontrollably. You climbed out of the wreckage of the multi-million dollar machine, the Medical Car pulling up beside you. As you stepped onto the gravel, you looked back at the destroyed McLaren.

It wasn't just a crash. In your mind, it was the end of your career.

The Medical Center smelled of antiseptic and stale sweat. It was a sharp contrast to the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline that still lingered on your race suit.

"Follow my finger," the FIA doctor said, moving a pen light back and forth in front of your eyes.

You obeyed, sitting on the edge of the paper-covered examination bed. Your wrists were taped up—sprained, but not broken—and you had a nasty bruise forming on your left shin where it had slammed against the bulkhead. But the physical pain was a dull throb compared to the sinking, heavy stone of guilt in your stomach.

"Pupils are reactive. No signs of concussion," the doctor concluded, clicking his pen. "You’re cleared, Y/N. But take it easy. That was a 52G impact."

"Thanks," you mumbled, pulling your legs up to your chest.

The doctor left to file the paperwork, leaving you alone in the small, white room. You knew you should wait for your physio or Lando, but the silence was too loud. Your hand drifted to the side pocket of your discarded jacket. You pulled out your phone.

You knew you shouldn't. Every driver briefing, every media training session, they told you: Don’t look after a bad session.

But you couldn't help it.

You unlocked the screen. Twitter/X was already open. The trending topics were a list of nightmares:

#McLaren #FP1 #WasteofSeat Y/N Norris

Your thumb hovered, shaking slightly, before you tapped the first hashtag.

@.f1fan99 Imagine fighting for a Constructors' Championship and letting a girl wreck the car in FP1. What a joke. #McLaren

@.f1fan56 She literally only got the seat because she’s Lando’s sister. No talent, just vibes and a destroyed chassis. Stick to F2 or go home.

@.f1fan17 Cost cap hit: $2 million. Lap time: non-existent. Why do we pretend women can handle these cars? It’s biology. They panic.

You scrolled faster, your vision blurring.

"Diversity hire." "Embarrassing." "She ruined Lando's weekend."

A sob caught in your throat, a jagged, ugly sound. It wasn't just the crash. Drivers crashed all the time. Logan Sargeant had destroyed three cars this year. Lance Stroll hit the wall in Baku. But when they crashed, people called them bad drivers. When you crashed, it was proof that your entire gender didn't belong.

The door burst open.

You jumped, hastily shoving the phone under your leg, wiping your eyes with the back of your taped hand.

Lando stood there. He was still half-dressed in his race gear, his fireproof top tied around his waist, wearing a soaking wet t-shirt. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide, frantic.

"Y/N," he breathed out. He didn't walk; he ran.

He crossed the small room in two strides and pulled you into a crushing hug. He smelled of adrenaline and fear.

"I'm okay," you said into his shoulder, your voice thick. "Lando, I'm okay."

He pulled back, gripping your shoulders, scanning your face. "They said 50G. I saw the replay. I thought—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Are you hurt? Your wrists?"

"Sprained," you whispered. "I'm fine. But... Lando, the car. Did I crack the tub? Did I ruin the floor?"

Lando’s expression hardened. "Who cares?"

"Zak cares. The team cares. You should care," you argued, pulling away from him. "That comes out of the budget cap. I just cost the team development upgrades. I shouldn't have been in the car. I wasn't ready."

"Stop it," Lando said sharply.

"It's true! Look at what they're saying!"

You grabbed the phone from under your leg and shoved it at him. "Look! Everyone knows it. I’m a charity case. I’m just 'Lando’s sister.' And now I’ve proven them right."

Lando took the phone. He looked at the screen for three seconds. You saw his jaw clench, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His eyes went dark—a look you rarely saw on him. He was usually the joker, the guy who laughed at everything. But not now.

He didn't say a word. He just locked the phone and slid it into his own pocket.

"Hey," you protested weaky.

"You're not getting that back until Sunday," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "And you're not reading that garbage."

"It's not garbage if it's true."

"It's not true," Lando snapped. "You were purple in Sector 1. You were faster than Oscar’s sim data. You made a mistake. I crashed in FP3 in Spa my rookie year and totaled the car. Did they tell me to go back to the kitchen?"

You looked down at your taped wrists. "It's different."

"It shouldn't be," he said. He grabbed a towel from the counter and gently threw it over your head, rubbing your hair aggressively like he used to do when you were kids. It was a rough, clumsy gesture of comfort. "Wash your face. Put your team kit on. We have the media pen in twenty minutes."

"I can't," you said, panic rising. "I can't go out there. They're going to eat me alive."

Lando stopped. He lifted your chin so you had to look him in the eye.

"Let them try," he said. "I'm on first. And I’ve got a few things to say."

The press conference room was freezing, but the heat from the spotlights made the air feel stifling. You weren't on the stage—thank god. As a rookie in an FP1 session, you weren’t required to be part of the main FIA presser. Instead, you stood at the back of the room, hidden in the shadows near the McLaren press officer, wearing a fresh team cap pulled low over your eyes to hide the puffiness.

On the dais sat five drivers: Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, Alex Albon, Charles Leclerc, and right in the middle, Lando.

Lando hadn't looked at the cameras once. He was staring at the table, spinning a water bottle between his fingers. He looked like a coiled spring.

The moderator opened the floor to questions. Immediately, hands shot up.

"Question for Lando," a journalist from a notorious tabloid shouted out, not waiting to be picked.

Lando stopped spinning the bottle. He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

"Lando, obviously a disastrous start to the weekend for McLaren. Given the budget cap constraints, how does the team justify giving a seat to an... inexperienced driver who causes that much damage in under thirty minutes? Do you feel Y/N was pushed into the seat before she was physically capable of handling an F1 car?"

The room went quiet. The "physically capable" comment hung in the air like a bad smell. It was the oldest dog whistle in the book: Women are too weak to drive.

You felt your face burn. You wanted to disappear.

Lando leaned forward slowly. He didn't blink.

"Justify it?" Lando repeated, his voice dangerously low. He pulled the microphone closer. "We justify it because she’s the current F2 championship leader. We justify it because she has four pole positions this season. Next question."

"But surely," the journalist pressed, sensing blood, "the crash suggests she wasn't ready. It was a rookie mistake that cost millions. Some are saying it’s a result of... affirmative action rather than merit. That perhaps the G-force was too much for her to control the snap?"

Lando snapped.

He slammed the water bottle down on the table. The loud thud made the journalist jump.

"You want to talk about the snap?" Lando asked, his voice rising, cutting through the room. "Let's talk about it. Did you look at the telemetry? Did you bother to check the data before you opened your mouth? Because I did."

Lando pointed a finger at the crowd.

"She was two-tenths up on my delta. She was purple in Sector One. She was taking Turn 12 flat-out, something half the grid struggles to do on a Friday. She hit a damp patch on a cold track. That is not a 'strength' issue. That is not a 'girl' issue. That is a racing issue."

"Lando, no need to be aggressive—" the journalist tried to interrupt.

"No, I will be aggressive!" Lando shouted, his face flushing. "Because I crashed in Spa my rookie year. I put it in the wall at 160 miles per hour. Max put it in the wall in Monaco. Did you ask if we were 'physically capable'? Did you ask if we were 'diversity hires'? No. You called it learning. You called it finding the limit."

Lando took a breath, his voice shaking with genuine anger.

"Y/N trains harder than I do. She’s in the sim when I’m gaming. She’s in the gym when I’m sleeping. She earned that seat. If you want to criticize her driving, fine. Criticize the entry angle. Criticize the braking point. But do not sit there and tell me she crashed because she’s a woman. It’s lazy, it’s pathetic, and frankly, it pisses me off."

He sat back, crossing his arms, glaring at the journalist.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but this time, it wasn't from sadness.

Before the moderator could try to salvage the situation, Lewis Hamilton, sitting two seats away, leaned into his microphone. The room went silent out of respect.

"If I may," Lewis said, his voice calm, deep, and authoritative. He turned his head to look directly at the journalist.

"Lando is right," Lewis said. "I’ve been watching Y/N in the junior categories for two years. She has a natural feel for the car that you can’t teach. We preach about 'We Race As One,' we talk about diversity, but the moment a woman steps into the cockpit, the media waits for her to fail so they can say 'I told you so.'"

Lewis paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with the cameras.

"That crash today? That was a driver pushing the limits. That’s what we are paid to do. If she was driving slowly to be safe, you would have called her slow. She pushed, and she bit the dust. That’s Formula 1. She belongs on this grid. And anyone who thinks otherwise because of her gender doesn't understand this sport."

Max Verstappen, who had been looking bored, leaned over to his mic.

"She was fast," Max said simply, shrugging. "Data doesn't lie. The car is broken, sure. But the speed was there. That is the hard part. Not crashing is easy—just drive slow. Being fast is hard. She is fast."

The journalist sat down, looking thoroughly chastised.

Lando looked over at Lewis, giving him a small, grateful nod. Then, Lando looked toward the back of the room. He couldn't see your eyes under the cap, but he knew you were there. He stared right at you, his expression softening just a fraction, communicating a silent message: I’ve got you.

You let out a shaky breath, wiping your face. The car was broken. The fans were angry. But for the first time that day, you didn't feel like quitting.

You wanted to race.

The gym in Monaco was quiet, save for the rhythmic clank of iron and your own ragged breathing.

It had been three months since the crash. Three months since the chassis snapped. Three months since Lando and Lewis stood up for you.

You stared at the mirror. Taped to the glass, right at eye level, was a printout of a tweet.

@.user74 Biology is biology. Women don't have the neck strength for 5G cornering. It’s unsafe.

You adjusted the harness on your head, attached to the weighted pulley system designed to train neck muscles. You loaded it to 25kg. Then 30kg.

"Biology," you grunted through gritted teeth, pulling your head to the side, fighting the resistance until the muscles in your neck screamed.

You held it. One second. Two seconds. Three.

Snap. The memory of the car hitting the wall flashed, but you didn't flinch this time. You pulled harder.

Woking, UK (2:00 AM)

The McLaren Technology Centre (MTC) was a ghost town at night, except for the simulator room.

"Again," you said into the radio.

"Y/N," Tom Stallard’s voice came through, sounding tired. "That’s lap 150. Your consistency is within three-hundredths. Go home."

"Again," you repeated, staring at the virtual track of Interlagos on the wrap-around screens. "I missed the apex at Junção by a meter. Reset."

You were possessed. You had turned off your social media notifications. You had stopped reading the articles. Instead, you poured every ounce of frustration into the data. You learned the MCL39 better than you knew your own apartment. You knew how the differential behaved when the tires were 20% worn. You knew exactly how much curb you could take before the floor stalled.

You weren't driving to have fun anymore. You were driving to survive.

Late October

You were in your kitchen, making a protein shake, when your phone buzzed on the counter.

Caller ID: Zak Brown.

Your heart stopped. Usually, if it was good news, Lando called you. If it was bad news—like being dropped from the Academy—Zak called.

You wiped your hands on a towel and picked up. "Hello?"

"Y/N," Zak’s American accent was brisk, business-like. "Where are you?"

"London. At the flat."

"Can you get to a private terminal at Luton in two hours?"

You blinked. "I... yes. Why?"

"Oscar is down. Food poisoning, looks like salmonella. It’s bad. He’s not flying."

The realization hit you like a physical blow. It was race week. Brazil. The penultimate round of the triple header.

"We need a reserve," Zak said. "And looking at your sim data from the last month... the team feels you’re the best option. We’re putting you in the car, Y/N. For the whole weekend. FP1 through to the Race."

Your hand gripped the phone so tight your knuckles turned white. This wasn't a rookie session. This wasn't a test. This was a Grand Prix weekend. In Interlagos—one of the most difficult, physical tracks on the calendar.

"Y/N? You there?"

"I'm here," you said. Your voice was steady. Cold, almost. The fear that had paralyzed you three months ago was gone, replaced by a steely, quiet rage. "I'll be at the airport in ninety minutes."

"Good. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the car. Just drive it."

Interlagos – Thursday Media Day

Walking into the paddock with a papaya team kit on felt different this time. The cameras clicked furiously as you walked alongside Lando. The whispers started immediately.

"Is that her?" "They’re actually letting her drive again?" "Brave move by McLaren."

Lando kept his sunglasses on, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with you, acting as a physical shield. But as you approached the turnstiles, you stopped him.

"I’m good," you said quietly.

Lando looked down at you, sliding his glasses down his nose. "You sure? The press is going to be annoying."

"I know." You adjusted your collar. "Let them talk. I’m not here to talk."

You walked past him, head high, straight toward the McLaren hospitality unit.

You walked past the journalist who had mocked you three months ago. He held out a microphone, opening his mouth to ask a question about the crash. You didn't even break stride. You looked right through him as if he didn't exist.

You went straight to the garage. You found your mechanic, the one who had to rebuild your car last time.

"Hey," you said.

He looked up, a bit wary. "Hey, Y/N."

"I know I made you work late last time," you said, looking at the pristine MCL39 sitting on the stands. "I'm not going to apologize again. But I am going to promise you something."

"What's that?"

You ran a hand over the smooth carbon of the sidepod.

"This weekend, we’re bringing back points. Not carbon fiber scraps."

The mechanic cracked a smile. "Just bring it back in one piece, and we're good."

"No," you said, your eyes dark and focused. "I'm not here to bring it back in one piece. I'm here to put it on the podium."

The silence was the loudest part.

When you crossed the line in Q3, the timing tower lit up. 1. VER 2. NOR 3. LEC 4. HAM 5. Y/N

You had out-qualified a Red Bull and a Ferrari. You were P5.

"Solid job, Y/N. P5. That’s a mega lap," Tom said over the radio.

"Copy," was all you said. No celebrating. The job wasn't done.

Interlagos was a cauldron. The air was thick and humid, the sky a bruised purple color that promised violence.

The lights went out. Five red lights, then darkness. Your reaction time was 0.22s. Instant. You launched off the line, the McLaren hooking up perfectly. Tsunoda in the Red Bull (P6) tried to squeeze you into Turn 1 (The Senna S), but you held your nerve, keeping the inside line, wheels interlocking for a terrifying second before he backed out.

"Nice work. Elbows out," Lando’s voice would have said if he could talk to you, but you knew he was fighting Max for the lead ahead.

Lap 40/71: The sky opened up. It didn't just rain; it poured. The track temperature plummeted.

"Box, Box. Intermediates. Box now," Tom yelled.

The pit lane was chaos. Cars were double-stacking. You dove into the pit box just as Lando peeled out. The crew was flawless—2.4 seconds. You exited the pits in P4, having jumped Leclerc who had a slow stop.

Lap 68/71: The track was treacherous. Drivers were sliding everywhere. Albon had spun out. Russell was in the wall. A Safety Car had bunched the pack up, and now, with 3 laps to go, the Safety Car was coming in.

You were P4. Ahead of you was Carlos Sainz in P3. Behind you was Lewis Hamilton, closing fast on fresher tires.

"Safety car in this lap. Track is wet but drying in Sector 3. Watch for standing water," Tom warned. "You have Lewis behind, gap 0.8."

"I don't care about Lewis," you snapped, your focus narrowing to a singular point. "I want Carlos."

"Copy that. Mode Push. Overtake is available."

Green flag. Spray kicked up like a wall of white fog. You couldn't see anything but the flashing red rain light of the Williams ahead.

Sainz went defensive into Turn 1. You feinted right, then switched back to the racing line, getting a better exit.

"Come on," you screamed inside your helmet.

You dragged the car up the hill towards Turn 4. The Williams was faster in a straight line, but the McLaren had the downforce in the corners.

Lap 70. Penultimate lap. Turn 4 is a downhill left-hander. In the wet, it’s a nightmare. Sainz took the middle line, protecting the inside.

You didn't go inside. You went around the outside.

It was a move that defied logic. To go around the outside in the rain required immense trust in the car and insane bravery. If you slipped, you were in the gravel.

You braked later than him. Much later. For a heartbeat, the car floated, hydroplaning slightly. Don't crash. Don't crash.

The tires bit. You swept around the outside of the Williams, your rear wheel millimetres from his front wing. You held the slide, throttle control absolute, and rocketed out of the corner ahead.

"YEEEES!" you screamed, the sound raw and guttural.

"What a move! What a move, Y/N!" Tom shouted, breaking his usual calm. "P3! You are P3! Bring it home!"

One more lap. You held the gap. You saw the checkered flag waving through the mist. Max won, Lando was P2... and you were P3.

Two McLarens on the podium.

"Chequered flag, Y/N! P3! That is a podium on your debut! Absolutely fantastic drive!"

You didn't answer immediately. You just started crying. Ugly, shaking tears that soaked your balaclava. The relief was a physical weight lifting off your chest.

"That," you choked out, your voice trembling over the global broadcast, "was for the girls."

You pulled the car into the number 3 board. You shut the engine off. Before you could even unbuckle, Lando was there.

He didn't wait. He jumped on the front left tire and leaned into the cockpit, grabbing your helmet with both hands, shaking it.

"I TOLD YOU!" he was yelling, his visor up, eyes wild with joy. "I TOLD THEM! YOU LEGEND!"

You climbed out, your legs shaking. The crowd was roaring. You took off your helmet, your hair plastered to your forehead with sweat.

The cameras were all on you. Carlos Sainz walked over and shook your hand. "Brave move," he said, looking impressed. "Crazy, but brave."

Then Lando tackled you in a hug, lifting you off your feet. "Mum is going to be freaking out," he laughed into your ear.

You pulled back and looked at the camera. You remembered the comments. You remembered the hate. You remembered the fear in the medical center.

You looked right down the lens. You didn't smile. You just winked.

The Press Conference (Post-Race)

You sat in the center seat (usually for the winner, but Max let you sit there for a moment while he signed hats). The same journalist from three months ago raised his hand. He looked sheepish.

"Y/N," he started, clearing his throat. "Incredible drive. That move on the outside of Turn 4... talk us through it."

You leaned into the mic, picking up the heavy P3 trophy and setting it down with a solid clunk.

"Well," you said, your voice calm and steady. "I just closed my eyes and hoped for the best. You know how us women get panicked in high-G situations."

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Max cracked a grin.

"But seriously," you continued, your expression sharpening. "The car was perfect. The team did an amazing job repairing it after... last time. This trophy is for the mechanics who stayed late to fix my mistakes, and for everyone who told me I belonged in the kitchen."

You tapped the trophy.

"I think I like it better here."

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories

@ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000

@roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar

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@meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl

@liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight

❤ tag list charles: @rebelwrites @ilovereadingsm08

🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak

🎞 tag list smau: @ghosties-dagger @berrnuu

[formulafanfics13]

Hi can you do where reader and Oscar are travelling around and they meet a fan and the fan speaks another language as well as English but struggles to find the right words and that’s how Oscar learned that his girlfriend is from another country?

OH… YOU’RE DUTCH? - OP81

Masterlist

Summary: While wandering through Lisbon on a rare day off, Oscar is approached by a young fan — and is stunned to discover, mid-conversation, that the reader is fluent in Dutch. After a year of dating, this is news to him. Chaos ensues as she reveals her Dutch upbringing, secret friendship with Max Verstappen, and a mysteriously long list of hidden talents, leaving Oscar mildly betrayed and wildly obsessed.

Warnings: Fluff, light chaos, identity surprise, multilingual reader, casual mention of fan encounters and fame, playful relationship dynamic, secret backstory reveal, mild language kink implications.

They were in Lisbon when it happened.

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon.

 No real schedule, no media obligations, just a stolen week between races. They’d spent the morning walking along the river, ducking into bakeries, sharing pastries with flaky sugar still on their fingers, Oscar wearing sunglasses and a hoodie like it actually disguised anything.

It didn’t.

People still recognised him. Not all the time, but often enough. There was a rhythm to it now — fans whispering behind menus, teenagers trying to pretend they weren’t taking photos. Most of it was sweet, and Oscar was always polite. Gracious, even.

This girl, though, she was shaking. Probably seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Hair in a braid. She spotted him as they left a little side-street bookstore, and her jaw dropped. “Oh my god,” she breathed, eyes wide. “Are you… are you Oscar Piastri?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah. Hi.”

