#Car model with designer door

[poisoned-pearls]

azul who is utterly obsessed with getting Jamil jewelry. Pearls sea glass diamonds aquamarine rubies- if it’s blue, ocean related, pretty, expensive, gold, red, and/or compliments Jamil’s complexion, he’s getting it for him. Azul knows how to budget but he is RECKLESS with spending for his boyfriend bc like, what do you mean that his BOYFRIEND. His darling. Angelfish. He gets whatever he wants

this leads people to believe that Azul has Jamil wrapped around his finger, bc “well he dresses up Jamil however he likes” but they are dead wrong. Azul is willinginhly completely under Jamil’s control and he loves it. He wants to help Jamil and is completely willing to be his little service boy if it means he gets to see Jamil’s greatness.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Tesla accused of hacking odometers to weasel out of warranty repairs

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me at NEW ZEALAND'S UNITY BOOKS in AUCKLAND on May 2, and in WELLINGTON on May 3. More tour dates (Pittsburgh, PDX, London, Manchester) here.

A lawsuit filed in February accuses Tesla of remotely altering odometer values on failure-prone cars, in a bid to push these lemons beyond the 50,000 mile warranty limit:

https://www.thestreet.com/automotive/tesla-accused-of-using-sneaky-tactic-to-dodge-car-repairs

The suit was filed by a California driver who bought a used Tesla with 36,772 miles on it. The car's suspension kept failing, necessitating multiple servicings, and that was when the plaintiff noticed that the odometer readings for his identical daily drive were going up by ever-larger increments. This wasn't exactly subtle: he was driving 20 miles per day, but the odometer was clocking 72.35 miles/day. Still, how many of us monitor our daily odometer readings?

In short order, his car's odometer had rolled over the 50k mark and Tesla informed him that they would no longer perform warranty service on his lemon. Right after this happened, the new mileage clocked by his odometer returned to normal. This isn't the only Tesla owner who's noticed this behavior: Tesla subreddits are full of similar complaints:

https://www.reddit.com/r/RealTesla/comments/1ca92nk/is_tesla_inflating_odometer_to_show_more_range/

This isn't Tesla's first dieselgate scandal. In the summer of 2023, the company was caught lying to drivers about its cars' range:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Drivers noticed that they were getting far fewer miles out of their batteries than Tesla had advertised. Naturally, they contacted the company for service on their faulty cars. Tesla then set up an entire fake service operation in Nevada that these calls would be diverted to, called the "diversion team." Drivers with range complaints were put through to the "diverters" who would claim to run "remote diagnostics" on their cars and then assure them the cars were fine. They even installed a special xylophone in the diversion team office that diverters would ring every time they successfully deceived a driver.

These customers were then put in an invisible Tesla service jail. Their Tesla apps were silently altered so that they could no longer book service for their cars for any reason – instead, they'd have to leave a message and wait several days for a callback. The diversion center racked up 2,000 calls/week and diverters were under strict instructions to keep calls under five minutes. Eventually, these diverters were told that they should stop actually performing remote diagnostics on the cars of callers – instead, they'd just pretend to have run the diagnostics and claim no problems were found (so if your car had a potentially dangerous fault, they would falsely claim that it was safe to drive).

Most modern cars have some kind of internet connection, but Tesla goes much further. By design, its cars receive "over-the-air" updates, including updates that are adverse to drivers' interests. For example, if you stop paying the monthly subscription fee that entitles you to use your battery's whole charge, Tesla will send a wireless internet command to your car to restrict your driving to only half of your battery's charge.

This means that your Tesla is designed to follow instructions that you don't want it to follow, and, by design, those instructions can fundamentally alter your car's operating characteristics. For example, if you miss a payment on your Tesla, it can lock its doors and immobilize itself, then, when the repo man arrives, it will honk its horn, flash its lights, back out of its parking spot, and unlock itself so that it can be driven away:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

Some of the ways that your Tesla can be wirelessly downgraded (like disabling your battery) are disclosed at the time of purchase. Others (like locking you out and summoning a repo man) are secret. But whether disclosed or secret, both kinds of downgrade depend on the genuinely bizarre idea that a computer that you own, that is in your possession, can be relied upon to follow orders from the internet even when you don't want it to. This is weird enough when we're talking about a set-top box that won't let you record a TV show – but when we're talking about a computer that you put your body into and race down the road at 80mph inside of, it's frankly terrifying.

Obviously, most people would prefer to have the final say over how their computers work. I mean, maybe you trust the manufacturer's instructions and give your computer blanket permission to obey them, but if the manufacturer (or a hacker pretending to be the manufacturer, or a government who is issuing orders to the manufacturer) starts to do things that are harmful to you (or just piss you off), you want to be able to say to your computer, "OK, from now on, you take orders from me, not them."

In a state of nature, this is how computers work. To make a computer ignore its owner in favor of internet randos, the manufacturer has to build in a bunch of software countermeasures to stop you from reconfiguring or installing software of your choosing on it. And sure, that software might be able to withstand the attempts of normies like you and me to bypass it, but given that we'd all rather have the final say over how our computers work, someone is gonna figure out how to get around that software. I mean, show me a 10-foot fence and I'll show you an 11-foot ladder, right?

To stop that from happening, Congress passed the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act. Despite the word "copyright" appearing in the name of the law, it's not really about defending copyright, it's about defending business models. Under Section 1201 of the DMCA, helping someone bypass a software lock is a felony punishable by a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine (for a first offense). That's true whether or not any copyright infringement takes place.

So if you want to modify your Tesla – say, to prevent the company from cheating your odometer – you have to get around a software lock, and that's a felony. Indeed, if any manufacturer puts a software lock on its product, then any changes that require disabling or bypassing that lock become illegal. That's why you can't just buy reliable third-party printer ink – reverse-engineering the "is this an original HP ink cartridge?" program is a literal crime, even though using non-HP ink in your printer is absolutely not a copyright violation. Jay Freeman calls this effect "felony contempt of business model."

Thus we arrive at this juncture, where every time you use a product or device or service, it might behave in a way that is totally unlike the last time you used it. This is true whether you own, lease or merely interact with a product. The changes can be obvious, or they can be subtle to the point of invisibility. And while manufacturers can confine their "updates" to things that make the product better (for example, patching security vulnerabilities), there's nothing to stop them from using this uninspectable, non-countermandable veto over your devices' functionality to do things that harm you – like fucking with your odometer.

Or, you know, bricking your car. The defunct EV maker Fisker – who boasted that it made "software-based cars" – went bankrupt last year and bricked the entire fleet of unsold cars:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/10/software-based-car/#based

I call this ability to modify the underlying functionality of a product or service for every user, every time they use it, "twiddling," and it's a major contributor to enshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Enshittification's observable symptoms follow a predictable pattern: first, a company makes things good for its users, while finding ways to lock them in. Then, once it knows the users can't easily leave, the company makes things worse for end-users in order to deliver value to business customers. Once these businesses are locked in, the company siphons value away from them, too, until the product or service is a pile of shit, that we still can't leave:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/26/ursula-franklin/#franklinite

Twiddling is key to enshittification: it's the method by which value is shifted from end-users to business customers, and from business customers to the platform. Twiddling is the "switch" in enshittification's series of minute, continuous bait-and-switches. The fact that DMCA 1201 makes it a crime to investigate systems with digital locks makes the modern computerized device a twiddler's playground. Sure, a driver might claim that their odometer is showing bad readings, but they can't dump their car's software and identify the code that is changing the odometer.

