Synopsis: When's the best time to ask him for a new addition to the household? When he's in the middle of loving you obviously.
Warnings: SMUT 🔞. Unprotected sex. A bit rough then sweet, fluff fluff, a bit of humour, pet names.
Minors do no interact!!!
Note: Sorry for my inactivity, I've been busy with work and things, I didn't get much time to write. Here's a quick short one shot I came up with when waiting for the train.
If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.
Soft rain drops pattered gently against the windows, a soothing lullaby in the background of your dimly lit shared bedroom.
The air was thick with sex and love, sheets tangled around your bodies, skin to skin, breath on breath, limbs twined like muscle memory.
It wasn't a rough night but rather slow and sweet, the kind of night when even silence felt like a conversation.
Chan was hovering over you, his weight carefully bracing on his arm while his other hand held you, rocking his hips, letting out a gentle growl.
His mouth met the hollow of your throat, then your collarbones, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses as your legs wrapped loosely around his waist.
"So fucking good for me baby," his voice rumbled across your chest and you pulled him deeper, your walls fluttering around the thick length of his cock disappearing inside of your sloppy cunt.
A moan escaped your throat, nails dragging across his shoulder blades, the warmth between you building like the night had nowhere else to be.
You loved when he was like this. Focused. Gentle. Making love to you like he had all the time in the world.
Your wrapped your arms around his neck, making his eyes lock with yours, before you leaned up, pressing your lips on his, slipping your tongue past in, swallowing his sounds of pleasure.
You pulled back just a bit, to look back into his whiskey eyes, before the question that has been going through your mind for the last few days slipped out.
"Channie," you mumbled between a moan and a breathless giggle, voice quiet against the sound of flesh against flesh.
"Hmm?" His brows furrowed gently, lips lightly swollen.
“If I let you finish,” you murmured, barely holding back a smile, “can I get a cat?”
He blinked. Then froze mid thrust. Like he was trying to compute whether he heard you right while still buried inside you.
“…What?”
"Pretty please?" You cooed, raking your fingers through his sweat damp hair. "A small Ragdoll or a Persian or even an orange one. You can choose," you clenched around him involuntarily making him grunt as you spoke.
"Can we get a kitty?"
Chan was still frozen above you, blinking like his brain had just bluescreened. You watched, amused, as about five different emotions flickered across his face in rapid succession.
“…Did you just bribe me with sex for a cat?” he asked, breathless, hips twitching as if debating whether to punish you or pull out and give you a full interrogation.
You gave a small, devilish grin. “Depends. Is it working?”
He let out a groan—half frustration, half admiration—and pressed above you, still careful not to crush you with this weight, nose brushing yours. “You’re unbelievable,” he mumbled into your cheek, but you could feel the smile pulling at his lips.
“And yet,” you teased, "you’re still inside me."
His laugh was muffled against your throat. “I swear, you only pull this kind of shit when I’m literally balls deep in you.” He nipped at your jaw lightly, then pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again.
“A cat, baby?”
Before you could reply, his hips snapped forward in a hard thrust that made you gasp loudly, making you arch into him and he continued, tearing another gasp.
"You,"—thrust—"want a cat?" He pushed again then stopped mid thrust, making you whimper for breaking his pace.
"Yeah, I want a cat. We can—ah—," he slammed into you before you could finish the sentence. Your walls hugged him tighter, making him half moan and growl as he drilled harder into your greedy cunt.
"Go on, you were saying baby?" Chan drawled, voice smug and wrecked at the same time. His thrusts slowed to a cruel pace, pulling all the way out until only the tip teased your entrance, then sliding back in with a languid grind that had your toes curling.
You clutched at his shoulders, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. “I—Chan—”
His grin turned devilish. “Come on, I wanna hear it. Tell me all about this kitty you want while I’m buried deep in this sweet little pussy.”
“Fuck—” you choked on the curse as he angled his hips and hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
He groaned low, cock twitching from how tightly your walls hugged him. “You feel that? No kitty talk eh? Only dick.”
You could’ve cried from how good it felt, from how ridiculous he was, from the fact that you knew he’d say yes in the end and was just dragging this out to mess with you.
“I-It could sleep at the end of the bed,” you gasped out stubbornly, clawing at his back. “It wouldn’t bother you—”
He snorted. “You think anything could sleep when you sound like this under me? You want that innocent creature to watch you get wrecked or what?"
To prove his point, he pistoned into you again, faster now, his rhythm building with every slick, filthy slap of skin against skin.
You let out a loud breathy moan, your nails digging crescents into his back as your hips bucked instinctively to meet his thrusts.
Each roll of his hips was deeper, filthier, like he was determined to fuck the idea of a cat right out of your brain.
It was working. Or maybe not.
“Chan—Channie—”
“What, baby?” he panted, voice husky. “That little cat still on your mind? Or is your brain too dumbed out from my cock to remember what you were bribing me for?”
You whimpered—part scandalized, part turned on beyond belief. Chan's mouth twitched at your reaction. He loved seeing you like this. Falling apart while still trying to argue.
“You were gonna say?” he prompted, cock grinding right into that spot again, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. “Hmm? Something about how it’ll behave? Maybe we can train it to wait outside the room when you’re on your knees for me?”
Your eyes rolled back at the mental image, your body already trembling again from how close you were, feeling the tight knot down at the base of your spine close to snapping.
“You’re awful,” you breathed.
“And you,” he groaned, dipping to suck a bruise into your collarbone, “are a terrible negotiator. You bring up cats mid-fuck and expect me to say no?”
“Then say yes,” you moaned, clenching around him, your voice climbing pitch with every deep thrust. “Just say yes and I’ll—I’ll be good.”
He smirked against your skin, his thumb finding your clit and circling it lazily. “You’re already being so good for me, baby. Look at you, shaking under me and begging for a kitten while getting fucked.”
“Chan—!”
He didn’t let up, pushing into you so fast now it was maddening.
“You want a cat?” he whispered, nose brushing your cheek as he kissed the corner of your lips. “You'll get a cat. But you better come hard for me. Cream all over this cock, baby. Show me you really deserve it.”
The earlier gentle rolls of his hips now turned punishing and ruthless, pounding into you hard enough to bang the headboard against the wall.
You didn’t even have time to process the demand before it slammed into you, your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, thighs shaking, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes as your walls spasmed around him.
You let out a high, broken cry, nails clawing into his skin as your entire body writhed beneath him.
“Fuck, that’s it—fuck, baby, you’re so fucking pretty when you come,” Chan gritted through his teeth, barely holding on as he watched you fall apart.
“Gonna fill you up, yeah? Stuff you full and then we can go get you a kitten with my cum dripping down your thighs. How’s that sound?”
You whimpered something incoherent, your body too wrecked to argue. With one final thrust, Chan's head fell between your neck and shoulder, hot white ribbons painting your insides, his body twitching as he collapsed, breaths ragged from the force of it.
You held him close, inhaling the musky scent of his colonge clinging onto his sweaty skin, the two of you remained tangled in each other till you caught your breaths.
His cock was sheathed inside your warm cunt till the continuous twitching stopped, yet after he remained in as if he couldn't let you go.
After what was like long minutes, he slowly slid out, dropping to your side, pulling you into his chest.
He leaned forward, capturing your lips, all tongue, hot and messy, almost as if he couldn't get enough of the way your mouth tasted.
"So," you pulled back softly, "what are we going to name him?" You asked, tracing lazy circles over his chest.
Chan let out a groggy laugh, eyes closing, his arm snug around your waist. “You mean if he survives watching his owners rail each other into the mattress every night?”
You slapped his chest gently, giggling. “Stop. He’ll be innocent.”
“He’ll be traumatized,” Chan said without missing a beat, cracking one eye open to look at you. His gaze was soft, heavy-lidded, full of affection.
"I suppose I like the name Mochi." He said after a few seconds. "Round, sweet and soft, like his mommy."
Your cheeks bloomed in a faint shade of pink and you nuzzled close into Chan's chest, holding him as close as humanly possible.
"I like that name." You mumbled.
Chan kissed the top of your head, wrapping his arms tighter around you, smiling, mentally preparing himself to bring a new addition into the household.
***
For the next few weeks, you and Chan rearranged your apartment to welcome a kitten and went to the local shelter to find a baby to give him a new home.
Today was finally the day to bring him home.
The shelter was quiet that morning, warm beams of sunlight spilling through the windows and casting soft glows on the tiled floors. You stood beside Chan, your fingers laced with his, the anticipation buzzing low in your chest like static.
“This is it,” you whispered, eyes flitting from one small enclosure to another, all filled with twitching whiskers, lazy stretches, and sleepy meows.
Chan gave your hand a small squeeze. “We’re really doing this.” He sounded a little in awe.
You walked slowly past each enclosure, the two of you crouching down now and then to coo at the kittens. There was a loud ginger tabby pouncing on its siblings, a jet-black ball of fluff who hissed at everything, and a quiet white one that refused to wake up.
Then you saw him.
A light grey tabby kitten with darker stripes along its head and body and impossibly round eyes looking up at you both curiously. He blinked sleepily up at you, then gave a tiny chirp and trotted right to the front of the enclosure, pawing at the glass like he’d been waiting for you.
Your heart clenched.
“Chan,” you whispered, voice breaking into a smile. “It’s him.”
Chan crouched down beside you, eyes wide with gentle wonder. The kitten tilted his head, then flopped on his side dramatically, tiny pink paws stretching out as if to say, take me home already.
You giggled, wiping at the corner of your eye, surprised to find yourself tearing up. “I love him.”
Chan looked over at you, soft and still, then kissed your temple.
“Then he’s ours.”
~
The ride back home was filled meows from the carrier and the sound of your giggles as Mochi pawed at the door, desperate to be let out.
Chan kept glancing over at you at red lights, his heart doing ridiculous things at the way you cooed and whispered to your new fur baby like he was the most precious thing in the world.
Once you reached home, Chan opened the door, letting Mochi step into his new home. The cat who was acting like he was in jail now took careful steps as he came out of the carrier, his big eyes curiously looking around his surroundings.
You and Chan sat cross-legged on the floor, watching as the little guy took his first tentative steps. He sniffed the rug, pawed at a plush toy, then turned and meowed—a soft, questioning little chirp before he walked towards Chan.