The girl made a tiny squeal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d- Can I take a photo with you? Please?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

You stepped to the side, used to this dance. Watched as he crouched slightly to be in frame, still holding your hand even in the photo, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The fan looked like she might cry.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her phone back and blinking fast. “I’m sorry, English is not… my best.”

Oscar shook his head. “You’re doing great.”

“I-I speak Dutch better. It’s easier,” the girl added quickly. “But I can say… I love you, and I love Formula One, and I hope you win.”

That made him laugh. “Dank je wel,” he said clumsily, slow and soft.

You laughed too. The girl noticed and turned toward you, eyes lighting up. “Oh! Are you Dutch too?”

And before Oscar could even react, you answered, fluent, melodic, totally effortless. “Ja, ik kom uit Nederland! Waar vandaan ben jij?”

The fan gasped. “Echt? Ik ben uit Utrecht!”

You grinned. “Dat is niet ver van waar ik ben opgegroeid.”

Oscar just blinked. The two of you chatted for another minute in full-speed Dutch, something about circuits, Max, the weather, and then she thanked you both again, waved, and disappeared around the corner, still glowing.

Oscar turned slowly to look at you. “…You speak Dutch.”

You smiled. “Mmhmm.”

He paused. “You’re… Dutch?”

You snorted. “I am. Born there. Raised there until I was twelve.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“I thought you did!”

“I did not!” he laughed. “Jesus Christ, I’ve dated you for a year and just found out you’re Dutch because a fan brought it up?”

“To be fair,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him close, “I don’t have an accent anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes. “But you speak like a native.”

“Well, yeah. And that’s why I get along with Max so well.”

Oscar blinked. “…That actually makes a scary amount of sense.”

You grinned. “He found out ages ago and forced me to be his translator in Monaco. He’s very demanding.”

“I knew you two were secret best friends.”

You shrugged. “We grew up about two hours from each other. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Oscar shook his head in disbelief. “What other languages do you speak?”

You just smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

[aureliawhispers]

I love the idea of immortal characters slowly forgetting their memories with you. It's so painful and real.

Dainsleif, who panics when telling his story of you to the traveler and Paimon, realises he forgot what your voice sounded like. Who clenched his fist, when he can't remember what your laughter sounded like.

Flins, who freezes when asked what you looked like, because he genuinely can't remember, and it shattered his heart when he realised that. Who begged to remember even little bits of you.

Neuvillette, whose voice stumbles when Sigwinne asks what you were like back then, the human who guided and taught him the world, who took care of him, someone that precious, yet he can't remember what you were like besides that.

[mickyschumacher]

more sub Oscar pleaseeeeeee

dear god - OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x driver!fem!reader

summary: silverstone has left a sour taste in oscar's mouth and he wants you to get it out. or in which oscar decides to call in a favour.

warning: 18+ (minors dni), some fluff, sub!oscar, mentions of alcohol, oscar worshipping you, younger reader, praise kink (m/f receiving and giving), oral sex, eating out, fingering, squ*rting, p in v, unprotected sex (use protection plsssss), breeding kink, mutual and multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slight breastplay // poorly proof-read

word count: 3.4k+

a/n: just had to post this bc i've been salivating over this so here you go! sorry for the wait honey! hope you like it as much as i liked it! also notice how i've done two silverstone pieces and they're both about oscar... am i jinxing him?

🏎️ masterlist | ⚽️ masterlist

Oscar stood outside your hotel door in Monaco, swallowing the nerves he had built up. It had been two days after whatever had happened in Silverstone.

God, he didn't know what to do.

The emotions he had experienced in the past forty eight hours alone had him melting down. 'Iceman' they called him. Emotionless. Cold. He felt sorry for those who couldn't differentiate the trait of a sociopath and he who could regulate his emotions.

Oscar was angry initially. Fuming. He couldn't understand why he had even received the penalty. It was the only reason he had so desperately asked to switch on the radio. He was never desperate.

But after looking at the footage from various angles and drivers, he was inclined to agree. And although he might've argued ten seconds was still a little too harsh, it was over. What's done was done.

Yet... he couldn't get it out of his mind. No amount of exercise or mediation (as his mother so kindly provided) was helping. So he was calling in a favour.

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, taking a step forward to knock on your door before stepping back. While he waited for you to answer, the dread immediately began filling him. Was this wrong? Would you even say yes?

This favour... he had incurred it after you had gotten a bit too carried away with the drinking when you had won your first race this year. To be honest, you still barely remembered the night. You drank, you danced, you cheered... and the next moment, you were waking up with Oscar dealing with your hungover-self in your apartment.

Embarrassed as hell, you had tried to get him out of your apartment as quick as you could, pushing him out, saying something along the lines of "I owe you."

Before Oscar could overthink any further, you opened your door, brows raised and lips parted. You definitely weren't expecting him.

"Morning," Oscar greeted, shifting on his feet awkwardly while he took in the little black sundress wrapped around your body. Not even wrapped, it clung to your body oh so nicely. Oh Christ.

You smiled softly. "Morning," you responded. "What's up?" You queried, leaning on the frame of your door.

Oscar pursed his lips. "Um, well, you know how you got shitfaced in Monaco a few weeks ago? Well–"

You sighed, leaving the door open as you retreated back into your home. "Thin ice, Oscar. Thin ice," you mumbled loudly, cheeks already burning at the memory. You didn't want to try and remember any of it.

Being hungover was hell enough. But after winning in Monaco and having the Oscar Piastri help you home... it was a new sort of purgatory. One you weren't willing to tread.

Being hungover wasn't even the problem.

The problem was Oscar and the way he looked at you.

You were a rookie driver. Three years younger than him. You had raced each other at different times before. You knew his sister well too. You had never even considered him as something more than a friend or co-worker until this year.

Being on the same grid meant seeing him everywhere. You had lost count of how many times the McLaren team had dragged you to help the boys with their social media. More times than that, you had caught him staring at you. Eyes soft yet dark, full of want. At first you thought you were imagining things. But when your publicist pulled you aside and asked why Oscar staring at you like he wanted to consume your very being, your beliefs had been confirmed.

Even worse, Oscar had gotten out of a long term relationship months ago. So with the way he looked at you, the last thing you wanted to be was a rebound. That's exactly what you needed. Be a young rebound co-worker for a leading potential World Champion. Not.

"Right, well," Oscar walked after you, closing the door behind him while he removed his shoes. "I... you said you owed me."

You looked at Oscar through your eyelashes, taking a seat next to your kitchen counter. You chewed on your lip, raising a brow. "You mean like a favour?"

Oscar nodded quietly, memorising the way you crossed your legs and looked at him, teeth grazing your plump lips. He blinked, shaking his head lightly. "Silverstone's killing me. I can't get my mind off it."

You tilted your head, leaning on the counter. "How am I supposed to fix it?"

Oscar's mouth opened but nothing came out. Fuck... he didn't know if he could actually do this. Not when you sat in front of him like this. Ready to devour him.

"I know you don't what to hear it but when you were drunk," he sighed at your groan. He stepped closer to you, invading your space. "When you were drunk," he repeated, "you said something and I think I need it." Right now. Tomorrow. Next week. He didn't want to put a time limit on it.

"Oscar, please," you closed your eyes, trying block out all the memories.

"You have to remember it if you keep stalling, ___," Oscar mumbled, brown eyes staring hard at you.

You swallowed thickly. It was the only part of Oscar bringing you home that you remembered. The reason you had been avoiding him in the paddock for weeks now.

Oscar breathed, inching closer to you. "You said you wanted to fuck me. Have me on my knees. Eat you out till you couldn't remember your name. Ride me until I begged you to stop. I need that."

You sucked in a sharp breath, visibly clenching your thighs together. Fuck. His voice was shaking. You did say that. You had said it because Oscar looked so beautiful in the moonlight. You had said it because...

"I was drunk–"

"Drunk words, sober thoughts," Oscar retorted simply.

You wordlessly watched Oscar sink down to his knees, his hands skimming the fabric of your dress and your exposed thighs. You could feel your heart thud in your ears, whirring loudly while you spotted the semi-bulge in his pants.

"Please," Oscar murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of your calf. "I want to taste you so bad," he breathed out, fingers drawing idle circles on your skin. "I want you to feel good, princess."

You involuntarily shuddered at the nickname. He threw it around the paddock all the time. Teasing you. But today, he was on his knees, pleading you.

"Oscar..." you whispered, swallowing the saliva built up in your mouth. He was making the mess between your legs even worse. "We can't. We work together. Our contracts–"

You could feel him huff with amusement against your legs. "Fuck the contracts. Everyone knows within a five hundred metre radius knows."

"Knows what?" You whispered.

That same boyish smile you saw that night sprawled onto his face. The sheer seriousness swarming his eyes as he looked up at you. "That I worship the floor you walk on."

Oscar watched you blink, silent for a moment. Quietly, you opened your legs, revealing a peak of your matching black panties. His mouth fell open as you spoke with a small smile, "I hope you don't make promises you can't keep."

"Christ," Oscar rasped, leaning in, hands grasping your thighs, your skin spilling between his fingers driving him crazy. He pushed your legs further apart, black dress riding higher, teeth sinking into his bottom lip when he spotted the damp spot of black on your panties. "Look at you," he croaked, hot breath skimming past your core.

He breathed in the smell of your arousal and God, he could've sworn his cock twitched. So intoxicating.

Your body lurched as he pressed his thumb on your clothed pussy, rubbing you gently. Oscar couldn't take his eyes off it. "So wet... does my devotion turn you on, princess?" He queried not in jest but pure intrigue.

"Shit," you mewled, hands clenching the edge of the kitchen counter tightly as Oscar pushed aside the drenched fabric and was immediately greeted by the warmth of your folds. He smiled, gathering all your slick with this thumb, grazing past your clit to capture the look of your hazed eyes.

Oscar said nothing, hooking a finger on your waistband before pulling down your panties, leaving it on the countertop before spreading you once again. His head dipped between your thighs, tongue taking a long stripe. You whimpered at the hum vibrating through your body.

"Taste like heaven," he gasped before plunging his tongue back into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as he lapped at you.

Your head fell back, pleasure swirling around you while your thighs clenched around his face. He was drinking you, taking all he could while he explored every single crevice he had been jerking off to for months now. How many times had he come in his driver's room under the guise of Lando's loud music, imagine your pussy on his tongue? Too many perhaps.

Your hands flew to his brown locks, trying to grasp the sheer pleasure running through your body as if it was tangible. Your eyes fell to his, tongue dragging up your folds before circling your clit while you instantly spotted his blown pupils.

You think he was humping the air, that's how turned on he was. But you couldn't tell. Not when he sucked your clit to gently yet firmly, a precision you had never even been to get on your vibrator. "Feels so good, pretty boy."

Oscar moaned against your pussy, cock straining in his pants at the name you had given him. He adored the thin sheet of sweat on your skin. You glowed above him, lips red from the way you bit them, nipples hard through your dress. Fuck, you were killing him.

He could only tighten his grip around your thighs, bringing you closer if possible, eating you like he was a starving man. The edges of his mouth drooling for you. He could feel your hips jerk and grind against his lips, your moans turning into incoherent gasps. White stars were clouding your vision while the sounds of Oscar slurping your pussy filled your apartment.

"Oscar," you breathed, lower stomach tightening, "I... fuck!"

Your legs trembled around his face, air evaporating from your lungs as you continuously ground your hips, taking every wave of pleasure rolling over you while his groans reverberated within your core.

While Oscar wasn't done, still lapping at your sensitive pussy, you grabbed those brown locks, forcing him to stop and look at you. Your core throbbed at sight of his face, shining with your arousal, chest heaving like he was finally breathing.

"Let me ride you, pretty boy," you breathed, pushing yourself off the chair, not forgetting to grab your panties. You watched him slowly stand back up, your index finger under his chin, his brown eyes solely focused on you.

"Yes, please, please," Oscar rasped, moaning when you grabbed his collar and pulled him towards your bedroom. The small trip had you press your lips to his, his hands immediately resting on your waist, bringing you closer while his tongue explored your mouth. The flavour of you fell all over your tastebuds.

Dear God... you weren't ever going to forget these lips.

Oscar whimpered at the rub of your hands on his ears, fingernails moving down his neck teasingly. You walked through your bedroom door, hands moving to push him onto your bed. "Take it off," you breathed. "Take all of it off."

Oscar scrambled at your orders, removing his shirt off with one hand – the other undoing his belt. He only sped up as you removed your pretty sundress, revealing your bare body to him.

"Oh fuck," he whined, eyeing you in awe while he finally removed his boxers. Goosebumps littered his skin. He was awfully aware of the way you were looking at him as he laid on your bed. Memorising him.

Your eyes fell to his cock. The pretty thing standing straight, slapping his stomach, red and sore – dribbling pre-cum like there was no tomorrow.

You grinned to yourself. You crawled onto the bed, Oscar watching your every move. Your hands trailed over his legs, moving up and up, grasping his thighs while your hot breath grazed over his cock, leaving him squirming.

You looked at Oscar, tilting your head, eyes wide like a doe, innocent thought you were anything but. "I'll let you choose, pretty boy," you murmured, hands roaming his chest, leaving him breathing unevenly. "There's a condom in my purse. Or... you can have me raw."

"Raw," Oscar said almost immediately. His voice torn. His chest heaved. He leaned up, kissing the column of your neck. "Please, please, please... raw. Fuck, I wanna feel you so bad, princess.'

You smiled, pleased. You pushed his back onto the bed, thumb trailing his swollen lips. "Such a well mannered boy. You deserve a reward."

You didn't give yourselves any time to adjust. No more teasing. You couldn't. You needed to feel him too. You hovered over him, legs on either side of him while you grabbed his cock, aligning it with you.

Oscar had to remind himself to breathe at your touch and not just cum already. He swallowed thickly, eyes glued to the space between your drenched pussy and his hard cock. You slowly sunk down on his cock, walls stretching to adjust to his thickness.

"Fuck," he cried out, hands flying to your hips like he needed to steady himself. Shit... you felt too good. He wouldn't last long.

"So big, pretty boy," you praised, moaning quietly at the way he filled you. You could feel him everywhere. So deep.

"Feel so good," he grunted out, trying to prevent himself from moving already.

You chuckled lightly. "It's okay, Osc," you cooed, patting his cheek softly. "You can come if you want. I'll just make you come again and again and again..."

Oscar's cheeks and ears flamed at your words. His stomach churned as you lifted your hips, coming off his cock before slamming down. "Shit," he mewled, head lurching forward into your breasts. The feel of your pussy clenched around him like a vice and it was driving him crazy. He could feel every part of you pussy, hips flushed with yours while the tip of his cock nudged your cervix.

Oscar watched you ride him, your body moving up and down like you were imprinting your name on his cock. Your breasts bounce against your chest, enticing him to suck them, praying it would silence his moans.

Your hand travelled to his locks, grasping his hair while the moans tumbled out of your lips.

"Tell me," he breathed against your breasts, cock pulsing in your pussy. "How do I feel? Tell me I feel good."

"So good," you groaned, eyes clenched, grinding your hips against his cock. "So deep, I could let you breed me."

Oscar's hips began fucking up into you, whimpers escaping his throat. "Yeah, you like that? Wanna come in me, pretty boy? Coat me from the inside? Let me know what's mine?"

"Yes," he whined, stomach clenching at the sight of the cream ring around his cock. The weight of you was fully resting on his cock, taking in every inch of him. The sounds of your skin slapping against one another filled the air.

Oscar swallowed, bringing his thumb to your clit, cursing at the way your pussy tightened around him even more. "Come for me, princess. Show me how good I make you feel."

Your jaw went slack, moans turning silent, vision blurring as your body trembled and convulsed around his cock, hips bucking to ride out the high. "F-Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Oscar moaned, his own hips increasing the pace. His hands gripped your waist tightly, your folds clenching over him still. "Shit, I'm going to come!"

He tried to hold off, thumb rubbing your sensitive clit in quick circle, rubbing your arousal all over you. "Come with me, please, princess," he panted, cock filling you in all the right places.

Your eyes rolled back, body shuddering once again while you felt his hot cum spill into your walls, his hips stuttering up into you. You fell against his chest, your own heaving.

Oscar pulled out of you gently, watching his seed drip out of you. He moaned, lifting you so you sat on the bed. He spread your legs, fingers collecting his cum before spreading it around your puffy pussy.

Your body shivered, overstimulated. You sunk your teeth into your lips when you felt Oscar push his cum into your pussy, three fingers pushing right into that spot.

"O-Oscar," you stuttered, walls clenching around his fingers while your hand reached out to grip his arm.

"One more, please," Oscar begged, fingers thrusting in and out of you. Curling and rubbing your insides. "I can make you feel so good. Look how you take my fingers. Just like my cock. Like I was made for you."

"Oh fuck," you moaned, hand tightening around his arm. The obscene squelches of your pussy told you both what you knew: you were so fucking wet.

His fingers plunged into you, thumb circling your clit. His speed increased, digits curling into your g-spot. Oscar groaned. He could feel your pussy pulsing around his fingers.

"Oscar," you panted, almost drawing blood from your lips, feeling him coax the liquid from you.

A cry fell from your lips, thighs shooting to clench around his hand while your legs trembled. Your vision was entirely white. Mouth open, pants eerily silent as heat flooded from your pussy, hot liquid coming out in spurts from your folds, onto his hands, and the mattress.

Oscar, who had been rutting his hips against the bed quietly, felt his cock twitch, his cum spilling again at the sight of your juices drenching him. "Oh my God," he whined, eyes shut, riding out his orgasm.

"Christ," you swore, head falling back to your pillows while you tried to catch your breath, legs collapsing while Oscar fell next to you.

You turned to him, sucking in a sharp. "You made me squirt," you breathed out in disbelief. "I came four times," you sighed, shuffling closer to him.

Oscar smiled gently, tucking your hair behind your ears. Both of your bodies stuck to the blanket, sweat, his cum, and your juices covering the both of you. "That was just four. I can give you eighty one."

You rolled your eyes, smacking him lightly. "Piss off," you chuckled, feeling his body shake with amusement as well. You pursed your lips, caressing his cheek. "Still feeling shit about Silverstone?"

"What's Silverstone?" He queried, a dry smile on his face as he pulled you closer to him.

You grinned. "That's what I like to hear."

"You wanna hear about Monaco?" Oscar teased, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

You groaned, cheeks burning as you tried to get out of his arms. Oscar laughed softly, keeping you close to him. "Okay, okay," he murmured. "Now let me at least take you out on a date. I'm not usually a sex first guy."

"What can I say? I bring the worst out of people," you quipped with a cheeky grin, tapping his nose lightly.

Oscar smiled while you sighed loudly, hand idly rubbing down your body. "Our publicists are going to kill us," you mumbled, already fearing the wrath of your own.

"It'll be fine. Everyone already knows how much of a loser I am for you. They'll probably be relieved, if anything," he snorted. "Have I mentioned that I really like you yet or..."

"Not really," you commented, warmth spreading over your body at his words.

Oscar grinned, clearing your face of any loose strands to he could see you clearly. "Well then," he whispered, thumb trailing over your lips. "I really really really like you."

You smiled. "I like you too... even if you're an absolute idiot."

"Okay... rude," Oscar nudged you, still grinning.

