#WAS SMILING THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS

[codenamefalcon]

01. PLACES WE WERE MADE

Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.6k Chapter Summary: No matter the distance, no matter the amount of time, no matter the stream of connection, you could never forget Clark even if you wanted to. But now he’s back, and he’s picking you up for dinner with his parents. Warnings: a little unedited, I used the Beanery from Smallville the show but in this series it doesn't suck, lmk if I missed anything! Note: I am of the many who saw Superman last week and immediately started writing. this is going to be a mini series of sorts so i hope you like it :)

Most people your age dreamt of getting out of Smallville, of finding their way to a big city where they could live their life to the fullest, but you? You loved it here. It was your home, your safety, the place you’d grown up, the source of all of your happiest memories. While others detested the closeness of the small town, you saw the beauty in how tight-knit everyone was. While they dreamt of skyscrapers and chain coffee shops, you reveled in the open sky and familiarity of the Beanery.

Though if you were being honest, the one downside to staying in the rural town was how limited the dating pool was. Everyone your age was either already married, had dated one of your friends, or was someone you had already gone on a failed date or two with. It didn’t help that any guy you crossed paths with was always unknowingly in competition with someone who had left Smallville years ago, and no one ever came even remotely close to him.

“Mornin’ sweetpea,” Martha sweetly greets you as she hovers near your seat, coffee cup and to-go sack in hand, “You workin’ today?”

“No, ma’am,” You give her a polite and warm smile, “I’m off for the next week.”

“Oh, are you goin’ on a little vacation,” She asks, nothing but sincerity and gentle kindness in her voice, “You deserve one after all those hours you work.”

“No vacation,” You shake your head with an light chuckle, “I’m just going to stay home and relax. Might try and fix up some things around the house that need to be done.”

You watch as something flickers in her eyes, almost like you can see the lightbulb lighting up with an idea so bright it shines throughout the entire shop. The coy smile that tugs at the corners of her lips is enough to tell you that she had thought of something, and whatever it was, you knew you wouldn’t be able to say no. You could never say to the Kent’s, not after everything they’ve done for you.

“If you aren’t busy this evenin’, you should come to the house for supper,” She starts off, though you can sense the subtle traces of some unspoken agenda, “Clark is in town, and I know he’d like to see ya.”

There it is.

The mention of her son sends an instant wave of warmth to your cheeks, a feeling of familiarity and comfort blossoming in your chest at the idea of seeing Clark again. It’s been so long since the two of you had last spoken, and even longer since you had last seen him, but the way you felt whenever he was brought up never swayed. Ever since the two of you were young, he brought out a feeling that you’d spent the better part of your days chasing after, yet you’ve never been able to replicate it with anyone else.

“I’ll be there,” You nod with finality, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your voice nearly trembles with nerves.

“Oh, good,” She gushes, delicately grasping your hand that’s on the table and giving it a squeeze, “I’ll send one of the boys to come pick ya up at five.”

You knew better than to argue against her, so you nod in agreement before she bids you goodbye and is out the door. The second she leaves, your nerves hit you in full force, and you’re sending panicked texts to your friends that they were having to decode as they fly in. They were trying to calm you down, telling you that you still had an entire day ahead of you to fill with distractions until the time came, but their attempts were practically fruitless. You were freaking out.

When you make it back to your house, you quickly began tearing through your closet in search of the appropriate outfit for dinner at the Kent’s. Of course, you weren’t going to wear anything too over the top, but you didn’t want to dress too plainly, either. Not if Clark was going to be there. With the help of your friends and a two hour long group FaceTime, you finally settled on something that was suitable and checked off your boxes. However, that still left you with nearly five hours to yourself, and a room full of clothes to put back on hangers.

“Are you sure this looks okay,” You ask as you twirl in front of the camera, “It’s not too boring?”

“Girl, you look great,” Mandy, the unfortunate recipient of yet another panicked call, reassures with a playful eye roll, “Those jeans make your ass look phenomenal. I wouldn’t be surprised if Clark took you up to his teenage boy bedroom and fu–”

“Oh my god,” You cut her off with a shriek, “Calm down, Amanda! That’s his parents' house.”

“So, you’re saying if his parents weren’t there,” She trails off into an amused laugh, ignoring the pointed glare you’re throwing her way, “All jokes, all jokes. My point is, you look fuckin’ good, you always do. That farm boy won’t know what hit him.”

“He’s been living in Metropolis for a while now,” You casually remind her, “He’s not really a farm boy anymore, is he?”

“Oh, please,” She lightly scoffs, “Clark Kent will always be a farm boy.”

You were trying to make sure that you had all of your stuff gathered in your bag, and the pie you had made was still warm and ready to take with you. It was nearing five, and you wanted to be sure that you were ready to go out the door the moment you heard the noticeable rumble of their truck. Of course, it was because you wanted to be punctual, and not because you wanted to see the Kent’s only son. That wasn’t it at all…

The sound of your doorbell ringing breaks your string of focus, which was you picking at your fingernails, and it makes your throat dry from nerves. You wipe your shaky hands off on the material of your jeans before you rise to your feet and make your way to the door. You contemplate peeking through the small hole in the door, but ultimately decide not to let yourself have the few extra seconds to stew in your own thoughts before you tug the door open.

“Clark,” You squeakily greet, ears burning and heat crawling up your neck at the sight of him.

Deep down, you knew it was him Martha was going to send to pick you up, but there wasn’t enough mental preparation in the world to ready you for the man in front of you. Clark had always been a taller, muscular boy, even in his youth, but now? Now he was huge. Not even with the large flannel covering his frame could hide how broad his shoulders were, how big his arms had gotten, how toned his chest was. And his hair? His curls were slightly mussed, almost as if he had run his hands through them over and over, but it looked good. He looked good.

If it weren’t for your grip on the frame of the door, you’re certain your knees might have given out.

“Hi,” He calls out, the sound of your name falling from his lips making your head spin, “Long time, no see.”

Deep dimples indented his cheeks in a way that throws you back to senior prom, Clark’s hands covering the expanse of your hips as he carefully sways to the music and listens to you ramble on about your dreams after high school. He didn’t stop smiling at you the entire night, and that was the first time you realized that maybe you felt something stronger for him. Maybe that feeling you’d spent years trying to tell yourself was normal was something much bigger than you thought. 

“Yeah, it has been a while,” You let out an airy chuckle, briefly glancing to the side to collect yourself, “Downsides of living in two completely different cities, you know?”

You don't miss the subtle downward twitch on his lips, or the way his shoulders fall just enough to be noticeable to you. No amount of separation would rid you of the ability to read Clark like you were always able to when you were in school. It was like second nature to you at this point. However, just because you could read him doesn’t mean you understood him, and you considered that to be one of your biggest faults.

“Yeah, I guess I should come back home more,” He sheepishly mumbles, his hand anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck as his ears turned a deep shade of red.

“Hey,” You instinctively reach out to take his hand in your own, sending a warm jolt from your fingertips to your toes, “The Daily Planet needs their best journalist, and Lord knows there's enough to cover up there. We’ll all be here waiting for you whenever you can make it back.”

The way Clark’s gaze softens as it slides between your eyes and your hands makes your stomach flip and your heart slam into your ribs. For as long as you can remember, he’s looked at you like that; Like you were the moon and he was the tide, ebbing and flowing at your will and call. For as long as you can remember, it confused you. It confused you because he’s always been the one to draw the line, to remind you how you were one of his most cherished friends, but friends don’t look at friends that way, do they?

“Ready to head to dinner?”

[snoopychris]

chris can’t help but choke reader after an ego boost

warnings: smut, choking (obvi), a bad ending

you knew that chris always thought highly of himself. he was a person who was very confident in his sense of being. most days chris felt on top of the world and like he could do anything.

today was absolutely not one of those days.

it started good. he woke up feeling good and even did his hair a little differently. his shirt matched the hat he would have to model for fresh love later in the day, and even the laces on his shoes matched your outfit.

the first time something went wrong was when the coffee shop had forgotten the extra cream cheese on his bagel. the second was when he climbed into his car only to find matt had left it with a near empty tank of gas. the third was when he had gone to the store to buy a new storage card and ended up finding that target was all out of stock. nothing was going right for chris. not today.

he was down in the dumps by the time he finally made his way to your house to pick you up before his photo shoot. he was in the grumpiest of moods, only being slightly lifted when you got into the car. the sweet tone of your voice helped a little bit more, but not quite enough.

the fourth time that something went wrong throughout chris’ day was when he found out that he had the date for his shoot completely wrong. he was frustrated beyond belief, and he couldn’t wait for the moment that he was back at your apartment in the comfort of your bed. the second that chris steps outside of the building, his day was made completely.

a random passerby, some guy who probably wasn’t much older than chris, jogging by and suddenly stopping to talk to chris.

“looking good! keep workin on those muscles and you’ll be finer in no time man! especially in that shirt. and cool hat too!” he speaks, putting his headphones back in and continuing his jog. chris turns to face you with a big grin in his face, practically dragging you to the car. you yelp as you follow along, smiling at his change in attitude.

by the end of the night, you’re practically begging chris to slow down. he’s thrusting in and out of you at a speed you didn’t even know he could hit, the squelch of your pussy being loud enough to fill the entire apartment. you clench around him as you reach your fourth orgasm in the past 20 minutes, gripping onto his arm gently. “b-baby slow down please! please…” chris chuckles quietly as he slows down, just enough that it’s barely even noticeable. you groan as your head falls back against your pillow, looking up at him.

the look on his face tells you that he’s not ready to be done yet, your theory being proven by chris tsking quietly. there’s a glimmer in his eyes that you notice, lips parting slightly in anticipation. “can i choke you?” chris whispers, kissing your neck gently. it takes you by surprise for a moment but you nod regardless, expecting him to place his hand on your throat the way he usually does. the last thing you expected him to do was flip you around, wrapping his arm around your neck instead. his arm flexes gently as you groan, looking back at him to the best of your abilities. he chuckles quietly, tightening his grip again. “w’gonna go again okay? my arms look good in this shirt after all.”

[f1withespresso]

It's always fucking Max | pt. 3

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — chapter word count: +4.2k

✎ — radio: psst... new chapter is out! Thanks for all the incredible feedback! Unfortunately I am not able to tag everyone in the taglist (i don't know why??) but the plan is to post a chapter every day, so yeah... Anyway: at the end is a little playlist :) Enjoy!

series masterlist

The cherry blossoms have already started to bloom in Suzuka, but there is no time for you to appreciate the soft pink haze clinging to the trees. Not when your head is pounding with the sound of Oscar Piastri’s name echoing through the paddock like a fucking mantra. "Oscar Piastri takes the win in Suzuka! What a start to the season for McLaren in this third race!“ Cue the fireworks. Cue the orange shirts. Cue your jaw locked so tight, you are half convinced your theeth will start cracking as you are grinding them against each other. Second place. Once again. And not a satisfying second either. No, this one was teeth-gritted, front-wing-nudging, brake-smoke-in-the-mirrors kind of second. You’d fought like hell, diving on the inside of Turn 1, flirting with gravel at the Degner Curve, practically spooning Verstappen through the Spoon Curve to catch up—and still, it wasn’t enough to get to Oscar. "Solid drive," your engineer says, voice static-crackled through the radio. "P2. Great points for the team.“ You don't answer. There is nothing to say on radio that wouldn’t be career-ending.