This is what I mean by "demon-haunted computers": a computer is "demon-haunted" if it is designed to detect when it is under scrutiny, and, when it senses a hostile observer, it changes its behavior to the innocuous, publicly claimed factory defaults:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/18/descartes-delenda-est/#self-destruct-sequence-initiated

But as soon as the observer goes away, the computer returns to its nefarious ways. This is exactly what happened with Dieselgate, when VW used software that detected the test-suite run by government emissions inspectors, and changed the engine's characteristics when it was under their observation. But once the car was back on the road, it once again began emitting toxic gas at levels that killed killed dozens of people and sickened thousands more:

https://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/29/upshot/how-many-deaths-did-volkswagens-deception-cause-in-us.html

Cars are among the most demon-haunted products we use on a daily basis. They are designed from the chassis up to do things that are harmful to their owners, from stealing our location data so it can be sold to data-brokers, to immobilizing themselves if you miss a payment, to downgrading themselves if you stop paying for a "subscription," to ratting out your driving habits to your insurer:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

These are the "legitimate" ways that cars are computers that ignore their owners' orders in favor of instructions they get from the internet. But once a manufacturer arrogates that power to itself, it is confronted with a tempting smorgasbord of enshittificatory gambits to defraud you, control you, and gaslight you. Now, perhaps you could wield this power wisely, because you are in possession of the normal human ration of moral consideration for others, to say nothing of a sense of shame and a sense of honor.

But while corporations are (legally) people, they are decidedly not human. They are artificial lifeforms, "intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic" (as HG Wells said of the marauding aliens in War of the Worlds):

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/14/timmy-share/#a-superior-moral-justification-for-selfishness

These alien invaders are busily xenoforming the planet, rendering it unfit for human habitation. Laws that ban reverse-engineering are a devastating weapon that corporations get to use in their bid to subjugate and devour the human race.

The US isn't the only country with a law like Section 1201 of the DMCA. Over the past 25 years, the US Trade Representative has arm-twisted nearly every country in the world into passing laws that are nearly identical to America's own disastrous DMCA. Why did countries agree to pass these laws? Well, because they had to, or the US would impose tariffs on them:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/03/friedmanite/#oil-crisis-two-point-oh

The Trump tariffs change everything, including this thing. There is no reason for America's (former) trading partners to continue to enforce the laws it passed to protect Big Tech's right to twiddle their citizens. That goes double for Tesla: rather than merely complaining about Musk's Nazi salutes, countries targeted by the regime he serves could retaliate against him, in a devastating fashion. By abolishing their anticircuvmention laws, countries around the world would legalize jailbreaking Teslas, allowing mechanics to unlock all the subscription features and software upgrades for every Tesla driver, as well as offering their own software mods. Not only would this tank Tesla stock and force Musk to pay back the loans he collateralized with his shares (loans he used to buy Twitter and the US predidency), it would also abolish sleazy gimmicks like hacking drivers' odometers to get out of paying for warranty service:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/08/turnabout/#is-fair-play

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/15/musklemons/#more-like-edison-amirite

Image: Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Sugar Daddy

Money can't buy love, but maybe it doesn't have to.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's very nouveau riche. Who has the wealth of the elites but none of their good breeding.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's awfully young for someone so wealthy. Barely out of college when his tech startup went public and the cash started pouring in.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who is still painfully awkward around women.

Being a rich man in a big city means there's no shortage of models and influencers vying for his attention. And Yandere! Sugar Daddy never fails to get flustered when they're introduced to him.

Long legs, perfect skin, tiny ski slope noses... They're the kind of girls who wouldn't give him the time of day back in college and suddenly they're running their hands up his chest and whispering that he's just so clever, so accomplished. What guy wouldn't fall for it?

But he can never keep them around for long.

Their interest slowly dies out when he starts rambling about software development and production scale and AI integration. Money is a great motivator but all his girlfriends seem to leave for greener pastures. For millionaires with better social skills and better taste.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ran into you entirely on accident. The club was too loud, the girls too pretty, the alcohol too rich. He slipped out of VIP and into the street, pressing his forehead against the cool brick and trying not to spew on the new designer shoes his ex persuaded him to get.

And that was when you came into his life. Cool hands on his shoulder and a voice telling him to take a deep breath and drink some of your water.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks up at you through his lashes, his face flushed from too much booze and being too near you. He can't fathom it. A girl helping him not because of his cash or connections, but because they're actually a kind person.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your hand when you turn to go. Your friends are calling to you to stop messing around with random drunks and he manages to slip you his business card, begging you to call him so he can thank you properly.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wakes up with a killer hangover and your face burned into his eyelids. Who feels his heart jump when he opens his phone and sees a text from you.

Hope your night got better - y/n

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who immediately zooms in on your profile picture. A candid shot but it still makes him blush. Before the morning is over, he's already tracked down your social media.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who pores over every inch of your life. Your job, your studies, your friends...

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who retypes his message at least a dozen times before he finally responds to you. Who invites you to the most exclusive restaurant in the city as a thank you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who picks you up in the most expensive car he owns. Who smiles a little at the careful way you close the door and buckle your seat belt. You're just as uncomfortable around luxury as he was.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who doesn't expect much from the date. He's learned not to go on tangents about technology and work, but without it he feels lost.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you're more than capable of carrying a conversation. You're energetic and funny and interested in what he has to say. He feels himself opening up to you and before long, he's deep into a rant about data safety and you actually listen to him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you compliment him. Like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ends the night with a lipstick stain on his cheek and a big, goofy grin on his face.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who calls you the second he wakes up and invites you to spend the afternoon learning to horse ride.

And when you tell him you have work, he just laughs and tells you he'll triple whatever you're getting paid for the day. You nearly faint when he keeps his word and sends you a deposit worth more than your monthly cheque.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wants to call you his girlfriend more than anything. His girl. He loves the way it sounds.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who tags along when you go grocery shopping and whips out his card to pay for it all when your back is turned.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who sends you a huge bouquet every week because you once mentioned liking lillies.

And the closer you get, the more time you spend kissing him and curling up in his bed, the more he spends on you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who uses spring break to take you on a tour of the Mediterranean. Who rents out entire villas and chateaus to impress you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who has your birthday dress custom made by an actual high fashion house. Who zips you up and kisses your neck and says he's never met a more beautiful girl.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who spends shareholder meetings daydreaming about you. Who has to pinch himself to stay focused.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's helpless to stop himself falling for you. You're so real, so empty of pretence and greed.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who showers you with all the wealth he has and is blind to how uncomfortable it makes you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks at you with a vacant smile when you try and break things off. Who pulls out his phone and sends you a deposit with so many zeros you have to rub your eyes to make sure you're seeing it right. Who asks if that's enough for more of your time or if he should double it.

Do you want a new car? An apartment? He'll give you anything, anything in the world.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks like a kicked dog when you say you don't want any of it. You hate feeling indebted to him. You hate feeling like some vapid trophy wife. You hate living off his charity.

He can't understand it. You could work for decades and not afford even a quarter of what he can give you. Is he so unpleasant, so unlovable, that you're wiling to turn your back of a life of luxury?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who comes up behind you and slams the door shut when you try to leave.

You've always seen him as a nice guy, someone awkward and gentle. But the look in his eyes now makes you question all of it.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy whose voice is a low, broken rasp. He sounds on the verge of tears and on the verge of fury all at once.

You think you can just leave after everything you've been through together? After the fortune he spent trying to make you happy?

No way baby.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your wrist and yanks you up against him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who laughs when you threaten to scream. Luxury penthouse, remember? Totally sound proofed. Totally private. No one gets in or out without his permission.

It's just you and him, like it should have been from the beginning.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who squeezes your wrist hard enough to hurt. Who kisses you so rough you cut your lips on your teeth.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who yanks at the pretty dress that he bought you. You want to be an ungrateful bitch? You want to throw his kindness back in his face? Oh, he's going to teach you a lesson.

You fucking owe him.

And he's going to use your body until that debt is paid.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Welcoming Party

[ <- part 1 ]

Standing out in the street, in front of the Gotham City Hall, in suit, even if it's not broad daylight — the sun has set two hours ago, they are firmly in late evening territory — feels awfully uncomfortable. As Red Robin, he is used to clinging to the shadows and walls. As Tim, he prefers it that way as well.

Alas, he is on the meeting the delegates duty by the rule of elimination: Bruce has a reputation, Dick is an impulsive comedian, Jason is a crime lord, Cass is having a nonverbal day, Steph is... Steph, Duke is a daylight hero, and Damian is rude by design.