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[gold-rhine]

For the nsfw ask game 👀 Diluc, Xiao, and Thoma. Mirror sex, overstimulation, and knife play. 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

warnings nsfw

I've already written Xiao mirror sex in the actual fic, so i'm leaving that out. and tbh i'd be hesitant to do knife play with him bc xiao has such a fraught relationship with violence and pain, wouldn't want to risk triggering him. only nice things for the baby bird.

so that leaves overstim, which i'd do with good ol' reliable bullet vibe up the ass. now, for some subs, i'd leave them tied and alone until they scream for you, but not xiao. first of all, he's such a good boy for you, he wouldn't even think of removing the vibe against your order. he will curse and pretend he hates it, but he'd never disobey. second, watching him break down is so fun. he'd turn away in embarrassment, try to hold still and hide his struggles, and not tying his hands pays off, bc he first starts gripping at the sheets, and then clawing at them. he doesn't give up after first orgasm, grunts quietly and tenses up, thighs clenching together. but when you gently run your hand over his spine, he'd break immediately, turns around with a whimper, melts in your arms, coming again and again

now, both thoma and diluc would be fun with both of the remaining prompts, but i'm gonna go with knife play for diluc. unlike xiao, he doesn't have history of torture and thousand of years of viewing himself as a corrupted weapon. instead, he is bottling his emotions during the day and pretending to be stoic and calm, and only letting these bottled up emotions out in a literal burst of fire during the fights. knife play can be a tie to this, that sense of danger that sparks up his body, allowing to access emotions more easily, but without actual violence. and, as a bonus, cutting up these expensive but ugly nobleman clothes? mwah. getting rid of that ugly necktie first. the ruby is pretty, but the tie itself is gotta go. he has so many useless straps and belts on him too. the dangly bits on the shoulders, little chains all over the place. so much to have fun with

thoma with mirror sex is just a treat, a bowl of ripe peaches when not one of them is bruised or going bad, just uncomplicated indulgent pleasure, messy and delicious. i'd order my sweet dear thoma to first jerk off in front of the mirror, on his knees naked, half-closed blinds throwing sunlight on him in golden spots, the rest in warm shadows, and then to prepare his hole, and he'd do everything obediently, with a lovely blush while fingering himself in full view. and then fuck him on all fours, while he watches himself, sweaty and heated, cock leaking and coming before permission and then having to lick it from the floor, looking up shamefully to see himself do it and getting painfully hard all over again. mwah

[meowdei]

aphelion and perihelion — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: you are the daughter of the man alhaitham brought down, bound to him by the soul mark that feels more like a curse than fate. somehow, one letter at a time, he finds his way into your heart—until you can no longer pretend you don’t ache for the man who ruined your life and saved you all at the same time

word count. ❤︎ 14.4k words—give it a chance. PLEASE I BEG give it a chance and i will venmo u a penny

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; soulmates au ; somewhat enemies to lovers (it’s a bit one sided) ; reader is azar’s daughter ; reader is a rtawahist scholar and wields an electro vision ; reader is going through it guys. cut her some major slack okay ; YEARNER alhaitham ; soulmarks as the soulmates trope ; sumeru plot is heavily referenced and i hope it’s all accurate it’s been 3 years ; male masturbation ; vaginal fingering ; protected sex (use condoms!) ; praise kink ; getting together ; implied moving in together in the end ; this is not proof read. i am tired and hungry

commentary. ❤︎ read the extended author’s note here

The Akademiya admissions form includes the following overview for Rtawahist:

Rtawahist is one of the Six Darshans of the Akademiya that students may select to study, specializing in illuminationism and the pursuit of truth through the study of the stars. Its scope includes, first, astronomy—the mathematical observation and mapping of celestial bodies—and second, astrology—the interpretation of their patterns as signs of destiny. Students who pursue this Darshan will train in celestial observation, star-mapping, and the interpretation of cosmic patterns, combining scientific precision with philosophical inquiry.

When you fill out your application years ago, you check the box for Rtawahist without even reading the overview. You have no need to do that. You do not bother with listing a second choice, either. You also have no need to do that. Your father will see the application through—that much you already know. Privileged, perhaps, but not unearned. You have every intention of earning your keep.

When the acceptance papers arrive, Rtawahist is stamped as your chosen Darshan. You are not surprised. You are not ungrateful, either. The stars, you think, may have been your first love—you do not take your devotion to them any more lightly now than you did when you studied them.

You have never anticipated that the same stars you devote yourself to could be so cruel, forcing you to watch the man who replaced your father as Grand Sage also be the one who orchestrated his downfall.

You cannot bear the injustice of it.

Your father—who now sits in a cell while the city mocks his name—has been replaced by the very man who put him there. The same man they call a hero. The same man who stripped him of his title, his dignity, and every scrap of respect earned through decades of work and brilliance.

You catch this despicable man just as he leaves his—no, your father’s—office.

“Excuse me,” you hiss, “are you the one they call Alhaitham?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. His expression is unreadable, almost bored—like you’re an interruption that he endures. The veins in your head threaten to burst from the sheer insult of it.

“I’m on my break now,” he says flatly, “if you wish to submit an appeal to any funding proposals, please submit an application according to the prescribed format—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” you interrupt, hissing once more.

His eyes glance over your figure up and down briefly—your blood boils even more for it—and then there is an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps recognition. Good, you think, he should recognize you—and he should regret it soon enough. 

“Then I can’t imagine what business you have with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “It’s about my father.”

“Ah.” His arms cross loosely over his chest, as if the puzzle has solved itself. “Then you’ve come for closure. If that’s what you want, I’m not sure I am the one to turn to.”

You grit your teeth. “Do not talk as though he’s dead. I don’t need closure for a man who still lives.”

“I never implied he wasn’t alive. He’s imprisoned,” Alhaitham replies evenly. “By his own actions. I didn’t decide his actions for him—I only carried out what had to be done when his ambitions threatened the nation.”

“What do you know of his actions?” you snap. “You think yourself to know every detail simply because you were the scribe? Handling a few mere documents doesn’t give you the knowledge and upper hand you think it does—you’re still nothing but a scribe with a salary that is hardly applaudable. What, you think you understand him because you saw a single moment from the outside?”

“I understand him because I saw everything I had to,” he replies blandly. “I don’t have to be more than a scribe with a generous income to know I watched him imprison a god. I also didn’t need a report to see him falsify divinity and use that for his own gains.”

“That’s not true,” your voice shakes, “you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re believing the convenient cover-up story that—”

“It’s the truth,” he interrupts. “You just don’t want it to be.”

Your hands ball into fists as your breath trembles. His composure infuriates you—it makes your grief feel small, your faith in your father feel foolish. It makes you feel inferior to a man who has held a title of authority for less than two days. Your father was a foolish piece in the Fatui’s schemes—this you are certain. There is no other truth you will believe. You cannot stand for the injustice of their plans falling on his shoulders and stripping him of his freedom. Stripping you of his presence. 

“He devoted his life to this Akademiya. To Sumeru. To the Archon, weak as he may have felt she was. And you—you sit in his chair and call yourself righteous for tearing him down and stealing his position.”

Alhaitham exhales quietly through his nose, a trace of weariness threading through his voice. “I stole nothing. I sit in that chair simply because someone has to—and the Archon herself has asked it of me. This is a temporary position. I have no interest in leading the Akademiya long-term. If you wish to read the reports detailing your father’s crimes, I suggest finding the General Mahamatra. I’ll have it arranged so you’re granted permission to see the documents, if it’ll ease your mind.” He shifts slightly, a finality to the motion. “Now, if you would please allow me to continue with my rather limited break—”

You don’t bother hearing the rest. His earlier words already have landed like cold water against your face. How dare he? How dare he speak to you as though you’re a fool—a child, a little girl who is naive enough to believe whatever reports were written by the same insidious people who used your father as a scapegoat for their own gains?

You watch as he turns from you and begins to walk away. To dismiss you once more. To ignore your existence and the weight you are left to carry because of his selfishness.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. The words shake from nothing else but fury. And before logic can tell you otherwise, before it can stop you, your hand shoots out. “Don’t you dare turn from me before I am finished, you scoundrel!”

You catch his wrist. And then you regret it. (Perhaps ignorance, as they say, is the ultimate form of bliss. Perhaps if you had never touched him, had allowed yourself to be ignorant of this discovery, you’d have been able to live some semblance of a happy life.)

It happens in a sudden—there is a searing heat surging beneath your palm, sharp and alive, as though something ancient and dormant has been waiting just beneath your skin for this exact moment. A soft, glowing light emits where your fingers meet his skin, and what looks like a thin, golden thread burns into both your wrists before settling into a mark.

You both freeze.

Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to the mark forming on his wrist, then to yours. The same shape—a sharp V, and from its bottom, points three thin lines branching outward. You recognize the shape almost instantly—a constellation. Aquila. (How cruel fate is, mocking you with a soulmark that mirrors your favorite constellation and ties you to a man you loathe.)

You stumble back a step, your breath catching in your throat. The glow lingers on your skin for a moment longer, pulsing faintly before it fades—leaving behind the familiar, unmistakable shape burned into your wrist.

No. No, no, no—it can’t be. It can’t. You refuse to believe it. You won’t. 

Your stomach twists, your skin burns, your eyes sting, and the air collapses in your lungs. You drag your hand away from him quickly—as if scalded by his touch—staring at the mark like it’s something foreign, something monstrous, something hideous.

Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change—still composed, still maddeningly calm. You hate him for it. For being so unfeeling about something that has all but changed the direction that your world spins and the axis that it is tilted on. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already shaking your head.

“No.” The word cracks on your dry tongue. “No, this isn’t possible…it can’t be—”

“It would appear,” he says quietly, “that it can.”

The way he says it makes bile rise in your throat. He sounds like he might be identifying a constellation, not dismantling your entire world. Like he’s merely stating an objective fact that he has read in a textbook rather than admitting to changing your whole life. Again. 

You clutch your wrist to your chest, covering any evidence of the mark as if hiding it might undo it entirely. “You…this—” You can’t even form the accusation properly. The words tumble along your tongue, frantic and hurried as you try to string together something coherent. “Undo this! Undo what you did!” you shriek, the words panicked.

Alhaitham freezes, just a fraction, his hand brushing his own wrist where the mark glows faintly. His eyes flicker between your face and the mark, calm on the surface but calculating beneath.

“That would be impossible. I didn’t do this,” he blinks, “nor could I. This…is not in my control. Or yours. And please, lower your voice—people will get the wrong idea if you scream in the halls—”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “This can’t be real! It can’t—”

“It is,” he says firmly. Louder this time. You blink through your tears and look at him—really look at him, and only now do you notice his pallor. Only now do you notice he subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dig of his nails into his own skin. “This is very real, and it isn’t exactly something either of us can simply ignore. Therefore, it would be wise of you to accept—”

“No!” you shake your head, your voice giving away your horror as it worsens by the second, “No! You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to accept that the stars would decide this fate for me. They…they would never trap me with…with you! A man so awful, so wicked, so utterly merciless. How could they curse me like this? How could they choose someone as vile as you to be my fate? How could I deserve something as cruel as this?”

“I—”

You turn before you can hear any more words from him. You turn and you run—you run past the halls of the Akademiya, past the streets of Sumeru City, past every vendor and market you know, and you run into the quiet, empty home your father raised you in. The one that is devoid of him now—and maybe always will be. You run from him, from that man and from the mark he taunts you with, from every fragment of happiness he tore away from you and has crushed in his fist.

────────────────────────

They say not even the Archons can come in the way of a soulmate’s bond. It is written and sealed by Celestia themselves—or so the whispers tend to go. You often wonder if that’s just the Akademiya’s way of giving reason to what they don’t understand: linking this inexplicable bond to a power such as Celestia that they find equally impossible to grasp, yet impossible to deny.

If you were not so devastated, you might think it’s funny that you and Alhaitham happen to be a pair. Your visions certainly make for a good dynamic—Dendro and Electro. A formidable combination, as everyone likes to say. The two heighten each other, a sharper and more concentrated source of energy when together than apart. The Akademiya’s been taking advantage of that for years, pairing Dendro and Electro users in Matra units whenever possible.

There was even research once—old Akademiya studies claiming that soulmates who were both vision wielders always shared elements with strong synergy. Hydro and Pyro, perhaps. Cryo and Pyro, maybe. Dendro and Electro—everyone’s favorite in the Dendro Archon’s nation. The reactionary benefits were a popular topic across Sumeru, and being the nation of Dendro, plenty of Dendro scholars happily threw themselves into studying the synergy with Electro.

It spread far enough that even Liyue got involved. A researcher there proposed something new: that some soulmate pairs didn’t have opposing elements at all, but the same one. Their powers, they said, heightened differently—something that is less of a reaction, something that is more of a saturation. A phenomenon they called Elemental Resonance. That theory didn’t last long. The skeptics tore it apart, insisting two vision wielders didn’t need to be soulmates to fight well together. The sages pulled their funding soon after, and the whole thing was left to fade into obscurity.

You have never particularly believed any of it. You doubt the Archons and the gift of their power to you has much to do with your supposed bond to Alhaitham, either. Still, a small part of you almost wonders if those who are divine have a strange sense of humor—what chances that Celestia has decided Alhaitham is your fate, and the Archons have decided that your vision is his match. 

Perhaps if your soulmate were anyone else, you might have believed in the divine. You might have even trusted their judgment. You almost wonder if they have made a mistake until you stare at the lines that mark your wrist—and then you know that, however much you want to deny that the divine have power, you cannot. 

Aquila. Your mark is the shape of Aquila’s constellation. It is proof enough that Alhaitham is your soulmate just as much as your vision is Electro. There is no denying this truth. You would recognize the constellation in your sleep—a scholar of your caliber from Rtawahist’s darshan would never mistake such a commonly known collection of stars. You have studied the stars for so long. Day after week after month after year, you’ve stared into the sky and wondered if each constellation will guide you to the truth. Your father has always said it would.

You remember it vividly—the first time he’d taught you about the stars and their meanings. Azar was always a doting father. You can still feel the warmth of his arms as he’d sat you on his lap as a child, pointing to the sky and guiding your eager eyes.

That one is Aquila, he’d whispered. But in the Rtawahist, we call it Vultur Volans. It reflects an older astronomical lexicon predating the modernized Aquila, you see.

Well. That one is my favorite, you’d whispered back excitedly. And he’d chuckled—you still shiver when you remember the way it felt. Warm. Safe. Good.

Your father was always good. 

And yet, he is sitting in a jail cell with zero contact from the outside world. Even contact from his own daughter requires utmost effort on your part. Official regulatory protocols dictate that you must submit a formal request to the Grand Sage to visit any current prisoners before their trials. Your only options are to follow them—but you don’t expect it to be a yes.

As Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham alone has the authority to approve or deny any visitation for Azar. No one apart from you will visit Azar—you are the only one who loves him. You know that. You think you may be the only one who even likes him. The thought makes you a little sick. 

When you submit your request, you are certain that he will deny you the right to see your father. You think, deep down, you may have just made the submission more to spite him than to visit Azar. But then the reply comes—short, stamped, and neatly folded in an envelope—and his handwriting legibly scrawls: APPROVED.

You can’t decide if you’re relieved by the opportunity or enraged that you were granted his mercy. 

But you waste little time. When you arrive, the matra who escort you say nothing. They don’t have to. Sharp eyes and distrustfully downturned lips are something you are growing used to, something you are accepting as yet another piece of your truth. People are not exactly unkind—regardless of where you and Alhaitham stand, he is a hero to the nation, and knowledge of your connection is not uncommon by now. People know better than to mistreat the previous Grand Sage’s daughter for his sins. They know to repay the current Grand Sage’s generosity by extending to you their mercy. 

You hate it. All Alhaitham ever seems to offer you is some twisted sense of mercy. Like he is above you. Like his is the one to pass judgment on you while you are helpless to hope it is benevolence. He feels less like your soulmate and more like your superior. 

You finally arrive—the door groans open. Metal drags across stone.

And there he is.

Your father is in a jail cell. He is a prisoner. A criminal. A sinner above all. Divinity will not spare him just because he is your father. They see him as nothing more than a blasphemer. Still, you can never see him as anything but your father. Not as the Grand Sage, not as the figure the city whispers about in disbelief and fury, and certainly not as the man whose name has already been stitched into Sumeru’s history as a traitor. Here, in the dim light, he is simply your father.

Azar sits on the narrow bench, hands resting loosely in front of him, posture still and tall. He hasn’t wasted away, you’re relieved to see—of course, it has only been a week, but you cannot help but worry that food and water are not something they spare kindly to a traitor of the Gods. Still, despite being well sustained, something in him looks smaller. His pride, maybe. His dignity. He has always held it tightly, even when you were a child.

You enter, and then his gaze lifts. The hardness drops away at once. His eyes soften—warm and steady and so in love with all of the little fibers of your existence standing in his line of sight. It’s the way his eyes always look when they fall on you. Suddenly, you are a child again. Suddenly, you ache to hold his cuffed hands and look up at the sky once more and hear him speak about the constellations.

But the sky is hidden by stone in his awful prison, and you fear he may never see it ever again. The thought makes your throat constrict, and suddenly every word on your tongue becomes heavy. Like lead. You wonder if you swallow them down, if lead poisoning will consume your bloodstream and kill you. You wonder if you speak them, the bluntness of their force will kill you on impact, too. 

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. That’s how it feels—so you stay silent. 

“Do you eat properly?” He speaks first. “You have always made a habit of skipping meals when you are upset. Who will make sure you drink water now that I am no longer there to notice you are not drinking enough?”

Of course, he breaks the silence first. And of course, it’s to express concern for you, not give you answers. The tears slip down your cheeks like a river washes over stone—unstopping and unthinking. Like a command from the sky, the current does not stop. It does not halt for the world, nor does it slow down for it to catch up. Your tears do not wait for you. They do not slow down in time for you to even decide if they will make an appearance.

Azar is a stain on the cloth that is this nation’s history. You know that.

But Azar is your father. You are his little girl. The blood in his veins is the same retched blood that pumps your heart. You live to a beat of life that was once cradled in his palms. When your legs were not strong enough, his arms carried you through this world, and even when you could stand on your own two feet, those same arms carried away the obstacles from your path and discarded them. No matter the weight, your father bore whatever burden the sky commanded.

How can you abandon a man like that? How can you look away from the face that is a reflection of yours? How can you condemn the eyes that learned the stars for you, so you would never know the struggle of learning every constellation alone?

Your fingers ache to scrub at the stain, to scour it from the fabric, to wash the ugly color out of existence. But your mind knows the truth: no soap, no water, no hand is strong enough to ever clean blood once it’s set.

“You’re asking me if I eat?” You hiss, the words catching on your breath. “They’re saying things, out there. They’re saying you imprisoned our Archon! That you forced the people into dreams and…harvested their energy. That you…that you almost ruined this nation and doomed us all!”

Azar does not move. When you were young, your father was always patient with you. He’d sat through every tantrum, still and calm until the energy it took to misbehave slowly seeped out of you. Only when you grew tired—and only then—would he pick you up and sit you on his lap. His voice would never rise. His hands were never harsh. His eyes were never cold. 

Such energy that young body of yours always has. I almost envy it. Will you listen now, my dear?

Yes, father. 

He does not move. He sits through every bitter word you throw at him, still and calm now, just as he was all those years ago.

“They’re wrong,” you continue, desperate now, your voice cracking in between pleading syllables. “They have to be wrong. You would never—you couldn’t do that.”

“I could,” he says simply, his voice quiet but firm. “And I did.”

The words feel like a slap to your face. 

Your father would never hit you, but it feels like he has struck you with his own hand. Your heart stills, your stomach churns, and for one dizzying moment, you almost laugh. It’s nothing more than a twisted and cruel joke. Your father’s sense of humor has always been a little odd—but he is your father. The man who carried you on his shoulders to see Sumeru’s festival lights, who bought you your first paper book and the colorful sticky notes to annotate within it, who brought home pounds of zaytun peaches because you had briely commented you liked them once, who pointed out constellations and told you their stories so you’d forget the nightmares that frightened the sleep away from your eyes some nights.

“You’re lying to me,” you whisper. Your fingers clutch at your robes, desperate for something to hold onto—you cannot hold his hand. Not when they are cuffed. “You’re just…you’re tired, or you’re confused—yes, that must be it. I see now—they’ve poisoned you against yourself. They are accusing you of someone else’s plot through lies, Father, and you are believing them from your own guilt because you could not have stopped it on your own. You had no choice but to follow along—for your own survival. They may not see that, but I do. Listen to me. You can’t simply give in to what they say.”

Azar chuckles softly, the faintest smile curving his lips. Not cruel, not mocking—only tender. “I see your imagination still runs vividly, my dear. But I fear I am precisely what they say I am,” he tells you, in the same patient tone he once used to explain to your young mind how the stars move across the sky. “The father who loves you more than his own breath and the man who did what was necessary to see his ambitions through. They are two sides of the same coin. They never have been separate.”

Your vision blurs, and you shake your head furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “Stop saying that! Why do you lie? Please. Just…stop. Listen to me,” you beg, “you must tell them—the second of the Fatui harbingers is a terrible man. I have seen his records in the Akademiya, father. He once went by the name of Zandik. If he threatened you into doing his bidding, you have to just be honest—there is no shame in being powerless to a harbinger of Snezhnaya—”

His hand, bound by cuffs, cups your cheek. The rattle of metal sounds so horribly wrong—so sickeningly, nauseatingly wrong. “You are my child—my own flesh and blood. I will never stop loving you,” he says gently. “But I will not lie to you. Not even to soothe you.”