The press room in Suzuka smells like burnt coffee and sweat, and you are sandwiched to the side of Oscar and Max in the world's most pissed-off party sandwich. Max looks frustrated with his P3. He had wanted this to be a win so bad as well. Oscar, ever the golden boy, smiles like he had a permanent deal with Colgate. "Incredible race, Oscar," the interviewer gushes. „Almost back-to-back wins to open the season. Did you expect to be this dominant so early on?“ Oscar chuckles modestly. "The car feels good. We’ve done a lot of work over the break, and yeah—it’s paying off.“ You fix your gaze on a point above the camera and don’t blink. "[Y/N], great recovery after a tough qualifying," another journalist chimes in. "Do you feel the pressure, knowing your teammate's now leading the champtionship again after you were tied after last race?“ You tilt your head, lips curling into a blade-thin smile. "Pressure’s part of the job. But if I wanted easy wins and no competition, I would have never made it beyond karting.“ Oscar looks at you then, just briefly, and there is something in his eyes. Like he is still trying to find the version of you from last season—the one who used to throw popcorn at his head during Netflix nights in hotel rooms and send him memes at 2am. The one he would yap with throughout press conferences, which would drive journalists crazy, because they never got a proper answer to their questions, only meaningless jokes. That version is dead. This new version of you is much stranger. Much more serious. 

You don’t remember much after the press conference. A blur of cameras, damp handshakes, and the polite chill of Suzuka’s paddock. Now, almost a day later, you're in your apartment in London — jet-lagged, hollowed out, and still wearing the hoodie you fell asleep in on the plane. The suitcase sits unopened by the front door, wheels dirty from the streets of London between Paddington Station and your apartment. Rain taps softly against the window, steady and relentless. You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under you, a mug of tea gone cold on the table. The TV’s on but muted. Your mind is somewhere else entirely when your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you — sharp, sudden, insistent.

Oscar [8:34 p.m]: Great drive yesterday. Proud of you.

You stare at the message until the screen dimmes. Then open the team group chat instead. 

You [8:36 p.m.]: Will need new tyre data in the morning. Let’s go over stint degradation before Bahrain.

📍Suzuka International Racing Course

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and 465.075 others

yourusername fought hard for that one 😓 not the result i wanted, but we go again! 🇯🇵🌸

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mclaren P2 with grit and fire — proud of you, always. Let’s keep pushing 🧡

oscarpiastri still one hell of a drive!

username1 You still killed it [Y/N]!! P2 is still amazing 🔥

username2 she’s gonna snap one of these days and I fully support her shunting him into a gravel trap if he pulls another smug cooldown room moment 😭

username3 She’s clearly under insane pressure. Honestly think she’s struggling to process what it means to be in a title fight now. Don’t forget, this is only her second full season

username4 oscar’s comment is so boyfriend coded wtf is going on 😭 and WHY is she ignoring him in this post omg say something back pls 😭😭😭

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Bahrain is hell under floodlights. The desert wind blows sand into your helmet visor and the tarmac radiates heat even after nightfall. But you feel it in your bones: this was your race. You launch off the line from P3 like you’d been fired from a cannon, slicing past Charles before Turn 1 and harassing Oscar’s rear wing like a mosquito on a mission. The team warnes you to cool the tyres. You ignore them. You are done playing safe. Lap 23. DRS wide open. You go for it. "Driver ahead: Piastri, half a second. You’re gaining,“ is your engineer informing you over the radio. You lunge into Turn 10, late braking like a lunatic, tyres locking up with a scream. For a split second, your front wing is right there—a breath from Oscar’s diffuser. But he holds it. Just barely. "Careful," comes the radio. "Watch the temps.“ „Copy,“ you reply dryly. You follow the teams orders. Manage your tire and brake temperature. Keep your head down. It brings you P2. After the race, cameras catch you stalking down the pit lane, race suit peeled off halfway, expression carved from granite. Another goddamn podium ceremony where Oscar will get the big trophy and you'll have to smile like it didn’t feel like swallowing glass. The broadcasters love it. "Rising tension at McLaren! Championship battle heating up already—„ "—and it seems like [Y/N] is starting to crack under the pressure.“ "—maybe it’s just too hard to stay objective when your biggest rival used to be your closest friend.“ „Or more,“ someone adds.

The flashbulbs hit your eyes as you step off the paddock scale. Your race suit is still half-zipped, fireproofs damp with sweat, jaw locked so tight you’ve nearly bitten through the inside of your cheek. The Sky Sports mic is already waiting. Natalie Pinkham smiles — kind, professional, doing her job — and you force your shoulders back, adjust your posture. You know how you look. You know how you have to look. “You had a great drive today, [Y/N],” Natalie starts gently. “Another podium finish, P2. I imagine that’s still a frustrating result for you after last weekends win?” You give her the tightest smile your cheek muscles will allow. You’re sure it doesn't reach your eyes in the slightest. “No, it’s not what I wanted,” you say. “P2 is fine on paper, if you only care about the constructer's, but I didn’t come here to finish second. Not to Oscar, not to anyone.” Natalie raises a brow, almost impressed. “There’s a lot of talk around the garage — around the whole paddock, honestly — about how competitive you and Oscar are. McLaren’s got a real title fight brewing between the two of you. Do you feel like you’re being treated as the second seat?” You exhale through your nose. Not a laugh, not quite. “ The media can talk. People can speculate. I, for my part can say, didn’t get into Formula 1 to play supporting cast. I’m here to fight. And I am fighting. Every weekend.” You see her posture shift — not defensive, just alert. The reporter knows that she struck something real. “Right,” Natalie says. “Speaking of fighting — you made a pretty bold move on Oscar going into turn ten. We all held our breath up in commentary. Were you feeling the pressure today?” You nod, calm, composed, not letting the adrenaline clawing at your chest show. “I'd not necessarily call it pressure. I am already doing a good job out there and the team is very happy about a 1-2. But for me it's P1 or nothing. That’s racing. If there’s a gap, I’ll go for it. Clean. Hard. That’s the kind of driver I am.” “Some people are saying you’ve changed this year on and off track,” she adds, voice lowering slightly. “That the relationship between you and Oscar—last year’s chemistry—it feels different. Hollow, even.” It’s like someone cracking open a door you’ve spent weeks bolting shut. You lift your chin. Smile. Say it like you’ve practiced. “We’re teammates. We respect each other very much. But we’re also fighting for the same goal. That changes things.” Natalie hesitates, but only for a second. Then she goes for it. “And what's that goal of yours? First female World Champion?” You don’t blink. “Exactly. I think I have a very good shot at it this year. The car's great. My driving is great. I am way more experienced than last year. I don't think I have any reason to hide out there on track.” Your voice is flat. Unshakable. You want it to sound like the boom of an engine, like thunder rolling in from the distance. A warning. A promise. Natalie smiles again, this time with something that looks like admiration. “Strong words. Thanks for your time, [Y/N].” You nod once and walk away before she can say anything else. You’ve played your part. Held the line. But it burns behind your ribs—the quiet rage of almost winning. You think about turn 10. About how close you were. How much closer you’ll be next time. They think you're under pressure. They think you're unraveling. Let them. You’re not here to be liked. You’re here to win. And you’re not done yet.

username1 not her staring down the camera like it insulted her personally, she’s coming for that championship username2 the shift in tone from “me and oscar are just vibing 😇” to “i will destroy him and drink champagne from his hollowed-out helmet” username4 she’s so done playing nice username5 “she’s cracking under pressure” no babes she’s sharpening the knife username6 she is one P2 away from cutting the brake lines on his MCL39

The Bahrain post-race debrief has descended into a swamp of technical analysis and clipped voices. Telemetry comparisons. Tyre degradation curves. Aero balance. Words thrown across the room like grenades, dressed up in professionalism. You barely hear them. You sit there — posture perfect, jaw set, eyes fixed on the data screen even though the numbers had started to blur. Sweat still clings to the back of your neck under the collar of your McLaren shirt, dried now, but acrid. Like defeat.

„Stint two again," someone is saying over the headset. Maybe Will. Maybe Oscar. Maybe a ghost. "That's where the delta opened up.“ You clench your jaw tighter. You know. Of course you fucking know. Your mind had been running that moment on loop for hours — every apex you kissed too late, every kerb you mounted too hard. You'd practically tattooed the Bahrain International Circuit across the inside of your skull. Your mouth feels like it had been stuffed with cotton. You sit up straighter, adjusted your posture like a soldier being inspected. “Stint two was my fault. I wasn’t as good on hard tire managment as I should be,” you say flatly, cutting across whoever was still talking. “And I already took too much out of the tyres in the first stint. Lost grip under braking into turn 8. Cost me a second or two. Won’t happen again.” Oscar’s head tilts slightly. Just enough for you to catch it out of the corner of your eye. “That’s what I was thinking too,” he says. His voice is... careful. Polite. Like you were teammates again. Like anything was normal. You don’t reply. You don’t look at him. The moment passes like bad air — stifling, then gone. Nothing's normal anymore.

After the meeting, you storm out before the others could even wrap up. PR tries to follow. You wave them off with a clipped “not now” that brokered no argument. You need space. You need silence. You need— “Hey, wait!” His voice stops you just outside the motorhome. Oscar. You turn, arms crossed. Professional smile. Barely. He is already holding his phone. Social media filming duty. Right. Fucking fantastic. “They need like five minutes of content,” he says. “They want us to do a ‘driver reaction’ thing together. Bahrain edit. Win and all.” “Of course they do.” You smile through gritted teeth. “Then let's do it, I suppose.” The camera light clicks on. Oscar puts on his media face: soft grin, bright eyes. “We just wrapped up the Bahrain Grand Prix — amazing job by the team, car felt incredible, great fight out there.” He looks at you for your cue. You don't miss a beat. You know how to play this game. “Yeah, congrats to Oscar for the win. I gave it everything, but P2 today. I’ll come back even stronger in Saudi!” Your voice is even. Friendly. Fake as shit. Oscar glances sideways — maybe expecting a bit more. Maybe remembering how last year you would’ve nudged him in the ribs or thrown in some snark. Nothing now. Just the heat of the desert night between you. They cut the recording. You turn to walk away. But he says your name again. You stop, fists clenching just out of frame. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, too soft for anyone else to hear. “You don’t have to ice me out.” You turn, slowly. Met his eyes. They are too kind. It makes you angry. “You’re ahead in the championship,” you say. “Just don’t get greedy.” His jaw twitches. You don't wait for a reply.

And that night, it all comes apart. You sit on the floor of your hotel bathroom, legs pulled up to your chest, still in your team gear. The room is dark, the only light a soft white bleeding in from the hallway under the door. Your visor is long gone, but it still feels like something was fogging up your eyes. You can hear the echo of the broadcast still playing in your head — the way your name was spoken with that frustrating tone. Admirable effort. Strong second. Another podium. Another second. Another almost. And Oscar? Oscar was golden. Precise. Cool under pressure. With that same ever-cool, humble smile as always. You used to admire it. You thought it was cute. Now, it just pisses you off. Your phone buzzes beside the sink. You don’t check it. Don’t need to. It would likely be him. It always is after a race — he never let a Sunday close without saying something. You used to love that about him. Now? Now it is a landmine. You press the heel of your palm to your forehead, nails digging into your scalp. You are so fucking tired. But not sleepy. No, sleep was a luxury for people who weren’t being turned into a headline. „[Y/N] struggles under championship pressure.“ "McLaren’s golden duo turning frosty.“ "Too emotional. Too reckless. Too close to Oscar Piastri.“ God, they really were vultures, you come to that realisation once again. But you are feeding them, aren’t you? By finishing second. By flinching. By caring. You bang your head lightly against the tiled wall behind you. Just once. Just enough to feel it.

And then, just like a curse, his voice drops into your head, clear as if he was there beside you. "Let’s go over sector two together, yeah? I think we’re losing time there.“ You remember exactly when he’d said it. Not today — not even this race. It was Brazil. Last season. A shitty quali had put you P9, he was starting third. You were fuming — mostly at yourself, but he'd found you in the driver’s room, your hands trembling around a water bottle you weren’t drinking from. No cameras. No PR. Just Oscar. Unfiltered. "We’ll fix it. Come on. Sector two — you always push too early into the Descida do Lago. Let’s go over it together.“ You had looked up at him then. The way he’d said “we.” Back then, it had meant something. Now? Now it was a knife. Not we. Not anymore. You pull your knees tighter to your chest, like you could hold yourself together physically if your brain was trying so hard to fall apart. The phone buzzes again. You finally look.