In other words, his family straight up threw him under the bus.

This whole thing is ridiculous if anyone asks Tim. Vigilantes playing a welcoming party for dead royalty. Not even because of the whole deal with publicity but because their family is quite literally responsible for making a lot of people cross the border from alive to dead, and them welcoming a Prince of the Infinite Realms feels like a bad joke.

Tim's wrist computer buzzes — the alarm went off, which means the delegation will be here any minute — and, right on cue, the air just a dozen or so feet away flickers in green sparks.

A car, sleek black and almost absurdly normal, appears out of thin air, slowly making its way to Tim. To the City Hall entrance, actually, which coincidentally includes Tim. And five dozen reporters with cameras, but that's irrelevant right now. At least they've stopped taking pictures of him by this point.

The car stops, and the back door slides open — which it shouldn't be able to do, judging by the model, but who's Tim to judge afterlife transport. He hears a few clicks of the cameras going off.

Inside the car, it's pitch black, like the door opened straight into a cosmic void. Tim takes a short breath, steeling himself and getting ready to face absolutely anything. He's heard more than enough stories about the Realms from Constantine when B invited him as a consultant.

The first thing he sees is white fur- no, white hair, short and fluffy, strands floating in the air and slightly glowing. Then, there's a foot in a white combat boot stepping out on the pavement, a pale hand with sharp black nails — or, maybe, claws — gripping the side of the door for balance. Tim offers a hand mostly out of polite habit, distantly relieved the Prince is humanoid.

He nearly flinches when they take it, skin so cold that Tim feels it through his glove, but their touch almost gentle.

And then, the Prince steps out of the car completely.

Tim blinks.

His mind is registering disjointed parts of their appearance: black jeans, a silver rapier on their hip, an unzipped white leather jacket that looks too much like what Jason wears, pointy ears pierced in several places.

Pale blue, shimmering freckles that look like constellations on their face.

But that's all irrelevant because the Prince is not wearing a mask, not covering his face, and Tim knows that face. It's a face he's seen just this morning before he left for classes.

Daniel Nightingale, his Gotham U roommate, is looking at him with wide, toxic green eyes.

"T-" He starts, voice barely above a whisper, but stops himself short when he feels Tim squeezing his hand all of a sudden. He has no idea how Danny recognized him- actually, it probably has something to do with him being the Prince of the goddamn afterlife, but Tim has already suffered enough unpleasant things today. He is decidedly not adding an identity breach in front of dozens of reporters to it.

"Welcome to Gotham, Your Highness," he smiles, looking Danny straight in the eyes.

The boy smiles back, perfectly polite, "Thank you."

But Tim can see how he briefly, awkwardly rolls his shoulders.

Somehow, he thinks the peace talks are going to go great.

[aethercoreheart]

sylus | 2:07 PM

"Breathe, kitten, you're too tense."

Sylus tries to soothe you through the comms unit in your helmet. You hadn't realized it, but you're gritting your teeth, your jaw is clenched tight and you're holding your breath.

"And watch out, you're going to rip a hole through my jacket."

You're gripping his biking leathers so tightly, you had lost feeling in your fingers. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, elbows locked, afraid that if you moved even a little bit, you would fall off his bike.

"Maybe if you didn't drive like a maniac, I'd be able to relax a little," you manage to mutter.

He laughs into the comms, and you feel his sides move against your arms. He's thoroughly entertained, but you're fearing for your life. Sylus had promised you a relaxing afternoon ride, but all he'd subjected you to was him weaving in and out of traffic at ridiculously high speeds while you clung to his back like a terrified koala.

"We're almost there. And I drive like a dream, if I do say so myself."

You roll your eyes inside your helmet, wishing he could see it. He continues to speed along the freeway, but you notice that his swerves are a little smoother, his moves through traffic a little less daring.

Eventually, you exit off the freeway, and thankfully, Sylus slows down as he nears a set of traffic lights. He pulls up next to a car, also waiting at the lights. The driver of the car rolls his window down and motions to Sylus. Sylus flicks his visor up, and looks at the driver.

"Hey, buddy, nice bike! Compensating for something?" the driver chortles. He then looks at you. "And with a pretty little thing on your back too. Leave some for the rest of us, won't you?"

You feel Sylus tense up beneath your arms, and you're immediately worried for the driver. But instead of responding to his taunts, Sylus reaches over to the car. He goes for the rear passenger door and pulls it open. Then, he reaches to the front, and pushes the side mirror into the car. The driver, initially bewildered, realizes what Sylus has done and starts cussing both of you out. In the next moment, the lights turn green and while the driver is still dealing out a barrage of insults, Sylus flicks his visor down again and speeds off through the intersection. You hear a series of angry honks, no doubt the other cars behind that driver annoyed that they're held up at the set of lights. You can't help but giggle, and you imagine Sylus is smirking underneath his own helmet.

---

"Look after Natasha," Sylus had said, while removing his helmet. He had headed off, leaving you to clamber off the motorcycle.

"Natasha?"

"That's her name. The bike."

"Of course he'd name it Natasha," you grumble to yourself. He'd left you outside with the bike while he went inside the motorcycle workshop, your helmet in hand. He promised he'd be no more than ten minutes, but the late afternoon heat is starting to get to you. You are leaning against it, sorry, her, while you scroll on your phone mindlessly. To be fair, she is a beautiful motorcycle. The bikes that the Hunters use to get around Linkon are swift and silent things, only as big as they needed to be. But Natasha is large, she is impressive. Sleek and dark, she was beautifully designed, modeled after older motorcycles that used to run on a primitive source of energy - petrol. She drew the attention of people walking past the workshop. You would just smile at them, slightly uncomfortable at their stares. One young man had asked if he could take a picture. You agreed, hoping that Sylus wouldn't mind, but then decided you didn't care if he did anyway.

Sylus, please hurry up, you plead silently. You see a man walking in your direction, and he looks like he is trying to get your attention. You groan internally - if he had any questions about Natasha, you know almost next to nothing about her. He locks eyes with you, and you give him a brief, forced smile.

"It's gorgeous," he tells you, breathlessly, as he approaches.

You nod. "Isn't it?"

The man gives you a lopsided grin. "What's a precious thing like you doing driving something so big?"

You frown, and you open your mouth, about to tell the man to piss off, when you feel a sudden presence at your side. Sylus looms over the man, staring him down.

"Can I help you?" Sylus all but growls.

The man frowns. "J-just making conversation," he stutters.

You watch as Sylus's eyebrow twitches upwards. "Well, now, make like the wind and be gone."

The man scurries off, muttering under his breath, and you watch after him, still frowning.

"I could have handled him," you tell Sylus, annoyance tinging your voice a little.

"Of course you could have," Sylus chuckles. "But I don't want you doing the dirty work I should be doing."

You've lost count on how many times you've rolled your eyes today. Before you can come up with a witty retort, you glance at Sylus's hands. He's carrying something wrapped in a canvas bag.

"What's that? My helmet? Was there something wrong with it?"

He hands it to you. "Open it."

It's hefty and solid. It takes a bit of a balancing act, but you manage to unwrap it without dropping it. You gasp, and marvel at the object in your hands. It's a motorcycle helmet - obsidian black, so dark that instead of light bouncing off of it, it seems to absorb it. The helmet is covered in intricate gold carvings - it's a dragon, surrounded by blossom petals. You're entranced, and it takes you several seconds before you can address Sylus again.

"What is this, Sylus? I already had a helmet."

Sylus shrugs. "I had it custom-made for you. It's one of a kind, and fits you perfectly. Here."

He helps you put it on. He's right. It felt heavy in your hands, but light on your head. Your head feels secure and comfortable. The visor display lights up ,showing today's weather, time and traffic updates. You feel Sylus tap the top of the helmet, and the display turns clear, his red eyes peering in.

You remove the helmet, stunned. It must have cost a fortune. Sylus watches you admire it, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"I couldn't have you riding around with me with just an old spare helmet," he says, so nonchalantly.