The words may have well ripped away the stars you always believed were hung in the sky by Azar himself. You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his love has never sounded truer, or that his guilt has never been more absent. You don’t understand it. Cannot process it. It isn’t something he can explain to you patiently this time—how he can allow his love and his sins to coexist with ease when it feels like it tears your flesh straight off of your bones. 

“You have consumed forbidden knowledge, haven’t you?” You cry, bordering on hysterics, “It’s caused you to go mad! We can get help. We can move to the desert and live peacefully if you wish—I’ll take care of you. The sky above the desert is the same sky above the Akademiya, I won’t miss this place—I promise! Let’s go, and perhaps your mind will be cleared of all of this nonsense, and we can just forget that any of this has ever even—”

“You are a bright girl,” he interrupts you, “a student I raised, in fact. You know how to find the truth, don’t you?”

You do. You’ve studied the art of truth since before you could even comprehend that there are worlds beyond the sky.

Your father is a criminal. And if, someday, you have children of your own, they will learn of his crimes from the history books. It isn’t a reality you can reverse by spinning the planet backward. There is no undoing this—only moving forward. There is only the future, and what the sky has decided will exist within it.

You will live without your father. And he will rot in a cell. The stars have already decreed it, leaving you no chance to protest. Perhaps even a week ago, you would not have dared to argue with them. It’s funny how one moment can change everything.

“The only truth I know,” you say, blinking through tears as you stand, “is that everything I have ever loved is forever ruined.”

You turn and walk out of the cell, your steps echoing down the corridor. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, fighting back the sobs clawing their way up your throat. Your vision blurs so completely that you don’t even see the figure ahead until you collide with it. Skin meets skin—and it’s warm, grounding. Suddenly, the ache inside you disappears. For one fleeting second, breathing feels easy again.

Then you look up and see him. And you wish you could stop breathing altogether.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs. Alhaitham is ever the sharp mind—sharper than most in all of Sumeru’s Akademiya—and yet, he is somehow capable of saying something so painfully useless.

“Shocked, are we?” you smile thinly, pulling away from his hands, which have caught your waist to steady you. “Perhaps if you had a little love in your heart, you’d understand why.”

“I understand perfectly well why you cry for him,” he says plainly. “It’s just that he doesn’t deserve tears from someone he’s betrayed.”

“Why did you do it?” Your lips quiver. You search his eyes for answers as though they will tell you before himself—you wonder why you do when he is so cold. Blunt. He would tell you his answer even if you did not want to hear it for yourself. “Why did you take him from me?”

“Do you think you’d be spared from the version of Sumeru he was trying to build?” He raises a brow. Alhaitham is so, so cold, you think—so harsh and cruel with the way he holds a mirror up to your face and forces you to see the truth. How can you bear to look into a mirror ever again? How can you bear to see your eyes and remember they are the same eyes of your father?“Do you really think you’d find happiness in the world he wanted to create? You’d rather he take your life with him?”

“Don’t speak to me about what I would and wouldn’t want as if you know me,” you hiss. 

“I know enough,” he says, gaze steady as it bores into you. “You’re my counterpart. I know that whoever I’m bound to by fate could never be someone so different from me. If you weren’t blinded by the fact that he’s your father, would our views really be so far apart?”

“I am not blinded by anything!” you poke a finger into his chest, “if I was, the only thing I would be blinded by is the horror of Celestia mocking me with you and…and that face of yours that haunts me everywhere!”

“And what? You think you haunt me any less?” he fires back—you realize now that you have only ever seen an Alhaitham that is patient. An Alhaitham who has lost his patience minces his words even less. “You think it’s easy to see your face every time I close my eyes? Your face that so closely resembles his? The man that nearly cost me everything I’ve worked for—my position, my achievements, my peace? You really think I believe someone like you—someone who is as capable and intelligent—can be this naive? You’re not suffering because of me. You’re suffering because you ignored the truth long before I ever spoke it out loud.”

You freeze. Your fingers tremble as you grab his shirt and yank him closer until your faces are level, your jaw set. “What do you mean?” you ask, low and dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, you absolute lunatic? Has that knowledge capsule you touched rewired your brain completely?”

“Why do you think the Matra haven’t questioned you?” he fires back, voice firm but level. “As his daughter, you’d be a prime suspect for conspiracy. You studied under the same Darshan. You really think the General Mahamatra overlooks that kind of detail? Who do you think cleared you? Who made sure your name never appeared in the reports when documents detailing Azar’s plans were found in your own home? You expect me to believe that, for months, you never once suspected something was wrong? That you didn’t see it, or worse—you did, and you dismissed it? You think so little of your own father’s intelligence—that he wouldn’t tell me himself that you were innocent? You really think that he was never aware of your doubts that you shoved down blindly from loyalty, and that he wouldn’t beg me to spare you? He did. And I believed him enough to keep you out of all of his crimes. I have done everything I can to help you keep a shred of your dignity and your life as you know it, so that his mistakes don’t cost you. You think I would purposely ruin things for you? You think so little of me?”

“So what?” you whisper, voice shaking as you glare at him. “What…what is it you want? For me to thank you? To thank you for letting me exist at your mercy and witness how generous you are? Is that it? Is that what you want from telling me this?”

“No.” His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “I want you to finally see things for what they are, and stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment—”

“So now I’m too emotional?” You laugh, a sharp, broken little sound. “Forgive me, Grand Sage—perhaps being orphaned so young has left you with little knowledge of what it means to be loved, but I have the privilege of understanding exactly what that means. You’d never understand the agony of watching someone you love be subjected to this fate.”

He stills. His shoulders go rigid, the tension in his jaw almost visible.

Too far—your mind screams in sync with your heart. Too far. For a fleeting moment, you almost think you can feel the pain in his chest as if it were your own. 

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, his voice laced with a venom you’ve never heard from someone so composed, “what you’re saying. My parents’ status hardly means I know nothing about love—you’d do well to remember that.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me in jail along with my father, is that it? Use that high authority of yours over my head?”

“Funny of you to lecture me about love,” he snaps, “when all you seem to think with is that blinding hatred of yours. I’ve waited so long to find you—did you know that? Since the day I was orphaned and stripped of that love you seem to think I know nothing of, I always dreamt of finding you—just what luck it would be that the one meant to love me would make it seem like such a rotten task.”

He grabs your wrists, prying your hands off his shirt and stepping back. Even now, the motion is painfully gentle—too careful for how sharp his words sound. Then he turns abruptly, boots bluntly pressing against the stone floor as he walks away one step at a time.

You stand frozen for a moment before rushing after him, the echo of your steps chasing his. “I’m not done speaking to you,” you call, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“I am,” he says flatly, not slowing. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”

“I’m sure you can afford a few moments—”

“I can’t.”

“Well, too bad,” you snap, breathless. “You’ll have to find some way, because—”

He stops suddenly and turns. Before you can react, his hand wraps around your wrist again—not harsh, but firm enough that you stumble closer. “You are maddening.”

“Well,” you say stubbornly, “I suppose it’s no wonder we’re bound to each other because you’re the exact same way.”

“Fine then,” he rolls his eyes. He turns, dragging you along with him, “Then you can say what you need to say somewhere private,” he mutters, low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly toward the guards stationed down the hall.

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. You follow him (without a choice, considering the way his hand pulls you along) through the corridors in silence, your pulse still hammering from the searing heat of his touch. When he pushes open the heavy door to his office and steps aside for you to enter first, you realize that despite it all, Alhaitham is a gentleman. Painstakingly so. 

He looks at you expectantly, still so stiff in his posture as he crosses his arms and leans his back against the door. Probably so no one tries to come in, you think to yourself.

“Whatever it is you have to say, best make it quick,” he grunts. “I’m a busy man these days—against my will, if I might add.”

You roll your eyes, scowling. “I’m sorry about that comment,” you mutter. “It was cruel.”

“You’re apologizing?” His brows lift in genuine bewilderment.

You scowl deeper. “Say what you will about Azar, but he raised me with proper manners. I’m hardly above apologizing when I should.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods slowly. “Well…I appreciate it.”

“What exactly is it that’s suspected of me?” you ask bluntly, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”

Alhaitham sighs, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not that your innocence was ever in question—Cyno and I both agreed that if you were involved, you’d have been more of an obstacle during our plan. But ignoring you in any investigation entirely would’ve been foolish. Your father agreed to cooperate during questioning if you were cleared, so I looked into you myself.”

“And what did you find?” you press.

“Like I said,” he waves a hand, “you’re innocence was never a matter of debate. Whether or not you suspected your father before the rest of us and stayed silent…that’s another matter. One I’d rather not get into the ethics of.”

“I knew he was collaborating with the Fatui,” you whisper. “I saw…letters.”

He raises a brow.

You exhale shakily. “That’s all I knew. And I suppose not digging deeper was my mistake. Maybe I could have talked sense into him. I thought it was about money—or maybe knowledge. The man he dealt with was the second of the Harbingers from Snezhnaya. A man once called Zandik, and a former scholar here at the Akademiya. I read the reports—not that I was supposed to, but I did. I assumed Father’s hunger for discovery had just led him into questionable company. I never thought it would…” your voice falters.

“You would never have changed his mind,” Alhaitham says quietly.

You glance up at him, too tired to be offended. “Ah, is that what you think?” you ask bitterly.

“It’s what I know,” he replies. “If love for his daughter had been enough, he wouldn’t have risked everything in the first place.”

“So the problem was that he didn’t love me enough,” you say, laughing without humor.

“The problem,” he corrects evenly, “is that he loved his ambition most. Enough to let it consume him. No amount of love for you could have undone that. If it’s any solace, I think he would’ve regretted it—eventually. For your sake, more than his.”

“Wow,” you sniffle, voice flat. “I’m comforted.”

“Then I’m relieved,” he hums. “I’m not great at comforting. Means I’m doing something right.”

“Listen, Alhaitham,” you say tiredly, meeting his eyes for the first time without malice. His gaze softens the moment he sees your expression. But even then, you don’t soften the blow of what comes next. “The divine may have bound us together, but it’s clear to me that we’ll never make this work. Not when something so much bigger than us stands in the way.”

His eyes flicker—confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. And something else you can’t quite name.

“How can you be so sure—”

“I’m not,” you cut in softly. “I just know that I’m tired. I need to make sense of what’s left of my life, and to do that, I have to stop living inside this…mess. You’re a constant reminder of everything I’m trying to move past. I think it’s better if we keep our distance.”

“I disagree,” he says quietly. You close your eyes. “But if that’s what you want, I’m not really in a position to argue.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

With that, you leave his office. The skin of your mark burns as soon as you put distance between you, but you force your feet in front of each other with every step. 

────────────────────────

Grandmother had told Alhaitham once, when he was young, that his parents were lucky with their fate. He’d thought her to be crazy at the time. What was so lucky about dying so young? Of leaving their only son behind before even watching him grow? 

The answer became clear when he was a little older. Dying alongside your soulmate, he’d realized, is mercy. He had seen the way Grandmother would clutch her wrist; he had seen the way she would rub at the skin when she thought he wasn’t looking. His mother and father were fortunate—sure, they never witnessed their son grow, and yes, they never accomplished all the things they had dreamt as scholars. But they had each other for the entirety of their life spans since the day their paths crossed. 

Grandmother was right. There is no fate that is more fortunate than that.

Alhaitham wonders if he is the most unfortunate individual to exist—how can it be that the same mother and father who were so lucky in their time had produced a son with such terrible luck himself? How can it be that with a soulmate so alive and healthy and near as his, he is still fated to the reality that he will never have you by his side? 

Even a mind as brilliant as his cannot come up with any explanation for it. And it seems the more he would like to forget you—forget everything, the more you pop into his mind. Even in his dreams, you show up, haunting him and haunting every part of his mind and soul and body. 

You’re soft. Alhaitham is overwhelmed by how soft you are. 

Your lips are delicate, your skin is pillowy under his touch, and something about the way you touch him back is just as gentle, too. Your walls are soft as well—despite being as tight as they are, they’re warm and velvety, and they squeeze around his swollen cock so well.

“H-haitham,” you breathe, “please, Haitham—I need more. Please, baby.”

He shivers twice. Once because you call him Haitham, and a second time because you call him baby. He feels a third shiver creep over his spine when he realizes how much he likes your voice when it calls him sweet things like that. 

Like a bee, you trickle honey onto his tongue—it’s warm and saccharine and addicting. He tastes it and wants to get closer. Nearer. He wants to feel you so deeply in his system, he would happily mistake the stinger and its venom for your love and your affection. 

“Call me that again,” he pleads.

“What?” you smile, cupping his cheek tenderly, “baby? You are, you know—my baby.”

“You’re…you’re so soft,” he pants, groaning as his hips rut into you with a punishing pace—he can’t stop. More. More. More. That’s all he can think. He wants more. More of you and more of your existence bleeding into his. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“So full, Haitham,” you sob, whining as the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against the sensitive part in the back of your walls. You squeeze around him, and he lets out a helpless moan. 

It’s good—it’s so painfully good, and he’s so close, and the pressure in his lower belly feels so close to snapping. There’s an ache that’s building between his legs, right where he connects with you in between yours. A vulnerable place that only you can get close to, where he lets you make him ache. 

He’s close. So are you. One more roll of his hips and—

—Alhaitham wakes with a start, his breath caught somewhere between a hitch and a curse. The sheets cling damp to his skin—heat is still crawling through his chest, his pulse hammering like he’s run miles through desert ruins to escape them as their walls close in on him. He almost wishes they had. He almost wishes he were in them right now, and that they’d collapsed on him and taken him down for good under the rubble.

Your voice still rings in his ears—soft, broken, begging. Since when has Alhaitham cared for the sound of your voice begging? He can still feel your hands on him, warm and desperate, the vision so vivid that he can still feel the phantom weight of your touch on his skin. And worse, he realizes, is that he had enjoyed it. Every second of his dream, he’d had his lips on you—on your own lips, on the slant of your jaw, against your throat. Every second of his dream, his hands were digging into your hips as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He drags a hand over his face, forcing the images back into the dark where they belong. But the ache low in his body betrays him, straining against the slightly damp fabric of his boxers.

Fuck. 

It’s that mark. It has to be. He doesn’t lust over you this way, and the overwhelming truth is that he doesn’t even know you like that. There is no way Alhaitham can be this turned on by a stupid, fleeting image of you under him in his head—he hasn’t even seen you in days. But he supposes that only hurts his case—the longer the days go by without seeing you, the more restless the mark on his wrist has been. The divine must have it out for him. They force you into his senses, into his veins, into his dreams, into his fucking mind, deep in the smallest crevices until even his own body turns into a traitor.

There’s a twitch in his boxers. He covers his eyes with his hand and scrunches them shut with a frustrated groan—this is not a problem that will go away. Alhaitham knows this. He knows that if he gets up and forces himself into a cold shower and somehow manages to evade this problem now, it will only haunt him in his mind again. Even worse, he might just get a vivid image flash in his head in the middle of his work day and make his pants uncomfortably tight—tighter than they already are, that is. 

So, with utmost reluctance, he caves. 

Slowly, a hand wanders down his chest. It caresses the warm, sweaty skin. He tries to imagine the touch as yours—it’s a sickening thought that if he were a bit more coherent at the moment, he’d be horrified by. Your fingers would be less calloused, of course, but he doesn’t take too much time to linger on that thought. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re a headache,” he curses to himself. He’s right. You are. You make his worst migraine possible. 

His finger circles a nipple gently, and he lets out a low hum of approval at the feeling. He wonders if you’d appreciate his physique—the planes of hard-earned muscle, the sharp contours carved from years of disciplined training, the toned definition written into every line of his body. 

You’re pretty, Haitham, he can imagine you saying. He wants to hear you say it. He feels a little nauseous. 

“Don’t tease,” he grits, “we don’t have time for that.”

You don’t care for your job enough to stress over being late—you’re busy against your will, remember? Don’t pretend you care now, he pictures you giggling in response. And you would be right. He doesn’t particularly care for his position. But he has a responsibility for the Akademiya. 

His hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down swiftly and kicking them off under his sheets somewhere. He’ll worry about them later—for now, he worries about the thick, strained cock that falls heavy against his lower abdomen. 

“You’re insane,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around his cock and squeezing lightly as he feels a sharp, fleeting pressure of ecstasy run along his length. “You drive me insane.”

Then don’t go insane, he thinks you’d say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, you know—you’re the one who keeps letting this happen, Haitham.

“You do this to me,” he whispers, arguing back, “it’s your fault.”

That’s rather mean, Haitham. You blame me for everything.

“I don’t,” he breathes—and then his hand strokes his girth. “If anything, you blame me.”

He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls further back against his pillow. The sheets cover his shame, yet he still feels unbearably bare and open and vulnerable. Touching himself isn’t something new—Alhaitham is like every other human, no matter how much he clings to logic and reason to guide his choices. Granting himself a moment of pleasure is nothing foreign, even if it is rare, given how busy he is. 

But touching himself to the thought of you feels like he’s sinning, even when all he really is doing is giving into the fate divinity has designated for him. Perhaps they had always designed him to be in hell. 

“Fuck, baby,” he moans, repeating your sweet, affectionate name for him back to you—like you can hear him if he speaks to the air and trusts it to carry the words over to you. “L-like that.”

You like it when I touch you this way, don’t you, Haitham? You’d ask.

“Yes, fuck,” he hisses. Filthy. You make him so filthy with the words he spills on his tongue. “It…it feels good.”

I know, you’d coo, I like it when my Haitham feels good. Because of me. 

“Yours,” he agrees, letting out a raspy groan as he tightens his grip and strokes himself faster, feeling the familiar build up in his lower belly as the ache between his legs intensifies, “your Haitham,” he breathes. 

My Haitham, he can hear you soothe, all mine. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be my love. I love you, Alhaitham. 

He cums as soon as he hears you whisper those delicate words in the fragile existence of his subconscious. That place that exists but doesn’t all at once. That place that he can escape to, but never really go as he wishes. He gasps, letting out a quiet whimper as thick ropes of cum spill into his hand and coat his abdomen with heavy twitches of his cock—he tries to imitate how he thinks you’d touch him through his high. 

Maybe you’d slow down, teasing him as he bucks into your hand with a frustrated huff. Or maybe you’d quicken your pace, stroking him faster so he’d have no choice but to be at your mercy. (It doesn’t matter, really—he’ll never find out, he’s sure. So he might as well run through every possibility himself and settle on what he likes best as the closest he’ll get to having you.)

Finally, when he slumps against his mattress as he finishes, limbs feeling heavy and tired, he stares up at his ceiling and lets out a shaky sigh as he feels his own erection soften in his grip.

“Same dream again,” he scoffs to himself, rubbing his clean hand over his face tiredly, “you’re depraved, you fool. And you only have yourself to blame—Sumeru dreams again because of your own flawless plan.”

He lies there, wallowing in his own misery and self-pity for a moment before a thought strikes him:

Alhaitham is a linguist. He studies the art of language—its history, its structure, the delicate logic that binds meaning to form. And if anyone knows how to put words together in the language he’s most fluent in, it’s him. He sits up immediately to get to work—and then he is reminded of the shameless mess he’s made and groans. (After this is cleaned, he thinks, after this display of lewdness is cleaned, will be the start of his careful plan.)

So it begins—one letter at a time, he gives you distance. Because physically, as much distance as you ask for within the walls of Sumeru City, Alhaitham will grant it. But linguistically, there is no distance you can create that he will not find a way to close.

—————

Week One: 

To you,

I don’t expect a reply. In truth, I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this. Perhaps it’s a habit I can’t unlearn—the impulse to record, to make sense of what cannot be reasoned aloud by writing them on parchment. Or perhaps it’s because words have always been my preferred method of thinking, and you have become something I cannot stop thinking about.

You told me that space would be most beneficial. I’ve been trying to respect that. I keep my distance. I let you pass without a word, and I make sure my presence doesn’t reach you unless absolutely necessary. Yet language does not abide by the same rules as distance. Even now, as far as I am from you, I find myself turning my thoughts of you into sentences, as if the act of forming them could bring me clarity. It hasn’t.