Oscar [21:47]: Hey. If you want to go through the onboards later, I’ve got them clipped already. Just ping me.”

You stare at it. Then turn the phone face down. Then take it back up. You scroll through all the messages he had sent you and that you hadn’t answered. 

Oscar [post-Japan]: Great race. I know that was a hard one for you. Want to grab food later? Oscar [next day]: Didn’t mean to overstep. Just… you okay?

You stare at all of hem. Deleted nothing. Replied to nothing. The only one you answered came after the media schedule was emailed.

Oscar [Wednesday, 09:12]: You good to film the preview piece for Miami next Tuesday? You [Wednesday, 09:17]: Yes. What time?

Work. Only work.

You are still contractiually obligated to spend time together, at least to film content for Social Media and sponsors. That’s why you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Oscar on a narrow couch that was clearly designed for “cozy” media content — the kind the F1 social team will slice into reels, slap with a TikTok sound, and post with some cheeky caption like “Rivals or roommates?” He doesn’t look at you. Hasn’t since you sat down. He’s in a McLaren Polo, you optioned for a hoodie from the upcoming collection, smiling on command, pretending everything isn’t cracked down the middle. The camera guy counts down with his fingers. Three. Two. One. “Let’s have fun with this!” chirps the producer off-camera. She’s all sunshine and caffeine, headset askew, clipboard covered in highlighter scribbles. “First task: say one nice thing about your teammate!” Oscar stays quiet. You answer first. “They’re consistent,” you say, and your smile is all teeth. The room pauses. A couple crew members let out polite laughs, unsure if it’s a joke or just cruel bluntness. You don’t clarify. Oscar breathes out a sound — a huff that flirts with being a laugh. But he doesn’t turn to you. “She pushes me to be better,” he says, voice low but clear. It hits like a fucking brick. Because it sounds real. Because he means it. And maybe that’s worse. You swallow it down, keep your expression neutral. If your jaw’s tight, if your pulse jumps—no one has to know. You nod once, and your smile holds steady, plastic and perfect. The producer doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay! Next one: if you two swapped set-ups for a day, who would crash first?” Oscar chuckles slightly. His media laugh that he had newly adapted. The one you know isn’t real. “I’d keep it clean,” he says, finally glancing at you, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Not sure [Y/N] would make it longer than the first lap.” Everyone laughs. It’s the kind of line they’ll clip for socials. The kind that makes people think everything’s fine and it’s all just playful banter. You stare into the camera, voice flat. “I’d win.” No smile. No wink. Just a clean shot to the ribs. The laughter dies awkwardly. The producer claps, still too cheerful. “Alrighty! Moving on!” You shift in your seat, spine straightening, gaze fixed. You try to get as much space in between yours and Oscars body as the seating arrangment will allow. Partially because you fear a bodily reaction hard for your mind to control. Oscar had, or maybe still has, that kind of effect on you. Oscar shifts beside you too, subtly—like he wants to say something, like maybe he thought the banter would be fun again. Like maybe he forgot that the version of you who used to bump his knee and throw him off mid-answer doesn’t exist anymore. You don’t look at him. And he doesn’t try again. They move on to other questions. Favourite track. Pre-race rituals. If you’d survive on a desert island together. You say “I’d eat him first” with a smirk. Oscar huffs a laugh and plays along. The cameras eat it up. But under the surface—under the noise and the bright lights and the friendly performance—there’s a silence between you loud enough to crack concrete. Later, this’ll be edited to look like chemistry. They’ll cut around the dead air. The flat tone. The tension. But right now, in this room, on this couch, with the cameras still rolling and the space between you cold as a knife edge—it doesn’t feel like chemistry. It feels like grief. Like little bits from something you once had and that you now have to pretend are still there. No pretending, the communication director had said. Just focussing on racing, had been the order. And that was what you did, or at least tried to do. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Back in your small London apartment you watch the little highlights video from the Bahrain race on your iPad. Alone. You had seen the most important parts of yours and Oscars race already multiple times,  but without radio messages and you always found it nice to see what happened on other parts of the track while you were chasing your teammate. The highlight video is already racking up views — ten minutes of polished footage, curated chaos, and radio snippets engineered for narrative. You press play, even though you already lived through it. Lap 43. You’re chasing Oscar. Again. The clip plays your onboards — the orange blur of his rear wing growing smaller, even as your engineer screams something about brake temperature management in your ear. You know how this ends. You’ve watched the gap grow. Felt the bite of your tires falling off. Heard the whoop in Oscar’s voice when he crossed the line. But you watch it again anyway. The footage cuts to Oscar’s cooldown lap. “Yes boys! Two in a row!” he shouts over the radio, voice bright and breathless. “Car felt mega today. Thanks everyone, amazing job.” He sounds giddy. Golden. Like the sport was built for him. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. The video cuts again — a slick jump to the media pen, Oscar standing with his hands on his hips, drenched in sweat but still glowing. He looks lighter now, freer. Not a trace of tension on him. “…I think we’re in a good place, yeah,” he tells the Sky reporter, grin intact. “It’s a long season, but two strong weekends in a row like this — that’s a great sign.” “Would you call yourself a title contender at this point?” the reporter asks, leaning in, clearly fishing. Oscar laughs, just enough humility to be charming. “I mean it’s only been four races so far. A lot can still happen in the twenty more races to go. We expect a lot of teams to upgrade their cars massively. Especially Red Bull, but also Mercedes. After all, let’s not rule Max Verstappen out of the driver's championship yet. He’s a little behind, but right now he’s putting that car in positions it has no right to be in. That’s because he’s an amazing driver and he is pushing very hard for that fifth title.”

You freeze. That’s it? Max fucking Verstappen is his biggest challenger in the champtionship? The guy whose like forty points behind him, whereas you are basically on his heel.  The interview keeps going. Another question about upgrades. Then tire strategy. No mention of you. Not a single word about how you finished second again, how you fought him tooth and nail, how this is now a thing — a rivalry, a pattern, a storm brewing under McLaren’s glossy PR smile. Nothing. Just Max. You pause the video. Stare at the frozen frame of Oscar wiping sweat from his temple, still smiling. You tell yourself you don’t care. That you’d rather be underestimated. That it’s classic Oscar — acting humble, pretending you’re not a threat to mess with your head. Subtle games, softly played. But part of you wonders if it’s something worse. What if he’s just decided you can’t take it? What if this is him being kind? What if he thinks you don't have what it takes to be a world champion? That would be worse than stupid, silly mind games. You lock your iPad. The screen goes black, and your reflection stares back at you, lit only by the bedside lamp. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. You finished second. Again. And this time, no one’s calling it a battle. Not even him.  Not anymore. 

📍London

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and 334.935 others

yourusername it's always nice to come home to good old London after a double header!

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mclaren Always good to have you close to the MTC, [Y/N]! Loved those race weekends — proud of you! 🧡

oscarpiastri London looks good on you — almost as good as you looked battling out there 🙂 can’t wait for the next round!

username1 honestly the fire in her driving lately is unmatched! she wants this championship so bad and it shows

username2 the silence between her and oscar is SO LOUD like… what happened to the fun paddock banter and those stupid little tiktoks 😭

username3 if i see one more headline implying she’s “emotional” for wanting to win i will riot

username4 she's clearly fighting a war on two fronts: the media tearing her apart and her own teammate turning into a championship rival 😬

username5 someone hug her. now. immediately.

username6 That flower shop pic tho! Balance on point. 🌷✨

username7 the media’s acting like she’s crumbling but the real ones know: she’s charging up, just wait

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[fourorchid]

imagine a professor!viktor grad school au where you’re a student of his at the academy this semester

its a sunday afternoon, you open your inbox clicking on an email, the subject reads “weekend seminar: the magic of physics and its applications”

it was this evening, a lecture being held by viktor himself

“open to all interested.”

your curiosity was piqued, you take a moment to consider it, always a bit shy when it came to your professor for some reason

maybe it was his accolades

maybe it was the way he could tease almost anyone out at a glance

maybe it was his striking looks coupled with something more enigmatic

or maybe it was the tension you both were forced to pretend didn’t exist

I can just slip in and out the back—he probably won’t even see me

you arrive, intentionally showing up a few minutes past the start time to slink in with the crowd. the sound of you pushing the door open echoes throughout the lecture hall

and its completely empty—save for viktor himself, shuffling through notes on the podium, now looking up at the sound of your entrance

“you are late, miss y/n” a small smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, not missing the irony

“sorry, was I interrupting?” the teasing remark flies out before you can stop it. you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, a nervous habit

“no, not at all” he chuckles

his eyes flit over your expression—you always seem to catch him off guard

he found it refreshing

“in fact, you appear to be my only audience member this evening.”

so much for going unnoticed

despite the one-on-one setting, viktor doesn't miss a beat, delivering his material in the same manner as usual. his eyes settle momentarily on the front row where you sat, pen skittering across the page of your notebook

you loosen up a bit, falling into the smooth cadence of his voice—but your focus wanes every time his gaze finds yours, checking your comprehension

you start to feel warmer

you reach to your bag for a clip and begin pulling your hair up from your neck to cool off

and viktor’s flow catches in his throat for just a second

you think maybe you had imagined it

he continues

“then you find yourself at a standstill, this mechanism will eventually become too unstable for longterm use—so, how might one rectify the situation?”

viktor turns to address the room, scanning the empty seats with a touch of humor before landing on you

something about it felt entirely too intimate

you pause, allowing the pulse thumping in your ears to steady

“…maybe start by pushing further? test the stabilizer to find its limits,” you suggest,

“see how far it can go before it breaks.”

viktor shrugs, considering your approach

“what about potential risk? you gain valuable information, of course, but could ruin the entire mechanism in the process, no?”

the gleam in his eye told you he didn’t disagree—just wanted to see if you’d take the challenge

you swallow

“well, I guess there’s no reward without some risk, right professor?”

your words hang in the air alongside something more charged, waiting to be acknowledged

viktor stares into you with a look you can’t quite decipher; examining, but with a hint of amusement at the center

“mm, speaking to my spirit, miss y/n?” he smiles, almost playful

you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding

“I suppose it would be hypocritical of me to argue with that.” he adds

the tension subsides but is too stubborn to fully leave, you do your best to ignore it

the rest of the lecture goes by in a blur, you could only take so much one-on-one time with viktor before your focus shifted towards other things.

like how his hands carefully wrapped around the edge of his cane

or how his voice sounded both soothing and provoking at the same time

or how his posture always seemed to refuse to face anywhere but towards you

“I believe that would conclude our seminar for the evening” viktor clasps his hands together gently, breaking you from thought, “any questions?”

you shake your head politely, viktor nods back with a soft smile

“in that case, class is dismissed.”

you begin packing up your notes, viktor does the same

“thank you for joining me, miss y/n” you look up as he speaks, formal but sincere

“thank you for having me, professor”

“it was my pleasure,” he holds your stare, “and please—you may call me viktor”

you nod, turning away before he could notice the flush making its way up your neck

you stand from your seat, sliding your bag onto your shoulder as you reached the door

“have a good night, viktor”

truthfully, you don’t know what possessed you to practically purr his name like that as you left—but neither one of you seemed to mind

“mm, and you as well, miss y/n”

[writeonwhiskey]

summer in seoul: ch 12

a/n: sorry this took a little while! enjoy! word count: 3.8k

After a quick breakfast, Felix, Han, Lee Know and Jeongin are leading you out of the building. You all quickly duck inside the waiting car, and it takes off without them mentioning the destination at all.