Your eyes widened as he pawed Chan’s knee, then—without hesitation—hopped onto his lap with all the confidence of a kitten who’d already chosen his favorite human.
Chan froze, mouth parted in disbelief. “Did I just get picked?”
You giggled, leaning your cheek against your knee as you watched the scene unfold. “He knows who the real pushover is.”
Chan scoffed, but his hand instinctively reached down, gently scratching behind Mochi’s tiny ears. The kitten let out a happy purr, quiet at first, then growing louder as he curled up into a little ball right in the center of Chan’s lap.
Your heart clenched at the sight, so much love unfolding that it felt overwhelming in the best way imaginable. You crawled closer and rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as Chan wrapped an arm around you, careful not to disturb the sleeping kitten on his lap.
Mochi twitched once in his sleep, then purred continuing with his slumber, dreaming whatever cats dreamt of.
Chan turned slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You know, I never imagined this would be us. I didn’t think I’d be the guy sitting on the floor with a kitten asleep on my lap and my girl leaning on me like this.”
“And yet,” you murmured, eyes still closed, “here you are. Daddy.”
He groaned. “Please don’t call me that while the cat’s present.”
You laughed, and the sound made something flutter in his chest. Like everything was finally falling into place.
Eventually, you all ended up on the couch, the three of you tangled together, Chan stretched out with you curled next to him and Mochi sleeping contently on his chest, purring like a little engine.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Mmh?”
“I’d let you bribe me a thousand times over if it means more nights like this.”
You smiled, pressing a long, soft kiss onto his cheek.
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❤︎ |7,7k| Summary: Lando and Y/n are travelling to Texas for the Grand Prix. Unfortunately they aren’t alone for their travel and Lando becomes quite difficult to keep calm. Once they arrive Lando upsets Y/n and the night ends in tears.
The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled bedsheets. You were still curled in Lando's arms, his body a warm, solid presence behind you, his breath a gentle rhythm against your neck. You'd slept more deeply than you had in years, a sense of safety and rightness enveloping you, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day.
You felt a soft, feathery touch against your skin, just below your ear. It was followed by another, and another. A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face as you realized what was happening. Lando was kissing you awake. His lips were soft and warm, trailing a path of gentle, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. Each touch was a brand of possession, a silent claim, but it was tender, sweet, and filled with an affection that made your heart swell.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through your entire body. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if he were trying to breathe in your very essence.
"Morning," you whispered back, your voice thick with sleep. You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he continued his ministrations. He shifted, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his chest seeping through the thin fabric of your pajama top.
"Sleep well?" he asked, his lips brushing against your skin with every word.
"Better than ever," you admitted. You turned in his arms, wiggling around until you were facing him. His hair was a mess, a riot of dark curls falling over his forehead, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but they were clear and bright, the green swirling with a familiar, possessive warmth. He looked… happy. Truly, deeply happy. The fear and vulnerability from yesterday were gone, replaced by a contentment that was so palpable it was almost tangible.
He grinned, a wide, unguarded smile that made your stomach flip. "Me too." He leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, sweet kiss. It was gentle, exploratory, a lazy, morning-after kiss that held the promise of so much more. His tongue swept across your lower lip, a silent request for entrance, and you opened for him without hesitation. The kiss deepened, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting, exploring, claiming. It was a slow, sensual dance, a languid, passionate embrace that made your toes curl and your body hum with a gentle, growing warmth.
You lost track of time, lost in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, cherished, loved. His hand, which had been resting on your hip, began to move, sliding up your side in a slow, deliberate caress. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, before coming to rest on the swell of your breast. He didn't move further, just held the weight of it in his palm, his thumb brushing back and forth over the sensitive peak, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.
A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt him smile against your mouth. He was pleased with your reaction, with the effect he had on you, and it was a heady, powerful thing. But as much as you were enjoying this, as much as you wanted to see where it would lead, you remembered the plan.
"Texas," you breathed, pulling back slightly, your lips swollen and tingling. "We have to pack."
He groaned, a low, dramatic sound of protest. "Screw Texas," he mumbled, burying his face in your hair. "Let's stay here. In this bed. Forever."
You laughed, a light, airy sound that was filled with genuine amusement. "As tempting as that sounds, I think Zak and Jon might be a little confused if we don't show up."
He sighed, a long, put-upon sound, but he pulled away, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. "Fine," he conceded. "But we're packing fast. And then we're coming right back here."
"Deal," you agreed, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his lips before scrambling out of bed.
You spent the next hour in a whirlwind of activity, pulling clothes out of drawers and stuffing them into the suitcase you'd found in the closet. You were trying to be methodical, to fold things neatly, but you were too excited, too energized by the prospect of a trip with Lando, a real trip, just the two of you (and a few others, but still). You were humming to yourself, a random, tuneless melody, as you arranged your shoes in the bottom of the suitcase, when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind.
"Having fun?" he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. He started kissing you again, a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your knees go weak. One of his hands slid down from your waist, splaying across your stomach, his palm warm and firm against your abdomen. He started rubbing slow, deliberate circles, the touch both comforting and incredibly arousing.
"Lando," you protested, your voice a little breathless. "I'm trying to pack."
"I'm helping," he countered, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth scraping gently against your skin, and a shiver ran down your spine. "This is much more fun than folding clothes."
You could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against your ass. Even through the layers of your clothes and his, the heat of him was undeniable, a blatant, unapologetic display of his desire. Your body responded instantly, a wave of heat washing over you, your core clenching with a need that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.
"You're impossible," you muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. You were smiling, leaning back into his embrace, enjoying the feeling of his body against yours, his hands on you, his mouth on your skin.
He just chuckled, a low, deep sound that vibrated through your entire body. His hand on your stomach stilled, his fingers splaying wide, as if he were trying to cover as much of you as possible. "I can't help it," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Having you here… it's driving me crazy. I want you all the time."
You turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. It was meant to be a quick, playful peck, but the moment your lips met, it deepened, turning into something hungry, demanding. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly and pulling you flush against his body, and you could feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
Then, with a surge of willpower you didn't know you possessed, you pushed him away. "Okay, okay," you said, laughing as you held him at arm's length. "We really need to finish. We're going to be late."
He pouted, a full-on, bottom-lip-jutting-out pout that was so ridiculously endearing it made your heart ache. "You're no fun," he grumbled, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told you he wasn't really upset.
"I'm plenty of fun," you retorted, poking him playfully in the chest. "Now go pack your own bag, Alpha."
He just grinned, a wide, triumphant grin that made your stomach flip. He leaned in and gave you one last, sweet kiss. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble that sent shivers down your spine.
The car ride to the airport was a study in contrasts. The city outside was a blur of motion and noise, but inside the car, there was a quiet intimacy that was almost palpable. Lando was sitting in the backseat with you, but he wasn't just sitting next to you. He was pressed against you, his thigh flush against yours, his arm draped possessively over the back of the seat behind you. He kept his hand on your leg, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, hypnotic rhythm. At every stop, he'd lean over, his lips finding your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, in a series of small, possessive kisses that were both sweet and undeniably proprietary.
The private airport was a hive of activity, but it was a different kind of activity than the commercial terminals you were used to. It was quieter, more exclusive, filled with people who moved with a sense of purpose and confidence. Lando's driver pulled up to a sleek, modern hangar, and the moment you stepped out of the car, you saw them.
Zak and Jon were standing near the entrance to the private jet, deep in conversation. They looked up as you approached, and their faces broke into wide, welcoming smiles.
"Lando!" Zak boomed, his voice echoing across the tarmac. He opened his arms, and Lando immediately let go of your hand, striding forward to wrap him in a tight, back-slapping hug. "Good to see you, man."
"You too, Zak," Lando said, his voice warm and genuine. He pulled away from Zak, a genuine, easygoing smile on his face that made your heart melt. "Good to see you, man," Zak boomed, his voice echoing across the tarmac as he wrapped Lando in a tight, back-slapping hug.
"You too, Zak," Lando said, his voice warm and genuine. He clapped Jon on the shoulder next, pulling him into a similar embrace. "Jon, how have you been?"
"Can't complain," Jon replied, grinning as he stepped back. His friendly gaze then landed on you, and he extended a hand, his smile open and welcoming. "Hi, it's great to finally meet you. I'm Jon."
You opened your mouth to return the greeting, a polite smile on your face, but you never got the words out. A blur of motion, and Lando was there. He didn't just step in front of you; he moved with a predatory swiftness that stole the air from your lungs, his broad shoulders forming an impenetrable wall between you and Jon. A low, guttural growl ripped from his chest, a primal sound of possession that was far more intimidating than it had been in the apartment. It was a clear, undisputed warning.
Zak let out a hearty, booming laugh, completely unfazed by the display of raw alpha aggression. "Easy there, Lando," he chuckled, clapping him on the back. "He's not going to steal her. He's just saying hello."
Lando's response was to snarl, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a way that was both terrifying and, shamefully, a little thrilling. The sharp points of his fangs were clearly visible, a visceral reminder of the wildness that thrummed just beneath his skin. Jon took a hasty step back, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You reached out, your fingers gently wrapping around Lano's tense bicep. "Hey," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's okay. Calm down."
The effect was instantaneous. The rigid lines of his back softened, the growling ceased, and he turned to you, his eyes, which had been blazing with a feral light, now softening into something warm and apologetic. "Sorry," he murmured, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
Jon and Zak, however, were incredibly understanding. "Don't worry about it," Jon said, his smile returning easily. "We get it. We're just really happy to see you like this, Lando."
"Yeah, man," Zak added, his grin widening. "It's about time."
The interior of the private jet was a sanctuary of plush cream leather and polished wood. You settled into a wide, comfortable seat, and Lando immediately claimed the one beside you, his thigh pressing firmly against yours, his arm draped possessively over the back of your seat. Zak and Jon took the row across the aisle, giving you a modicum of privacy. The flight was scheduled to be four hours long, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that Lando wouldn't sleep a wink. He'd be too busy watching you, too on edge with the presence of other males, even if they were his trusted friends and colleagues.
You decided to help him relax. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you began to rub his chest, your hand moving in slow, soothing strokes up and down, then side to side. A low, deep purr rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure contentment that vibrated through your entire body. His eyes fluttered closed, and you could feel the fight in him as he struggled to stay awake, his instincts warring with his exhaustion. After about half an hour, his breathing evened out, and he was asleep, his head lolling heavily against yours, his weight a comforting, grounding presence.