I used to believe that words were easy tools meant to define—simple to wield as long as one abided by their rules, like grammar. Then you happened, and suddenly, every word I knew became insufficient. It no longer feels easy to use words. I don’t know what to call this feeling. Perhaps there isn’t a word for it yet.

What I do know is that I’ll write. One letter at a time. Not to persuade you of anything, but to preserve these thoughts before they’re lost to distance. Perhaps, along the way, I’ll find the right word for this state of mind you’ve put me in.

— Alhaitham

—————

Week Two: 

To you,

Another uneventful day, though I suppose “uneventful” is a luxury in the current state of the Akademiya. Meetings have multiplied ever since I transitioned into leadership. Half of them could be replaced by a single well-written report, but apparently, no one else sees it that way.

The Dendro Archon insists I attend, so I do. I listen, I make my notes, and I watch as words—our supposed instruments of precision—are thrown about carelessly, stripped of meaning by overuse. It makes me wonder how many things in life lose their truth simply because they’re spoken too often. Perhaps feelings are the same. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t speak mine aloud.

Today, someone used the word corrupt during a discussion about administrative reforms. They said it as though it were an objective diagnosis, a simple matter of right and wrong. No context. No nuance. They did not give me a proper explanation for why they came to use that word when I pressed. It bothered me more than I expected. Words like that should be used with care, or they’ll become too easily bent by whoever speaks them.

It made me think about how language fails us when we use it without precision—and how I fail at it, too, when I try to speak about you. I’m still searching for the right word for what you make me feel. Something that isn’t dulled or watered down by overuse. There must be one. It just hasn’t presented itself yet.

So give me time. I’ll find it. Studying words is what I do best, after all.

— Yours, Alhaitham

—————

Week Three: 

To you, 

I find my days are increasingly occupied by bothersome interactions, though I suppose that is hardly surprising given my current position. Meetings, receptions, consultations—each demands a performance of attentiveness I must forcefully will myself to demonstrate. I am expected to navigate pleasantries, offer guidance, and answer questions I hardly consider worth any depth. It’s exhausting.

Social interactions in a professional capacity, in theory, should not require this much effort. Yet the expectations that are considered proper, such as tone, phrase, and posture, are disproportionately taxing. I suspect that those who set up these standards for the workplace hardly used their intellect when creating the framework for how we conduct ourselves.

Luckily, when I find myself drained, I can seek clarity by writing to you. Perhaps it is because no pretense is required. No careful phrasing to appease or persuade.

And yes, I am still searching for a word for how you make me feel. Even amidst these endless meetings, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. In one of the manuscripts I reviewed today, I stumbled across an archaic word: eunoia. It means beautiful thinking; a well-minded state. For a moment, I thought perhaps this is the word for what you make me feel—a state where every thought in my head is serene and filled with clarity. It then occurred to me that this would hardly be a fitting word—for all the clarity you might bring me, you are also the only person who manages to turn my mind into a hazy, unclear place. I hardly recognize myself when I think of you for too long.  

So I continue my search, hoping that someday I will find the word capable of holding the entirety of this state you put me in.

— Yours, whether you will have me or not, Alhaitham

—————

Week Four: 

To you, 

I spent the last few days in the rainforest—an inspection trip to ensure the withering is no longer a threat. The humidity there was constant, draining enough to make even thinking a tiresome task. And yet, I found myself thinking more than usual.

In the thick of Apam Woods, I saw several kalpalata lotuses. I’ve heard they’re your favorite. The cliffs that they grow along make for a good contrast, blue and green against a pale grey. They’re said to be the origin of all plant life in Sumeru—the beginning from which everything else grew. I suppose that’s poetic, though I’ve never been one for mythic explanations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that if such explanations were real, every branch and every leaf in Sumeru traces back to the roots of a kalpalata lotus.

Every thought I have seems to trace back to you in much the same way.

I’ve had no luck with a word this week. I thought perhaps the change of scenery might help, but nothing suitable presented itself. Maybe the right term won’t come from research or inspiration at all. Maybe it will reveal itself gradually. Until then, I’ll keep searching.

— Yours, if you would honor me with the pleasure, Alhaitham

—————

Week Five:

To you, 

I’ve spent the past week cataloging old star charts because I know the stars are what you love most—Aquila’s constellation among them. You’re already aware that the Rtawahist tend to call that constellation Vultur Volans, and you’ve certainly seen it in the night sky. I used to admire its symmetry as a child, as my grandmother had taught me to search for it when I could not sleep on restless nights. Now I can’t look at it in the sky without thinking of the shared version of it burned into our skin. 

I’ve never been one to seek meaning from the divine. I believe in consequence, not providence. Yet even I can’t help but wonder what sort of irony governs a world where the person I was fated for is the daughter of the man whose corruption I exposed. There are moments when I think fate must be a cruel scholar, concluding at the expense of those bound within its margins. If it is you with whom I am bound to the margins, then I would not choose to escape them despite the flaws of this design. If you were to ask me whether I regret it, I would say I don’t. Justice doesn’t become less rightful simply because it brings pain. But I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been you who had to bear its cost. 

I’ve finally found the word—or rather, two. You are familiar with them, I am sure. I know amongst the scholars of Rtawahist, you are one of the most brilliant—a star right here on the ground that I can witness without reaching the sky. The words are aphelion and perihelion: the points in an orbit when one is farthest from, and closest to, the sun. That’s what you’ve become to me: both distance and nearness. Cold and warmth. The center forcefield and the reason I keep moving. Whether you grant me the closest or farthest point of your light, I will always orbit around you. It is in my nature to do so, and it will never stop at any point in time. 

If the divine truly intended for our paths to cross, perhaps it was not to bind us together, but to teach me that even a life governed by logic is still vulnerable to gravity. If it is you who will pull me down, then I will choose to fall, no matter the force that will shatter me as I meet the ground. 

— Yours, happily so in every world, Alhaitham

────────────────────────

The letters come every week. 

Every Monday morning, without fail, a new envelope waits at your door—your name written in Alhaitham’s impeccable handwriting. The calligraphy is always deliberate and elegant, not a single word crossed out, not a single stroke shaky. He is good with words—you’ll give him that much. Week by week, letter by letter, word by word, he carves his way into your heart. You knew he would. You always knew that not falling for Alhaitham was an impossible task. Not because fate demanded it, but because he had been right that day.

Without your father to blind you, you are not so different from him after all.

You read every letter. You drink in every word. You smile when he complains, and you roll your eyes when he’s predictable. You tear up when he thinks of you, and your lips tremble when he reminds you that as long as he can use words as his tools, you will never truly be free of him. You will never truly be alone.

By Sunday afternoon, the day before the sixth letter is due, you decide to pay him a visit.

You knock on his door. When he opens it, he blinks at you in disbelief, eyes flicking from your face to the world behind you as if to make sure this isn’t a hallucination. You blink back. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis the way it always does around him—gravity somehow always shifts and changes, tugging you closer to the ground when he’s near. Like you’re falling.

“You’re…here?” he breathes.

“Hello to you, too,” you snort quietly. “Proper etiquette is to invite guests in. Especially when they happen to be your soulmate.”

“Ah, well,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In my defense, my soulmate happens to despise me. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t despise you,” you whisper. “We can talk about that. When you let me in—which you still haven’t done.”

He flushes, coughing as he hurriedly steps aside. “Right. Come in.”

You smile at that. He’s endearing—infuriatingly so. When he isn’t sending your father to prison or dismantling everything you once knew, he is so painfully endearing. And, of course, no one else would see it. You’re sure only you could ever find someone like Alhaitham endearing. Most people at the Akademiya certainly don’t.

When you’re both seated in his living room, opposite ends of the same couch, you whisper, “Thank you. For the letters, I mean. They…made me feel less lonely.”

“Of course,” he says quietly. “Though, I’ll admit, I had some selfish reasons for sending them. But I’m glad they helped. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you.”

“Well,” you manage a tight smile, “Father writes to me too. I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s responsible for his own actions—it only took a month, huh?”

“It’s not wrong to have faith in people you love,” he says after a pause. “Maybe not to the point where it blinds you, but…it’s not my place to tell you how to come to terms with betrayal.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You always sound so detached when you say things like that.”

“Detached,” he repeats. “Maybe. Maybe I am—maybe I’m not as rational as I like to think I am.”

“No,” you whisper, “no, if anyone is irrational, it’s me. The facts were always there—I just chose not to see them. You saved Sumeru—and me, by extension, and I gave you a hard time for it.”

“I didn’t save Sumeru because I’m a generous person,” he says quietly. “I did it because there is an order to everything that should be maintained…and I don’t value imbalance to that order. It’s…it’s not about playing a hero.”

“Yes,” you crack a smile, “I forget that being generous is not a fit for that cold image of yours.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. You giggle—he lets loose a small, barely-there grin. “I suppose Sumeru’s best interest is not something I stay ignorant of,” he finally admits. “But I’m sure that isn’t why you’re here, either.”

“It’s not,” you agree. “You’ve been writing to me. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He blinks, startled by the question, as if he can’t understand why you would ask. “Because you asked me to stay away. And I told myself I would respect that. But contact does not have to mean the absence of distance—I wanted to contact you.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you glance down at your lap. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. If I were worthy of that effort, you wouldn’t have had to fight distance in the first place.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You were the one who needed distance. I didn’t fault you for that. You are worth fighting distance—to me, you are.”

Tears sting your eyes at his words. Alhaitham is good with words. You don’t think it’s because he studies them, though—you think it’s because deep down, he’s a gentle soul that was made to be patient with you. To learn you and what you need when you are unsure of it yourself. To be easy when you are difficult. You know why Alhaitham is your other half—it isn’t just because the divine have said so. It’s because the stars will always guide you to him. It’s because no matter where you are, there is always a way back to him. 

He is always waiting for you. Always watching for you. Always searching for you. 

You press your lips together. “I didn’t want you far because I hated you,” you murmur. “It was because being near you made it harder to accept that things…were changing. I thought being away from you would make losing my father easier.”

He studies you quietly, his voice soft, “Did it?”

“No.”

A breath escapes him—half sigh, half laugh. “So you continued, why? To punish me for the hell of it, huh? You really are something else.”

You know it’s a joke—still, for old time’s sake, you glare weakly. “Be quiet.”

He smiles fondly. “I knew it would be worth it if I’d waited. That one day, you’d come to me on your own terms. Even if it took months. Even if it took years. I would happily wait.”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Because you’re here now,” he says—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew it wouldn’t help to stay apart, but I knew I could never say no to what you wanted. And…I knew we’d never manage to do it for long. You’d have found your way back to me just as I would you. It’s just how things go—the nature of this world. You and I finding each other is in our nature.”

“I wanted to come find you after the first letter.”

“Why didn’t you?” he raises a brow—he almost looks a little hurt. 

“Because I was scared,” you laugh—there’s no humor in it. Only a choked sob. Only a tear that runs down your cheek as his eyes quickly change to soften for you. “If I came, what if you decided I was just…too much? And then you hated Celestia for deciding to bind me to you? And then you hated me? And then no one would love me ever again—”

“You really are something else,” he snorts, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you against his firm chest. It’s warm. Alhaitham is warm. You never want to be cold ever again. For the first time since you arrived, his composure completely slips. His fingers curl into your shirt as his voice cracks and he pleads, “Don’t go again. I’ll never hate you if you never leave.”

“I’ll never leave if you never hate me,” you sniffle. 

“I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he playfully pokes your ribs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Using my own promise against me.”

“I believe it’s because we’re cut from the same cloth or something like that—that’s what they say about soulmates, don’t they?”

“Who knows,” he snorts, “I don’t waste my time reading hopeful fantasies.”

“Yes,” you let out a watery laugh. He wraps his arms around you tighter at the sound. “You took your time reading up to expand your vocabulary, instead. Like a hopeful romantic.” 

“You took your sweet time coming to me,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What else could I do with my time?”

You hum. “I suppose I did. And you waited.”

“I would have kept waiting.”

You swallow hard. Then, your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek and making his breath hitch. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

“Is that so?” he glances at you, amused. Hopeful. Affectionate. There’s love in there, too, in those eyes of his—you see it just as much as you feel it. You don’t know everything there is to know about him yet. You don’t know his pain and his joy and the things he keeps hidden away to keep himself safe. You don’t know what he likes to eat and what he doesn’t. What his favorite genre is to read (though you can guess), and what he hated learning most when he was a student. 

But you know you’ll love him. The stars told you so. And you’ll listen—you always do when they show you the truth. 

“Are you happy it’s me?” you murmur, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips hover over yours, and your breath fans across his mouth. He inhales sharply. “Be honest—would you swap soulmates if you could?”

“Never,” he grins, “I could never hand over such a headache to anyone else. It would be unethical.”

“Huh?” you gasp, “where went all your sweet, fancy words? This is not the Alhaitham I came looking for—my letters promised me a very different version.”

“Can you really call yourself my soulmate if you don’t like all versions of me equally?” he hums. And then he leans in, breaking the distance and kissing you. And you wonder, genuinely wonder, how you could have gone so long without ever feeling his lips on yours. Without ever feeling him against you and completing you this way. “I would never exchange you for anything,” he breathes against your lips, “never. Gravity will always pull me to your maddening charm, you see.”

“You must love being insulted then,” you giggle, pecking his lips, “because that is all I’ve done for, hm…let’s see, ninety percent of our interactions.”

“Do you take it all back?” he pouts playfully, shifting you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist as his hands roam along your hips. He kisses your jaw, and you close your eyes, humming as you pretend to think about it. “I’m sure you do. You’ve probably realized I’m a catch.”

“The lazy, antisocial scholar who has a reputation for being difficult to get along with,” you think out loud, “let me see—hm, no, I don’t see what catch you’re referring to.”

“How shallow,” he accuses, “basing your assessment on rumors.”

“Actually,” you murmur, cupping his cheeks and cradling his face as you admire it (he’s handsome. You’ve never given it proper thought, but Alhaitham is the most handsome man you have met. Another infuriating advantage he has.) “I have the object of these rumors right here—no one will know if they’re true or not better than me.”

“Yes,” he breathes, “no one will know me better than you. If you’ll have me.”

“I would always have you,” you press a soft kiss to his nose, “you know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.”

And then he kisses you again. Harder. Needier. He kisses you like he’s been deprived of all that he’s been searching for in this life. Like he’s been denied his rights to his peace. Like he’s lost every path that leads him home. You kiss him back. Like he is the answer to every prayer you’ve ever whispered. Like he is the last thing you have left to anchor you. Like he is the only thing that’s truly yours in this world. 

It’s a blur from there—wandering hands, hiked up shirts, searing touches. His shirt comes off, and then so does yours. His belt is unbuckled, and your waistband is tugged down. Your fingers trace over the hard planes of his abs, and his fingers trace the plush skin of your inner thighs. 

“I want you,” he pants, whispering the words between slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Is…is that okay? It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to—”

“More than okay,” you breathe. In fact, you add soft, pleading, “want you too.”

He groans, reaching to shove your panties aside to press his fingers into your wet cunt. He takes in the view—dark green fabric dampened by your essence and painted even darker. He grins. 

“Did you wear this to see me? Knew it was my favorite color?”

You swat at his shoulder, glaring as he chuckles. “No, you lunatic! I wore these for myself because they happened to be the f-first….oh…”

You trail off, gasping as his fingertips brush against a sensitive spot along your walls, curling into you perfectly despite never feeling your body before this. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he studies your face. 

“Seems like I found it,” he hums in satisfaction, “that’s where you want me, is it?”

You glare at him in horror. “How lewd! Your mouth looks a lot better when you silence it, you know!”

“Why not help me with that, then,” he hums, “if you’d like to see it that way so badly.”

You do. You silence him with a kiss as much as he drinks in your soft moans while his fingers work their way into you. In and out. In and out. They stretch you open as they curl and scissor their way into you and glide against your warm, wet walls. You like the friction. His fingers are thicker and longer than yours—they reach parts you never thought about reaching. He fits you and completes you in a way that feels intentional. Like there is a reason why he is bound to you as part of what makes you whole. 

“H-Haitham,” you pant—he pauses. His fingers still and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and you almost feel like you should apologize based on his reaction until his fingers slam against you with a faster pace, brushing harder against that spongy spot. With more force. More cause. 

“Say that again—fuck, say that again, please,” he hisses. 

“Haitham,” you whine, “so…so close.”

“Yeah? Are you?” he groans, “then cum. Cum for me, my beautiful girl.”

You do. You feel the way your walls constrict and tighten around his fingers—almost making them impossible to move, but he thrusts them into you anyway, working you through your orgasm. Your head falls to his shoulder, teeth biting the smooth skin as you mewl at the pleasure that ripples through your body—a leaf disrupting the calm still of of water and sending waves along the surface. 

You slump against his chest as he slips his fingers out, panting for a few moments before you shimmy out of your soiled underwear and shift—the wet heat of your cunt grinds against his leaking tip. 

“Fuck,” he curses, gritting his jaw. 

It takes only a moment of thought before he wraps his arms around you and stands, carrying you to his bedroom and carefully laying you against his bed. You stare up at him, skin flushed with sweat and marks from his lips, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight alone. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, wrapping your arms and pulling him down so that your lips barely touch, “fuck me—please.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath before he rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You watch with dilated pupils as he slides a condom over the thick girth of his cock, groaning at the friction before wrapping his hand around the base of his length. He guides himself to your entrance, panting roughly as he asks in a low, raspy voice, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “please.”

He pushes the first few inches of his tips past your folds—lets you pull him into a searing kiss as you gasp into his mouth and whine. He’s thick. Thicker than anything you’ve ever taken. You feel the burn of the stretch, and he’s not even fully in you yet. 

“S-so big,” you whimper. 

“You can tell me to stop,” he says softly, “promise. I’ll still be happy, okay? I’m happy with anything as long as it’s you. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

You nod. But your eyes are stubborn when they open, and he lets out an amused, defeated sigh. “I want it, you know.”

“I know you do,” he kisses your pout, “my stubborn girl.”

You angle your hips upwards before he can say anything else, taking the rest of him in with a quick movement as he sinks into your cunt. His breath hitches as you gasp, and then he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky groan. You watch as he pants, breath labored, while he holds himself back and gives you time to adjust. 

“You’re so pretty, Haitham,” you whisper, “your face is pretty. Know that?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that about you?” he lets out a strained chuckle, “that’s what you should be hearing. Not the other way around.”

“Well, you took too long,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin, “so I did it for you.”

Something flashes in his eyes at that—dark and hungry and insatiable as he lets out an amused chuckle. He grabs your ankle, making you yelp as he tosses it over his shoulder and angles himself to press deeper into you. 

“My apologies,” he murmurs, nipping and kissing along your jaw as his hips pull him out almost fully and roll into you with a deep, heavy thrust. You let out a soft cry, eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs, “There we go—that’s a pretty view, isn’t it? I knew I’d be speechless, but this is just unfair, sweet girl…you’re breathtaking, aren’t you?”

“S-stop,” you gasp, turning your face away from him shyly. He laughs—it’s a husky, raspy little thing. 

“Shy? What’s there to be shy about, beautiful? S’just me…a-and you, yeah?”

His hips roll with punctuated thrusts, angling the thick curve of his cock into you—hitting that same spot his fingers found so effortlessly. Whoever crafted Alhaitham took their time—they made him perfectly curved and muscled in all the right places. Of course, part of that is his own discipline. You know—very well, you know that abs and biceps like that don’t form overnight because genetics say so. But he was made by careful, slow hands that took their time on him. And those same careful hands took their time on you to make sure every curve and angle of you would fit against him. Would mold around him. Would curl into him so well, you would never know where you start and where he ends. 

“You drive me mad, do you know that?” he whispers against your ears, “do you know how wicked a woman you have to be—to enter my life so fast and turn it upside down so quickly? Do you know how powerless you have to make me—to come and go as you please, like you did, and possess me that way?”

“I—”

“I’m not done,” he grunts, slamming his hips down and silencing you with a particularly sharp thrust, “you made me sick. Made me some…some shell of myself. Some version I hardly recognized. You turned me insane—more than any forbidden knowledge could have. Corrupted every part of my brain. You have to take responsibility for that.”