You glance around at them, trying not to feel out of place, and take in how they’re dressed—caps pulled low, sunglasses, face masks. It reminds you of how Chris always dresses when you’re out in public together.

You now know the reason behind it. But they don’t know you’re in on the secret yet, which only makes the whole group cosplay even funnier.

“You all feeling under the weather or something?” you ask innocently.

They exchange a quick look.

“Just…sensitive to sunlight,” Felix mutters, tugging his bucket hat lower.

“Seasonal allergies,” Han adds with a sniff for emphasis.

“I have pimple,” Jeongin says.

Lee Know just shrugs.

You bite back a smile. “Right.”

You let them off easy, leaning back into the seat. Throughout the ride, Felix talks to you the most—he seems to take you under his wing, knowing it’s easier for you to communicate with him—but the others do their best to make you feel included, too.

“You guys going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

“It’s a secret,” Han says.

“You’ll like it,” Felix assures you.

You eye him suspiciously. “Why does everyone here seem to like secrets so much?”

“It’s not bad,” Jeongin replies.

“Chan said to keep you entertained,” Han adds with a shrug. “So that’s what we’re doing.”

There’s a brief pause before you respond. “So I’m basically being babysat by the local welcome committee?”

“Exactly that,” Felix nods, “and we offer snacks.”

You laugh quietly. “Do you guys always hang out like this? You don’t have to go to work or anything?”

Another shared look—slightly awkward. They let Felix take the lead.

“We’ve got pretty similar schedules,” he says. “But, yeah, we do spend a lot of our free time together.”

“Well, thanks for letting me tag along. I appreciate it. I probably would’ve just stayed in the hotel room all day.”

“We couldn’t let that happen,” Han says.

“Yeah,” Felix grins, glancing out the window. “You’re in Seoul. You’re obligated to at least try a claw machine.”

“Claw machine?” you repeat. “Are we going to an arcade?”

The car begins to slow, pulling into a narrow side street lined with colorful signage and a glowing neon arrow pointing toward an underground arcade.

Han shoots you a grin. “Ready to lose?”

You huff. They have no idea how competitive you are.

“Let’s do this.”

You follow them down the stairs into the dimly lit space. It’s packed full of flashing lights and whirring machines, and smells faintly of popcorn and cotton candy. But there’s hardly anyone inside, and when the boys take off their face masks you can only assume they either come here enough to know it’s dead on a Sunday or they’ve rented out the entire place. You hope for the former.

“Do you want a card or tokens?” Felix asks, already making a beeline for the machine at the entrance.

“I’ll win with either,” you reply.

Felix laughs, swiping a game card and handing it to you. “Confidence. I like it.”

Jeongin is already gone, halfway across the room in front of a basketball hoop game. He waves Lee Know over.

“Time to crush this kids ego.” Lee Know cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders.

You watch as the two of them start a head-to-head round, the machine lighting up with a countdown. Felix pulls you toward a claw machine nearby with rows of pastel plushies and keychains stacked inside.

“You have to call which one you’re going for,” Felix says.

“The bunny,” you tell him.

“I’m getting this bear,” he points to it.

“We’ll see.”

You and Felix choose separate machines and swipe your cards. As the claw dangles and jerks around inside, you go quiet to focus. You nudge it to the left, hold your breath, and press the drop button. The claw lowers, catches onto the pale blue bunny, lifts—and just before it hits the edge of the chute, it drops.

“Nooo,” you groan.

“That’s how they get you,” Han suddenly reappears at your side with a bucket of popcorn.

Felix’s first attempt isn’t any better. His claw completely misses its target.

“Okay, okay that was just a warm-up round,” Felix announces as you both slide your cards again.

Two attempts later, you manage to finally snag the bunny. It drops into the prize chute and you jump up and down, hands raised in the air.

“Damn, bro,” Han says, shaking his head at Felix. “Can you beat anyone in any game?”

Felix looks mildly betrayed. “It’s all luck sometimes.”

You smile sweetly, holding the bunny to him. “For your efforts.”

“A souvenir of my shame, you mean,” he mutters, but he grins as he takes it.

By the time you’ve all made the rounds—air hockey, racing simulators, shooting games—your competitive streak has flared and your card balance is dangerously low. Lee Know crushed Jeongin in four basketball games in a row. Han’s surprisingly good at Dance Dance revolution and Felix set a high score on the punching machine with a spinning back kick that had your jaw on the floor.

Somewhere between rounds, Lee Know disappears and returns with bottled water and kimbap for everyone.

“You guys are seriously good hosts,” you tell him as he hands you one.

“Chan would want us to keep you alive,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, he would definitely hurt us if we didn’t make sure you were adequately fed and hydrated,” Felix agrees.

“Is he your leader or something?”

They freeze for half a second—just long enough to notice.

Han recovers first. “He’s more like…our very stressed out parent.”

You narrow your eyes at them, but they’re already pretending to be very interested in their food. It’s obvious they’re deflecting, but there’s something kind of endearing about the way they do it. They obviously want to make sure you have a good time, but they’re under the impression they are protecting Chris’s secret.

“Well your dad-friend raised some very chaotic sons.”

“Thank you,” Felix says brightly. “We try.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent stopping by a few shops, the guys convincing you to try on things you never would’ve picked for yourself. Somewhere between a pair of oversized sunglasses and a bright patterned jacket, you stop resisting and lean into the mayhem with them. They’re relentless, but also surprisingly good at picking things that actually suit you.

By the time you all pile back into the car, you’re carrying a modest haul—though nothing compared to the bags Felix has. Back at the apartment building, Lee Know and Jeongin head off to their own place, each juggling a few bags.

Felix passes them his own, “You know where my closet is, thanks.”

Lee Know rolls his eyes, but Jeongin does his best to take all the bags in his hands.

Inside the apartment, you see Seungmin and Changbin seated at the dining table, casually flipping through their phones—and across from them sits someone you haven’t seen before. At least, not in person.

There’s something about him that immediately commands attention. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down, with loose strands framing his face. This must be the member that was in Milan for a fashion show. That phrase still doesn’t feel normal to even think.

He’s dressed in what could technically be called casual wear, but it’s fucking Versace. He makes it look both laid-back and runway ready at the same time. He glances up from his phone and when his eyes land on you, he smiles.

“You’re back already,” Felix says. “y/n, this is Hyunjin. Hyunjin, y/n—Chan’s friend.”

Hyunjin gives a small, polite nod and a casual wave. “Hey.”

You return the gesture.

“Didn’t expect you back so early today,” Han says.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin shrugs. “I slept like five hours in two different airports. I’m running on caffeine and vibes, right now.”

“You’re thriving, sweetie,” Changbin reassures him.

When Lee Know and Jeongin return, everyone decides to play charades. The next hour passes in a blur of ridiculous guesses, reenactments and accusations of cheating. You’re in the middle of trying to guess Han’s elaborate pantomime of…a chicken…a rocket ship…you have no idea, when Felix turns to look at you with a frown.

“Chan’s not gonna make it back tonight.”

“Oh.” You try not to let the disappointment show. “Everything okay?”

“Just work stuff,” he says. “But he said to make sure you get back to your hotel safely.”

The news puts a slight damper on the mood, but you finish out the game with them anyway. When they invite you to stay for dinner, you politely decline.

Felix insists on riding with you back to the hotel, chatting casually during the drive—nothing important, just easy conversation that keeps your mind from wandering too far.

Even without Chris, the day didn’t feel like a waste. If anything, it gave you a clearer understanding that they’re so much more than just a group. They’re connected in a way that’s hard to describe—a closeness that seems deeply earned. A kind of found-family bond.

When the car pulls up to your hotel, you turn to Felix with a smile.

“Thanks for today. Really.”

He nods. “Anytime.”

You pause with your hand on the door, then glance at him again. “You’re definitely, like, the second coolest member of Stray Kids.”

His mouth drops open—realizing you’d been fucking with them the entire day with your questioning. Before he can respond, you stick your tongue out and hop out of the car, shutting the door with a grin.

The window rolls down a second later.

“Not cool, y/n.”

The following day, after your author’s meeting, you still haven’t heard from Chris. As you go over your notes from the meeting, you can’t keep your mind from drifting to thoughts of him.

You wonder why he texted Felix about not being able to come back yesterday and not you, if everything’s really fine, what exactly pulled him away—what’s kept him away all this time. And then you remind yourself, as gently as possible, that it’s not your place to worry like this.

You try to reduce it to simple human compassion. The same empathy you’d feel for any friend going through a rough time.

Still, that doesn’t dull the ache of how far away he suddenly feels. Before you think too deeply about it, you pull out your laptop and type their group name into YouTube. You tell yourself it’s only to understand more about the world Chris calls reality. But it’s just blatant curiosity at this point.

To your surprise there’s an endless supply of content: music videos, live stages, interviews, behind-the-scenes clips, and even game shows. Each one feels more surreal than the last. You fall into a two-hour rabbit hole, slack-jawed as you watch the very same boys you spent yesterday with (and Chris, whom you’ve fucked), send their fans into a frenzy merely by existing.

It's jarring, trying to mesh the different versions of them all together.

Just as you pull up a live stream of a 4th of July firework show back home, your phone buzzes. You can’t stop the wave of relief that washes over you, seeing his name.

Hwarang [8:27pm] Hey

You don’t hesitate to reply. 

You [8:28pm] Hey. You okay?

Hwarang [8:30pm] I’ll be fine You busy?

You glance up at the fireworks bursting on your screen. You’re the exact opposite of busy. 

You [8:31pm] Not at all.

As soon as the two checkmarks next to your message turn blue, your phone starts to ring. You nearly drop it out of shock—he’s never called you before. You clear your throat, press the answer button and place the phone against your ear. 

“I’m sorry,” he says as soon as the line connects, his voice soft and low.

“For what?” 

“Goin’ MIA again.”

You remain silent for a moment. Given the parameters of your ‘relationship’, this is supposed to be something you both find fun. He’s not supposed to feel bad for being preoccupied. However, you do appreciate his acknowledgement. 

“Work comes first, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I know,” he sighs, “I wanted to text you but I was in such a shitty mood I didn’t want any of it to rub you the wrong way.”

“You’ve only ever rubbed me the right way, Chris,” you tease.

He chuckles. “Can I come see you?”

“Now?”

A knock at your door startles you once again. You immediately know it can’t be a coincidence.

“Chris…” you trail off, walking towards the door. 

“Hmmm?”

You pull the door open to reveal Chris, masked up and leaning against the wall next to the doorframe. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” he smiles, looking at you as he continues speaking into his phone.

“Uh-huh,” you say, stepping aside and allowing him to enter. 

He takes his shoes off and continues into the room, finally hanging up the phone and sliding it onto the table. He takes off his backpack, then removes his mask and tosses his hat next to his phone. He then brings you in for a hug, squeezing you tightly for longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. 

“You hungry? Thirsty?” you ask when he releases you. 

“I’m good,” he sits down at the small table. He glances at the video playing on your laptop and you promptly shut it. 

“Feeling a little homesick today,” you mumble with a shrug. 

“What would you have been doing today if you were home?” He inquires, pushing the other chair out at the table for you to sit. 

“I would have helped my mom host her annual barbecue and gorged myself on hamburgers and hot dogs, set off fireworks—the typical celebrations,” you reply, taking a seat. 

“Sounds fun…sorry you have to miss it,” he replies earnestly. 

“There’s always next year.”

A silence falls over you as he leans back in the chair, stroking his chin with his pointer finger. He seems to slip away for a moment. 

“What were your worst-case scenario picks?” you ask.

“Huh?” He arches an eyebrow, then it clicks. “Oh…well, the first one was that all of our fans would riot and hate me for breaking a promise.”

You nod, encouraging him to keep going, happy he actually partook in the exercise.

“The second was that another groups image would be irreparably damaged by some careless things I said.”

“Do you mind sharing what actually happened?” 