You finally allowed yourself to relax, closing your eyes and ready to drift off. But just as you were on the verge of sleep, you felt him stir. He was restless, his legs shifting, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He let out a soft, distressed whimper, and then another, the sound pulling you from your own drowsiness. You looked down, concerned, and saw that his slacks were fighting for dear life, the fabric stretched taut over his impressive erection. Your breath hitched, a blush creeping up your neck. This was definitely not the time or the place. Luckily, he was still asleep, lost in whatever dream was causing such a reaction.
You flagged down a stewardess with a discreet wave of your hand. "Could I have a blanket, please?" you asked, your voice a little shaky.
"Of course," she said with a professional smile. "Are you cold?"
"Yes," you lied, your blush deepening as you avoided her gaze.
She returned a moment later with a soft, wool blanket, and you took it, your fingers trembling slightly as you draped it carefully over Lando's lap, hiding the evidence of his dream. Not long after, he woke up with a sharp intake of breath. You heard his breathing change, becoming heavy and ragged. You looked over at him, and your breath caught in your throat. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes almost completely black, his cheeks flushed, and his chest rising and falling with the force of his breathing. He looked at you, a knowing, desperate look in his eyes, and you looked back, your own desire rising to meet his, a slow, creeping heat that pooled in your core.
He reached for you, his hand trembling slightly, but you were quick to move away, just out of his grasp. He looked offended, hurt, and you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "What's gonna happen if I let you touch me?"
A pained groan escaped his lips, and he clung to his seat, his fingers turning white. "Go take care of yourself in the bathroom," you whispered, your voice firm but laced with a sympathy you couldn't quite hide.
"I can't," he choked out, his voice strained, raw with a need that was almost palpable.
"Why not?" you asked, confused, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"I need to be close to you," he admitted, his voice a ragged whisper. "I... I can't... not without you."
Your cheeks burned, but you understood, the confession sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "How can we both go to the bathroom without it looking suspicious?" you asked, your mind racing.
"The bathroom is behind a curtain," he explained quickly, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. "They won't be able to see us go in at the same time. We just both have to go."
You nodded, your throat dry. You both stood up, trying to act casual as you made your way down the aisle, the blanket still draped over Lando's lap. Once you were behind the heavy curtain, you slipped into the bathroom. It was bigger than you expected, with a large sink, a toilet, and plenty of space.
The moment the door clicked shut, Lando was on you. He attacked you with kisses, his mouth devouring yours, hungry and demanding. You found it difficult to hold in your moans, the passion of his kisses overwhelming. He moaned loudly into your mouth, his hands groping your body eagerly, touching you everywhere—your ass, under your shirt, behind your thighs. You could feel his hard erection pressing against your stomach, and you decided to help him.
You fumbled with his pants, your fingers trembling with anticipation as you unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper. You fumbled with his pants, your fingers trembling with anticipation as you unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper. The sound of the metal teeth parting was obscenely loud in the small, enclosed space, a sharp hiss that seemed to echo the frantic beating of your own heart. Lando's breath hitched, his hands flying to your waist, his grip tight and almost desperate as he held you steady. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and fathomless pools of need, and the raw, unfiltered desire you saw there sent a jolt of pure electricity straight through you.
With a surge of newfound confidence, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. The soft cotton was warm from his body heat as you slowly, deliberately, slid them down his toned thighs. They pooled around his ankles, and he stepped out of them clumsily, his movements clumsy with urgency. And then he was there, fully exposed to you in the dim light of the bathroom. He was beautiful. Hard and thick and straining towards you, the tip flushed a deep, angry red and already glistening with a bead of moisture that spoke volumes of his arousal. A shyness warred with your own excitement, a dizzying cocktail of innocence and a burgeoning, powerful desire to please him.
You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, and wrapped your fingers around his rigid length. The velvety skin was hot to the touch, the steel-hard core beneath pulsing with a life of its own. You gave a gentle, experimental squeeze, and Lando's entire body jolted as if he'd been struck by lightning. A loud, unrestrained moan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was far too loud for the confines of an airplane bathroom.
Your eyes widened in panic, and you immediately clapped your free hand over his mouth, your palm pressing against his lips. "Shh!" you hissed, your own voice a frantic whisper. "You have to be quiet, Lando! They'll hear you!"
His eyes, which had been squeezed shut in ecstasy, flew open. They were wild and dazed, but a flicker of understanding cut through the haze of his arousal. He nodded against your palm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin. You slowly removed your hand, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Okay," he breathed, his voice a strained, hoarse whisper. "Okay. I'll be quiet."
You took a deep, steadying breath and began to move your hand. You started with slow, tentative strokes, your grip firm but gentle, sliding from the base to the tip and back again. He was slick and wet, his own arousal making the movement easy, a smooth, glide that was intoxicating. You watched his face, mesmerized by the play of emotions that crossed it. His head was thrown back, the strong line of his throat exposed, his lips parted as he panted for breath. His eyes were closed again, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he were trying to memorize every single sensation.
You remembered something you'd read once, a fleeting piece of information from a magazine you'd skimmed years ago. At the top of each stroke, you paused, your thumb swirling over the sensitive, swollen head of his cock, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there.
"Oh, fuck," he choked out, his hips bucking involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your hand. "Yes... right there... do that again."
You did it again, and again, a slow, deliberate circle that made his whole body tremble. His reaction was immediate and visceral. A low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, a sound that was muffled but no less powerful. He was completely gone, lost in a haze of pleasure, his body buzzing with an energy that was almost palpable. His hands, which had been gripping your waist, moved to your ass, pulling you closer, grinding his hardness against your stomach. His hips began to move in a rhythm that matched your strokes, a slow, deep thrusting that was both primal and incredibly erotic.
Across the aisle, Zak leaned back in his seat, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I give them ten minutes before he's back out here, looking like a kicked puppy because she wouldn't let him do what he really wants to do."
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "You're underestimating him. I give him five." He was about to say more when a sound, loud and unmistakable, cut through the low hum of the plane's engines. It was a moan, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure that was followed by a muffled thud.
Zak's eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing, a loud, booming sound that turned a few heads. "Well, I guess he's not wasting any time."
Jon was laughing too, his shoulders shaking. "I haven't heard him that worked up since he won his first race in Miami." They fell silent, listening intently, their expressions a mixture of amusement and brotherly exasperation. And then they heard it. A faint, rhythmic, wet sound that was unmistakable.
"Oh, for God's sake," Jon groaned, though he was still grinning. "They're not even trying to be discreet."
Zak just shook his head, his grin widening. "Let him have his fun. He's been wound tighter than a drum for months. It's good to hear him... unwind."
You could feel the tension coiling in Lando's body, a tight, spring-like pressure that was building with every stroke of your hand. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, and his hips were moving faster, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. He was chasing his release, and you were determined to give it to him. You tightened your grip, your strokes becoming faster, more confident, your thumb continuing its relentless assault on the sensitive head of his cock.
"I'm... I'm close," he panted, his voice a strained, desperate whisper. "So close... don't stop... please, don't stop."
You had no intention of stopping. You were completely caught up in the moment, in the power you held, in the overwhelming need to see him fall apart in your hands. You could feel him twitching, a series of small, involuntary spasms that heralded his impending release. And then, with a final, guttural cry that he managed to muffle against your shoulder, he was cumming. He came hard, his body shuddering violently, his hot, thick release spilling over your hand, coating your fingers in his essence.
You held him through it, your strokes slowing as he rode out the waves of his pleasure, his body finally slumping against yours, his weight a welcome, grounding presence. For a long moment, you just stood there, the only sound in the small bathroom his ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your own heart.
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes heavy-lidded and sated, a soft, contented smile playing on his lips. He leaned in and captured your mouth in a sweet, tender kiss, a slow, languid exploration that was a stark contrast to the frantic passion of moments before. It was a kiss of gratitude, of affection, of a connection that went far beyond the physical.
"Wow," he breathed, his voice a husky whisper. "Just... wow."
He was still slumped against you, his weight a comforting, heavy blanket that anchored you to the spot. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to a more normal rhythm, but you could still feel the frantic flutter of his heartbeat against your own. It was in this quiet, post-orgasmic state that you remembered. This was the other side of the coin to his alpha possessiveness. After the intense, almost feral passion, came this. A profound, almost childlike clinginess that was both endearing and, if you were being honest with yourself, a little overwhelming. He needed to be close, to touch, to reconnect and reassure himself that you were still there, still his.
You felt him shift slightly, and then he was pulling back, just enough to look down at your hand, which was still held between you. His release was cooling on your skin, a sticky, intimate reminder of what had just transpired. A deep blush, not of arousal but of a sweet, shyness, colored his cheeks. He took your hand in his, his grip impossibly gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate way he'd been clutching at you moments before.
"Let me," he murmured, his voice soft and thick with emotion. He reached over with his free hand and grabbed a handful of tissues from the small dispenser on the wall.
You watched, fascinated, as he began to clean your hand. He wasn't just wiping it away; he was meticulous, his movements slow and deliberate. He dabbed carefully at each of your fingers, his touch so light it was barely there, as if he were afraid of hurting you. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips parted slightly as he focused on the task. It was an act of such tender, unexpected intimacy that it made your heart ache. He wasn't just cleaning up a mess; he was worshipping the hand that had given him pleasure, his reverence for you so palpable it was a physical presence in the small, steamy room.
When he was satisfied that your hand was clean, he didn't let go. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your palm, his eyes closing as he inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize the scent of your skin mingled with his own.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse with an emotion that went far beyond simple gratitude.
You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded, your throat tight. He finally straightened up, tucking himself back into his pants with a sigh of contentment. He looked at you then, his eyes soft and sated, a lazy, happy smile spreading across his face. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.
"You're amazing," he said, his voice full of a sincerity that made your stomach flip. When he finally pulled away, he took your hand again, his fingers lacing with yours. "Ready?" he asked, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.
You nodded, and he opened the door, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear before leading you back to your seats. You tried not to look at Zak and Jon as you made your way back to your seats, your face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and a secret, thrilling satisfaction.
Lando, on the other hand, was incredibly sated and satisfied. He was calm, the restless energy that had been thrumming through him completely gone.