You cradle the helmet in your arms, suddenly feeling how precious it is to you. You clear your throat before you speak. "Thank you. This is beautiful."

The corner of Sylus's lips twitches upwards as he puts his own helmet on. "There was one thing I forgot though," he says as he climbs back onto Natasha.

"What's that?" you ask, climbing on after him.

"I forgot to get the word 'Kitten' engraved at the back."

[hcneymooners]

⋆ thinking about model!cait & model!reader.

ꕮ you and model!caitlyn find one another unexpectedly, your friendship a perfect firework across an otherwise tedious skyline of existence. she has a strong reputation comprised of a perfect work ethic, but a "bitter aftertaste" of a personality. the coworker who says this is notorious for being vicious, so you smile palely and take the assessment with a grain of salt.

ꕮ model!caitlyn whom you first meet backstage at an indie designer's debut show, whom you keep running into backstage. she's softer than you expected with her deep blue hair tugged up into a topknot, balancing like an artist on a tightrope. her cheeks are dusted with a metallic blush that shimmers weakly every time her cheeks bunch and loosen, the movement repeated as she chews on an apple.

ꕮ model!cait who is the last to go on most of the time, as are you, so you watch as she keeps to herself amid fashion week and is the first one out at the end of every show. it's the same cycle of working up the courage to speak to her, to show her that you aren't whispering along with the rest of the girls sitting beside you, but your little streaks of bravery are blotted out by the hot lights of your twin vanities and there's nothing left by the time she calls her car.

ꕮ you finally see her at the right time, finally send her a tight smile that you meant to be fuller with a little wave. she's at the mouth of the door, head bent back as the movement coordinator orders her to be earlier tomorrow for rehearsals because she's opening this time. she's surprised at the soft spread of your teeth towards her, and reflexively she smiles back. congratulations, you tell her and your voice is strong. thank you, she says.

ꕮ and you think that's the end of things but then you get stuck in the open half of a prop plane with her. the set is an elaborate platform to showcase the newest alice+olivia spring-summer collection. the two of you swing like a pendulum across the floor, tumbling into one another. her body is lanky, almost awkward, and she smells deeply of iris, lime, and rose.

ꕮ "you smell good," you whisper with a hand on your stomach because you think you might throw up. she smiles, surprised, and you understand exactly why they scouted her.

ꕮ after that, your relationship grows almost lazily like ivy. you run into her everywhere: the grocery store, the members club right across your townhouse, the museum where you went to see the quilt exhibit. one day you just take her hand and interlink it with yours, promising her a delicious bowl of pho and saying that you'll teach her to haggle prices at the little market you're going to after this—the one owned by the khti with kind eyes.

ꕮ she follows you, lets you swallow her, and basks in the solidarity of finding someone who doesn't hate her for once. you find out more: that she's a nepotism baby (her mother is a top designer), that she dislikes a lot of who she walks for but doesn't think she deserves to complain, that she majored in philosophy and military history at university but dropped out in her junior year, that she's been thinking of going back. "go back," you tell her with a soft smile. "i'll go with you."

ꕮ you go back to school together: her to finish her bachelor's, you to get your master's.

ꕮ when you're off-duty, she calls you. it's always at the same time—she's very structured, you notice—which means you always find yourself rushing through the rooms of your home, trying to find where you last tossed your phone.

ꕮ it's 2007 then, so it's a thin slab the color of ice with the logo of the most prominent tech company at the moment. you're always worried you're going to drop it, that you'll lose her, so you memorize her number to call her from a pay phone when you're somewhere different in the world.

ꕮ on call, she tells you about the first time she walked paris fashion week, how her hands wouldn't stop shaking even after she'd made it back behind the curtain. you share your own story of tripping during milan, catching yourself at the last second while your heart drummed against your ribs.

ꕮ "i was there," she tells you, laughing gently. the words cut out a bit as she moves around, and without thinking, you speak to the ache in your chest and say, "i wish you were here."

ꕮ backstage becomes your sanctuary together. you learn to recognize the slope of her shoulders when a designer has been particularly cruel, and she learns exactly how you like your tea when you're running on your fourth show of the day. "chamomile, splash of honey," she murmurs, pressing the warm cup into your hands. her fingers linger against yours longer than necessary.

ꕮ you rest your head on top of her jutting shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as she adjusts the alligator clips in your hair so that you're more comfortable, switching out your perm papers for new ones so the stylists won't yell about the crinkles.

ꕮ there have been many times when you've sobbed into her lap or she into yours, bodies run ragged after doing 10-20 shows in a day or two. it's never too much work to soothe her or for her to coo at you, quieting you until you fitfully fall asleep.

ꕮ you start sharing hotel rooms to save money, but really it's because neither of you can stand the loneliness anymore. you always share a hotel room now with two beds, just for you to wrap around her in only one. these are the best times of travel: caitlyn in her cotton hollister boy shorts and her long-sleeved soccer camp tee, hair lumped into a loose knot at her neck as her chest rises and falls gently with her breath.

ꕮ you huddle closer every night, late at night. you order room service and critique the collections together. she has strong opinions about necklines, and you can spend hours discussing the politics of sizing.

ꕮ sometimes you fall asleep mid-conversation and wake to find her having tucked you in.

ꕮ the industry starts to notice your friendship. "the ice queen has finally thawed," they whisper, and you hate how they talk about her like she's a puzzle to be solved rather than a person. but she just squeezes your hand under the table at fashion week parties and whispers, "let them talk." you realize you'd let them say anything as long as she keeps holding your hand.

ꕮ your first kiss happens in taipei. you're both half-delirious from lack of sleep, sharing a pepper bun in the early morning before shows begin. she has a dot of sauce on her lower lip, and you reach out without thinking, thumb brushing it away and coming to your mouth so that you can suck it clean.

ꕮ "oh," she says softly, and then you're colliding, kissing desperately and tenderly among the crumbs and cups of cucumber water, dawn breaking over the city of azaleas. she breaks away because she can't stop smiling and you can't either, and her hair looks like blue fire in the sunlight. you kiss her again because you can and drag her by the hand down the street, your water sloshing as you try to make it to the show on time.

ꕮ together, you start to imagine a life beyond the runway. she talks about teaching military history to undergraduates, her eyes lighting up as she describes battle strategies and political maneuvering. you sketch out plans for your own vintage styling firm, something small and carefully curated with a tight clientele.

ꕮ "we could do both," she says, and you love how she always includes you in her future.

ꕮ life begins to slow down without either of you meaning for it to. it's subtle at first: you start saying no to castings that don't excite you, and caitlyn realizes she hasn't done a full fashion week in nearly a year.

ꕮ you find yourselves going to the same places more often—your favorite cafe, the record store that still carries CDs, the bookstore where cait always beelines for the history section while you browse vintage magazines.   

ꕮ caitlyn buys a dog before you do—a retired racing greyhound named laguna with eyes too soft for the world. you tease her about how predictable it is, how of course she'd choose a creature as long-limbed and elegant as her. but then you find a pocket bully in a shelter with a wiry coat and the sweetest underbite you've ever seen, and suddenly you have two. your inbox fills with emails from brands who want to feature them instead of you.  

ꕮ there's a video of you and caitlyn sitting on a blanket in central park, sharing a bagel slathered thick with avocado while your dogs sprawl between you. someone posts it on youtube with the title supermodels—THEY'RE JUST LIKE US and suddenly laguna and your little bully (you named her venice) have their own fanbase.

ꕮ people start recognizing you not for the runways, but for the dogs. “cait, i think we’ve peaked," you joke, showing cait a feature in a fashion mag about “all the best supermodels have turned dog moms.”   

ꕮ one day, cait tells you she’s serious about completing her phd. "i think i’m ready," she says, her fingers twisting the hem of your sweatshirt. you kiss her forehead and tell her you've been looking at spaces for your styling firm. "i think i'm ready too."  

ꕮ leaving modeling feels like shedding skin. at first, you both keep a toe in—an editorial here, a campaign there—but eventually, the industry moves on without you, and neither of you mind. 