You don’t want him to feel like you’re prying, but his worst-case scenarios leave much to be considered.

He falls quiet again, and for a moment you worry you’ve overstepped, but then he continues.

“I have this weekly live stream I do with our fans—Chan’s Room…”

You nod, showing him you’re listening. But you hope your face doesn’t give away the fact that you watched clips of it before he arrived.

“It was going strong for a couple of years, too. I mentioned another group in a backhanded sort of way and a few groups they assumed I was talking about, were bombarded with unwarranted hate.”

You have no clue how deep their fandom goes, but it sounds like they’re ready to fight for him at the drop of a dime. 

“And the future of the weekly stream has been up in the air right now. I’ve apologized, tried to make things right, but…it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to keep doing it.”

“And you enjoyed them?” you ask, curiously. 

“I loved it,” he replies with a sullen smile. “I got to connect with our fans every Sunday and talk with them, catch up with them, joke with them…it made us closer, I think.”

“So it’s canceled? The decision is final?”

“It’s not official, but after yesterday’s meeting I know it will be eventually.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry, Chris.” You reach out, squeezing his knee gently.

He gives a half-assed shrug, but you can see right through him. The tension in his jaw. The flicker of pain in his eyes. “Life goes on.”

“C’est la vie.” 

His lip quirks up. “English, Korean, and French, eh?”

“I’m just full of surprises,” you smirk.

“Speaking of…” he leans back slightly. “Do you know the exact date you leave?”

You narrow your eyes at the shift. “Yes…but I’m not sure I should tell you now.”

“I’m not planning anything crazy,” he says, though his grin is suspicious. “When do you leave?”

“Says the man who arranged a full itinerary and sunset dinner cruise?”

His grin only grows. “When?”

You sigh. “The 18th.”

“And what meetings do you have lined up?”

You cross your arms. “You are up to something.”

“Come on…” he pleads. “I just want to know when I’ll have you to myself again. I’m out of town for a couple days, then I’m back for a bit. After that…”

“I’m gone,” you attempt to complete his sentence. 

“Well, I was gonna say I’ll be performing at Lollapalooza,” he smirks, “but yeah, that too. Of course. Absolutely.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m busy on the 10th and 17th.”

“Noted,” he says, tapping his temple. 

He suddenly reaches out, grabbing the arm of your chair and dragging it toward him.

“I leave tomorrow morning,” he announces, resting his hands on your thighs. 

“You should probably head home and get some sleep, then.” 

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “I’d rather be right here. Besides, we were interrupted last time.”

You place your hands over his and lean in. “Did you come to my room to cash in on a promised blowjob?”

He doesn’t flinch—just grips your thighs and pulls you forward until you’re straddling him.

“That’s one idea.”

He stands with you still wrapped around him, lips brushing yours as he walks the two of you to the bed. He lays you down, crawling over you.

“I need to keep my mind busy, right now, though.”

His mouth crashes to yours hungrily. The fire between you reignites instantly, your legs lock around his waist, your hands slipping beneath his shirt, nails raking across his back.

He pulls away and yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, then drops to his knees on the floor. His fingers dig into your hips as he drags you to the edge of the bed.

“You gonna miss me?” He asks, lips ghosting kisses along your thigh.

“Do you want me to?” you ask, looking down at him. 

He pauses. “Yes.”

“Alright…let’s see if you can make me miss you.” You challenge him. 

He lowers his head between your thighs without another word. His tongue parts your folds, then he purses his lips together as if he’s going to whistle to blow cool air onto your pussy, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

You grip his hair, tugging him forward. He groans as he devours you, mouth sealed to your pussy, tongue moving in tight circles. His hand pushes against your stomach, encouraging you to lie back. You obey, shuddering as he explores you. When he slips two fingers inside, your body arches in response.

“Chris—fuck—”

His rhythm is relentless. His lips, his fingers, his moans all drive you toward the edge, your eyes flutter shut. You cup your breasts, whining and moaning as he alternates between giving you what you desire and teasing you. 

You grab his hand on your stomach and try to force him up.

“You want me to stop?”

“I want you to fuck me,” you reply.

In a blur, he’s above you again, stripping off his clothes. You fumble with his jeans, the urgency between you palpable. His gaze is fixed on yours as he positions himself at your opening. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him down to kiss you, thrusting your hips forward to take him inside. You moan and bite on his bottom lip as he pulls away.

His gaze locks on yours as he pushes his hips forward at an achingly slow rate. You gasp at the stretch, at the feel of him.

“You gonna miss me?” He asks again, eyes teasing you just as much as his cock. 

You press your lips firmly together. Partially just to be defiant, but you also don’t want to lie to yourself or him. You can’t miss him. 

He thrusts deeper, lips brushing yours. He starts off slow and sensual at first, then faster, harder. His thumb finds your clit, circling as he fucks you.

Your moans grow louder, your hips raising to meet his each time. He presses his forehead against yours. Having him inside you right now is no different than any of the other times, but a feeling is brewing that you cannot shake.

“Come for me, y/n,” he whispers. “I want to feel it.”

He straightens and you watch, entranced, as he continues thrusting his hips back and forth, still teasing your clit. But the way he’s staring at you is unnerving. You feel like you’re on a runaway train heading straight for trouble.

But if you’re being honest, you’ve known this since the fucking dinner cruise and haven’t really done a single thing to stop it. 

You sense your release approaching and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you again, wanting him as close as possible. You bury your face against his chest as you cry out his name. He groans as he comes, too, his body trembling with the force of it.

He stays there, slumped against you, catching his breath. He presses kisses to your face, your jaw, your forehead. The air is thick with sweat, sex, and a raw need that neither of you want to acknowledge.

“What time is your flight?” you whisper. 

“7:00am.” 

“Are you sleeping here?”

“I shouldn’t…I still need to pack.”

You nod. He kisses you once more before rolling out of bed. You watch him dress, your body still humming with pleasure.

True to character, he disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm towel to clean you up with gentle care. 

“I’ll text—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off. “When you say it, I expect it. Just…keep in touch if you have time. If you want.”

He nods with a small smile. “Deal.”

He finishes cleaning up his mess on you and you take the towel from him.

You walk him to the door, waiting as he puts on his backpack, then his hat, then his mask. When his shoes are on, too, he pulls you in for another kiss. 

“Have a safe flight,” you murmur against his lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, nuzzling your nose before finally pulling away. He releases you and opens the door, stepping into the hall. “So you gonna miss me or what?”

“Bye, Christopher,” you deadpan and shut the door in his face. 

a/n: when i was editing this, i realized i used the "runaway train" line back in 2023 when i originally wrote this and i was like hmmm should i take this line out? is to too on the nose with the release of railway?? but it made the cut hehe. [ read chapter thirteen here ] (coming soon)

taglist: @hanniesbubuwife / @valworld17 / @luckyroll3 / @fancybarbii / @mlink64 / @ehstay / @gncbnahc / @no1likeneo / @beppybeesnuggets / @lattyjiji / @akindaflora / @spookiesakura

[saturnslandfill]

The art of hiding ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

What would happen if Rumi's patterns weren't as "subtle" or as small as they appear at the beginning of the film? What would happen if they had spread over time or because the stress produced due to the weight placed on her shoulders?

It's been a WHILE since I've written anything, so I think starting with something small like this will be a good way to get back on track. I've seen the movie a few —way too many— times, and this has settled in my head. I just can't find a way to get rid of it other than writing about it, so I hope you enjoy my silly little thoughts ! Word counting: 1.7k (weeeh !!)

As the years passed by, as Rumi became more and more aware of her surroundings, her shame, her... patterns, and what she meant to the world, it became increasingly difficult to hide what her skin inevitably became and the weight its meaning carried. A demon, without feelings, without value, irredeemable, nothing.

It slowly expanded, starting with a few purple lines on her right upper arm when she was only a kid, and it stayed that way for a long time. Oh, how she wished for it to stay almost invisible for the rest of her life, but good things doesn't really happen, right?

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

When girls weren't even that recognized, the stress of sealing the Golden Honmoon wasn't so overwhelming. The patterns didn't go beyond the middle of her chest and didn't even reach her wrist, making it easy to cover throughout the year.

Summer was tolerable. Rumi had managed to get hold of a swimsuit that covered her torso and most of her arms, either store-bought or, like much of her concert clothing, designed specifically for her —ordered by Celine—. At least she tried going to the beach with the girls. Winter, of course, was the easiest season of them all. But still, the last year, the last few months, the stress increased by the moment, and because of this, the patterns did too.

The choreography rehearsals were already difficult for everyone, both for the girls and for the background dancers, knowing that Mira's choreographies were characterized by being lively and energetic. But for Rumi? It was Hell on Earth.

By the time Golden was created, the patterns had spread to her thighs, covering her back, her chest. They consumed almost her entire arms.

Long shorts, wearing hoodies all the time. With a more complicated choreography due to being the lead vocalist —plus, the song being a really important one for the girls—, practice hours went from mostly fun, sharing time with friends, to something stifling, almost unbearable.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

"That's who we're born to be..!" followed by the last seconds of the instrumental, sounded through the rehearsal room's speaker, putting an end to the already-lost-count-of-the-number-of-times-they-had-practiced-the-choreography practice.

The three girls were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall, panting after quickly downing a bottle of water each.

"Phew! That was an intense practice!" Zoey stretched her arms up, tired. Despite her fatigue, the soft smile that always graced her face didn't falter.

Mira sighed with a laugh, looking at her teammate and friend with a touch of disbelief. How was it possible that she always seemed so lively after the hard hours of rehearsal? "Thinking about the fans' happiness always revives your energy, huh Zoey?" she said, almost in a whisper due to her rapid breathing. The named one could only chuckle and nod happily.

The two of them were dressing appropriate cloths for the weather and the intensity of the practice: crop tops and athletic shorts. Skin on full display. Meanwhile, the lavender-haired girl sitting on the floor was wearing nothing more and nothing less than a zippered sweatshirt that, luckily for her, was relatively thin, and capri leggings, leaving only her face, hands and part of her neck and legs visible.

As the two younger members talked to each other, all that was hearable from Rumi was her rapid breathing and the way she flicked her wrist to fan herself —the air conditioning wasn't enough.

Her braid was slightly undone, small strands of hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks from the sweat emanating from her skin. Her eyes were squinting, unfocused on the floor, the grip on her bottle weakening, her head slightly bowed. At this sight, Zoey's expression changed to a worried look, and with a tender tone on her voice, she decided to speak.

"Rumi? Is there something wrong..?" The absence of the vocalist's voice in response made the other two members look at each other in worry. Maybe it was because Zoey was the one sitting furthest from Rumi, with Mira in the middle, that she hadn't heard her? Seeing how there was still no response from Rumi, and how she hadn't even raised her eyes from the ground, Mira gently touched her shoulder. Tap tap.

Feeling the small touch over her sweatshirt, Rumi flinched slightly, looking up fast. "Oh, sorry! Sorry." She gave them both a weak smile, raising her hands. "I'm just exhausted, that's all. Today has really beaten me down, more than usual, haha…"

To avoid the now even more concerned pair of eyes on her figure, she tried to get up from the floor, excusing herself with wanting to go to the apartment and take a shower. But the attempt to escape didn't go as planned.

The heat pressed down on her body, causing her to almost fall forward as she tried to stand up. Mira and Zoey were quick to jump up and catch their friend before her body collapsed to the floor before them.

"Woah there—!" Zoey spoke, grabbing her by the arm. Mira positioned herself in front of Rumi, taking her by the shoulders to steady her balance. "Yeah, you’re definitely not okay." Mira said with her voice lowered, frowning.

Once Rumi were more stable, Mira moved one hand and placed the back of it on Rumi's neck, removing it almost instantly, as if her skin burned hers. "God, Rumi, you're boiling—."