As soon as you were settled, he pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you tightly, and he held you like that for the rest of the flight, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your hair and your neck, a low, contented purr rumbling in his chest. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that he wouldn't let you go until the plane landed. And, you thought with a private smile, you didn't really want him to.
The plane touched down with a soft, definitive bump, a gentle jolt that signaled the end of your four-hour sanctuary in the clouds. Lando's arms, which had been wrapped around you like a second skin for the entire journey, tightened instantly, a reflexive, protective gesture against the intrusion of the outside world. You blinked, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, and peered out the small, oval window. The Texas sun was a brilliant, blinding gold, bathing the sprawling private airfield in a warm, hazy light.
"Time to go, love," Lando murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your ear. His voice was a low, reluctant rumble, a clear sign he was just as content as you were to remain in their little bubble.
You stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles from being held for so long, and followed him out of the plush leather seat. As you walked down the aisle, you caught Zak and Jon already gathering their things, their expressions a mixture of brotherly amusement and something that looked suspiciously like relief. You did your best to ignore them, your cheeks still burning with the vivid, thrilling memory of what had transpired in the cramped airplane bathroom.
The moment the cabin door hissed open, the dry, heated air of Texas rushed in to greet you. But it wasn't the chaotic roar of a fan crowd that met you. Instead, it was a low, professional murmur of welcome. Standing a respectful distance from the bottom of the stairs was a small, select group of people. Four of them, to be precise. A man and a woman, both impeccably dressed in elegant, understated business attire, and two men who had the look of high-level security or personal assistants. They were important, you could tell. The kind of people who didn't just show up for a random driver's arrival.
Lando was at your side in an instant, his hand finding yours and gripping it firmly, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. He positioned himself slightly in front of you, his broad shoulders a familiar, reassuring shield, and began to lead you down the narrow steps.
"Mr. Norris, welcome to Austin," the man at the front of the group said, his voice a smooth, polished baritone. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, with silver hair at his temples and a warm, genuine smile. "I'm Richard Sterling, the owner of the Sterling Hotel. It's an absolute honor to have you and your team with us."
"Richard, it's great to see you," Lando said, his voice warm and professional, though you could feel the tension thrumming through him. He extended his free hand, and they shook, a brief, firm clasp.
You tried to offer a polite smile to the woman standing beside Richard, who had a kind, welcoming face and her hand already extended in greeting, but Lando was already pulling you along, his grip on your hand almost painful. He kept you tucked securely behind him, his body a wall that you couldn't see around, effectively blocking you from the conversation.
"Lando," you said, your voice a low, urgent whisper. "Slow down."
He didn't seem to hear you, his focus fixed on the car that was waiting for them at the edge of the tarmac. You could feel the frustration building inside you, a hot, prickly anger that was rapidly rising to the surface. You weren't his possession to be hidden away. You were his partner, and this was a professional setting, not a battlefield.
"Lando, stop," you said, your voice sharper this time, laced with a warning. You dug your heels in, pulling back on his hand with all your strength.
He finally turned to look at you, his eyes wide with a confusion that quickly morphed into a familiar, stubborn possessiveness. "What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed in a way that you were quickly learning meant he was on the defensive.
"What's wrong?" you repeated, your voice rising with indignation, though you kept it low enough to avoid causing a scene. "You're treating me like a child! I want to say hello. These are your hosts, not a pack of wolves."
"No," he said, his voice firm, his jaw set in a hard line. "It's not necessary."
"It is necessary," you argued, your patience wearing dangerously thin. "It's called being polite. It's called showing respect to the people who are putting us up for the weekend. Don't you dare embarrass me in front of them."
You saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his alpha instincts and his desire to please you. He was struggling, and you knew you were pushing him, but you were tired of being hidden, tired of being treated like a fragile object he needed to protect from the world. With a surge of pure frustration, you wrenched your hand out of his and stepped out from behind him, squaring your shoulders.
The effect was immediate. The woman with the kind smile, who you now assumed was Richard's wife or partner, stepped forward, her hand still extended. "Welcome," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Eleanor Sterling. We're so delighted to have you both here."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Eleanor," you said, your voice bright and friendly, a stark contrast to the tense whisper you'd just used with Lando. You reached out and took her hand, giving it a firm, confident shake. "I'm Y/N."
She beamed, her grip warm and genuine. "Y/N, what a lovely name. We've heard so much about you."
You smiled, turning to the next person in line, a younger man in a sharp suit who you assumed was one of the hotel's executives. He had his hand already extended, a polite, professional smile on his face. "Hi, I'm Y/N," you said, reaching out to shake his hand.
The moment your fingers were about to touch his, a low, dangerous growl ripped from Lando's throat. It was a sound you'd heard before, but this time it was laced with a fury that was truly terrifying. Before you could even register what was happening, you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist from behind. With a grunt of pure, primal effort, Lando lifted you clean off the ground.
You let out a shocked gasp, your feet dangling in the air as he turned and began striding towards the waiting SUV. You were completely immobilized, his grip like a steel band around your midsection. The world tilted, a dizzying blur of tarmac and stunned faces.
"Lando! Put me down right now!" you shrieked, your voice a mix of shock and pure rage. You struggled against his hold, kicking your legs and pounding your fists against his back, but it was like trying to fight a statue. He was impossibly strong, his focus absolute.
"Stop it," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous warning in your ear. "You're making a scene."
"You're the one who's making a scene!" you shot back, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a humiliating sense of helplessness. "You're acting like a caveman! Put me down!"
He ignored you, his long legs eating up the distance to the car. You could hear the hurried, apologetic voices of Zak and Richard behind you, their words a meaningless jumble of placations and excuses. You buried your face in Lando's back, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the Texas sun. You had never been so mortified in your entire life.
He finally reached the SUV, yanking open the back door and unceremoniously depositing you on the leather seat. He didn't follow you in, instead leaning down, his face inches from yours, his eyes blazing with a feral, possessive light.
"Stay," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural snarl.
And then he slammed the door, leaving you alone in the cool, quiet confines of the car, your heart hammering against your ribs, your entire body shaking with a fury so intense it was almost blinding.
A few moments later, he slid in beside you, followed by a quietly fuming Zak and a deeply amused Jon. The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the awkwardness and the humiliation on the tarmac behind.
You didn't look at him. You didn't even look at Zak or Jon. Instead, you pulled your phone out of your pocket, your fingers trembling with rage as you fumbled with the case until you had your AirPods in. You tapped the screen, putting on your favorite playlist, and turned the volume all the way up, drowning out the world, drowning out him. You could feel Lando's eyes on you, a heavy, questioning weight, but you refused to meet his gaze, your anger a cold, hard shield around you.
The car was silent for a long time, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the faint, tinny beat of your music leaking from your earbuds. You stared out the window, watching the city of Austin blur past, your jaw tight with unspoken resentment. You could feel Lando's sadness, a palpable wave of misery that radiated from him, but you were too angry, too hurt, to care. He had crossed a line. A big one. He had humiliated you in front of his colleagues and his hosts, and he wasn't going to get away with it.
He was trying. You could feel it. He shifted in his seat, his thigh brushing against yours, a tentative, questioning touch.
You could feel the tentative warmth of his thigh against yours, a silent plea for forgiveness, a bridge he was trying to build across the chasm of his own making. Without a moment's hesitation, you shifted away, sliding your body closer to the door until there was a noticeable gap between you. The movement was small, but in the suffocating silence of the car, it was a deafening rejection. You felt him flinch, a sharp intake of breath beside you, the sting of your action hitting its mark.
He didn't give up. A moment later, his arm came down, draping itself over the back of the seat behind you, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. It was a casual, possessive gesture he'd used a hundred times, but now it felt like an intrusion. You tensed, your shoulders hunching slightly, and after a few agonizing seconds of him just resting there, he slowly, reluctantly, retracted his arm. He tried again, a light tap on your shoulder, his touch hesitant and questioning. You kept your eyes fixed on the world outside the window, your face a mask of indifference, the music in your ears a wall he couldn't penetrate. His sigh was a soft, defeated sound, barely audible over the bass from your playlist.
The car finally rolled to a stop in front of a grand, glittering hotel. The moment the engine quieted, you were moving. You pushed the door open and slid out, not waiting for him, not even glancing back. You could hear his door opening, his hurried footsteps on the pavement, and then you felt his fingers brush against yours, trying to capture your hand. You reacted instinctively, pulling your hand away as if you'd been burned and tucking it into your pocket, striding towards the entrance without breaking your stride. You heard his soft, wounded sound, a whimper of pure pain that almost made you falter, but your anger was a shield, hard and impenetrable.
The elevator ride was a special kind of hell. It was a mirrored box, forcing you to see his reflection, his tall, slumped form, the utter misery etched onto his handsome face. His eyes were locked on you, a desperate, pleading gaze that you could feel like a physical touch. You stared resolutely at the lit numbers climbing above the door, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Zak and Jon stood awkwardly on the other side, their presence a silent, heavy judgment on the entire situation. The air was thick with unspoken words, with his silent apologies and your silent refusals.
The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a short hallway leading to a single, grand door. The penthouse suite. Zak swiped a key card, and the door swung open into a sprawling, luxurious space of floor-to-ceiling windows and opulent furnishings. You didn't stop to admire the view. You walked straight past the living area, your eyes scanning for an escape. You found it down a short hallway – a bathroom, large and marble-clad. You stepped inside, and without a second thought, you clicked the lock into place.
The silence lasted for all of five seconds. Then, the pounding began.
"Y/N," his voice came through the door, deep and frantic. "Open the door. Please. Just talk to me."
You ignored him, turning on the faucet to drown him out. You splashed cold water on your face, the shock of it doing little to cool the fire of your rage.
"Y/N, I'm sorry!" he shouted, the pounding growing more insistent. "I'm so, so sorry! I was an idiot. A fucking caveman, just like you said. Please, open the door. I can't stand this."
You turned off the faucet and reached into the shower, turning the knobs. The sound of the water spraying against the tile was a welcome roar, a wall of noise that finally muffled his voice. You stripped off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and stepped under the hot, punishing spray. You let the water cascade over you, washing away the stickiness of travel and the humiliation of the tarmac, but it couldn't wash away the hurt. You could still hear him, a faint, desperate shouting beyond the rush of water, but you closed your eyes and focused only on the heat, letting it scald your skin until you felt raw.