“F-fuck,” is all you say, whining as his thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles while the thick head of his cock bullies its way past your folds, sliding the ridges of his length along your folds. You shake from the friction—thighs quivering as you accommodate his punishing pace. 

“You have to take responsibility for…for changing everything as I know it. You think you’re the only one who’s scared of change?”

“I’m not…I’m not scared anymore,” you breathe, “not if it’s you—you…you’re good change.”

“Yeah?” he asks—voice shaky. 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

He kisses you. You kiss back. Your second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first—only this time, it doesn’t break the serene calm of the water’s surface as it's still. This time, the waves are ones you saw coming—ones that bury you under them and pull you deep into the bottom of their depths. 

“Haitham,” you whine—and your back arches off of his bed and meets him halfway as he grinds his hips into you with a sloppy, desperate pace. 

“Yeah,” he pants, voice cracking, “y-yeah, I know. I know…I…I f-feel it too.”

You feel his cock twitch, and then there’s a flood of warmth against the thin plastic that separates you from him. He stills for a moment before he lets out a deep, throaty groan, burying his face into your neck and riding out the shockwaves of his own orgasm with sharp thrusts that don’t have proper rhythm. Not anymore. Not when he’s so far gone in his own pleasure as it burns through every nerve of his body. 

He slumps next to you on the bed—not before he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you flush against his sweaty chest. Alhaitham is warm. Even when you’re warm, too, you still want to feel his warmth. You don’t mind the burning heat. Not when it’s him. 

“Did you mean it?” he whispers. 

“Mean what?”

“That I’m good change?”

You look up. Light breaks over your face as you smile at him and trace your finger over his chest. “Yeah. You are.”

“You are too,” he says softly, lips curling into a delicate smile. “You’re everything good for me.”

“Does this mean the letters will stop?” you pout, “no letter tomorrow now that I’m here?”

He chuckles. Looks at you with a look you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen before—maybe it was when your father could still look at your mother. Maybe you’d last seen such a look on his face, all those years ago. 

“Do you want them to stop?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head as you nuzzle closer, “I don’t.”

“Then they won’t stop,” he says, kissing your head. “Promise.”

────────────────────────

Just like he promised, Alhaitham never stops writing you letters. Even when your house is no longer registered under your name and you have no address anymore, he still writes you his letters. 

“You sold your house,” he says quietly. “I saw the papers in the files.”

You pause your fingers from their adventures along his chest. It’s funny to think that some time ago—just a few months prior, even—you’d have stiffened at the words. You would tense at the fact that he knows anything about you and pull away from him. You would tell yourself that you have to pull yourself out of this bubble that surrounds you and throw yourself back into the real world. 

But you know now that Alhaitham is the real world. He is under the same sky as you and watches the same stars. You point to a constellation and he looks. He learns it. He remembers it, too. He is part of your world. 

“I did,” you murmur back. “I just…can’t keep going back there anymore. It’s not the same.”

“Where will you go? You haven’t bought another house yet,” he raises a brow. You roll your eyes—he thinks you didn’t think this through. You roll them out of slight amusement, though. Not bitter anymore like it once was. 

“I’ll find one. I don’t have to move out for another two weeks.”

“That’s highly unprepared. Not a good calculated risk,” he clicks his teeth. This time, you give him a flat look. 

If you are aphelion, Alhaitham is perihelion—opposite ends of the same path, always at different ends, yet always tied together by the same sun in the same sky. You are bound to him by the same, never-ending orbit. And he has sworn this to you, thoughtfully written in the letters you keep carefully hidden away in your drawer. For you.

“I’ll be fine,” you huff. “Mora isn’t exactly an issue. Say what you will about my father, but he left me a generous sum.”

He hums, staring ahead in thought. And then, “You know…you can always live here.”

You pause. “Here?” you ask cautiously, “you mean with you?”

He swallows for a moment and looks down. “Yes,” he says quietly. “With…with me. If you want, that is.”

“Your only other room is taken,” you snort, “by your roommate. And I’m not going to evict poor Kaveh—unlike me, he can’t afford a move.”

“This room is just fine,” he says boldly. Still, you can almost hear the way he’s a little hesitant. Scared, maybe. Still clinging to his pride as he delivers it with a shrug. “The windows are big. The mattress isn’t uncomfortable, either—you’d know. The bathroom has two sinks, too.”

“How convenient,” you nod slowly. 

“Very.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You pause. He stills, but he doesn’t stiffen. You breathe in and then out slowly for a moment before you say it again, louder this time. “Okay.”

Alhaitham’s eyes brighten at that—but then again, they are always bright. His irises are the sky, and every little streak of color that paints them is vibrant enough that you might mistake them for the stars. You might even wish on them, beg them to tell you secrets and show you the way, and lead you down a path that always takes you to him. 

And he’ll always be there. The sun might come out and the stars may disappear from your line of sight, but the stars will always be there. And they’ll always come back. There’s never been a night when they haven’t—not once, not in any chart the Akademiya has ever kept.

He smiles at your answer. It’s barely-there and it goes as quick as it comes, like a shooting star that passes by. But it came, and you have seen it in its fleeting glory.

He kisses your forehead and hums, “Okay.”

TWO MONTHS LATER SHE IS DONE AHHHHHHHH

[shortonwon]

GIMME ALL YOUR LOVE ✦ ┈─ P.JS

i. PAIRING — husband ! jay × wife ! reader

ii. GENRE — smut, porn with plot, arranged marriage au

iii. SYNOPSIS — having always admired your brother's best friend, when you finally did end up marrying him—it was nothing like how you had planned.

iv. WARNINGS — KINKTOBER SPECIAL , arranged marriage, age-gap (teenage crush → adult intimacy), first-time sex with mild pain, premature ejaculation, pregnancy, familial verbal abuse (mother), 20th century au, longing, masturbation (kind of?), lmk if more...

v. WORD COUNT — 11.6K — OCTOBER 31TH

You can’t help but stare down at your lap, eyes fixed on the fabric of your skirt while the soft clinking of cutlery and polite laughter fill the dining room.

Both sets of parents sit around the table—his and yours—their conversations weaving comfortably between courses. He sits directly across from you, your husband, yet you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not when everyone else is talking, not when the air already feels too tight around you.

“So,” your older brother leans back in his chair with that teasing grin you’ve always hated, “how’s married life treating you two?”

Your fingers tighten around the folds of your long skirt, knuckles pressing white as you nod, forcing out a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your cheeks burn, and you can feel every gaze at the table shift toward you—curious, expectant.

“Is it not great?” he pushes again, tone light but probing, and you swear you could strangle him for being so nosy. His words hang in the air, drawing full attention from your in-laws and your own parents alike.

“It… is great,” you manage, voice a little too soft, a little too unsure.

The table quiets for just a moment, and you feel your heart hammer in your chest. You keep your eyes low, fists still gripping your skirt like an anchor.

Across the table, Jay remains calm—expression unreadable, posture perfect. He doesn’t jump in to save you, doesn’t say a word, as if nothing is wrong. As if your discomfort isn’t laid bare for everyone to see.

“Really though? Son, is my daughter being a menace?” your father asks, his tone not quite teasing but taunting—that same sharp edge you’ve grown up hearing for the nineteen years before you were married off.

Married not out of choice, but because both sets of parents knew exactly how to twist your emotions until you couldn’t say no.

(But it wasn’t like you could’ve ever rejected him anyway.)

You finally lift your gaze, eyes meeting your husband’s across the table.

For a second, you hope he’ll say something—anything—to shift the attention.

But he only looks away, a soft, polite smile tugging at his lips as he replies, “If anything, I’m the one being a menace.”

Your mother lets out a delighted laugh, clearly charmed, her eyes gleaming as if they’ve truly hit the jackpot with their son-in-law.

“You’re just being humble,” your father waves it off with a smirk, turning his gaze toward you.

The look he gives you is painfully familiar—the same one that’s always warned you he’s about to embarrass you just because he can.

“My daughter’s really bad at taking care of a home, you know? Can’t even boil water properly,” he says, chuckling to himself. “It’s sad you can’t refund her now.”

The table bursts into laughter—light, easy, unbothered—as if it’s all harmless fun.

But the sound feels like static in your ears. You keep your eyes lowered, your fists tightening in your lap, quietly focusing on steadying your breath.

Jay only manages an awkward smile, clearly unsure what to do or say, his fingers nervously tracing the rim of his glass.

The others continue eating, chatting between bites of the elaborate meal your family prepared—every dish an effort to impress your in-laws. At least they get along, you think bitterly, exhaling a quiet sigh that no one seems to notice.

You take one last bite of the tteokbokki before sliding the plate away, the sauce faintly sweet on your tongue.

It’s the same dish your mother has been bragging to your in-laws about all evening—how she used to make it for you and your brother when you were growing up, how it was always your favorite. But the truth is, even getting an extra plate of rice back then had been a luxury.

Poverty had its quiet ways of humbling you.

You’re still living somewhere in the lower range of it—not starving, but not comfortable either.

This life is just… a slightly better version of what it used to be.

You can’t help but notice the subtle imbalance around the table. Your father-in-law, your father, and your brother dominate the conversation—voices confident, steady. Your mother and mother-in-law only speak when spoken to, their smiles polite but restrained.

It’s not surprising; it’s just how things are. Society still teaches women their boundaries, even here, even now—in the 20th century.

In that small, fleeting moment, you miss the way your husband’s gaze softens as he tips back a glass of water.

He watches you quietly from across the table, eyes lingering on your face while everyone else carries on. He’s not listening to their chatter—not really. His mind seems somewhere between guilt and something unspoken.

It’s only been a month since the wedding. The ring on your finger still glimmers like it’s new—because it is. And yet, as you sit there surrounded by family, the noise of laughter and conversation blending into a blur, you feel nothing but a hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyelids grow heavy before you even realize it. You rest your head lightly on the edge of the table—it’s spotless, thankfully. You’ve always eaten cleanly, a habit burned into you since childhood, when even the smallest mess could summon your mother’s wrath.

The voices around you fade, becoming distant and dull. Just like everything else in your marriage.

⪩⪨

“Oppa!!” You giggle, your tiny arms wrapping tightly around the older boy’s waist as he pedals down the narrow village road.

The wind rushes past your face, carrying the faint scent of blooming marigolds from nearby fields.

Jay laughs, steadying the bicycle with surprising ease for an nine-year-old, while you—barely four—cling to him from the backseat, your feet not even reaching the pedals.

He’s your brother’s best friend, five years older than you, and the only person who ever lets you ride with him. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no awkwardness—just the soft, protective kind of affection an older boy has for a little girl he’s known forever.

Jay turns his head slightly, flashing a grin toward your brother, Jake, who stands sulking on the dirt path, arms crossed and face scrunched up with jealousy.

“You’ll get your turn!” Jay calls out, his laughter echoing through the quiet afternoon.

Even then, you can’t help but admire him.

The way he talks, the way he smiles, the warmth in his voice—everything about him feels safe, gentle, and kind. To your tiny heart, it all feels like love. Pure, innocent, childish love that blooms without reason.

But as time passes, the sweetness sours. You grow older, and so does he, and you start to understand the quiet ache that comes with knowing the truth—that to him, you’re just a little girl he once looked after. Someone to protect, not someone to love.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than anything your nine-year-old heart has ever known.

⪩⪨

And now.

Sitting in your little hiding spot by the lake—the one nestled deep within the forest where no one ever dared to go—you can’t help but sob quietly, your small shoulders trembling with each hiccup.

The night air is damp, the scent of moss and still water filling your nose as you wipe at your tears with the back of your palm.

It happened again today.

Something so small, yet it broke you all over again—your brother getting the larger piece of fish while you were left scraping the thin curry for flavor.

“I hate everyone,” you whisper between choked sobs, voice cracking.

The darkness does nothing to comfort you; it only feels heavier, pressing against your little body as you rock back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. It’s the only way you’ve ever learned to stop the hurt—to hold yourself because no one else will.

“Hey?!”

You freeze at the sudden sound, breath catching.

“Please don’t kill me!” you blurt out, voice trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Sure, you’ve wished to disappear before, but not like this—not at nine years old, not here, not tonight.

A familiar voice cuts through the rustling of the trees. “What are you even doing here at this hour?”

You slowly peek through your fingers, your vision still blurry from the tears—and there he is. Jay. Completely soaked, water dripping from his hair as he steps out from the lake. For a moment, he looks unreal—like an angel pulled straight from the water, moonlight glinting off his damp skin. Your heart pounds faster, too fast, and you forget how to breathe.

“I asked you a question, girl,” he calls again, shaking his head roughly to dry his hair. The droplets scatter, landing on your face and hands. You flinch but secretly, it feels special—like being blessed somehow, as ridiculous as it sounds.

You’re just so hopelessly down bad, even at nine.

“...I ran away.” You murmur, voice soft and shaky, not really expecting him to say anything back.

But Jay tilts his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he asks again, “Something to do with your family?”

That’s all it takes for your younger self to spill everything.

“Yes… they gave fish to my brother but not me,” you complain, words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting too long. You glance up at him as he quietly sits beside you on the large rock, his presence grounding in the still night air.

“You want fish?” he questions suddenly, cutting through your silence.

Before you can even form a reply, he gets up, walking over to where a small stick rests by a dying campfire.

You blink in surprise as he blows over a piece of grilled fish, the faint smoke curling between you, and holds it out toward you.

You just stare, a little dumbfounded—why is he doing this? Especially when you’d just been ranting about your family, about his best friend’s family.

“Why were you cooking fish in the middle of a forest anyway?” you finally voice out, hesitant, not yet taking the food.

He shrugs lightly, settling back down beside you. “I just like the peace. Home’s… too chaotic for me,” he admits, tone calm but honest. Then, with a small frown of focus, he carefully tears off a piece of the fish, checking for small bones. Once satisfied, he holds it out to you again.

“Here… ahh.”

You hesitate, eyes glimmering with fresh tears, before finally opening your mouth.

The taste isn’t great—a little burnt, a little bland—but somehow, eating from his hands makes it perfect. It’s the kind of warmth you’d been starving for.

The moonlight catches his skin as he moves—his bare chest still glistening from the water, muscles shifting with every motion—and your eyes betray you, darting down before you can stop yourself.

He looks older, stronger, impossibly beautiful under the pale glow, and it makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand yet.

“Oppa… thank you so much,” you whisper, testing the word on your tongue, watching his small smile in response.

You open your mouth for another bite, and he obliges easily, pulling apart another piece and removing the sharper bones before gently bringing it near your lips.

You can’t help but smile, cheeks flushed, the warmth in your chest spreading.

It’s been months since you last had fish—real food, something warm—but it isn’t just that.

Somehow, sitting here beside him, under the quiet blanket of night, feels more like home than home ever did.

⪩⪨

And even as time passed.

What did not stop was the admiration and love you still harboured for him during your teen years. That affection also spilled into a bit of teenage exploration, and it always circled back to him.

Your hands cupped the soft weight of your still-forming breasts, the shower water pouring over you as you shut your eyes, picturing him—right behind you, pressing his firm body against yours.

Would he be all muscle? He looked strong under his clothes every time you saw him—god. You craved it all, the way he would grip your waist from behind, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up to cradle the gentle curve beneath your breasts. Your own hands followed the fantasy, tracing what you wished he would do.

“Jay…” you breathed, squeezing your breasts together, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks while water streamed down, plastering your hair to your cheeks. A hot pulse stirred deep in your pussy.

A soft whine escaped you, the feeling too good to ignore, even if you did not yet grasp why—even if you did not realize your secret thoughts about your brother’s best friend were the spark.

Your hand drifted lower, pushing aside the damp curls as your fingers met slick warmth. You inhaled sharply at the strange, slippery heat, then spread it over your folds. A needy moan slipped out, half-whimper.

“Jay… please…”

In your mind, his fingers worked you, but with him absent, yours took over. You circled the tender swell at the top, your clit or so you thought, pleasure flaring bright, hips rocking into your touch.

Water rushed over your shaking thighs, mingling with the slickness gathering between them. You pressed firmer, chasing the ache that buckled your knees.

You never slipped inside—the idea felt too bold, too unknown back then.

“HOW MUCH LONGER ARE YOU GOING TO SHOWER?” came the shout, followed by a sharp knock on the door.

You flinched visibly, eyes snapping open, hands freezing mid-motion. You pulled them away; the one that had been between your legs glistened with your own slick warmth. Your nipples stayed peaked, but now the chill of sudden exposure bit harder than any lingering heat.

“ARE YOU DEAD IN THERE?”

The shout jolted you fully awake. Your voice trembled as you called back, “Almost done!” The words thinned under the steady drum of the shower.

You twisted the faucet off at once, water dying to drips. Towel in hand, you scrubbed your skin dry, slipped into the clothes hanging on the hook, then wound the damp towel around your hair. Each knock and raised syllable from your mother made you shrink.

“THIS GIRL. GODDAMN. YOU ALONE WASTE HALF THE WATER IN THIS HOUSE.”

Another flinch rippled through you. The door clicked open. Your pulse hammered; you stepped out fast, shoulders hunched, praying her palm stayed at her side today and didn't ache to be on your cheek. You brushed past her in the narrow hall, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

She kept yelling—five full minutes about bills, about waste, about how useless you were—until she finally pushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Only then, in the sudden hush, did your mind drift back to the shower.

That strange, slippery heat still coated your fingers; you could almost feel it again.

You pressed your thighs together, remembering the ache he sparked without even being there. His imagined hands—bigger than yours, sure—gliding over your wet skin, cupping, stroking, claiming.

Your mother’s voice faded into dull noise behind the bathroom door, and all you heard was the echo of your own quiet plea. “Jay…”

⪩⪨

And then, almost like magic—or maybe a cruel twist of fate—you were suddenly arranged to marry him. You were just eighteen, barely stepping out of the kitchen after spending the afternoon trying to follow one of your mother’s recipes.

“Mom, what do I do with the rest of the flour?” you shout, loud enough for the whole house to hear, brushing a streak of flour off your cheek as you step out. You don’t realize there’s company in the living room—not until the words hang in the air and silence greets you instead of your mother’s usual grumpy reply.

Your eyes lift, and there he is. Jay.

You freeze.

For a moment, the world narrows down to the sight of him sitting there, composed as ever beside both sets of parents. Your heart stutters; your face burns. You can feel the flour still smudged across your apron and skin, and it makes your embarrassment worse.

“M–mom..?” you manage weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper as you look toward her.

She stands by Jay’s mother, both smiling in that overly polite, knowing way adults do when they’re discussing something life-changing for everyone but themselves.

“Oh, there she is—our daughter” your father announces proudly, gesturing toward you as if presenting you to an audience.

You can only stare, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of it.

Your brother, Jake, looks equally bewildered, his brows furrowing as his gaze darts between you, Jay, and the parents.

“What’s going on..?” he finally interrupts, his tone sharp as his arm instinctively slips around your shoulder—protective, firm, a rare show of care from someone who’d literally tackled you for a stolen chip that same morning.

Then the realization seems to hit him like a storm. “Don’t tell me you guys are…” he points from Jay to you, then to the parents again, voice rising in disbelief. “You’re not seriously—”

“I don’t agree,” Jake cuts in before anyone can answer, his glare fierce as it lands on Jay. The tension is thick, his grip on your shoulder tightening.

“Let’s go,” he says under his breath, jaw tight, his hand guiding you firmly down the hallway. “No point staying here.”

Before you can even look back, he shuts the door behind you, locking it with a sharp click.

You stand there, heart pounding, staring at the closed door—the muffled sounds of conversation fading outside—and you realize you’re still holding the bowl of flour.

It all feels surreal. One moment, you were learning to cook. The next, they’d decided your entire future.

You still can’t wrap your head around it—any of it.

Your pulse is loud in your ears, the faint smell of flour clinging to your clothes, your hands trembling slightly as you stare at Jake.

He kneels a little so your eyes meet, his expression surprisingly serious, a contrast to his usual teasing self.

“I might be an ass to you,” he starts, voice low but steady, “but I’m not letting my sister get married off to someone she doesn’t want to.”

You blink at him, the words not sinking in immediately.

Then your breath catches.

“Married?” you echo, your voice cracking.

Jake sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “Yes, marriage. They are here to talk about a proposal.”

Your stomach flips. Marriage. The word feels unreal—too heavy, too sudden—and yet, before you can even think twice, the words spill out of you.