ꕮ the mornings are slower now, filled with newspaper crossword puzzles and late brunches. your lives feel like the belong more to you than before. sometimes you still wake up expecting to rush to a casting, but then laguna whines at the door, and venice jumps onto the bed, and you remember you don't have to be anywhere except beside her.  

ꕮ you start teaching styling workshops, curating looks for indie films, slowly building your firm from the ground up. caitlyn, true to her word, finishes her degree and starts lecturing. she still paces when she talks, still moves like she’s walking the length of a runway, but now it’s in front of a room full of students who hang onto every word she says about ancient war tactics. 

ꕮ you don’t understand any of it, but still you’re proud of her. you sneak into her lectures with a ball cap that does nothing to disguise you, a polaroid camera in your hands as you take pictures of her for the keepsake box underneath your bed.

ꕮ your home becomes filled with old fashion week spreads pinned open like faded butterflies, shelves lined with history books, and a basket of dog toys that always end up in the middle of the floor. life is lovely. not perfect, but good nonetheless.

ꕮ and then one day, years later, you're walking through a square—maybe in new york, maybe in london—when you look up and see her face on a billboard. it’s an old campaign, maybe one of the last ones she did, and the sight of her, frozen in time, steals the breath from your lungs.   

ꕮ you call her.  

ꕮ "hey, baby,” you say when she picks up. "i just saw you on a billboard."  

ꕮ there's a beat of silence, then her voice, warm and teasing. “wasn’t expecting to hear that bit of news. tell me, was i beautiful all blown up and life-sized?”  

ꕮ you smile, tilting your face toward the sky. "yes. but they don’t know how much more beautiful you are in person."

© hcneymooners.

⚚ notes: for @marieeeluvsyou & @srooch.

[mv1simp]

Into You ♥️

Max Verstappen x Redbull Engineer! Reader

Oh baby, look what you've started, the temperature's rising and is this gonna happen? (Been waitin' and waitin' for you to make a move)

At 27, you've just been promoted to the role of Redbull's race engineer - a very impressive feat in motorsport for a young woman. There's just one issue though - you secretly had a massive crush on the driver you're meant to be guiding, Max Verstappen. Will you make it through the season before he catches on? (You hope so because goddamn, the HR team were a nightmare to deal with.)

Content includes: fluff, humour, Max and reader are simps for each other, sexual tension, pining, drunk confessions, 3.2k WC

Recently, you'd started having some issues at work. Okay, gun to your head, you'll admit it was more like a single issue - in the shape of a very attractive, 6 foot Dutch racing driver who occasionally had problems with anger management. Sure, it didn’t sound that bad, in fact, someone else would just sit back and enjoy the eye candy the F1 paddock provided! But to truly appreciate the full depth of your embarrassing problem, one needed to unpack all the lore behind it.

After graduating from a prestigious mechanical engineering master's program, you'd been ecstatic about getting to intern at Redbull's F1 racing team, department of aerodynamic design. You'd started working at the company at a very good time, because later that year, their top driver Max Verstappen claims his first WDC at age 24 - only 6 months your junior. A very impressive feat for such a young age - as you admire him from a distance in the garage workshop. And, super hot too, you thought cheekily, whoever wifed him up was sure to be a lucky woman.

Your own hard work hadn't gone unnoticed, and many higher-ups and sponsors alike were curious to see the team who had been behind the championship winning changes to the Redbull car. You'd risen very quickly in the ranks, from intern to permanent technical engineer and then last year to to the innovative research & development department, now involved directly with calling the big shots for what each version of the car would look like and coming face to face with Max for the first time in your career with Redbull.

Unlike the other drivers, Max was genuinely curious about your design process. The way he asked questions, thoughtfully listened to your long explanations and then would give you direct feedback about the exact issues he would have in the trial runs had made you flustered, especially from the full intensity of his blue eyes. No, seriously though, Shakespeare himself would have written poetry if he'd gazed into them. The TikTok creators certainly seem to agree, with all their ocean eyes edits. Not that you had any saved. Anyways, moving on-

You were on the quieter side but Max seemed to know just how to get through to you. It meant that your team had been able to design the most dominating car in F1 history - the RB23, and paired with Max Verstappen it was an unstoppable force, almost like you made it just for me, Max had said, smiling gorgeously at you like some GQ Sports model. You stared back at him incredulously, banana choc chip muffin halfway to your mouth, cause who the hell woke up looking like that, you two were wearing identical Redbull shirts but his looked like it had been personally tailored to fit that broad muscular chest and yours was giving oversized trash bag??

Honestly, you'd hoped that working in closer proximity would humanise him more and you'd lose this silly crush of yours the moment you saw him do some icky rich white boy move. Like maybe he’d donate to Donald Trump's anti vaccine campaign or say guys 🥺 Can’t go to Ibiza this weekend the yacht staff had an emergency, got caught in some Gulf war zone or something? Idk

But when he had knocked on your apartment door when you hadn't shown up to work in two days, and found you crying because your childhood dog had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer across the other side of the world and saying I’m sorry, I know it’s not that big of a deal, I’ll come back tomorrow I promise-

And instead of laughing like you’d expected, he’d cut you off, told you to pack a bag and then driven you all the way to his personal jet. You looked into his beautiful blue eyes while he earnestly begged you to use it so you could make it in time to say goodbye to your Arlo before your parents put him down tonight. And that’s when you realised you were doomed to be hopelessly in love with the younger man. (But also, you had a serious discussion with him about the extreme greenhouse gas emissions from private jet fuel use, we only had one planet, you would be happy to just fly first class instead-)

But when your mentor Newey announced his plans to leave Redbull this year, you had planned on following him - making the exec panic at the thought of losing two of their crucial engineers. They frantically thrown random promotions at you, praying one would stick - and Redbull twitter fans breathed a sigh of relief when you took interest in the role of race engineer and stayed in the company.

You'd been excited about becoming one of Checo's engineers, having trained under the current one for the last few months. But to your horror, one day you arrived on the paddock only to be promptly sat down at a meeting along with the two drivers and be informed that they'd had to switch some things around, GP had an emergency to attend and could you pretty please fill in for the role of Max's race engineer this weekend-

NOPE. You'd announced, standing up and slamming your hands on the table, then realising that might be a touch overdramatic as everyone questioningly looked at you. Why not? Christian Horner demanded suspiciously.

Um, because he's super hot, you fool?! How is a girl meant to focus with him whispering track feels really wet today in her headphones? Were the years of self control to just admire from a distance like a loser and not jeopardise your career just a joke to him?? You don’t blink as your boss stared you down, hoping he could pick up on the thoughts that you’re trying to telepathically communicate. The table remained silent, only interrupted by the noisy slurping of Checo's boba tea. You quickly changed tactics - well, Verstappen is the winning champion, he needs an engineer who has experience working alongside him during the race-

Alas, the object of your affections threw a well intended wrench in your escape plans by adding that you were the perfect person, then, since you'd worked together for years and understood his communication style. Unless - he paused, flashing those deadly baby blues at you - unless the issue is you don't want to work with me?

You'd lasted all of three seconds under his hurt gaze before admitting defeat and accepting the role, slumping down next to him and desperately praying you'd wake up a lesbian tomorrow morning. Max continued to sneak long glances at you through the meeting, leaning around you to grab a pen and then his phone and making you jump each time his strong arm wrapped around your small frame. Across the table, Checo thoughtfully chewed on his boba as he watched you two curiously. Ah, young love.

And to no one's surprise the pair of you had made a flawless team, you expertly guiding Max as your engineer instincts took over and him actually listening to your helpful instructions without his usual aggression over the radio. And so when GP announced that his 1 week emergency was now going to be a 6 month break, sorry! - it had been all too easy for Christian Horner to bestow the honour of being Max's primary engineer onto you.