When you finally emerged, the steam billowing out with you, you grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack. You wrapped it securely around your body and bent to scoop up your discarded clothes. As you straightened up, you saw him. He was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his expression one of utter devastation. He was wearing only his boxers, his tanned, muscled torso on full display. A traitorous heat bloomed low in your belly, a familiar ache stirring between your thighs as your eyes traced the defined lines of his abs, the powerful muscles of his thighs. Your gaze dropped, against your will, to the significant bulge straining against the soft cotton of his boxers, a blatant testament to his desire, even in his misery.
You hated your body in that moment. You hated its betrayal. You looked away quickly, your cheeks burning, and brushed past him without a word, heading for the walk-in closet where your suitcase was, to find something to wear. You could feel his eyes on you, a physical weight that followed your every move. You pulled on a simple tank top and a pair of sleep shorts, your movements sharp and angry.
When you came out, he was in the main bedroom, pacing back and forth across the plush carpet like a caged animal. His hands were raking through his hair, his movements restless and agitated. The sight of his powerful body, coiled with tension and regret, sent another unwanted jolt of desire through you. You pushed it down, hard, and marched over to the king-sized bed, pulling back the duvet and sliding underneath, turning your back to the door and burrowing into the pillows.
The bed dipped behind you as he got in. You could feel the warmth of his body, a mere inch away, the heat radiating from him like a furnace. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body rigid with anticipation. You could feel him shifting, the rustle of the sheets, and then you felt it – the warmth of his hand hovering over your hip, so close you could almost feel the ghost of his touch. The air crackled with his intent.
"Don't even think about it," you said, your voice a cold, sharp warning in the dark room.
The warmth vanished. You heard his sharp, pained inhale, and then nothing. He didn't move away, but he didn't touch you either. He just lay there, a silent, wounded presence beside you.
You tried to sleep. You closed your eyes and commanded your body to relax, but it was useless. You could feel his eyes on you in the dark, a heavy, suffocating weight. You could feel the tremor that ran through his body, the barely suppressed energy of an alpha in distress. The silence stretched on, broken only by your own shallow breaths and the frantic, silent beating of your heart.
And then, you heard it. A soft, broken sound. A whimper, so filled with pain it made your own chest ache. It was followed by another, a quiet, choked sob. You could hear the sound of sniffling, the wet, ragged breaths of someone trying desperately not to cry out loud. He was crying. Silently, miserably, right there beside you.
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, a single, hot tear escaping and sliding down your temple to soak into the pillow. You ignored him. You forced yourself to lie still, to breathe evenly, until the sounds of his quiet misery faded, replaced by the even, deep breathing of sleep. But your own sleep wouldn't come. Your mind raced, replaying the day's events, his humiliation, his apology, his tears. And through it all, one thought kept circling, a bitter, ironic twist of fate. Tomorrow was media day. The first Grand Prix of the season. The first time you would be attending together, as a couple. It was supposed to be sweet and you had been so excited for it. And now you were going to have to face it all with this chasm between you, your anger a cold, heavy stone in your gut. The timing, you thought with a fresh wave of resentment, was absolutely fucking perfect.
You turn twenty-four in April and nobody makes a big deal out of it.
Your dad makes the good breakfast. Real eggs, not the toast-and-concentrate Tuesday version. Coffee that’s actually strong.
Rook gives you a card he clearly bought that morning based on the fact that it still has the price sticker on the back, which you peel off and put on his forehead. He’s eating and he doesn’t notice for twenty minutes. It’s a good morning. A quiet one.
Gator comes by in the afternoon.
He doesn’t have anything with him — no gas station cake, you’re twenty-four, that’s not what this is anymore.
He just comes through the back door and drops into his chair and says “happy birthday” like it’s a normal thing to say, low and easy, like it’s not something he’s said to you every year since you were seven years old.
“Thanks,” you say.
“You doing anything tonight?”
“This.” You gesture around at the kitchen. “This is the thing.”
He looks around the kitchen. Rook is outside. Your dad is somewhere in the house. “Wild,” he says.
“I know how to live.”
He almost smiles. He reaches into his jacket pocket and puts something on the table and slides it across.
A folded piece of paper.
You look at it.
Look at him.
He’s looking at the table.
You unfold it.
It’s a drawing.
A bad one, deliberately bad, the kind he’s always done — a stick figure in cowboy boots standing next to what might be a truck or might be a building, and underneath in his messy handwriting: 24. still shorter than me. happy birthday kid.
You look at it for a second.
“I’m not that much shorter than you,” you say.
“You’re significantly shorter than me.”
“The boots add two inches.”
“Boots are on the figure.” Deadpan.
“Still shorter.”
You fold it back up. “I’m keeping this,” you say.
“I figured.”
You put it in your pocket and you don’t look at him because if you look at him right now you’ll do something you can’t take back. It’s your birthday, you’re in your dad’s kitchen and the timing is completely wrong.
The timing is always wrong.
You look at the table instead.
“Thank you,” you say. Quiet.
He doesn’t say it’s nothing or don’t mention it. He just says “yeah” in the low way he says things when he means them.
It’s enough and it’s not enough at all.
May turns into June and the ranch gets worse.
You feel it the way you’ve always felt it, something in the quality of the light over the Tillman fields, the silence that falls wrong.
Roy’s truck in and out all day. Gator still comes by, still sits at the table, but he’s wound tight in the way he gets when he’s keeping something at volume and has been for too long.
One Wednesday night in June it’s the worst it’s ever been.
You watch from your window as Gator crosses the yard to the fence line and stands there.
You know that posture.
You’ve known it for years— the particular stillness that means Roy has been bad and Gator is trying to hold himself together without anyone watching.
He doesn’t know you’re watching.
You pull your boots on.
You’ve never crossed on a bad night.
You’ve stood on your side of the fence for years, watching, staying and definitely not crossing, because crossing felt like something— like a declaration. Like you’re admitting something you haven’t been ready to admit.
But tonight, you cross.
The grass is wet. Your boots are loud as you walk across the fence line. Across the Tillman yard.
Gators at the far fence looking at the dark pasture when he hears you coming.
He doesn’t turn around.
But his shoulders change, some of the tension goes out of them, just slightly, the way it does when something you’ve been holding gets lighter.
You come and stand next to him.
You don’t say anything.
You look at the same dark pasture, you stand there and that’s all.
After a while he says: “He’s selling the north pasture to pay for his campaign.”
“The grazing land?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
“Gator,”
“It’s his ranch.” Flat. The thing he always says when he needs something to be simple. “It’s his call.”
“I know it’s his call.” You turn toward him. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
He looks at you. The exhaustion in his face hits you somewhere low and hard.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks.
“That it’s killing you. That you’re tired. That you’ve been holding all of it at arm’s length for so long you’ve forgotten what it feels like to put it down.” You hold his gaze. “You don’t have to be fine for me. You’ve never had to do that with me.”
He looks away. Jaw working.
“I knew you before all of this,” you say. Quieter now. “Before the badge, before Roy started calling you his right hand, before you learned to stand like that.” You pause. “I knew you when you were twelve years old and you couldn’t sleep in a thunderstorm. So you sat on my porch steps and flinched at the close strikes while pretended you didn’t.”
He goes very still.
“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” you say. “I’m not asking you to stop being Roy’s deputy or stop loving this land or stop being everything you’ve made yourself into. I’m just—” You stop. Try again. “I’m telling you that I see what’s underneath it. I’ve always seen it. And you don’t have to keep it at a distance from me.”
The night is quiet.
Somewhere past the tree line something moves.
A truck on the road a mile out.
“Since when?” he asks. Low and careful.
It’s the same question from October, the one he asked after the four years conversation.
Except this time it means something different. This time it means:
Since when do you see all of it?
Since when were you standing here?
Since when?
You think about a comb. A birthday candle half-melted from being lit and relit. Porch steps in a storm. The left side of a pair of crutches. A note about milk in the back of a drawer.
“A while,” you finally say.
He turns and looks at you then, really looks. In a way he doesn’t always, the way he has to decide to.
He looks at you in the dark and you let him and you look back.
It’s the most seen you’ve felt in as long as you can remember.
“I’m Roy Tillman’s son,” he says. Like a warning. Like you don’t know.
“I know who your dad is.”
“It’s not— that’s not nothing. What that means. Who that makes me.”
“I know what it means.” You don’t look away. “I also know who you are. And those aren’t the same thing.” A beat. “You’ve been both your whole life and I’ve been watching your whole life. I’m telling you I know the difference.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
“I should’ve said something,” he says finally. “Years ago. A long time ago.” He says it like it costs him. Like he’s been keeping that one at volume too. “But I didn’t know if you — I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t want to make it something you had to deal with on top of everything.”
“Gator,”
“You were young. And then you were in school. And then you came back and I kept thinking- I kept waiting for the right—” He stops. Shakes his head. “There was never a right time.”
“There’s not going to be a right time,” you say. “There never was.”
He looks at you. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and isn’t quite anything else.
“How long?” you ask. “Since when? For you.”
He holds your gaze for a long moment.
“You moved the remote,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“First time. When you were seven.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious, like it’s always been obvious. “Saturday morning. You just.. reached out and moved it to my side. Didn’t say anything, didn’t make it a thing. Just did it.” He looks at you. “I noticed.”
Your chest does the thing.
The thing it’s been doing for twenty years.
“I’ve always noticed,” he says. “Every time. I’ve been noticing since before I knew what I was noticing.” A pause. “The drawer, too.”
Your eyes widen. “You know about the drawer?”
“I’ve always known about the drawer.”
“How?”
“Because I left the notes on purpose.” He says it like it’s simple. Like this isn’t the thing that reorders everything. “Every one of them. I knew where they’d end up.”
You stare at him.
“You left them on purpose?”
“Yeah.”
“For twenty years?”
“Yeah.”
“Gator.” You can hear your own voice, something broken open in it, something that’s been closed a long time. “That’s… you should’ve said something.”
“I was waiting for you.” Not an accusation. A fact, plain and steady. “It had to be you. When you were ready.” He looks at the pasture, then back at you. “You crossed the fence tonight.”
You did.
You crossed the fence on a bad night because you were done staying on your side of it.
Because you’ve been done for a while and tonight finally proved it.
“I’m ready,” you say.
“I know,” he says.
His hand comes up and cups the side of your face, his thumb at your jaw, and you grab the front of his jacket.