“But I do want to marry him!!” you blurt, almost desperately, spinning toward the door. But before you can reach the handle, Jake’s hand shoots out, holding it firmly shut.

He stares at you in disbelief. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him, and you’re saying you want to marry him?” he scoffs, shaking his head.

To him, you’re still the kid who cried over broken crayons and burnt toast—the same little sister he’s spent half his life protecting and yelling at.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this, situation” he adds, his voice softer now but still laced with frustration. “That boy’s twenty-three, and you’re just eighteen—”

“But I’ll be nineteen by the time we actually marry!” you cut in quickly, trying to sound logical, like you’ve already thought this through.

Jake’s brows knit together, but you keep going, using the same sweet tone your mother always used to get her way.

“Oppa,” you say, cupping his face between your flour-dusted hands, the bowl placed away, looking up at him with pleading eyes, “he has a good job. He can take care of your little sister easily.”

Jake just sighs, clearly torn between amusement and disbelief.

You can see the corners of his mouth twitch, the way they always do when he’s seconds away from giving up on arguing with you.

The two of you stand there—a chaotic pair, the room smelling faintly of flour—and for a brief second, it almost feels like any other sibling fight. Except this time, what’s at stake isn’t a bag of chips or a TV remote. It’s your future.

“But you gotta promise me that you’ll break this off if you feel anything suspicious or off” Jake pleaded, his tone laced with genuine worry.

Something about this whole situation had him unusually protective, almost tense. Meanwhile, you couldn’t help the tiny burst of happiness that bubbled up inside you at his concern.

“I promise,” you added with a grin, your voice light but full of certainty. You could barely contain the excitement at the thought of it—finally getting married to him. The boy had owned your soul ever since the day you met him. As indecent as it sounded, you wanted no one else. You knew that even if you ended up with another man, your heart would still yearn for him—for Jay.

Jake sighed heavily before finally opening the door, stepping out first.

You followed, your movements shy and hesitant, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress as you lingered by the entrance. You could hear Jake’s voice as he spoke to both sets of parents, the polite greetings mixing with the hum of casual conversation.

But your eyes weren’t on them.

They were on him.

Jay sat across the room, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on his lap. His expression unreadable—almost too calm for what this moment meant to you. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he lifted his gaze. His eyes met yours.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering so violently that it hurt. You quickly looked away, stepping back behind the doorway, your pulse still drumming in your ears. You prayed he hadn’t noticed you staring—though deep down, a part of you wished he had.

But even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.

Because soon enough, he was going to be yours. In a year, you’d belong to him—far from this place, somewhere only the two of you existed.

Somewhere peace awaited you—in the arms of someone you loved, and someone who, you hoped with everything in you, might someday learn to love you back.

⪩⪨

“Tchh.”

You let out a small sound of frustration, the memory of your old excitement now feeling like a cruel joke.

Sitting in the train that carried you both back to the city, exhaustion weighed on your body after the long family dinner.

Dinner—if you could even call it that.

It had felt more like torture, a silent interrogation wrapped in politeness. And what irked you the most was how Jay hadn’t spoken up for you even once.

You sat quietly, eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of stars scatter across the night sky. They glimmered faintly—as if they’d stolen the light you’d once had inside you.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and hold his hand. Your throat itched to finally tell him how much it hurt—how much his silence had cut you open when you needed him most.

“Jay—” you began softly, but the word barely left your lips before you stopped.

His head had fallen gently against your shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted slightly as sleep overtook him. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him. Your husband—asleep on your shoulder like a weary child.

A shiver ran down your spine, not from discomfort but from the quiet intimacy of it all. Warmth bloomed in your chest, melting away some of the heaviness you carried.

You shifted a little, straightening your posture and raising your shoulder slightly so he could rest more comfortably.

Despite the ache, despite the resentment—seeing him like this softened you.

So what if he didn’t care? You cared. And maybe that was enough… for now.

Still, the bitterness lingered.

You hesitated, then slowly reached out, gathering what little courage you had left, and took his hand in yours. The cool metal of his wedding ring glinted faintly in the dim train light—mocking, somehow, in how brightly it shone while the bond between you both had dulled.

“Jay…” you breathed, your voice no louder than a sigh as your thumb brushed over the ring. Resting your head gently against his, you let yourself linger in that fragile moment—the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft hum of the moving train, the illusion of closeness that almost felt real.

It had been a month since the wedding.

A month of trying.

A month of hoping.

And still, he didn’t care.

Or maybe he did—just not in the way you wanted him to.

He would sleep with you, yes—but he would never reach out to hold you, never wrap his arms around you, never pull you close in the way you had always dreamed a husband would.

It wasn’t like the soft, honey-colored fantasies you’d painted for yourself when you imagined marriage. It was cold. It was quiet. It was lonely.

You remembered the little things, the moments that confused your heart more than they should have.

Like the way he helped you cook because you couldn’t get through a recipe without either burning the vegetables or leaving them half-raw.

He never complained, never sighed in frustration, just silently stepped in to help—even when he came home after a long, draining day at work.

That was sweet, yes.

It made your chest flutter in the smallest way.

But then he’d go right back to that distant tone, treating you like the same girl he’d known for years, never like a woman who now shared his home, his bed, his name.

It was maddening.

You remembered asking him once over dinner, your voice trembling but steady enough to carry your heart’s weight. “Would you still treat me this way if I was some other girl you married?”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there in silence—the clink of his chopsticks against the bowl louder than any words he could’ve said. And somehow, you knew the answer already. He wouldn’t.

What you didn’t know, however, was that he would never agree to marry anyone else in the first place—not if it wasn’t you.

You were young, naive maybe, but the thought of you being handed off to some stranger, a man who might use you and discard you without a second thought, had terrified him more than anything ever had.

Jay could live with guilt. He could live with exhaustion. But he couldn’t live with the image of you being hurt.

Love?

He wasn’t sure if that was what it was.

But care—deep, instinctive care—that he knew too well.

He understood how marriage worked in this era, how women were treated as property, traded off to men twice their age with nothing but silence for protest. The thought of you in that position made his stomach twist until he could hardly breathe.

So he did what he thought was right—even if it meant building walls between you both after.

Because losing you, in any form, would’ve been far worse than the quiet misery he chose instead.

But to you, all of this felt like being treated like a child—always assuming you couldn’t do something, always stepping in before you even had the chance to try.

It wasn’t protection anymore; it was pity disguised as care.

You wiped at your tear-streaked cheek with the back of your hand, eyes drifting back to the window where the stars hung faintly above the blur of trees.

They seemed duller now, as if even they had grown tired—reflecting your life a little too perfectly.

All you could do was hope—hope that once you reached the city, you could crawl into bed, bury yourself in the sheets, and cry without worrying about anyone hearing.

You wiped another tear that threatened to fall, forcing your breathing to steady.

Because no matter what this was—the awkward silences, the quiet ache, the way love felt half-formed between you—it was still better than what you had endured before. The shattered dishes, the shouting, the hands that struck before words ever could. You had been the one on the receiving end of that chaos, and even the thought of it still made your chest tighten.

So even if life now meant living in a cramped apartment with a husband who barely looked your way, it was still peace. It was safety. And that was something.

Jay’s fingers twitched in his sleep, tightening slightly around yours.

“Mm…” he hummed lowly, half-conscious, as if even in sleep he refused to let go.

You stilled, watching the way his hand fit so easily against yours, and tried not to feel too guilty about the warmth that bloomed from it.

Because how could you complain? He was your dream. The same boy you had adored since childhood, the one you had prayed for, whispered about, wished on stars for—and now he was here. You were holding his hand. Sharing a bed. Living under the same roof. Even if it wasn’t the way you had imagined, it was still something, and you clung to that.

You couldn’t cook without burning something, couldn’t finish chores properly, couldn’t even contribute a penny to the rent—and still, he never once raised his voice or made you feel small. That alone, you told yourself, was enough reason to be grateful. So you were.

Even as his hand tightened around yours again, and the train slowed near your stop, you already knew. You wouldn’t bring it up. Not the neglect, not the ache, not the longing. Not when he was trying, in his own quiet way, to take care of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days pass just… okay-ish. Nothing new, nothing different—just the same quiet routine, the same silence that fills the gaps between you two. Because really, nothing has changed.

By the time you finally get back home from errands, your body feels unbearably heavy. Your head throbs, your skin burns, and every bone in you aches.

Fever—that’s what it is, but even that doesn’t stop you.

You still manage to drag yourself to the kitchen, fumbling through the recipe you had written down on a crumpled piece of paper. It’s your one-month anniversary today—your first month as his wife—and even if it might not mean much to him, it means something to you.

So you bake. A small, uneven cake. The top’s a little burnt, the frosting’s a little too sweet, but it’s yours. It’s love, in the only way you know how to give it.

When you finally collapse on the bed, the smell of sugar and vanilla still lingers on your fingers. You close your eyes, exhausted, hoping just a short nap will help before he comes home.

But when your eyes flutter open again, the room feels different—chaotic. The air feels sharp, heavy with tension. Jay’s standing near the sink, shoulders stiff, eyes dark with disappointment as he glares at you.

Your heart sinks immediately. You can’t even piece together what could’ve gone wrong.

“Jay?” you call out softly, voice still hoarse from sleep. But before you can say more, his voice cuts through the air—louder, sharper than you’ve ever heard it before.

“Do you seriously not understand that the water taps should be closed after use?” His tone is pure frustration, the kind that burns more than it should. “Do you have any idea how much water—how much money—went down the drain because you forgot? God, it must’ve been running for at least an hour!”

You blink at him, stunned, feeling your throat close up as guilt rises like bile.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, tears already pricking your eyes. You can tell—this isn’t the usual quiet annoyance, this is anger. Real anger. And it terrifies you.

He shakes his head, rubbing his temples as if trying to control himself, but his voice still carries the same edge. “You’re sorry? If you really were, you’d have known better than to keep the tap running! Do you know how hard I work? And to come home to this—” He gestures around at the mess, the damp floor, the unwashed dishes, and it’s too much.

You close your eyes tight, pressing your lips together to stop the trembling. Because this moment—his voice, his words, his frustration—feels too familiar.

It’s like being back there again. In that house. The one filled with yelling and broken dishes. The one you promised yourself you’d never relive.

And yet, somehow, you’re right back in it.

“Why are you so quiet now? No acknowledgement, no… nothing?” he trails off, his voice softer now, confusion edging out the anger.

Finally, for the first time that evening, he really looks at you—and his entire expression shifts. He moves closer, kneeling down hesitantly in front of you, one hand reaching out before it stops midair as if he’s not sure whether he even deserves to touch you. Then, slowly, he presses his palm against your forehead.

The heat under his skin tells him everything.

His eyes widen in alarm, the pieces of the puzzle falling together in an instant—the exhaustion, the paleness, your trembling voice.

Regret floods him all at once, and his chest tightens painfully.

“Are you…” he starts, voice cracking as he exhales deeply. “I didn’t realise…” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes down your cheek—a tear that burns more than any words could have.

He feels sick.

Absolutely sick at himself.

“I’ll… I’ll get you something to eat,” he finally says under his breath, guilt heavy in his tone.

He stands up abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the rug as he walks toward the small kitchen area—still in his outside clothes, still too frantic to even remove his socks.

But as soon as he reaches the counter, he stops dead in his tracks.

A small cake sits there—uneven, slightly tilted, the frosting messy but filled with color. There’s a heart on top, carefully made from chocolate gems, the kind you always saved to eat last. His breath catches in his throat.

He feels the air leave his lungs as his mind races—what is this? And then, a sinking realisation hits.

He grabs his phone, scrolling through the calendar, and the date stares back at him like a cruel reminder—the one-month wedding anniversary.

And you remembered.

He stands there for a long moment, silent, his hand tightening around the counter edge as guilt swallows him whole.

You’d been sick… and still baked him a cake.

You’d put your heart into something that was supposed to be sweet, a tiny celebration of love, and he had crushed it under anger.

“What did I just do…” he breathes out shakily, running a hand through his hair, eyes glassy with shame. He takes a plate, his movements careful now, almost reverent, and slices a small piece of the cake—one for you, one for himself.

It couldn’t go to waste. Not after how much it must’ve taken you to make it.

Not when you both were already running low on everything—time, money, and maybe… a little bit of love too.

With slow, uncertain steps, he walks back into the room. You’re sitting up now, your face pale, a faint frown tugging at your lips—the kind that twists something deep in his chest. He lowers himself down to the floor, kneeling in front of you, eyes searching yours as he carefully places the plate on your lap. His voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I’m so sorry…”

You just stare at him, the weight of everything sitting heavy between you.

There’s sincerity in his eyes—raw, trembling, almost boyish—but it doesn’t erase the ache still lodged in your heart.

You shake your head slowly, pushing the plate back toward him.

“You were right,” you murmur, the words fragile.

“You don’t work hard just to come back to a home that looks like… this.” You gesture vaguely around the room—the cluttered dishes, the undone laundry, the exhaustion that’s started to live in every corner of his tiny apartment.

He exhales, guilt twisting through his expression. “It’s okay… it really is,” he manages quietly, his gaze falling to the plate before flicking back to you. “But… please. Eat it. It’s our anniversary, after all…” His voice trails off, the guilt pressing deeper into him.

The word anniversary tastes like regret on his tongue—knowing he forgot, knowing he brought you nothing but disappointment.

“Yeah…” you whisper, your tone fragile and faintly bitter. “Happy anniversary.”

You finally lift the small slice of cake to your lips, taking a slow bite before hesitating—then, wordlessly, you offer him the rest.

He freezes, the air thick between you.

You let out a soft, broken laugh.

“Of course. Why would you eat something that—”

Your words die in your throat when his hand catches your wrist. Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward and takes the piece from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin. You go utterly still as he draws your fingers between his, tongue sweeping lightly over the tips to clean away the crumbs. His eyes never leave yours while doing so.

The room feels heavier, hotter, your pulse stuttering against your wrist where his hand still holds you captive. He chews slowly, his jaw tightening, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Jay…” you breathe, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, the words more desperate this time, laced with something that sounds like self-hatred.

You blink back the sting in your eyes, the frustration, the ache. “Like you said,” you begin, voice trembling but steady enough to cut through the silence, “Sorry doesn’t make up for it. You treat me like that same little girl you met all those years ago… not like someone who’s supposed to be your wife. Why?”

The question falls between you, heavy and bare, leaving him wordless.

He slowly stands, taking the empty plate from your lap, and sets it on the table beside the bed. Then he looks back at you—his eyes dark, conflicted, full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“Then what does…?” he asks quietly, the words low but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between you.

He leans in a little too close, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and your heart stutters in response—loud, uncontrollable, trembling.

“Jay…” you whisper, swallowing hard before the words tumble out.

“You just… never treat me like your wife. We don’t—we haven’t even kissed or… I—” You stop, the fever pulsing through you making everything heavier, hotter. You shouldn’t be saying all this, but you’ve finally managed to get him to listen, to actually see you.

“Can I kiss you?” Jay interrupts softly.

Your mind blanks for a second. “What?” you blink, startled. That easily?

“You said you wanted to—”

“No.” The word leaves your mouth before he can finish.

“Don’t kiss me. Not when you’re doing it just to fulfill your husband duties.” You stare up at him, your tone steady but your chest aching.

He studies you for a moment—then straightens, pulling away.

You think that’s the end of it, that he’s withdrawing again like he always does, but instead his hand slides beneath your knees, the other pressing gently against your back. You gasp softly as he lifts you, effortlessly, his movements careful and quiet as he carries you across the small room.

He places you down on the narrow bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. You stare up at him, eyes wide, utterly lost. He looks down at you, and for once, you can’t read him. His expression isn’t cold or distant—there’s something unreadable, a tension that pulls at your chest.

“Why would you—”

Before you can finish, he presses a finger to your lips, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if I kiss you on the couch,” he pauses, the words deliberate, “I won’t be able to stop myself. So better yet… start here.”

He leans in closer, and you instinctively fall back against the pillow, breath catching in your throat.

For a fleeting moment, you can’t believe this is him—the same man who used to avoid even brushing his fingers against yours, now looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can I kiss you now?” he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that every word brushes your mouth like a touch.

You nod, the smallest dip of your chin, and his lips seal over yours in the same breath. He lowers you fully; your back sinks into the mattress of the narrow bed you have shared on restless nights. His body follows, pinning you gently beneath him.

The kiss ignites something sharp and sweet. His tongue traces the edge of your lips, coaxing them apart, then slips inside to tangle with yours.

Your hands fist the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as the familiar slick heat gathers between your thighs, growing with every slow stroke of his mouth.

“Jay,” you whine against him, the fever still burning under your skin.

He shifts, the hard line of his body presses flush to yours, thigh nudging between your legs, and you feel the throb of him even through the layers of cloth.

“So sorry…” he breathes, the apology lost as his tongue finds yours again.

Your eyes flutter shut, his taste floods you—warm, faintly salted, everything you once imagined in secret. The little girl inside you sighs in quiet triumph.

“It’s okay…” you whisper when he draws back just enough to speak.

Your lips shine. His do too.

A thin thread of saliva stretches between you, glinting, then snaps.

His gaze is dark, pupils blown wide. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he dives back in.

He kisses like he is starving, lips molding, tongue stroking, teeth grazing your lower lip until it stings. One large hand gathers both your wrists, pinning them above your head against the pillow. His other hand slides beneath the hem of your dress—the soft cotton gifted for the marriage, still crisp with newness.

His palm meets fever-hot skin along your ribs. He traces upward, thumb brushing the soft underside of your breast, then hesitates at the tied strings of your dress.

You arch into him, hips rolling, lips seeking his again, guiding his fingers back inside with a soft nudge.

There is no chance you will let him stop now, not after years of wanting this.

You—wrapped in his arms, his mouth devouring yours. The only thing left is to feel him deeper—inside you, filling the ache that pulses low in your belly. The fever, the need—whatever name it carries—promises you will have it soon, if the kiss never ends.

You nearly cursed yourself for guiding his hand back under your dress; women who made moves were judged harshly.

But Jay only kissed you harder, hips rolling forward. Through his pants and the thin cotton of your dress, you could feel the hardness of his dragging against your walls. Your eyes rolled back, you were so close now. It did not matter that it started from an argument.

“Jay…” A fresh rush of wetness soaked your folds. You felt it slick the inside of your thighs, and he had not even touched you there. Your walls clenched around nothing.

“Is the fever—”

“Not about it… just… I…” You clamped your lips shut. If he wanted this, he would take it. Speaking too much was unladylike, you had been taught that since you were small. Be obedient. Listen to your husband. Keep quiet.

His mouth left yours and drifted to your neck. You swallowed a moan, afraid of waking anyone up. He sucked gently at the tender skin below your ear, just like every secret dream you had ever had, only better.

“…I…” He started, voice rough, then slid both hands beneath your dress. His palms cupped your breasts fully, thumbs sweeping over the stiff peaks. The soft weight filled his hands, you had ached for this touch for years.

It’s happening. It’s happening. It’s happening.

Your mind lit up like festival lanterns. You arched into him, pressing your chest forward, but you did not grab or pull. You stayed still, letting him lead, heart hammering with equal parts joy and fear.

He untied the knots at the front of your dress, fingers quick and sure. The fabric loosened, slid down your shoulders, over your breasts, past your hips, until it pooled on the floor beside the bed.

The air in the small room pressed thick and warm against your bare skin. You looked up at him, cheeks burning, struck silent by the sight of your own husband seeing you like this for the first time.

His one hand still pinned both of yours above your head. With the other he unhooked your bra, tugged your panties down your thighs, all without letting go. You heard his sharp inhale, felt it shudder through him, and the sound snapped you out of your haze. You pushed at his chest.

“What—” Jay blinked, confused, staring down at you naked beneath him, suddenly shoving him away.

Your nipples were tight peaks, skin flushed crimson, pussy clenching around emptiness, and still you managed to whisper, “You don’t have to do this just to make me happy…”

“Who said I’m doing this to make you…” He paused, cock twitching hard in his pants as he finished, “…happy?”

“Huh?” you breathed, lost, before he surged forward, tackling you back onto the mattress.