So now, here you sat, before your 4th race with Max, grimly looking on with your chin propped onto interlaced fingers, preparing yourself for his deep, sexy voice that was going to be purring in your ears very soon. The very voice that had become a recurring theme in the dreams you'd been having lately, that and also how he would bite those thick lips of his when he'd stare at you, with his cute little freckle on his top lip-

Why do you look like you're about to go to war, your intern asks bluntly, putting an end to your illicit thoughts and delivering you your triple chocolate caramel frap. Because I am, you hissed, sculling the whole thing in one go. She smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. Was this to do with how categorically down bad you are for your precious Maxie?

You proceeded to inform her that if she ever brought up how you'd drunkedly referred to him that one time, you'd have no problem abusing your authority to shaft her on tire service duty for a week. She wisely chose to leave you be in peace, taking your empty cup as she went.

Taking some meditative breaths, you focus on thinking about unsexy things. Like the hydraulics system of the current car needing to be redesigned to better incorporate-

Your thoughts are cut off a second time as another cup is deposited in front of you, this time by none other than Max himself, who's thoughtfully brought you a triple chocolate caramel frap. You stutter out your thanks, not daring to touch more caffeine currently as you already had sweaty palpitations at the sight of him looking so big and muscled in his slutty tight fireproofs. Dear God, had he no shame? They needed to bring back the Victorian era and cover him up, he was going to distract everyone (mainly you.) He frowns slightly, leaning down to your height, and informs you that you didn't have to call him Verstappen, you know, Max is fine-

Wow. And then what would come next? Maxie? And then you asking him for his hand in marriage? No, no, absolutely not - you needed to maintain strict professional boundaries or risk him catching onto your massive crush and promptly be fired. You politely informed him that for the sake of public decorum and the rabid fangirls that were watching your every move as a young female engineer in proximity to their favourite drivers, that you would refer to him as Verstappen, or Mr. Verstappen if he preferred a more formal title?

He'd pouted those lush lips of his and reluctantly agreed that just Verstappen was okay, he supposed. But he much preferred hearing you call him Max, at least when there were no cameras around? What you had done in your past life to now be forced to resist such temptation, you would never know.

So the season went on, you two continuing to be a smashing success and a very popular internet pairing. Not that you'd been paying that much attention! Just a saved TikTok edit here and there of the time Max had called you schatje over the radio after blowing up about a tire malfunction. He’d then sweetly apologised the next lap when you remained unfazed and told him to sort his shit out, babes, Leclerc was right up his ass with a tire and DRS malfunction, yeah? (Twitter had gone crazy. Who knew Max Verstappen responded so well to a 5 foot, slightly older woman giving him orders over the team radio?! You’d instantly been accepted as a replacement for the beloved GP, original gentle domTM to the Dutch driver.)

And perhaps another saved edit of the time he had protectively held you in those big, strong arms of his, guiding your tiny figure through a massive media-frenzied crowd and whispered reassurances in your ear when you couldn’t breathe properly. Or the time he’d bitten a reporter’s head off with the ferocity of a lion after he suggested that as the first female race engineer, you’d acquired your new job through your…feminine wiles.

And maybe just one of when the PR team had made you do one of those ridiculous hot lap videos with him after seeing the online response, and he'd laughed as you screamed out of fear for your life when he cruised at a cool 200km/hr. The aftermath had been brutal, as you weakly stumble out and almost fall flat on your face, only for him to easily pick you up, carrying you bridal style back towards the garage (Truly, this right here was proof God sent his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers.)

Nearing the end of the 6 month stint, when GP was due back in to resume his role as Max's race engineer, the Redbull team had decided to take a well deserved weekend trip to Verona, Italy. You’d suspiciously looked at your intern, asking why she’d selected the romantic setting of Romeo & Juliet of all places, to which she replied that just cause you’d chosen to cockblock yourself for eternity with a crush on your coworker the millionaire F1 driver, didn’t mean the rest of them couldn’t get some. Valid point, so you shut up.

So now, here you are, sitting in a romantically lit corner of a cute Italian vineyard with a small group from the engineering division, sloshed after a bottle of red wine and asking them be real, be real, you're telling me none of you have been checked out Max's ass in his fireproofs? Lies.

Across the courtyard, Lando is currently extremely unimpressed with his good friend, 3 time Championship winning, and general terror on the track Max Verstappen. That is because said friend has decided, rather pathetically, to lie on the cobblestone and drunkedly ask the stars why fate was so cruel. Seriously mate, Lando sighs, all this over a silly insta post?

Excuse you, it’s not just any insta post! Max had protested, baby tears in his eyes and face flushed from the four G&Ts he’d drunk. Pulling out his phone, he shows Lando the damning evidence of the pictures you'd uploaded from the group trip with your engineering friends. Look. LOOK. His arm is around her and she used a Lana Del Ray lyric in the caption. Do you have any idea what this means?

The Brit has to resist rolling his eyes at the melodrama unfolding in front of him. The Dutchman continues, never one to miss a chance to maxplain - as he details how it had taken him a a whole 2 months to get him to call you by his first name, and then another 2 months before you'd told him your favourite song was Summertime Sadness, and that even now if he hugged you to celebrate a win you would look like you were about to throw up and furiously speed walk away.

Lando is seriously regretting tagging along to the Redbull trip instead of Carlos's invitation to Mallorca. It was bad enough that the whole train ride Max had been on the phone begging GP to take another 6 month break so that you'd continue to be his engineer, but Lando has had his limit with this simpy pining. Taking his phone out as the maxplaining continued in the background, he shoots a text to your intern, who immediately replies, and within minutes the pair of them have hatched a conniving plan to dump you lovesick fools together while the rest of them make their way into town.

And that’s how you and Max find yourself locked inside the upstairs wine cellar, having been separately tricked with various promises from your scheming friends - only to hear the door click behind you and turn to find each other. It's very romantic and all, soft candlelight and bottles of luxurious Italian wine and a shining full moon visible from the terracotta balcony. Someone had even generously left a speaker in the courtyard, with Lana Del Ray's melodic voice rising upto the second floor. Basically, the worst nightmare for your self control as you prayed for inner strength and avoid looking into Max's dreamy blue eyes. This was definitely some twisted beyond the grave revenge from Shakespeare for you saying he'd write poetry about a F1 driver’s eyes.

Max, though, is all too happy to come right over to you with another freshly opened bottle of wine, drunk and flushed and having zero inhibitions about pulling you into his warm side with a strong arm. You're too buzzed to resist, letting yourself fall against his chest to hear his soothing heartbeat and rest a palm against his hard abs, just this once (The real thing was even better than what you'd imagined.)

You're both laughing and giggling then, hearts full, reminiscing about the season together, the inside jokes on the radio, the side eyes to each other when Horner got too wound up at a meeting, and oh did you hear that the McLaren tireboy was hooking up with the Mercedes oilchecker?

And then your eyes meet his and your homegirl Lana starts singing dear lord when I get to heaven, please let me bring my man (real) and Max is softly brushing your cheek, leaning down as your heated gazes flit to each other's lips-

NOPE! you force yourself to declare, dramatically leaving his arms and contemplating if you could land the jump from the 2nd floor balcony. The Italian wine has made Max demanding though, as he doesn't let you go, grabbing your hand to pull you back like he was Anthony goddamn Bridgerton and wanting to know Why not, was he just imagining the chemistry, did you not find him hot or?

You'd gaped at him. Not hot? Apparently the Italian wine had gotten to you too because you didn't hold back, launching into a tirade of how no, Max, the issue was actually that he was too hot for his own good and did he even know how unfair it had been to be his engineer, pure torture really, you were sure the American military would be adding it to their interrogation tactics. As if it hadn't been bad enough to crush on him from a distance for years but then have to resist falling for him every time you saw him? So, no, you couldn't just give him a casual drunk kiss because you were in love with him!

Max stares at you, initially smug that you apparently found him so irresistibly good looking, but now completely bewildered when you finished ranting. You think - he swallowed. You think that this is just casual? Cause I- cause I'm drunk?