The kiss is slightly off-angle because you both move at once, and it’s nothing like the movies, it’s nothing like anything, it’s just the most ordinary extraordinary thing.
His other hand finds your waist.
You press closer.
When you pull back you’re still holding his jacket.
“I always had the drawer full of notes,” you say. “About milk. And my brother owing you money. And bad drawings. Since the very first one i’ve kept them.”
“I know,” he says.
“I kept all of them.”
“I know you did.” He looks at you. There’s a soft thing in his face that you’ve never seen before and never want to stop seeing. “That’s why I kept leaving them.”
You’re very good at hiding it from Rook.
Three weeks of careful timing and late nights and leaving separately.
You’ve had twenty-four years of practice not saying things about Gator and it turns out that training transfers.
Rook is perceptive about most things.
He is not perceptive about this.
He has never once been perceptive about this, which you’ve always found equal parts convenient and baffling.
Three weeks. You make it three weeks.
The morning it happens is a Saturday in July.
That Saturday morning you’re in Gator’s room, door locked, supposed to have another two hours before Rook gets back.
You’re straddling Gator on his bed, shirt already on the floor.
His hands are rough and sure on your bare skin, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you shiver.
“Been thinking about this all week,” he mutters against your throat, sucking a mark just below your collarbone. “You in my bed. Wearing nothing but those damn shorts.”
You rock your hips down against the hard line of him through his jeans. “Then stop talking and take them off.”
He flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, making you laugh breathlessly.
His mouth trails down your chest, teeth and tongue teasing until you’re arching off the bed.
When he finally gets your shorts and underwear down, he doesn’t tease. He spreads your thighs and puts his mouth on you like a man starving.
“Gator! fuck-/” Your fingers twist in his freshly washed hair as his tongue works you open, two thick fingers sliding inside you, curling just right.
He groans against your slick skin, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“You taste so fucking good,” he growls, looking up at you with dark eyes. “Been dying to get my mouth on you.”
You come hard the first time, thighs clamped around his head, biting your arm to stay quiet. He doesn’t stop, just works you through it until you’re shaking, then climbs up your body and kisses you filthy so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
You shove his jeans down, wrap your hand around him, it’s hot, heavy, already leaking.
“Want you inside me, Gator.”
“Yeah?” He nips your jaw. “You sure?”
“Now.”
He grabs a condom from the nightstand, rolls it on, and pushes into you in one slow, steady thrust.
You both moan at the stretch.
He’s thick, and the fullness makes your toes curl.
“Shit,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel… fuck, you’re perfect.”
He starts moving, deep, rolling thrusts that hit just right every time.
You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.
The bed creaks quietly. Sweat slick between you.
He kisses you messy and desperate, muttering curses and your name against your mouth.
“Right there. Don’t stop,” you gasp.
“Not stopping,” he promises, snapping his hips harder. “Not ever.”
You come again with his thumb on your clit and his cock buried deep.
He follows right after, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills into the condom, hips stuttering.
You’re still tangled together, catching your breath and trading lazy kisses, when footsteps sound in the hall.
No knock.
The door swings open.
The four seconds that follow are the worst four seconds Stark County has ever produced.
Rook stands there, frozen. His eyes flick from you— naked, flushed, legs still around Gator— to Gator— pants around his ankles, condom still on— and back again.
“Jesus Christ,” Rook mutters. He looks at the ceiling. “I forgot my… yeah. Okay.”
He closes the door.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Fuck,” Gator says, dropping his face into the crook of your neck.
You stare at the ceiling, heart still racing for entirely different reasons now. “That was… not how I wanted him to find out.”
“How bad is it you think?” you mumble.
Gator is looking at the door. “Don’t know yet.”
You sit up. “I should talk to him first. He’s my brother.”
Gator looks at you and nods, because he understands the order of things.
You find Rook at the lake.
Of course you do.
You’ve known since you were nine years old that Rook goes to water when he doesn’t know what to do with something.
He’s on the end of the dock with his feet hanging off and he hears you coming and doesn’t turn around.
You sit next to him. Let your feet hang off too. The lake is flat and a murky green.
“How long?” he asks.
“Officially? Three weeks.”
“And unofficially.”
You look at the water. “A while.”
He makes a sound. Picks up a piece of a rock and throws it in. “It’s weird.”
“I know.”
“It’s really weird.”
“I know, Rook.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“I know he is.”
He looks at the water for a long time. You let him look.
“Does he make you happy?” he asks finally.
You think about a drawer full of notes left on purpose.
You think about how he’s always known about the drawer.
You think about twenty years of Thursdays and gas station coffee and the long way home.
You think about someone who noticed you moving the remote when you were seven years old and never once forgot about it.
“Yeah,” you say. “He does.”
Rook nods slow. “He better not screw it up.”
“He won’t.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know.”
He’s quiet.
Then: “You moved the remote for him for like twenty years.”
You look at him. “You noticed that?”
“Everyone noticed that.” He throws another rock. “I just didn’t want to know yet.”
You sit with that.
“Rook?” you mumble.
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”
“Yeah.” A long pause. “I know.” He exhales. “Give me a week.”
“Take what you need.”
He nods.
You sit on the dock together. The lake is flat and the afternoon is warm.
Something that has been in a drawer for twenty years is finally out where it can breathe.
The conversation between Rook and Gator happens without you.
You get pieces of it after, the way you get pieces of things, sideways, over days.
You find out it was long.
You find out Gator was straight with him, the full truth, no diplomacy.
You find out Gator said: I know who she is. I’ve always known.
You find out that’s what settled it.
Of course it is.
A few weeks and things come back to level.
One Saturday morning you come downstairs, Gator’s at the table with dry cereal and Rook is arguing about something before he’s even sat down. Gator’s giving it right back.
You pour your coffee and sit across from him.
You reach out and move the remote to his side.
Same as always.
Same as the first time, when you were seven years old and didn’t know what you were doing.
Rook says “Why does he always get the remote?”
Gator says “seniority”
You say “that’s not how seniority works”
Rook says “how does it work then”
The whole things stupid, and it’s exactly the same it’s always been.
You look at Gator over your coffee.
He’s already looking at you.
The corner of his mouth twitches up.
You look back at your coffee.
This, you think.
This right here.
The last Saturday in August, all three of you on the dock.
The afternoon is warm and going golden.
The water is green and cold below the boards and the Tillman property spreads out behind you.
You should know what’s coming.
You always know what’s coming.
Rook says: “One!”
You spin. “Don’t you dare.”
“Two!” Gator’s already grinning.
The grin he’s had since he was fourteen.
The one you know better than anything.
“I swear to God, Gator Tillman!”
You go in boots and all.
The water is cold enough to stop your heart.
You go under and come back up. They’re both losing it on the dock, Rook bent over, Gator sitting down on the boards, laughing too hard to stay standing.
You grab the ladder. You haul yourself up.
You stand on the dock dripping and furious and twenty-four years old.
You look at Gator Tillman sitting on the dock of his family’s property crying laughing at you, same as he’s done since you were nine years old, and you think: I have been so gone on this man for so long.
“I hate you,” you say.
“No you don’t,” he says.
Same as always. He’s always known the answer.
You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
It’s still half-pissed and half-relieved.
It tastes like summer.
His hands settle on your wet waist and pull you in.
When you pull back you look him dead in the eye.
“I love you,” you say. “You absolute nightmare.”
Something in his face goes quiet and soft and certain all at once.
He brushes the wet hair off your forehead with the same hands that braided your hair when you were six years old.
“Love you too,” he says.
Like it’s simple.
Like it’s always been simple, just waiting for the right dock, the right August, the right moment to finally say it out loud.
“Always have.”
Rook stands up behind you. “I’m going to the house,” he announces. “I saw nothing. I know nothing. I’m at the house.”
He leaves.
Gator looks at you.
You look at him.
The afternoon is gold. The fields go flat and wide. The lake is behind you. Stark County goes on in every direction the way it always has. The way it always will.
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SUMMARY: Shin Ji-young is on the run. There has been a case of murder in South Fork School, and another case of murder of a teacher brought flashbacks to Hwa-jin. Similar signs were there; the student was shifty, often seen around older pupils from other colleges or even dropping out, trading drugs, and the teacher only confessed to her to not continue doing so. The result? 4 stab marks in his abdomen area, face scratched- a little too brutally as if they were claw marks of a wild animal. And now, Ji-young is nowhere to be found; the police and media are looking for her, even ERPB, especially Na-Hwajin.
(all the names, including school name is made up)
"보셨나요? Huh?" (Did you see?) Han-rim said pointing towards the TV, nudging Bong Geun-dae to show the news.
"Shin Ji-young, a 17-year-old high school girl from South Fork School of Busanjin district, has fled from the scene after committing the murder of her homeroom teacher the previous night. The police are on their search and will catch the murderer soon. Though a minor, she will be served as per her deed. And the reason is yet to be known."
"What kind of a student does that?" Shouted Han-rim, pressed her lips tightly as if she was about to throw curse words at the girl. Both the Minister and Hwa-jin exchanged looks, a knowing glance at what actions should be taken for this case. However, without a formal complaint being filed by that school or anyone related to her, they won't be able to take any action..yet.
This news spread like wildfire, as the teacher who was murdered was allegedly related to a congressman of the opposing party. They questioned Minister Choi as to why the investigation hasn't been started. It irked the poor minister and he refused to answer the media as of now. A few times passed until they received this mail, a very comprehensive one. Bong Geun-dae had informed them. It read-
[ Hello sir,
I am writing this mail in concern of my missing friend. Ji-young, has been missing for few days now. Usually, after such incidents with any of our teacher, she doesnt attend school for a day to 2 days maximum but it's been a long time and I even visited her house. She wasn't there either. I don't know exactly what had happened between these two that led to such gruesome act, I just happen to miss my friend. I hope you will find her. That's why I reached out to you.
-Kang Ha-eun ]
"Looks like she has a close friend, and we could get a lot of information about Ji-young from her," Hwa-jin commented. All of them nodded in agreement. Walking up to Han-rim, he patted her shoulder sharply and said, "So, let's begin".
The next day, they packed everything and headed for South Fork School. It was just another busy day at school, with students and teachers bustling around the school in the hallway. Han-rim observed them; nothing looked suspicious among the students, no such life-threatening bullies among them. Hwa-jin spoke to the headmaster about the incident and asked him for the security camera in that area. Weirdly, the head of the school looked a bit uncomfortable sharing the video, but he still shared it with him. "Uh, Sir, don't you have the raw footage?"