Zoey's eyes flicked between her two friend constantly, concern growing by the second. "Shouldn't you take off your hoodie? You've been wearing nothing but long clothes lately, and it's the middle of summer... That's definitely not right! You might get heatstroke, Rumi!" Zoey slightly tightened her grip on the girl's arm.

The aforementioned looked at the two girls in front of her and simply shook her head. "No, no... I'm fine, I just need some rest..." She tried to smile again, which made Mira frown harder, putting more pressure to the grip on Rumi's shoulders.

"You should listen to Zoey. You're always too modest about showing yourself, like when we tell you to go to the bathhouse together. But that's one thing, and refusing to wear short sleeves in 86º heat after hours of rehearsal is another." She spoke, looking at her dead in the eyes.

Rumi presses her lips into a thin line, closing her eyes and frowning a little, momentarily. She took a deep breath, then, she opened her eyes and spoke again, her voice quivering slightly in the attempt of sound convincing. "C-come on! It's not that bad, it's just a little slip—." She tried to defend herself, to no avail. Another smile, now a nervous one.

"It's not just a 'little slip' though, Rumi, and you know it…" Zoey interrupted, looking fully at her now. "This isn't the first time we've seen you suffering because of the heat and you refusing to do the simplest thing like taking off your hoodies..."

Gently but hurriedly, Rumi released from both of their grips. "I said I'm fine. I don't understand why you two are making this such a big deal, really…" She looked at both of them, trying to keep her voice from shaking again. Seeing that their expressions weren't relaxing any time soon, she sighed and started walking toward the door.

"I'd better just go take a shower, no need to worry about me—." That's when Mira acted on impulse and grabbed her wrist trying to stop her, tugging at her sleeve.

"What do you mean, 'no need to worry'?" Rumi froze at the sudden pressure on her wrist. Her head turned back, staring at Mira with wide eyes in surprise. Mira, on the other hand, wasn't looking at her, eyes closed. "Since when we don't worry about each other, Rumi?" The grip on her wrist tightened. "We're a team, a group..! We are family—!" Mira snapped, now looking fully at her friend.

Family, that's how Mira saw the girls. To her, they were the most precious thing in her life, not something she could simply decide 'not to care' about.

Zoey watched the scene, slightly behind Mira. Tears were slowly forming in the corners of her eyes. Her gaze on the floor, her brows slightly furrowed.

"Mira, listen—." Rumi lowered her voice, trying to calm the pink-haired girl. "Just let me go, and the three of us can talk about this more calmly later, okay?" She tried to sound as calm as possible, trying to avoid the fact that the slightest movement from Mira could cause the sweatshirt to open and thus show her patterns unintentionally.

"No, Rumi. I know you. As soon as I let go, you'll run and pretend nothing of this happened." Mira spoke, her tone lowered as well.

Zoey hurried over to the girls, positioning herself next to Mira. "Maybe you should listen to her." She touched her shoulder in an attempt to reassure her. "Forcing her isn't the right thing to do either—." "No!" Mira turned her head to look at Zoey, the second freaking out, flinching slightly, taking a step back. "I'm tired of her running away from us!" Mira closed her eyes tightly, turning her head back to Rumi.

At the scene, Rumi knew she had to get out of there as soon as possible, Celine's voice echoing in her head: 'you can't let them see you, let them see it.'

"Mira, let go." Rumi's tone turned harsh as she tried to tug at the sleeve of her sweatshirt to get her to let go. Mira didn't respond, her gaze fixed now on Rumi. Zoey looked at the situation in fear, her hands covering her mouth.

"I said let go of me—!" One tug was enough to force the zipper of the hoodie all the way down, causing it to pop open. Because Mira was gripping the other end tightly, Rumi's arm was revealed from the sleeve.

The three of them quickly looked at the eldest's arm. Rumi's breathing sharpened. Panic, terror, fear.

Mira finally let go of the end of the sleeve, taking a few steps back, standing next to Zoey. They both looked at her, confused, shocked, and worst of all, scared.

"N-no, no no, you guys didn't—, you weren't supposed to—." Rumi spoke in a thread of voice, it quivering. She took some steps back, her legs shaking. Zoey tried to move closer, reaching for her friend's shoulder, but she acted faster, grabbing her hoodie and dashing out of the room.

"... What just happened..?" Mira spoke first after a few seconds, staring at the opened door. Zoey turned her back slowly, her skin pale.

"Patterns, that's what happened..."

This is very rushed and not much proofread, so I apologize if there are too many spelling/punctuation/inconsistency errors! (I can do much better than this, just wait and see HSAHJ). Also, 86ºF is 30ºC if someone's wondering. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE (please keep that in mind-) Edit: I ALREADY RE-EDITED IT, YAYYY Now it's so much clean and better hehehehe

[dough09]

Ignorant

Sae Itoshi x F!reader ------------------------------------------------

Hi im back... or am I? dunno yet. I'm working on a series on wattpad, please check it out if you like Sae and fantasy. I also worked on some other short ffs in the meantime but not sure if I'll post them.

Ps: I feel like this would be such a Sae thing to do..

Sae is a menace. Or so his teammates say. You couldn’t agree more. Not even if he acts absolutely different with you than the rest of the population.

No matter what you wanted, what you did most of the time you needed to spell it out. Rarely, maybe once a  month he did something sweet without mentioning.

Yet this time, your day was already shit. Everything went off track. At the end you made it to your nail appointment even if you were 20 minutes late. Your nail tech didn’t mind luckily. Not only did they love you but you’ve gotten very close over the years. Sae was also busy all day, he couldn’t even text back when you warned him to buy some groceries.

After two hours you were finally at home. The satisfaction of finally kicking your heels down hit your guts. The warmth and the quiet of the building had you swimming in comfort. Reaching for your phone again you saw Sae is still at practice. Your messages still stood on delivered. It couldn’t be helped but this did make you worry.

You were lazing on the couch with your legs up on the armrest. One would judge you for putting your legs in a manspread. It's not like it mattered. It's just you here and no one to see. Soon you heard the door creek. He was home. “I’m back.” he said and dropped his shoes down only to see your figure on the couch. Still the same position. “Welcome back” You said and put your hands out. Hoping he’d see your new nails that were inspired by him.

To no avail. Sae plopped down next to your head and turned on the TV. “Do you want to watch anything?” You were fuming with anger. How dare he not even brush by your hand. How dare he completely ignore you. You mumbled something with frustration lacing in your tone. “What?” He frowned. 

“Nothing, watch whatever.” With that you sat up and reached out to his hand for a last attempt. He interlocked your fingers without looking up and kissed your knuckles. Normally you’d fold over that. But the stupid screen had him in a trance. With a tired sigh you got up and headed to the bedroom. 

Multiple hours went on. Did it not bother him how you stormed out? This is why you are reluctant when it comes to praising him for a good boyfriend. He’s just in his own world. There is only space for one. and it’s football. “Are you hungry? I’m gonna order Japanese food.” He stood at the door. “No.” you glare. “Really? Are you sure you want nothing?” he squinted his brows. There was no way his girlfriend didn’t want anything. Not even her favorites.

But to his surprise you shook your head. “Okay…” His frown deepened and closed the door. You felt like an idiot, of course you wanted snacks. You haven’t eaten anything except one bowl of instant ramen today. Here you were constantly playing with your hand throughout that entire conversation too. It’s like he is deliberately ignoring you. Maybe he really is. Maybe you did something. Maybe he is angry.

What seemed like an eternity passed. The doorbell rang out and you heard Sae answering. “Y/N, the food is here.” He called out after sitting down. 

But it didn’t make sense, why would he say that? You didn’t ask for any. Oh but perhaps he ordered you some regardless. No, that's not Sae. With slight hope remaining you entered the kitchen. He was eating but there was just one portion of food. For him. You decided to sit down next to him and stare at him eating. “You want some?” He asked. Oh no, he probably connected the dots as to why you were watching him. “No, I’m good.” But your stomach betrays you.

 It says the complete opposite and he can’t help but disguise a smile. “I’ll share it with you. But I’m too sore to get another spoon so…” He fed you. You couldn’t complain. He was kind in his own way. 

You tucked your hair behind your ear so you can eat peacefully. That’s when his eyes saw your hand. Those beautiful fingers that he adored. He loved how they massaged his scalp after a long day and he loved the new nails on it each time. “Are those new?” He asked quietly, pointing to your hand. Your eyes went wide.

 You coughed to gather yourself and looked down. Wanting to ignore his piercing gaze. “Yes.” He nodded and took your hand, letting your hair fall. He inspected each nail admiring its pattern. “They look good.” He said and let you go. “Thank you…” This was awkward.

“Will you fill me in on why you say such short sentences? You’re supposed to talk more than me and well, here we are.” He asked tiredly. His fingers grabbed your chin and glared into your eyes. No your soul. “I just… Sae? Did I do something wrong?” You sigh. 

“What?? No? Why?” He genuinely looked dumbfounded. “It’s like you were ignoring me all day, and you weren’t even looking at my messages. Sure maybe you were busy and couldn’t answer but just let me know you saw them or something!!” The words came out without even thinking. You were mad at him. 

“I didn’t get any messages…” He thinks. “No! I wrote you a bunch!! I even told you how I’m late from everywhere because of the stupid traffic.”

By talking and sorting things out it was finally not such a heavy stone on your heart. Like a boulder really rolled down off your shoulders. He didn’t know there were messages because he gave his phone to a teammate on the bench and by the time he got in his car it shut down. The rest he has no excuse for. He is simply not that attentive when it comes to things.

He is one of a kind.

Thank you for reading <3

[elithelurker]

SMILE! :D more like Porter Robinson eras tour

[abyssalpriest]

Lev really is one of those grandpas you find out was involved in hardcore war shit and a bunch of serious high ranking jobs when he was younger and you just cannot believe it's the same person

[longagoitwastuesday]

I actually like the last chapter. I think the ideas are very good. I have my qualms on how some things were managed, as I always do, but I think shonen authors get tangled in the expectations of a shonen to the point it jeopardises their writing, often even when they're not lacking in skills

[the-ark-is-real]

season 2 was truly so good and i loved all of it but truly my favourite part was taoelle. literally all of their scenes. all of their interactions. their drama. their first kiss. their dynamic. their OUTFITS.

[welcometoteyvat]

furina's character demo omg she's so ! i was borderline laughing for most of it, it was really charming !! idk it was really cute and genuine and a good time fr

[lieyarzy]

🎀Wherein the supposedly “attention”, “fame”, and “fans” are questioning whether the idol is the Manager or the Saja Boys? I don’t know what Gwi-Ma thinks about this..

🎀author is obsessed with the Saja Boys and is now posting her draft one by one.

🎀Not proofread(lol)

A Manager's Unexpected Fame: 9:30 of Saja Boys Simping Over Y/N

(0:00-0:30)"Get ready to witness the ultimate simping session AND a manager's unexpected rise to stardom!"

(0:30-2:00) Y/N walking alongside the Saja Boys, leaving a concert venue. The initial chaos is shown more clearly—fans screaming, pushing, and chanting a mix of the Saja Boys' names and "Y/N! Y/N!". Close-ups show the Saja Boys' expressions shifting from initial self-congratulatory smiles to bewildered confusion as they realize the overwhelming majority of the attention is directed at their manager. Y/N, initially surprised, gracefully navigates the crowd, accepting a few gifts and waving to the fans with a gentle smile. One fan manages to slip a handmade card into her hand, causing a ripple of excited whispers in the crowd. The Saja Boys, meanwhile, try to subtly shield Y/N from the more enthusiastic fans, their protective instincts kicking in.

Fan comments:

User67357:"OMG, the sheer number of fans for Y/N!"

User62915:"The Saja Boys are low-key bodyguards now!"

User461022: "This is epic!"

User0461: "Y/N's grace under pressure is amazing!"