At your nod, he launches into his own maxplaination, brows furrowed, demanding to know how on earth you could think it was just casual, what about when he diligently showed up to every meeting with a banana choc muffin and caramel frappe and his hoodie for you to wear on the chilly mornings, or when he brought two Lana Del Ray VIP tickets the very same day you'd told him you liked her, or when he'd literally called you darling in Dutch over the team radio for the whole world to hear, or how he even sold his private jet and only jetpooled with the others since you told him off?! Seriously, even that old crone Helmut had asked him when you two were going to hard launch!

Your doe eyes go wider and wider at each statement, a pretty flush taking over your own face as your mind boggles at the realisation that apparently, the love of your life felt just as deeply about you. Stuttering, you try to formulate a reply - only to come up with Oh, well, I, uh - you sold your jet? For me?

Max rolls his eyes, but there's nothing except pure adoration on his face as he pulls you back into his warm chest, grinning down at you when you eagerly wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Yes, schat, he murmurs gently, the cutest blush painting his cheeks. Because I love you, too. And this time you don't pull away when he finally, finally leans down and meets your lips in a passionate kiss, enjoying the sweet moans he draws out of you as he showcases his numerous talents off the track.

Somewhere, in the middle of a Verona nightclub, your intern gives Lando Norris a firm handshake. Pleasure doing business with you.

_____________________________________________

A/N: A lil sweet fluff for me, this is actually my first fluff piece i think ahaha i've only written like 8 smut pieces in a row!! Hope you enjoyed 💖 and PS thank you ALL for the requests you’ve been sending, been getting them and will work thru them just have a few projects I’m cookin up for u guys hehe xx

[mingi-s-dimples]

Laced in Couture - C.SN

"Whenever I’m away from you.. I get closer and closer to insanity.”

~ a special for today's dgfw25.. because I simply couldn't resist.

pairing: san x fem!reader

genre: 18+, slightest filth, fashion au, model au

summary: san just couldn't take his eyes off you at the show, even if he was the model himself... and he ruins you.

wc: 3.5k

warnings: san is needy and desperate af, slightly teasy reader, model x manager, fashion au, kitchen sex on a counter, he's so desperate he doesn't get fully undressed, lots of kissing, neck kissing, manhandling, teasing, pussy eating, cum eating, unprotected (boo use protection irl!), completely consensual, might have forgotten something, might edit later.

author's note: everyone around me had to hold me from falling and turning into dust when i saw how this man looked today.. hello >.< he's fucking insane... and it's even more insane *upcoming bia fun fact and childhood lore* that i've been a dolce & gabbana fan and fashion hard fan since I was.. 9 or 10. so when he was announced as an ambassador y'all can bet i ran 50 laps that day. anyways here's a small fic combining two of my most prized obsessions: san and dg.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

Milan had been a fever dream. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, hushed conversations in back corridors, and the ever-present scent of expensive perfume and burning stage lights. Fashion Week had its own rhythm—fast, relentless, intoxicating. Models, designers, managers, press—all moving in a delicate choreography, where one misstep could ruin an entire show. And yet, amidst all of it, there had been him.

Choi San, draped in Dolce & Gabbana, skin kissed by the stage lights, walking with the kind of controlled, effortless confidence that made people stop breathing. He was untouchable out there, a vision sculpted in luxury, every step leaving an imprint in the air. But you knew the truth. Knew what lay beneath the carefully constructed poise—the way his fingers twitched slightly when he walked off stage, adrenaline rushing through him, the way his eyes always found you first in the crowd. No one else noticed, but you did. Because you knew him.

No one else knew about the nights spent behind closed doors, the whispered words between hurried touches, the stolen glances in rooms too full of people. The industry thrived on secrecy, on illusion, and the two of you had perfected the act. In public, you were just a manager, and he was just another model. But behind locked doors?

That was something else entirely.

Now, Fashion Week was over. The lights had dimmed, the crowds had dispersed, and the city had exhaled its last breath of excitement. Milan was quiet again. And so were you, sitting in the back of a black car, your body still buzzing with the adrenaline of the past few days. Your phone vibrated once in your hand. A single message.

"Penthouse. Door’s open."

Your heartbeat tripped.

San wasn’t one for unnecessary words, but that didn’t mean his messages weren’t heavy with meaning. Penthouse. The place he had been staying—hidden away from the chaos, away from prying eyes.

The car pulled up in front of the sleek, modern building, the kind that exuded wealth and exclusivity. You stepped out, heart hammering, fingers tightening around your phone. The elevator ride felt endless, anticipation coiling low in your stomach.

When the doors slid open, the hallway was silent. And just as he’d promised—the door was unlocked.

You stepped inside, closing it softly behind you. The space was dimly lit, the glow of the city outside spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was beautiful, expensive, but your eyes didn’t linger on the decor. Because there—leaning against the kitchen counter, dark eyes locked onto you—was San.

Still dressed from earlier, black slacks hanging low on his hips, a half-unbuttoned shirt revealing the golden skin beneath. He was watching you, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips, his head tilted slightly in that way he did when he was waiting for you to make the first move.

And just like that, the last few days, the restraint, the distance—it all melted away.

Because here, behind closed doors, there was no need for pretense.

There was only him. And you.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor as you stepped further inside, the air between you humming with something electric. San hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the counter, but his gaze was heavy, dark, intent.

“You were unbelievable tonight,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, still caught in the spell of watching him command the runway. “The way you carried yourself, the confidence—San, I swear, the entire room was holding its breath.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, barely acknowledging the words, but his body had started moving. Slow, deliberate steps, closing the space between you inch by inch. His fingers toyed with the next button of his shirt, slipping it undone, exposing more of the golden skin underneath. “That so?”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting your head. “Yes. You were stunning, San. The way you—”

The next button popped open. Another step forward.

You caught the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes before his hands moved again—this time, undoing the last button in one slow, teasing motion. His shirt hung open now, framing the toned planes of his torso, the silver chain against his skin glinting under the city lights.

“Are you even listening to me, baby?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice, though your breath hitched slightly when he reached you.

San’s hands found your waist immediately, warm and insistent, pulling you flush against him. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “Haven’t heard a single word, love.” His voice was low, thick with want. “I’m too gone for you.”

And just like that, his lips were on your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin as his fingers gripped at your waist, at the fabric of your clothes, needing more, needing all of you.

You bit back a smile, pretending to ignore the way his lips were trailing heat along your neck, his fingers gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away. Instead, you let your hands wander up his chest, your touch featherlight, barely there.

“Too gone for me, huh?” you teased, your voice sweet, playful, your nails tracing the curve of his collarbone. “Then maybe I should keep talking, just to see if you can actually focus—”

San exhaled sharply through his nose, and before you could say another word, his hands were cupping your jaw, tilting your face up just so—and then his lips were on yours, claiming.

The kiss was deep, urgent, his mouth moving over yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen it, his body pressing flush against yours, letting you feel just how affected he was. His teeth scraped your bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, pulling a quiet, breathless sound from you.

“There,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky, satisfied. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve fired back with something equally teasing, but then his hands were on your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifted you with effortless strength, setting you down on the cool marble countertop.

Your knees bracketed his hips as he settled between your legs, his touch everywhere at once—hands splaying over your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, lips pressing against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“God, you’re unreal,” he breathed, fingers slipping to the first button of your shirt. He took his time, unfastening it slowly, brushing his knuckles against your skin with every movement. His touch was soft, reverent, but his body was needy, his hips pressing closer, his breath uneven as he drank you in.

He pushed the fabric apart, his fingertips tracing lightly over your newly exposed skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, warmer, almost possessive. “I don’t know how I lasted all week without this.”

His hands tightened on your waist, his lips finding yours again—deeper this time, almost desperate.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at your lips as you shifted slightly, your legs tightening around his hips. The movement pressed him closer—enough for you to feel the unmistakable hardness beneath his slacks, straining against the expensive fabric.

San’s breath stuttered, his fingers flexing against your waist, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if daring you to acknowledge what you’d done to him.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, but your hand was anything but as it trailed down his chest, over the planes of his stomach, before finally reaching the bulge between his legs.