"No, sir, unfortunately, it was tampered with the next day. After the footage was saved, someone mishandled the actual footage."
"Sabotaging the crime scene? Looks like someone tried to hide something." He reasoned. For a moment, Hwa-jin thought he saw a flicker of guilt hiding behind the headmaster's eyes. Then he quickly said, " Inspector Na, it's obvious that the insolent girl did this." Hwa-jin didn't say much and simply nodded, leaving his office. 'It's not just a case of murder' He thought out loud.
Meanwhile, the other two tracked down information about the girl and spoke to two or three of her teachers, one of whom was her homeroom teacher. Things didn't quite add up well, although there was one specific piece of information that struck with Han-rim was that she was a violent kid from a very young age, maybe because her father was abusive. Her mother had died, quite truthfully, she had seen her mother die. She was not necessarily violent towards her friend or surroundings, but more towards herself. She usually showed an aggressive, agitated nature while talking to her peers, but never quite harmed them. This was her first time doing so, but it mostly felt like a pent-up anger toward her mathematics teacher, Park Seo-Joon. Her homeroom teacher had mentioned all this information about her. Han-rim and Bong Geun-Dae took the file containing her report card, medical certificate, and other information to Hwa-jin. He was quietly loitering outside, in the hallway, looking at students studying and other activities being done by others.
"So, anything special?" The senior inspector questions. "Sir, this case looks a bit weird, as in, why would a girl of high grades suddenly start scoring less, and that too in the maths subject. One particular subject. The teachers gave us all the information yet, their expression said otherwise."
Hwa-jin stayed quiet; he didn't say anything until Bong Geun-Dae shrieked out. Both of them got scared and jumped up, "씨발 (fuck)- Han-rim exclaimed, "What's wrong with you?"
With trembling hands, he said, "Look, another murder, same type." All of them hovered over the phone to check the news; it was true. Just a few kilometres from here, at a pub, the murder occurred. The scratch marks, stab all the same. Hwa-jin straightened up and said, "Well, we don't have any time to waste. We need to catch her, or she might as well eat up a few more people."
All of them left for the club. They looked around for any clue, the CCTV footage to check her whereabouts, and the man she killed. They asked the owner if he knew the man. "Yes, he was a regular and was there just like another night. Our bartender did see him enter our private room, upstairs with a girl, but he thought it was his date. We didn't expect him to end up like this."
They questioned whether any worker saw him as a threat to that girl or was harassing her. One of the waiters there replied, "No, it looked quite the contrary; she was smiling and had her arms wrapped around his."
All three of them, dead tired, returned to the headquarters with little to no clue. She has again vanished and can't be traced. They even looked around her neighbour; no one had seen her.
At night, looking through her files, Han-rim suddenly stood up from her seat. "We might know where she would be, day after tomorrow?"
Hwa-jin yawned, already deprived of sleep, "How?"
"In her middle school diary, she has written that on 22nd June is her Dog's mango birthday. And every year, she brings him his favourite flower to his kennel. So, she will visit that."
"How can you be so sure? She knows everyone is looking for her." Bong-Geun Dae questioned. "Yes, you are correct, she might be cautious, but she will be there, even for a while. It's her pet, and people are really attached to their pet, and people like her who have no one to rely on, they consider their pet as their best friend. She wouldn't miss it for the world. She is still a child afterall."
"Are you sympathizing with a killer?" Hwa-jin chipped up, his tone a bit sharper than usual. Han-rim saw that stern look lingering in his eyes, despite being tired, she straightened up and said," NO, I just feel whatever she did, there was a reason. A reason that can be judged upon, properly."
"So, I kind of found something-" Bong Geun Dae spoke up, "so this Congressman Mr. Park Dong-Ho is Seo-joon's Uncle. He has a list of sexual assault cases charged. But he got bail every time. And coincidentally, the guy at the pub was his driver. There are paparazzi photos of him in the car with that guy in the driver's seat."
Han-rim and Hwa-jin exchanged a knowing look," Well, we will pay Mr. Park a visit tomorrow then."
Next Day
"this Motherfucker bitch, how did she escape again. What are you guys doing? 6 armed men and you can't find her?" Dong-Ho spat out, his pale face now red with anger as he cussed out the police officers in charge of duty. He dismissed them quickly, "Fuck, this bitch, shouldn't have let her out for that test. Should have kept her caged in the box, that bitch should have died like her mom." He angrily mumbled, sitting down in the chair in his office. Suddenly, the door opened, revealing the three officers in his office. Dong-Ho looked up and gave them a smug smile, "What brings you here, Officer Na, unless you caught that bi-, girl. I am not hearing from any of you. She murdered my nephew," Spoke the old man.
"We are trying to catch her, sir," Hwa-jin spoke, his voice dripping with extra sweetness and with sincerity. Sometimes, it made Han-rim wonder if he took acting classes besides military training to help him mask his emotions so perfectly. Hwa-jin paused, then continued," In fact, we were wondering if you could assist us in catching her tomorrow. It will be a great, satisfactory job; it may help you gain some publicity."
Congressman, being the dumb guy he was, quickly agreed to it, without thinking of the consequences. He agreed, and it made all three of them grin in satisfaction. Yesterday, the entire night, they looked for the names of the victims who charged him with sexual assault. Sadly, most of them were either missing or killed themselves. Only two of them were alive and decided to pay a visit, later today.
The final day - Justice is served?
Ji-young's pov
It is raining heavily today, and it is Mango's birthday too. My mango turned 15 today, but I am too scared to pay him a visit. What if the police are there? Or those guys? Did they destroy my Mango's house, too? I'd kill them if they touched it. I opened my phone, which is my other phone, so that they wouldn't track it. I saw the area around my house; it looked empty, no police around. No one is around, Mango's kennel is the same and a little bit dusty. Maybe I can pay him a quick visit. The sharp drop of rain on my skin hurt my cut marks; it still looked so sore and bad. I used to be so pretty, but they ruined me. My face, my body. These meds help me reduce the pain, but it makes me so angry, too.
I shouldn't be too late, or someone might just catch me. I grabbed the Jasmine flowers from the nearby lake, and carefully walked towards my house, it was a quiet neighbourhood, and mostly during early mornings, it's empty and quiet, so I can access my place early. I saw his kennel and sat down quietly, "Hi, Mango, Happy Birthday, Baby. I miss you so much. You were the best thing in this whole world, well, you still are. I am sorry I can't be here for a long time. I am on a run, but when I find a place to stay, I will take you with me."
I am usually quite strong, but I caught myself crying today, right now. It didn't matter; I was alone, so I could cry. "I hoped for a better world and a better life than what my parents lived. But it's just worse than them, I wish I could approach the ERPB regarding this-
"Who said you couldn't?"
-
Third Person POV
"Are you sure, Han-rim, she will be there right now?" Hwa-jin commented as he drove the SUV with Bong Geun Dae and Mr. Park in the back seat. "Yes, it's early morning, and it would be quiet in the neighbourhood so she can access her place right now. Although midnight could have been a more decent choice, it wouldn't be her dog's birthday when midnight strikes."
"you're so smart..." Bong Geun-Dae commented, which led to Hwa-Jin rolling his eyes. He sped up the car and parked at a distance from the neighbour. Hwa-jin got out and asked them to stay back, "You, sure you will be alright?" Han-rim mocked.
He simply ignored and went towards her house. Rest three of them watched through the camera they had placed yesterday in her backyard. Hwa-jin quietly saw her, praying and talking to herself. He heard her say about ERPB and couldn't help but speak up.
This alerted Ji-young, she sprinted up and took out the blades from her pocket. Hwa-jin wouldn't admit it loudly, but her self defence tactic, impressed him a bit. He now could see her properly, her face looked nothing like the passport size photo the school had of her. One of her eyes looked damaged, her lips cut, one of the cheek slashed, marks all over her hand and parts of her neck. She looked so bruised. Before saying anything, he started to walk towards her. "Don't- I will kill you." She warned, with her cracked voice and, her hands trembling.
"Look, she is trying to hurt Hwa-jin," Exclaimed the old man from the car as he sipped his juice casually. "He knows what he is doing," Commented Han-rim with a stern and disgusted voice.
Hwa-jin raised his hands in surrender, "I am only here to talk and know about your situation. You said you wanted help. We are here to help. We want to hear your side of the story, too." She lowered her blades a bit, still holding them firmly. Can she trust him? she thought. She knew him. She followed him for months and saw videos of him on Zeetube and learned a few moves during a fight from that. She knew what he did with other kids was for their betterment, but this time, is he really going to? When the entire city is against her.
Watching her doubtful face, he said, " You can't run; the area is surrounded by ERPB. You will only end up hurting yourself, so you should come with us, and we can talk." This time, she lowered her blades and followed him outside the house. All three of them got out of the car, too. Looking at Ji-young, Dong-ho shouted, "Catch that bitch, you insolent girl-" Han-rim slapped him to be quiet.
The moment Ji-young heard his voice, she let out a shriek, "YOU CALLED HIM?!- She shouted at Hwa-jin, "HOW DARE YOU?! YOU SAID WE WILL TALK. BUT YOU ARE SENDING ME BACK TO HIM! HOW DARE YOU, FUCK!!! She shouted so loudly that at 6am most of the neighbours would have now woken up by the noise. Ji-young, out of nowhere, leaped towards Hwa-jin to hit him. Quickly, Han-rim ran and held Ji-young tightly. Ji-young quickly kicked her thigh from the front and stood afar. It angered Han-rim; she leaped forward to throw a punch at Ji-young, but she dodged it.
Amidst that, the congressman walked hurriedly towards ji young and tried to hold her by her wrist. But failed, as Hwa-jin held his arm so tightly that it might just twist his muscle, "Don't Touch." He warned, staring dead into his eyes. Meanwhile, Ji-young searched for her weapons. She caught hold of the dagger and leaped forward at Dong-ho, but Han-rim caught her. "Don't, not now."
Helplessly, Ji-young fell to the ground, now fully sobbing in front of them. She held onto Han-rim's pants tightly and whispered, "Help me, please," as she gasped for air. Han-rim kneeled down and held her sides, her eyes teary too as she said, "We are going to help you, you just have to come with us and talk. We won't send you away anywhere."