(2:00-3:30) Jinu's Intense Stare…The video cuts Jinu, his eyes fixed intently on Y/N as she's meticulously organizing paperwork in her office. The camera focuses on the details – the way he subtly adjusts his tie, the way his gaze never leaves her, the barely perceptible twitch of his lips as he observes her concentration. He approaches her, offering a steaming mug of coffee. Their fingers brush as he hands it to her, a moment that lingers on screen, punctuated by the soft clinking of ceramic against ceramic. He whispers something in her ear, causing her to laugh softly. The camera then focuses on a small, almost imperceptible detail: a tiny, almost invisible scratch on Jinu's hand – a hint of a recent struggle, perhaps a fight he endured to protect her.

Fan comments:

User72019:"The unspoken tension! 🔥,"

User2016491:"Jinu's dedication is palpable,"

User620861:"That coffee exchange…my heart!"

User069126:"The scratch on his hand! What happened?!"

(3:30-5:00) Baby Saja's Puppy-Dog Eyes! The scene shifts to Baby Saja, who's attempting to help Y/N with a complicated equipment setup. He's clearly struggling with the technical aspects, but his focus is entirely on Y/N, his eyes wide with a mixture of concentration and adoration. He keeps accidentally bumping into her, each time offering a profusely apologetic, slightly stuttering explanation. Y/N patiently guides him, her touch light and reassuring. He manages to fix the equipment, beaming at Y/N with a triumphant grin. He then proceeds to dramatically trip over a cable, landing in a heap at her feet, but manages to catch himself before falling on her. Y/N laughs, and Baby Saja, flustered but happy, helps her up.

Fan comments:

User9236:"Baby Saja's clumsiness is endearing!"

User60137:"Y/N's patience is saintly!"

User56103:"The way he looks at her! 😍,"

User042324:"This is pure cuteness overload!"

(5:00-6:30) Abs Saja's Subtle Gestures? Abs Saja, usually stoic, is shown discreetly performing small acts of service for Y/N throughout the day. He subtly adjusts the thermostat when she shivers, silently brings her a blanket when she looks tired, and discreetly removes a bothersome fly from her workspace. The camera focuses on the small details—the way he subtly checks on her throughout the day, the slight softening of his usually stern expression when she smiles, the way he seems to anticipate her needs before she even voices them. He offers her a glass of water, his hand lingering slightly longer than necessary as he places it in front of her.

Fan comments:

User565657:"Abs Saja's silent devotion is powerful!"

User6969:"He's such a caring person!"

User4444: "This is the definition of a supportive partner!"

User666:"I'm in tears!"

(6:30-8:00) Mystery Saja's Enigmatic Admiration!Mystery Saja is seen leaving small, thoughtful gifts for Y/N in unexpected places. A rare book on her desk, a delicate flower tucked into her coat pocket, a beautifully crafted keychain on her bag. The camera focuses on the mystery and intrigue—the gifts are always unexpected, always perfectly suited to her tastes, and always left without a trace. He observes her from a distance, his expression unreadable, but his eyes(what eyes Author? Damn)always seem to follow her movements. He leaves a cryptic note on her desk, a single sentence that hints at a deeper, unspoken understanding between them.

Fan comments:

User1111:"Mystery Saja is a master of subtle romance!"

User888: "This is so mysterious and captivating!"

User131313:"What does the note say?!"

User3333:"I'm dying of curiosity!"

(8:00-9:30) Romance Saja's Open Affection?Romance Saja is shown openly and unabashedly flirting with Y/N. He serenades her with a heartfelt song, presents her with a bouquet of her favorite flowers, and even attempts to cook her dinner (with hilariously disastrous results). The camera captures Y/N's genuine amusement and affection. He writes her a poem, which he reads aloud with a charmingly awkward grin. Y/N laughs, and he beams at her, his eyes sparkling with adoration.

Fan comments:

User4545:"Romance Saja is a hopeless romantic!"

User30127:"Y/N is so lucky!"

User2323:"This is pure, unadulterated sweetness!"

User010101:"I'm melting!"

P.S I’m so normal about them that I’ll let myself be eaten either my soul idc I love it here.

[holeforzenin]

YUJI LETTING HIS GF USE HIM

Tw- Both are twenty, degradation n praise, overstimulation. reader is cockdrunk n has a high sex drive :3 Not proofread!!!.

“S’good Yujiii Soo good, Mmm! Can feel your cock throbbing inside of me, ohh fuckkk!” you moaned out through gritted teeth, too caught up enjoying how deliciously his achy, abused cock was repeatedly curving into your sensitive g-spot over and over just the exact way you intended it to. You can’t even remember how long it’s been and well frankly you don’t really care. Too distracted by the overwhelming pleasure you're receiving by frantically bouncing your ass on his swollen cock.

“F-fuckkk, you’re so greedy baby Goddd, you look so sexy like this!” he huffed, letting out breathless curse—his fingernails digging into the plushy sides of your bouncing ass as goosebumps and adrenaline coursed through his bulging veins. He’s trying his very fucking best to keep up with you but God you were killing him. It got so bad that you’re more of a filthy sex fiend than he was in the past few overestimating days. Not that he was complaining but the way you’d randomly grab him by the shirt—fucking wrinkling it and pulling him into the clustered janitor closet just to feel his hard dick in your slobbering cunt at school with him pushed up against the cool wall and you manically throwing your bouncing ass back at him eagerly like little cock-hungry slut—forcing every last drop of cum from his thick balls to drain out into your horny pussy then pouncing on him four more times throughout the day at home has become a bit overwhelming…he’s trying his best to keep up with your crazy ass sex drive but fuck he was shooting blanks at this point.

His sweat-covered pinky bangs tickled his forehead as the moonlight from the illumining window glistened onto his milky abs. He bit his lips so many times that he probably ruined his gums by now, in a futile attempt to restrain his perverted urges at the way your tits were bouncing in fast circles. He’s sooo tempted to grab and fondle them but it’s like he can’t even control his own fucking body.

“Ohooo fuck! You’re stretching me so good around you Yuji, fuck I love you—Looove your cock so muchhh baby!” You cried out, tears welling up in your eyes as his pink tuffs of slick covered pubic hair grazes against your sticky clit—making the pleasure even more intense as more and more creamy rings formed at the base of his pretty cock.

They were hearts in Yuji’s eyes seeing just how much his little horny slut of a girlfriend was creaming on him, seeing you so desperate and addicted to his cock like a brainless zombie whore unlocked something primal inside of him that he never thought existed. He fucking loved being your human dildo to fuck yourself on, the thought of it made his cock throb feverishly right against your gushing, gummy walls.

“Jesus–mmmph! You’re such a nasty slut. Ohh shit-, is my cock all you ever fucking think about baby? bet you couldn't even last a day without my cock being up this needy, little pussy yeah?” His groans along with his filthy mouth filled the air as he gropes both of your fleshy ass cheeks—his fingers purposely kneading into it pervertedly as he feels you up like a creep.

You felt the mushroom tip of his length brushing against the depths of your cervix as you clamped around him harder, you playfully smirked down at him as you bent down slightly towards him to grab his biceps—moaning sweetly as you felt them flexing against your touch. “Y-yess! Need your cock inside of me at all times Yuji, gonna make me lose my mind, hnngh!”

“Yeahhh? My cock making you that dumb baby??” His sultry voice is weighed with exhaustion as he grants you a fucked-out smile. “Yuji, Yuji m’gonna cum again, fuckfuckfuck yessss!”

You continued bouncing faster and faster—grinding your hips against him fervently in the process to make it even more intense causing you to spasm around his girth, you can’t see it, but you are 100% sure his entire cock is covered in your cream. You can feel it.

Your head falls back, the strands of your hair cascading down like a waterfall. your lips parting to release loud, needy moans that mingled in the air as Yuji gazed up at you in awe, seeing you like this was one of his favorite things. You were such a mindless slut for his dick and he enjoyed it.

“I- m’cummming!” You cried out in a certain tone that was like filthy music to his ears, your cunt pulsated around his jumpy cock as streams of liquid gushed out of you, spurting every fucking where, on the bed sheets, spattering on Yuji’s abs, his thighs everywhere. Your body trembles as you try to process everything. You fucking came and squirted at the same time.

“Did you just-“

“I-“ was all you could let out before you felt the wind getting knocked out of you as Yuji suddenly gripped your branded ass that’s filled with his handprints and lifted his legs up a bit, thrusting with constrained force and fucking his throbbing, soaked cock into you with vigor. The lewd, nasty sound of “plah plah plah!” reverberated throughout the room your hands clutching the pillows tightly beside him, overwhelmed by the intense sensations.

“Yujiii, stop fuck! Too much—tooo muchh” you screamed in a frenzy. your thighs shivering as he relentlessly thrust deeper, splitting open your cunt even more with his animalistic pace. His pistoning cock brushes further against your sweet spots as it twitches inside of you. His poor, fucked out cock sooo desperate to cum.

“Such a lil fucking slut for squirting on me like that baby—God I’m gonna stuff you sooo full after this, it’ll be entwined into your slutty fucking brains”

You were so fucked out you couldn’t even fucking register what the hell he was babbling about.

It was so fucking nasty and hot, the scent of raw sex filled the air as both of your moans echoed throughout the room, at this point your eyes were rolling to the back of your skull in ecstasy as you were being overstimulated, your pussy pouring more juices onto his cock as beads of sweat glistened on his entire body.

“M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming Godddd love this fucking pussy!!” His hoarse voice exclaimed as he bit his lips, thick gooey ropes of warm cum filling up your womb as the two of you cried out in unison. You were so full, every inch of your pussy was stuffed so full of just Yuji, Yuji, Yuji. You’d be surprised if you weren’t actually braindead from his cock by now.

Your body collapsed on his sticky skin and you landed on his toned chest. both of you attempt to regulate your breaths as you cockwarmed his soft cock. Unfortunately Succumbing to exhaustion, you both drifted off to sleep in that position but within the next three hours, you were fucking him again.

[cherie-doll]

LADS: When You Don't Give Them A Kiss

༻ Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb ༺

₊˚✧ Xavier loves his goodnight kisses. Won't be able to sleep right if you don't give them to him. Which is why he immediately frowned the moment you turned away from him after only saying good night. He had already leaned in closer for you to kiss him when you had cut him off. He's frozen in place, surprised at seeing you laying your head on your pillow without a care in the world; ready to drift off to sleep. But how can you do that to him? Surely you aren't forgetting something? I mean, it's custom by now, you do it every night. It's embedded in his brain to do this, so why are you suddenly being so forgetful. He hesitates but eventually moves in closer, nuzzling into your neck as his arms come around your waist. You complain that it's too hot for him to be doing this, but his response is something along the lines of "too bad". You forgot something important to him so now deal with the consequences; he'll be all up on you throughout the entire night.

₊ ೀ Zayne has a strict routine as a doctor. He wakes up early despite having prepared everything the night before, and as organized as he is, he cannot leave without first feeling your lips on his. It's literally his number one priority every morning before he leaves. He can go the day with forgetting his lunch, or even combing his hair properly, but can no longer wait until he gets to you later that night. Sometimes you'll sleep in and not wake up to give him a kiss and he'll try hanging back hoping you awaken before he has to walk out the door. He's sat at the edge of the bed, his work clothes on and everything ready but just clinging to the hope you remember. And no he won't wake you up, he isn't careless and he'll feel bad if he does. As a hunter, you need that rest and he prioritizes that before his selfish desires.

༄༢ུ࿓ Rafayel will actually do his job for once and go to an art exhibition that Thomas has arranged for him if you give him a kiss. Sort of like a good luck type of thing that makes him feel like things will be tolerable if he remembers the warmth of your lips on his. But this time he's stuck waiting by the front door, tapping his foot against the floor as he impatiently waits for you to return. He brings out his phone to reread the message you had sent, you had gone out and were expected to come back in time to accompany him to art exhibition. But it seems you're running late and Rafayel isn't in the mood to meet up with you there. You call him and are immediately greeted by his attitude. You can hear the slight whine in his voice when he asks why you're not there yet. Truthfully, you feel a little bad to hear him be so distressed. Perhaps you'll make it up to him later.