He yanked his zipper down, shoved his work shirt off his shoulders, let it drop. Bare chest met yours, hot skin on hot skin. His mouth crashed into yours again while the thick length of him, freed from his open zip, dragged along your soaked folds.

You felt like you were floating inside a dream.

Him wanting this—not just for you—made everything burn brighter.

Without warning he notched the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in an inch, then pulled back. You fisted the sheets, eyes rolling, a broken sound catching in your throat. He did it again, shallow dips, the rough fabric of his pants and the cool bite of the zipper grazing your inner thighs each time. He hadn’t bothered to strip fully. You weren’t about to ask why and break the spell.

“Jay…” you whined, arching. His hands left your wrists to cup your breasts, thumbs circling the stiff nipples, squeezing gently. Then his fingers slid up your arms, lacing with yours, pinning your hands beside your head as he braced above you. His eyes locked on yours, dark and fierce, and he kissed you again—wet, open-mouthed, the slick sounds of lips and tongues filling the quiet room. It was enough to make you gush, fresh wetness spilling over his cock.

In that frantic rush, every insecurity melted away.

“Aghhh…” The groan tore from his throat, low and ragged. Heat spilled across your lower stomach, your slick folds, thick ropes of his release painting your damp skin before he had even truly begun.

“What was that—” you started, voice small, but he swallowed the question with his mouth.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered against your lips, a shy edge threading through the words. You caught it, the faint flush creeping up his neck, and you let it go. It was not your place to press.

“Okay, I won’t…” you whispered back, fingers flexing in his grip. He squeezed tighter, steadying himself, then nudged forward again, the slick head of his cock sliding through his own mess to find your entrance once more. Embarrassment still clung to him, he had spilled too soon, undone by nothing more than friction and want.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky. The blunt crown breached you, pushing past the tight ring of muscle that had never known another. You sucked in a sharp breath, a sting flaring bright as he sank deeper, stretching your walls around his thickness. He froze the instant he felt the resistance give, buried halfway, every inch of him pulsing inside you.

A single tear slipped free, he kissed it away without hesitation, lips soft at the corner of your eye.

“Should I move…?” His hips jerked involuntarily, a helpless twitch that dragged him a fraction deeper. You could feel how close he was to losing control again, muscles locked to keep from thrusting wildly.

You blinked through the haze, pain and pleasure tangling until you could not tell where one ended and the other began. You nodded, small, desperate.

“Please,” you breathed.

“You don’t have to say please…” he stated, voice rough silk. Only your mingled breathing filled the small, quiet apartment.

He drove forward in one slow, relentless glide until he bottomed out, cock seated fully inside you.

Your eyes rolled back, legs snapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The coarse fabric of his half-open pants scraped your inner thighs. The cold bite of the zipper kissed your skin with every tiny shift, sending sparks up your spine.

He drew back an inch and pushed in again, the drag of his length stroking your walls, thick and hot and perfect. A broken cry spilled from your lips.

“Oppa!” The childhood nickname tumbled out raw, instinctive, laced with need now that he filled you completely.

He groaned at the sound, hips rolling deeper, the rhythm building, steady and hungry.

He kept moving, slow drags of his cock along your walls, and the sharp ache faded into something warm and electric. You could not believe this was real—him inside you, joined so completely.

A strange coil tightened low in your belly. You squeezed his hands, eyes shut tight as he scattered kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere his mouth could reach without breaking the rhythm of his cock.

“You… you gonna cum?” he asked, voice shy, almost unsure.

You nodded, pussy fluttering around him. Your fingers trembled as you lifted one hand to thread through his damp hair. “Jay…” The word broke on a gasp, your walls clamped down hard.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips stuttering. He buried himself deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside you. Your own release crashed through, body shaking in his arms, thighs locked around his waist.

He stayed there, breathing hard, afraid to move.

Pull out and pretend nothing happened?

The thought tangled in his chest.

Instead he rolled you both, settling you atop him. Your cheek pressed to his thudding heart, his cock still nestled inside, softening slowly, leaking the last drops. The narrow bed creaked, but you fit together perfectly, skin to slick skin.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks softly, his voice low enough to blend with the quiet hum of the night. His hand moves slowly up and down your bare back, tracing lazy, soothing lines against your skin. Each drag of his fingers sends a faint shiver running down your spine.

“Not so much…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if afraid the walls might hear and spill your secret. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—a sound that’s both comforting and painfully intimate.

“I’m sorry…” he murmurs after a long pause. “I never wanted to—”

“You didn’t want to do… this?” you interrupt quietly, your breath catching as the question slips out, terrified of what his answer might mean.

“Not… not this,” he clarifies quickly, his hand pausing for a second before moving again. “I never wanted to scold you. The work’s just been… too much. And the bills—”

“I understand,” you cut him off gently, pressing a soft kiss to his chest where your cheek had just been. He exhales shakily, his chest rising and falling under you as he looks around the small, dimly lit room—the single bed, the cracked wall, the faint smell of detergent from the clothes drying near the window.

It’s smaller than what you lived in before, maybe too small for two people who barely know how to talk without hurting each other. But you never once complained. You never said a word. And somehow, that silent acceptance makes the guilt in his chest feel even heavier, settling there like a weight he can’t lift.

“You work so hard for both of us… I should have remembered to close the tab…” you voice out, voice thick with sleep, your palm flat on his chest. Beneath it, his heartbeat steadies, but lower, you feel him twitch inside you, thickening again, slow and deliberate.

“Do you still see me just as that little girl…?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You shift your hips the tiniest bit, testing, and a soft groan rumbles from his throat.

“Well… not after this.” His arms tighten around your waist. “You are my wife now, and I should have… God, I missed out on so much.” He lifts his hips, driving himself deeper, the sudden stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. Your eyes roll back, pleasure sparking sharp and sweet.

“I always dreamt of this…” you breathe against his skin.

“About what?” he asks, hips stilling, cock buried to the hilt, pulsing.

“About us.” The words hang in the quiet room.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The air between you feels thick with unspoken things—memories, apologies, hopes that neither of you has ever dared to voice. He looks down at you, confused yet tender, his thumb brushing faintly against your arm. You don’t explain, you don’t have to—you just tuck your face against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.

The night settles quietly around you both, wrapping you in a stillness that feels unfamiliar yet safe. It’s not obligation anymore—it’s something fragile, something real. You listen to his low grunts, swallow your own moans, guarding every sound like a secret meant only for the two of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days are a blur of quiet confusion. Neither of you brings up that night—not once—but something shifts in the way you exist around each other. You both start sleeping in the same bed, no longer pretending that the couch is more comfortable. The bed is too small to fit you properly, so you end up tangled together anyway, your legs brushing, breaths mixing in the dim light that seeps through the thin curtains.

Some nights, you find yourself massaging his back, tracing the tension from his shoulders until he finally breathes out and softens against your touch. On others, it’s him who gently presses his palm to your forehead, massaging slow circles until your headache fades away. Those small gestures—silent, unspoken—begin to fill the spaces that once felt unbearably distant.

And in those quiet moments, you realize something simple yet certain. The little girl you once were had chosen right. You had chosen a man who, even in his flaws, never let you feel like you were back in that house—the one filled with yelling, broken dishes, and bruised echoes of love. Jay, despite the cracked walls and the peeling paint of your tiny apartment, somehow made it feel like home.

“Did you really just pull up, Jay?” one of the older women laughs, nudging you with a teasing smile as she gestures toward your husband.

You’re at a small reunion with Jay’s college classmates—something he insisted you come to since a few were bringing their partners too.

You had agreed easily, wanting to support him, to stand by his side. But what you hadn’t expected was how out of place you’d feel once you got there. They were older, sharper, dressed in confidence that came with years you hadn’t yet lived.

And some of them, clearly, enjoyed poking at the quiet unease that already sat heavy in your chest.

“Are you sure he really married you?” one of them jokes, half-laughing as she sips her drink.

You try to smile, but it feels stiff, your fingers tightening around the hem of your dress as your heart sinks just a little deeper.

“Have a good time,” Jay had said earlier, smiling as he clinked glasses of soju with his male classmates. You’d smiled back then too, not realizing that ‘good time’ meant sitting across from two of his female classmates—both of whom seemed far too eager to remind you how well they knew your husband.

“Did you know he liked the perfume I wore?” one of them said, her tone light but edged, like a knife hidden behind sugar. “He used to compliment me every single day.”

You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t have even believed her. But your lips parted before you could stop yourself, your expression faltering into a quiet frown.

“The way he used to say he liked girls like me,” the other one chimed in, crossing her legs with a click of her heel, “and then he goes and marries you?” She scoffed softly, exchanging a knowing look with her friend.

They both looked polished—manicured nails, glossy hair, flawless skin, and confidence that came from being exactly the kind of woman you thought he would’ve liked. You could feel their eyes scan you, from your plain dress to your small gold earrings, until their gaze landed on your sandals—worn out from months of use.

“Do you even know how to cook?” one of them asked, smiling as if it were a genuine question.

You inhaled quietly, afraid to answer but still nodding, your hands tightening around the cup in your lap.

“Boiling water doesn’t count as cooking,” the other one added, laughing. Her friend joined in, the sound sharp and grating, echoing in your ears louder than the music playing in the background.

You tried to smile, to brush it off, but your throat felt tight. Your gaze fell to the floor, to your feet—your sandals with the edges scuffed and the straps a little loose. Next to theirs, bright and fashionable, yours looked tired.

Just like you felt.

“I just know it’s not going to work out,” one of them said, tone dripping with certainty.

You looked up from your lap, eyes instinctively finding Jay across the room. He was laughing at something one of his friends said, his face flushed from the soju. When his gaze caught yours, he smiled—warm and unaware of the storm brewing quietly inside you.

You tried to return it, but it faltered. He raised a brow, sensing something was off. Even from a distance, he could read you. You saw him murmur something to his classmates, setting down his glass before standing up. Without even glancing at the women beside you, he simply said, “We’ll leave, sorry.”

His hand found yours—firm, certain—and you let him lead you out, even if the food hadn’t been served yet. You felt guilty for ruining what was supposed to be a rare, easy night.

The air outside was cooler, the streets quiet except for the faint hum of passing cars and the laughter spilling from open restaurant doors.

“What’s wrong?” he finally questioned, his tone gentler now. The two of you walked side by side, steps slow, every sound of your sandals scraping the pavement louder than it should be.

“They… I… Did you like her perfume?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, shaky and unsure.

Jay blinked, startled, before a small chuckle escaped his lips. “What are you talking about?”

You hesitated, but the way his laughter met your insecurity only made your chest tighten. “She said you used to like her perfume,” you mumbled, staring at the road ahead, “and that you liked girls like her.”

Jay stopped walking, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “That’s complete nonsense,” he stated simply. “Why would I ever like someone like her?”

His fingers tightened around yours, reassuring in a way that made your heart ache even more. The only sound that followed was the buzz of restaurant chatter nearby—until suddenly, he tugged your hand, pulling you toward one of the open doors.

Your eyes widened. “What are you doing—oh my god, Jay!”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he let out, as if that explained everything.

“There’s food at home,” you protested, tugging his hand back. “We can’t just—this place looks expensive—”

“And it’ll take forever to cook dinner now,” he reasoned, still pulling you gently but firmly.

“Jay, please…” you pleaded softly, your voice barely above the street noise. You could already imagine him regretting this later, his shoulders slumped from the guilt of spending what little you both had.

Still, he didn’t listen. He just gave you a small, boyish smile before walking in, your hand still in his. You followed, heart pounding, the two of you immediately out of place among the polished tables and people dressed in clothes far more expensive than yours.

You could feel eyes on you—their stares lingering on your simple dress, your frayed sandals, the way your fingers clung tightly to Jay’s hand like it was your only anchor in the room.

He sat down first, sliding into an empty chair across from you, the soft hum of restaurant chatter surrounding the both of you. You hesitated before sitting, your brows furrowing as you tried to understand what exactly pushed him to make such a reckless decision. Jay wasn’t the type to spend unnecessarily—so what was this?

“Why are we eating here?” you finally addressed the issue, lowering your voice. There was still time to leave, to make up some excuse and run home before the waiter came by.

“Because I want to treat my pretty wife to something nice,” he said simply, his tone gentle but firm.

Your breath caught for a moment, and warmth spread across your cheeks. You looked down quickly, afraid he might notice how red your face was.

“But this place… it’s expensive,” you whispered, the words barely audible, your eyes darting nervously around. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to overhear, to pity the couple counting coins while eating in a place meant for polished shoes and glossy handbags.

Jay didn’t answer right away. He just gave you a small smile—the kind that disarmed you every time—and waved the waiter over, ordering a simple fish curry for both of you.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve in protest. Your eyes pleaded with him. You could already feel the heaviness in your stomach—not from hunger, but from guilt. The thought of this meal costing him more than it should made it impossible to enjoy.

“It’s really okay,” he reassured, his voice soft but final, cutting through your worry like a calm wave.

You sighed, sitting back, trying your best to eat without looking at the menu again, without calculating how many bills this would add up to. All you did that evening was stress over the price—each bite feeling like a luxury you hadn’t earned.

Meanwhile, Jay couldn’t stop watching you. A small smile tugged at his lips as he rested his chin in his hand, just observing—the way you carefully took the tiniest bites, pretending not to enjoy the meal so he wouldn’t think you wanted more. But he could see it in your eyes, the flicker of delight you couldn’t quite hide. He knew you well enough to see through every small act, every effort to make things easier for him.

For him, it wasn’t about the food or the bill. It was about the way your eyes widened when you tasted something you liked, or the way you looked around shyly as if afraid you didn’t belong there. That alone made it worth every penny.

And when you later found out the reason behind the sudden dinner—that he had just gotten a promotion and had chosen to treat you instead of celebrating with his friends—you could only stare at him in disbelief.

He had earned something he’d worked so hard for… and the first thing he wanted was to share it with you.

⪩⪨

“Just stop wasting my son’s money. You don’t do anything after all—just sitting at home, not even capable of taking care of it. We need his money more than you do, but you—” blah blah blah.

You pull the phone slightly away from your ear, rolling your eyes as her voice grows sharper on the other end. Before she can finish her usual speech, you end the call with a soft sigh. Another one of those days when your mother-in-law decides to remind you how ‘useless’ you are in your husband’s life.

If she had said this four months ago—back when you had just married him—you might’ve believed her. But now? You couldn’t bring yourself to.

Not when Jay had started being gentle. Not when he put in effort—teaching you little things, helping you learn how to cook, praising you whenever you did something right. Everything between you two had begun to feel… steady. Real.

The doorbell rings, followed by the sound of the front door opening. You turn your head just in time to see him—your husband—stepping inside, sleeves rolled up, grocery bags in both arms. He sets them down beside the counter, slips off his shoes, and immediately walks toward you.

He notices the phone in your hand, the faint frown on your face. His brows knit. “Was it mom asking for money again?” His voice is low, controlled, but you can sense the irritation simmering beneath it.

“It wasn’t her…” you trail off, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

He stops right in front of you, arms crossing. “Then who was it?” The tone isn’t demanding—it’s protective. He hates when you hide things, especially when it comes to her.

You hesitate, glancing away. “I—”

“I know it’s Mom,” he cuts in, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Jay, don’t.” Your voice softens, concern edging every word. Before he can dial, you gently take his hand and guide it to your belly. His entire posture changes the moment his palm meets the small, growing curve of your stomach.

And just like that, the tension in his eyes melts away. He sets the phone aside without a second thought, both hands now cradling your belly with a tenderness that never fails to make your heart ache.

“My babies,” he coos, kneeling down as he presses a soft kiss there. His voice turns light, warm. “You’re growing fast, huh?”

Jay likes to believe there are two of them—two little lives making your belly look fuller than it should at just three months. You let him believe it, because the way his eyes soften when he talks to your stomach… it’s the kind of love that makes all the noise from outside fade into nothing.

He immediately scooped you up into his arms, the suddenness of it stealing your breath. In just a few seconds, he had you laid gently on the bed—his movements quick yet careful, like he’d done this a thousand times before. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, softer and wider than the one you two used to share.

It took you a moment to process, your heart still racing from how effortlessly he handled you. The bed was new—Jay had insisted on getting a bigger one, saying something about ‘needing more space for you and the babies.’ But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just that. He simply wanted you comfortable… surrounded by softness, by warmth—by him.

As he spoons you from behind, his bare legs tangle with yours, you do not remember when his pants came off, only that they are gone. Rain taps the window in steady rhythm, pulling you back to those teenage nights when you could only dream of this closeness.

“My babies…” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin before he presses a kiss there.

One hand slides over the gentle swell of your belly, caressing in slow circles. The other eases your panties down your thighs, the fabric catching briefly before slipping free. He gathers your top higher, bunching it beneath your chin, and rolls your already hard nipples between his gentle fingers. The touch shoots sparks straight to your pussy, you try to hold back the soft moan that escapes.

“Jay…” you breathe, shy and trembling. His free hand slips between your bodies, finding you slick and ready. Two fingers ease inside, curling just right, drawing another quiet cry from your lips. His other palm keeps kneading your tender breasts, soothing the ache while stoking your dripping wet folds.

“I can’t help thinking how much I’ll love our babies when they arrive,” he voices out his thoughts, voice low and sweet against your ear. The words wrap around you like the rain outside, familiar and cherished.

To you, it still feels unreal—his fingers moving inside you, his body molded to yours, the life growing beneath his hand.

For Jay, the moment is pure joy.

The papers for the new house sit folded in the drawer, the year nineteen ninety seven stamped across the top—his surprise he meant to share tonight.

Instead, he is here, buried in the warmth of your pussy, making love like time itself can wait.

Your moans and his hushed whispers fill the small room, blending with the rain until nothing else exists.

© shortonwon | tumblr | 2025 — thank you so much for reading!

[mwphisto]

Six hours of surgery.

Six hours of non-stop focus, the surgical mask leaving deep imprints on his face. His reflection displayed how tired he felt, those deep lines glaring back at him as he washed his hands thoroughly after removing all his scrubs. It was nearly three in the morning at this point, an emergency surgery kept him longer than anticipated.

His message to you had been brief, a little bit of an apology, and a promise to make up for not being home when he had promised. All Zayne could think about now was getting back to his office, grabbing his phone and praying you saw his messages not too long after he sent them. Really, it pained him to leave without seeing your reply. 

“Doctor Zayne, you did incredible as usual.” One of the nurses smiled sweetly at him, pulling her own protective gear off. “I only did my job, no need to flatter me.” Though, he couldn’t help but laugh a little when she shook her head. “I’m serious, you saved yet another life. Speaking of… how is your wife doing?”

At the mention of you, his heart fluttered. 

“She’s doing amazing, really. She recovered beautifully, and thankfully she’s had no negative side effects in her postpartum state.” Her hum was thoughtful, a small smile on her lips as she muttered. “You must miss the two of them dearly. She gave birth to a little girl, right?” Now, at the mention of his little daughter, Zayne’s heart ached. He missed the two of you so deeply he could feel it in the ache of his bones. “Yes, she’s perfect. Both of them are.” 

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Get home to them, they probably miss you just as much.” He couldn’t argue with that, he could barely keep his feet at a normal walking pace as he made a beeline for the elevators that would bring him to his office’s floor.

His phone laid face up on his desk, exactly where he had left it six long hours ago. One tap and his notifications displayed several texts from you. His heart dropped, had something happened? 

Though, that fear subsided as quickly as it washed over him.

Opening your chat revealed several pictures and videos, each one showing how you and your daughter’s night routine progressed. From eating dinner, to bath time, reading stories on his side of the bed. The last image being your little 5 month old daughter clad in her fleece onesie covered in snowflakes and penguins splayed across your chest, tiny mouth ajar as she slept peacefully.

Your smile was soft, eyes heavy with sleep, you looked so at ease, so beautiful. You had captioned it sweetly with “Good night dada, see you in the morning. We love you.” 

God how did he get so lucky? You were too damn sweet for him, even with his monstrous sweet-tooth. So kind, so understanding, so thoughtful. You had taken to motherhood like you were meant for it, everything coming so naturally to you.

Watching you be a mother to your darling little daughter had left Zayne in shambles, he didn’t think it was possible to love you more than he already did but you proved him wrong every single day. 

I should have been asleep 2 hours ago but the inspo hit while I was scrolling my camera roll and I had to write this for Zayne because 🥲