They drove in silence and took her to a hospital. Outside the hospital, there was a swarm of people from media. While she was getting treated, they took statements from her. They searched her house for any clue but didn't find any as all of it was in her 2nd phone. Going through her phones, they saw, recording of her saying how they worked together (the teacher, congressman, and the driver.) . Apparently, they had sent other people from Congressman's group to different school to kidnap girls from middle school, highschool and even universities students. They had coaxed the girls into thinking they would get a job as a model or air hostess if they did some simple task, since Park Dong-Ho owned a few percentage of shares of the Airline.
All were lie, they kidnapped them and made them an escort for other rich people from various countries to get paid a significant amount.
"I only became a target because my mother had some issues with them for a very long time. She used to work for Dong-Ho, and when I was 5, he wanted me to be sold to him, and in return, my parents would get a certain sum of money. But my mom refused, so in return, my dad used to beat her every day, and even one day Dong-Ho's men broke into our house and raped her and took photos to threaten her." Ji-young took a deep breath and continued. "Unable to take such a huge load on herself, she hung herself." She stated that the room went quiet, and Han-rim quietly patted her back.
" I was sent to my grandparents' place for years, until I had to come back for my high school. Everything was fine until they showed up again."
"Ji-young." Hwa-jin called out, "You are very brave."
She smiled, after months, she gave out a genuine smile. "Thank you sir."
"and quite strong too," he said while touching his nose, where it looked a bit bruised from that day when she threw him a punch. She gave out a sheepish smile.
-
Weeks went by, and all the subordinates working under Park Dong-ho were arrested, including the old man himself. His house was under search, including the Clubs he owned. Many hidden rooms were found in the clubs and his house, including photos that were too dark to be released to the media. As for Ji-young, she was in a juvenile reformatory facility, and she would be treated by a psychologist to help her. She looked better in the facility as she was put under a rehabilitation centre to help her control her mind and be physically well, too. All of them visited her once a week, and it encouraged her to be better and live better.
"Inspector, thank you." Hwa-jin looked up from the seat they were both sitting. "For what?" "For hearing me out, and not letting me die."
Hwa-jin simply nodded, giving her a warm smile.
-
[a/n : I love this series so much. I used to read this manhwa, years ago, before it discontinued, and when they made a series out of it, I was over the moon. So I had to write one fic. I will continue writing on this and on different characters, but it might take time to post because of demanding schedule:') I hope you like it. I have written a fic after years. So I kinda got out of practice, hah.]
in which your impassive neighbour gains an interest in you that feels invasive (yandere choso x f!reader)
part one • two
poll winner: you texted him back — next poll is at the end of the fic
note: this is a yandere piece that contains stalking elements and topics that might cause discomfort, if a future or past piece has a warning, please take extra care before clicking on it!
As the seconds ticked by, the focus on your phone deepened, and your grip on it gradually tightened to the point where your knuckles went white. Despite Shoko's warning to absolutely not get involved with this man—your curiosity won out—leading you to swipe back to the messages screen.
Maybe if you just got to the bottom of it all sooner rather than never, you could resolve whatever odd idea you must have put into his head?
Not that you ever once provoked him or led him on in the first place.
Almost reluctantly, you slid your fingers across the screen, typing out one reply after the other that you ultimately ended up discarding rather than sending. It felt awkward, in a way, because how on earth were you supposed to approach him at all, even through the safe medium of texting? A part of you had even regretted considering politeness—remembering Shoko's little bit where she described his actions as stalkerish—so why should you display manners at all? You supposed the immediate answer to that question was because you did not wish for it to escalate.
Then again, you never know with people. Choso—your downstairs neighbour—looked gentle, tired and presented himself as soft-spoken, yes, but he also violated your personal space to an extreme that made you feel uneasy. Choso texting you last night was simply the icing on the cake, because all it did was lead to another troubling thought: had he waited for you to come home in order to notice your absence? A shudder escaped you, and your shoulders closed in on themselves to block out the idea.
Determined to get to the root of this, you ended up settling on something that led you both to the point.
"hi thank you for the concern ln but how did you get my number?"
You briefly considered immediately texting the request of a follow-up, a nudge of a demand asking who it was so that you could give them a piece of your mind (or more likely, send Shoko after them), but the thought slipped as soon as you spotted the "read" receipt the very next second and a response already in the works:
"Hi, good to hear from you. I obtained the number from our landlady early on to use in case of emergencies. When you didn't come home last night, after seeing you drunk the other night, I feared something had happened and sent out a friendly text."
You stared at the screen as the typing animation played on his side, seemingly not done with what he wanted to disclose.
"I don't text much, though. I suppose I came across as overbearing in my concern. Sorry if that was the case."
You blew your cheeks out at that answer, coming to focus on the pavement up ahead for a moment just to steady yourself. A lot was going on in his two answers. He was polite with you, aware of the boundaries that he crossed, and yet, somehow, he still managed to pass that violation off as care.
A part of you wished to confront him further, but another side knew to tread carefully before moving forward, considering that you still lived in close proximity to him. Perhaps, in that case, a light hint to back off would work, even if you weren't too sure of the outcome.
"i see but pls refrain from contacting me in the future unless it's an actual emergency."
Hoping this would wrap things up, you considered pocketing your phone right then and there, but your eye kept catching on the seemingly lengthy reply he conjured up, only for it to fall flat on just one word when he had finally sent it:
"Alright."
In a way, this all annoyed you even further than it should have, but for the time being, all you could do was let out a deep breath, sigh, and hope that you were both distant, yet clear enough that whatever interest he might have seen was not real. You were both adults, after all. Maybe his single-worded response could have been born from a realisation that he had overstepped. Hopefully.
~~~
Choso, otherwise, had been working on rearranging his shop to look more inviting and nice, especially since a more sterile, franchise-y storefront had opened up in a more convenient location nearby. It was truly idle work, what he was doing, and his mind was otherwise occupied with the mundane thought of what would be more appealing for the average shopper.
Then, his focus shifted from the second that he heard his phone vibrate, his mind immediately settling on you once more. Technically speaking, it was no big deal when he hadn't heard from you last night; it was late, and you were likely just asleep, so that alone was fine. The greater issue stemmed from his overthinking of where exactly did you fall asleep, and worse yet, with whom? The idea of you being potentially romantically involved—or even just temporarily as a one-night stand—made him feel almost violently unwell.
As he went over to check on his phone, Choso dreaded to read your response in a way. He already had an issue with being overbearing to his siblings, which he had to promise, when he did finally move out of his family home, that he would give them all room to breathe. His concern for you from last night was not intended initially to be as overwhelming as it had come across. For that alone, he already felt apologetic. Then, he read your response and felt the accusation in your words, asking just who exactly he sourced the number from, and he already felt regretful of abusing the information handed to him.
He let out a shaky breath, slowly, his hands trembling slightly as he forced himself to reply with the truth. Perhaps if he were transparent with it, then you wouldn't be so suspicious, or worse yet, angry.
When you replied a short while after, requesting him to no longer contact you again unless it were a true emergency, all hell broke loose for him. He ground his teeth, his jaw tightening as he processed your words, having to put in extra effort to force himself to remain calm as he typed out again and again that he was merely acting out of concern. However, each reply he pushed out for the potential of countering your plea had ended up sounding a little too defensive, so ultimately, he settled on the simple message of an "alright", hoping that it would calm you down a little.
Then, upon no further follow-up, Choso exhaled a steadier breath that time. If the only way to text you was otherwise rooted in the context of an emergency, then perhaps, otherwise, he could fabricate one. He could break into your home—carefully—using the alibi of work taking up his daytime hours, but claim to notice something off when coming back, because maybe his apartment door seemed loose somehow. The issue, however, that lay with that entire plan, was whether or not you would believe him after his few already questionable interactions with you.
Therefore, he had to make his attempt to showcase a potentially dangerous situation apply to him just as much as it would apply to you. Not enough to freak you out and call the police to expose him, but perhaps to sway you away from being a creep, as you likely saw him, and just someone who is well-meaning, just bad at communication. He would fix up your door (that he planned to damage), finally mention his siblings and how much of an overthinker he is, and you could let go of all of your concerns about him once you realised that there's nothing to be scared of.
Carefully, indeed, he decided with his heart racing, that he would creep on over from a decisive break from work, tiptoe right upstairs to your unit and then just… act on his plan. He held his breath the whole time, terrified of you being home or coming back earlier, as he kicked around the doormat, overturned a few pots, and brute-forced the door handle enough times to make it fall loose, the hinges waning under the repeated pressure. Just moments before, he did more or less the same thing to his own unit, hoping to sell the picture.
But just as he stepped away, he heard someone approach the stairs, and his heart jumped.
You couldn't have been back this early.
Could you?
~~~
As you approached the street you lived on, you pulled out your phone again, a hint of a frown appearing when there was no follow-up from him. In a way, this left you feeling even more unsteady. It was almost easier to read him and his intentions when he was trying to contact you, but if he had been reduced to being quiet, then you, too, were left in the dark.
Just as you were about to round in on your apartment, your pursuit faltered by just a step, forcing you to slow down and take in the scene around you. A shattered terracotta plant pot at his door, dirt on the door handle and a trail of soil leading up the side stairs. When you reached your unit, a similar scene awaited you: overturned flowerpots and a broken door handle leading into your home.
Without thinking much, your mind almost immediately went on to blame him, because the events made sense in how he was behaving. Maybe rejection motivated him? But then again, why would he do the same to his own apartment? Was it a randomly targeted break-in, then? You gulped at the thought, your fingers already itching to pull out your phone and drop in a word to the police, asking them if they could investigate, but then you heard something not too far away.
A stifled sneeze, maybe? It sounded too close to be on the next building over. Maybe behind your unit—like right behind—where there was only a narrow ledge that led to a straight drop down into an alley. You could hear faint shuffling and the sound of someone trying to be really quiet.
Realistically, you knew that you had no chance in case it was a real danger lurking around the corner, so leaving it alone was the safest choice.
Then again, you could not fully erase a sneaking suspicion that already took root in your mind.
The idea was almost silly.
It couldn't have been him, could it?
What’s your next step?
Leave in a hurry and call the police
Take matters into your own hands and see who’s hiding around the corner