ᨳ᭬ Sylus isn't letting you off the hook so easily. You came up to him while he was relaxed to tell him you would be going out. As usual, you come up to his spot on the couch and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You tell him you'll be back later and he hums, acknowledging what you've said. But he furrows his brows, his smile disappearing when you just leave to grab your bag. He looks up from his phone to see you ready to take off when you catch his gaze. Oh, if he were more gullible he'd believe that "what's wrong?" face of yours. But he knows you better than that. You can sense the amusement in his voice when he asks "Aren't you forgetting something?". You cock your head trying to keep up the act a little longer before you give in. He had a smug look on his face, knew you wouldn't actually dare to leave his place before properly saying goodbye to him. Plus you would never hear the end of it if Luke and Kieran found out.

❦ Caleb would probably believe your act for a minute max before realizing you're teasing him. After not seeing each other for a couple of days due to your busy schedules, surely a hug isn't all he's getting... right? Your bright smile won't distract him from what he's really after. You feign confusion when you realize his grip on you isn't loosening as you try to pull away from his embrace. You call out his name, annoyed as you make more of an effort to push him away. You're secretly fighting a smile from forming when he only pulls you closer. You huff, telling him to stop teasing you, but he swears it's you who's doing the teasing. He sways side to side with you in his arms, you think about how ridiculous you must look and catch some people staring and hear them exclaim about what a cute couple you two are. Finally, when you no longer want to deprive him you stand as straight as you can to reach his face and give him a kiss. He lets you go after and looks at you, "was that really so hard to do?"

[gojoest]

curiosity — gojo satoru

MDNI, f! reader, childhood friends to lovers, satoru is painfully aware of his own feelings while reader is not, mention of past girlfriends (and how they all looked like you), handjob (m! receiving), cumming in pants (and in your hand), not proofread, wc: 2k, dividers by @/cafekitsune

synopsis: gojo satoru is your childhood best friend. you’ve been inseparable ever since you were little. spending day and night together, you’d often have sleepovers together — a tradition you both carried on throughout your college years. at least once a week you’d drop by his dorm room and stay the night, or vice versa. but compared to your childhood days, you no longer share one bed. that is, until . . .

part 2

a/n: this is a further (and very lousy) elaboration on this post of mine but hey, HAPPY BDAY TO MY ONE AND ONLY

“i think we should try sleeping together”, you suggest one night.

“wah—“, satoru gasps, a teasing glint in his eyes. “didn’t know you felt that way about me”, he smirks.

“just sleeping”, you quickly clarify. “whatever obscene thing you just thought of — it’s not that”, you add, giving him a roll of your eyes.

“you should pick your words more wisely”, he scoffs. “if you go around telling people you want to sleep with them, they will misunderstand”

“ugh”, you huff, “i obviously didn’t mean it like that, and you know it”

“yeah, i do”, he lets out a soft chuckle. he knew exactly what you meant, but still he disguised his wishful thinking behind a teasing remark. “why though? all of a sudden?”

“dunno”, you shrug. “just feeling bad that you always take the floor”

“if that’s the case we can just swap”

“no — i cherish my comfort. come on, we used to do this all the time”, you pout.

indeed you did. but you were kids back then, things were different.

his heartbeat would race and his face would get all hot and red, the heat would fester through his entire body. but when the lights were off it was easy to hide it, the signs that he liked you. after making sure you were fast asleep, he would hold your hand and childishly smile to himself, he would peck it softly, secretly. one time you woke up in the middle of the night and almost caught him but he, startled, kicked you off the bed. yelling at you, lying, how you pushed your finger in his nostril in your sleep… he was so embarrassed, but also relieved you believed what he said was true. his secret was safe.

but now?

when you stand too close to him his body starts acting up in more mature ways. while he is better at controlling his facial expressions now and hiding his nervous heartbeat behind a nonchalant attitude, he struggles with keeping his urges at bay. he’s no longer the boy that blushes while secretly holding your hand; he is a man who craves you.

even when he’s laid on the futon beside the bed you occupy, the sound of your breathing alone gets him hard. you lie there, sleeping innocently, unaware of how much of a pain in the crotch you are being to him. when you leave in the mornings, he climbs onto the bed that is soaked with your scent and shamelessly jerks off. he stands on his knees and sprays his load on the bedsheets. eyes shut close, he pictures you beneath him.

he sighs in defeat. “fine”

“the right side is mine — it’s only natural, because i am always right”, you snicker and quickly pad over to the bed, plopping your body down on the mattress. “sure”, he chuckles and follows after you, sinking himself right next to you.

it is a bit awkward, you must admit. you are laid on your sides facing each other, in silence.

it’s cramped indeed, your knees are brushing against his and the space in the middle separating your bodies from one another is very scarce. but that was to be expected, the beds in the dorm rooms were designed for one person after all.

“so”, you break the silence. “how’s your girlfriend doing?”

“she’s not my girlfriend, anymore”, he states dryly.

“but it’s been barely two weeks since you started dating”

“well, things didn’t work out i guess”

the girls he dated, all of them looked a bit like you. same height, same hair color and length. similar facial features… he never lasted long with any of them though. all of them, visibly bothered by your presence in his life, would too soon ask him to make a choice — either them or you. neither of them aware that he chose to be with them in the first place only because they reminded him of you, and that it was never the question itself that drove him away from them. it was bound to happen, sooner or later. they could never be you.

you hum. “i see”

as you shift to make yourself more comfortable, you feel the shirt he gave you to wear to bed roll up ever so slightly, revealing the bare of your belly. a bit self-conscious now that he’s next to you, you are immediately urged to cover yourself. you slide a hand under the blanket, rummaging around to get a hold of the hem, but oh...

…the back of your hand brushes against something stiff. the friction incurring a low pant from the man, your best friend, next to you.

“fuck”, satoru hisses. his hand clasps around your wrist, pushing it away, but along with the movement his knuckles graze the flesh of your stomach. “fuck”, he curses again.

“satoru”, you say his name, voice hushed and timid but there is a note of underlying curiosity he is way too familiar with.

this is exactly why he was avoiding the one bed scenario — his boners were too hard to hide at this age and this size of him.

“satoru”, you repeat. “are you hard?”

“i wish you didn’t ask the obvious”, he mumbles, embarrassed. warmth washing over his face uncontrollably, just like in the past. but there was a bigger problem now — down in his pants, and the fact he got caught.

“is it because of me?”

“no”, he clicks his tongue, his grip still tight around your wrist, keeping your hand at bay. “it’s because i didn’t jerk off tonight, you know — it’s a natural thing for us men to randomly pop a boner throughout the day”

…which was true. but it was not the case right now.

“can i play with it a little?”, you ask, sneakily twisting your wrist in an attempt to free your hand.

“oi!”, he yelps. “did you hit you head or what?”

“i am curious”, you blurt out. “just a little?”

“stop”, he warns. “it’s weird”

his resolve is hanging by a thread right now, you’re too cunning to tempt him like this. he knows things will get awfully messy between you if he lets you cross this line. but still, he can’t flat out deny you. deep down he wants you to persist, a little bit more… if you ask him one more time, maybe he’ll crumble. surely, he will.

“it’s not”, you reassure. “i won’t jerk you off, i’ll just touch it”, you explain. “please? just a little?”

well. fuck it.

“this is a bad idea”, he says, but loosens his grip around your wrist. “fine”, he mumbles. “but just a little”

you nod, pulling your hand away only to slide it down his body.

you’re not really sure why you were so happy to hear the news about his break-up, but you always felt more at ease when he belonged just to you. your best friend, and not someone else’s boyfriend. you don’t know why you were doing this right now, or why your heart was racing. maybe because it really was weird? or maybe you were just horny?

finding his cock wasn’t difficult, it sure stood out from the rest of his body.

“you really are hard”, you gasp, running your fingers across the bulge in his shorts, dragging out a throaty groan out of him.

“yeah”, he mumbles. “like i said, stop stating the obvious”

“it’s a bit wet here”, ignoring his words, you thumb the spot where his tip is, making him squirm. his body slightly jerks as you press your palm against it. cupping it inside your hand you squeezing it gently. “it’s warm too”, you keep exploring further. “it has a pulse”

satoru lets out a helpless whine. “you sound so dirty right now, it’s weird”

he’s longed for this type of intimacy with you for years. but in his head, he pictured it differently. it was him who was supposed to do things to you, not the other way around. he was supposed to be the confident one, delving into your layers, making you squirm and fall apart under his touch. not the other way around… but this was good too. too good for him to oppose it. you were his weakness, after all. you always have been. no matter how much he teased and picked on you, in the end he always let you do as you pleased. this was not an exception.

you giggle to yourself. “yeah? you like that new side of me, don’t you?”

“…maybe”

sneaking your hand through the front of his shorts and boxers, you feel the flesh of his cock directly. it was twitching, his tip slick with precum. you put the tip of your index finger on his slit and rub circles around it to smear the pre oozing out of it, getting another soft whimper out of him. the head of his cock all slippery now, urging you to rub it all over the rest of his length.

your fingers wrap around his cock as you start to move your hand up and down, slowly, smearing his own slick onto his own flesh.

he tries to swallow the moan stuck in his throat. “you said you were not going to jerk me off, but what now? you’re playing a bit too much, don’t you think?”

satoru can last long. under normal circumstances, that is. but having you — not just his hand, but you, his first ever love, his only love — touch him like that, he could barely hold back. the urge to bust has been there since the moment you put your hand on his cock.

“why? you gonna cum?”, you slip your hand lower, down to the base of his shaft — where his balls are. you caress them tenderly, incurring yet another soft groan from him, before you go back to stroking him again. with each drag you pick up the pace. the room is filled with the squelching sounds caused by your hand, at this point, confidently fisting his slick covered cock, and his heavy breathing. 

“hey”, he puts his hand on your cheek, softly pinching on it with his fingertips. an attempt to make you snap out of it, but alas — you don’t back away. “don’t regret this”, he whispers, almost beggingly. but his voice comes out too shallow for your ears to pick up on.

“are you close?”, you peek at him, watching his face with rapt fascination, grateful that you left the night lamp on.

never have you ever seen him like this. his cheeks so hot and flushed that his pale skin was lit completely red, up to his ears and his neck. beads of sweat across his forehead with strands of his hair stuck on it. mouth agape — huffing and puffing. his brows knitted, desperately. pleadingly. his mouth telling you to stop, yet his face told a different story. so did the part of him inside your palm. it made you throb, down there, and squeeze your thighs together. your own wetness spurting out from your slit, drenching the inside of your underwear”

“fuck—", he growls. “i am— c-close”, he stutters, struggling to control his breathing and the moans that roll out of his mouth.

you feel his cock twitch in your hand, differently. the pulse on it beating faster and more brashly, like it almost made his skin stretch and push against the flesh of your palm. and then, there was a delay. a few, very short seconds in which his cock stood still before violently exploding, pumping out a thick shot of cum. then some more, and more, and more — until the pouring turned into a light dribble toward the end.

“ugh”, he throatily groans, his body relaxing after oozing all the tension out. although slower now, you keep stroking him, running your fingers across his softening cock.

“oh wow”, you gasp, his cum sticky on your skin, drenching the space between your fingers. “what a mess”, you giggle.

“you’re trouble”, he sighs. “is your curiosity satisfied now?”

you nod.

“if you get curious about other things”, he pauses, scratching the back of his head, “come to me. don’t go to other men”

“i’ll think about it”, you smirk.

after that night, you stayed over for an entire week.

this little play time turned into routine, and you were no longer the only one playing.