Your fingers traced the outline slowly, deliberately, watching the way his jaw clenched, how his lashes fluttered as he exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Hm,” you mused, your voice laced with amusement. “You are faaar gone for me.”

San let out a breathy chuckle, but it was strained—like he was barely holding on. Then, in one swift movement, he caught your wrist, pressing it down against the counter beside you. His other hand grabbed the edge of your blouse, and before you could tease him again, he finished undoing the last buttons, peeling the fabric from your shoulders, exposing you completely to him.

His gaze devoured you, dark eyes trailing over every inch of newly revealed skin, his lips parting slightly, his tongue flicking out to wet them as he swallowed. His grip on your wrist loosened, his palm sliding down your arm, fingers ghosting over your ribs before settling on your waist, his touch possessive.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands squeezed at your sides, his hips pressing forward.

Then, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You know.. I’m gonna fuck you right here.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your fingers clutching at his arms as he kissed down your throat, down the curve of your shoulder.

And judging by the way his fingers were trembling slightly against your skin, you knew—he wasn’t just saying it.

He meant it.

San didn’t waste a second. The moment those words left his mouth, his hands were on you—gripping, touching, taking. His fingers slid down your back, over your waist, then lower, bunching up the fabric of your skirt with a sharp tug.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands roaming everywhere.

His lips crashed against yours, messy and desperate, while his fingers hooked into your panties. He didn’t even bother easing them down properly—just pulled them aside, then down, letting them slip past your thighs before he tossed them somewhere onto the kitchen floor.

Your breath hitched, and he felt it. Felt the way your thighs tensed slightly around his hips, how your fingers curled into his arms. He groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your knees, pulling you open for him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained, his fingers trailing over the soft skin of your inner thighs. “You know what you do to me, don’t you?”

You barely had time to answer before he reached down, fumbling with his belt. His fingers were quick, impatient, pushing his slacks down just enough—just to his knees, no further. He couldn’t be bothered to take them off completely. Not when he needed you now.

And then he was pressing forward, his body crowding you against the counter, his cock heavy and hard, brushing against your bare skin.

His hands never stopped moving—gripping at your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples, before skimming down again, squeezing, claiming.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered against your lips, panting now, his fingers digging into your hips as he lined himself up. “I can’t—”

And then he was pushing in, his head dropping to your shoulder, a wrecked moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby,” he gasped, his arms wrapping around you completely, holding you flush against him. His hands wouldn’t stop—palming over your back, up to your shoulders, back down to your ass, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you the most.

“God, you feel unreal,” he groaned, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, his hips already rolling into you, deep and slow, like he wanted to savor it.

But you could tell—his control was slipping. His breath was uneven, his fingers gripping at you like he needed to anchor himself, his body shuddering slightly every time he buried himself deeper.

And then, in a voice so desperate it nearly broke you—

“I need you.”

His lips crashed against yours again, his thrusts growing faster, rougher, his hands gripping at your waist like he was trying to pull you closer, trying to consume you completely.

Your breath hitched as he bottomed out, your walls stretching around him, the ache bordering on overwhelming. He was thick, every inch of him forcing your body to accommodate him, and he knew it. He felt it—the way your walls clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.

“Shit,” San rasped, his forehead dropping against yours again, his breath ragged, uneven. “So fucking tight—so perfect.”

His thrusts stuttered for just a second, his hands tightening on your waist, as if he was trying to breathe through it, to keep himself from absolutely losing it. But then—

“...these damn glasses,” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. In one swift motion, he reached up, yanking them off and tossing them onto the counter beside you without a second thought. And as soon as they were gone, it was like something in him snapped. And of course, you thought that was so hot.. that you clenched your thighs further on his hips, pulling yourself flusha against him

His hands were back on you instantly, gripping, pulling, dragging you into him as he fucked into you with a newfound desperation. His teeth scraped over your jaw, his lips trailing fire down your neck, his breath hot and needy against your skin.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice thick with lust, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze. His now bare eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and hungry, his brows furrowed in something close to agony. “You’re taking me so well—fuck, I could stay inside you forever.”

His hips snapped forward, rough and deep, pulling a choked gasp from your throat. He drank it in like a man starved, his fingers digging into your skin, his body pressing you so tightly against the counter that you had nowhere to go, no way to escape the way he was completely wrecking you.

“Feels so good,” he panted, his lips brushing yours with every ragged breath. “You feel so fucking good—I can’t—fuck”

And the way he said it—so raw, so utterly desperate—made something inside you snap.

His thrusts turned frantic, his rhythm faltering as he slammed into you, hips stuttering against yours. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the sheer effort of holding on just a little longer. But he was so close—you could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his moans grew more desperate, in the way his cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, dragging against your walls with every deep, shuddering thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. “Baby, I—fuck, I can’t hold it—I’m gonna—”

And then, with one final, wrecked thrust, he broke.

A deep, guttural moan ripped from his chest as he came, his arms locking around you, pulling you impossibly close. His entire body tensed, his hips pressing flush against yours as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding deep, his fingers digging into your skin like he needed to hold onto something or else he’d completely fall apart.

His breath was ragged, his body shuddering slightly as he rode out his high, his lips still pressing weak, open kisses against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—like he needed to worship you even as he unraveled.

But then—his breath hitched. His fingers flexed against your thighs.

And suddenly, despite his own exhaustion, his head lifted. His dark, blown-out eyes flickered down between your bodies, taking in the way you were still trembling, still clenching, still needing.

And just like that, his own pleasure wasn’t enough.

“No,” he murmured, his voice still breathless but laced with something firmer. “My baby hasn’t come yet.”

Before you could even process his words, he was pulling out, a slick mess of both of you trailing down your thighs. But he didn’t give you a second to mourn the loss—because the next thing you knew, he was dropping to his knees.

His hands grabbed at your thighs, spreading you open again, his breath hot against your soaked, swollen skin. And then—

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he stared. “So messy. So pretty.”

And then his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his tongue flattened against you, licking a slow, deep stripe through your folds, gathering up every last drop of you and him combined. He moaned at the taste, his hands tightening their grip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

And then he devoured you.

His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dipping back down, thrusting into you, lapping at everything you had to offer. His pace was ruthless, desperate—like he needed this just as much as you did, like he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were shaking, crying for him.

“Come for me,” he groaned against your heat, his voice wrecked, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulled you closer. “Come on, baby—let me feel you.”

San did not let up. If anything, your sounds—those breathy little gasps and whimpers—only fueled him, made him even hungrier. His tongue worked relentlessly, dragging through your folds, swirling over your clit, sucking and devouring like he couldn’t get enough of you. His nails dug into your thighs, spreading you wide, keeping you right where he wanted—helpless, shaking, his.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he groaned against you, his lips slick, messy, his voice thick with obsession. “So sweet, baby—so fucking mine.”

And then—his fingers.

One pressed against your entrance, then two, sliding in so easily from how wet you were. He groaned at the way you clenched around them, his tongue never stopping, flicking, sucking, teasing, demanding your pleasure.

“Fuck—so tight,” he rasped, curling his fingers, stroking right there, right where you needed. “Gonna come for me, baby? Hm?”

Your entire body tensed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath breaking into short, desperate gasps. You were so close—too close. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, curling perfectly, his lips wrapping around your clit—

“San—wait, I—ah—!”

But it was too late.

The pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, your back arching against the counter, your fingers tangling in his hair as you came, hard, uncontrollably, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs trembling as the orgasm tore through you, overwhelming, mind-numbing.

And San? He didn’t stop.

His tongue lapped up every drop, his fingers still moving, working you through it, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure. He groaned as you clenched around him, as you gasped his name, as you trembled beneath his mouth.

“Fuck,” he panted and looked up at you, still on his knees, his voice raw, ruined. “You look so pretty when you come, baby.”

San finally pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you trembling against the counter. He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, trailing them up your stomach, over the curve of your ribs, all the way to your heaving chest. When he finally reached your lips, he kissed you softly, a stark contrast to how he had just wrecked you.

His hands found your waist, lifting you onto unsteady feet. The second your legs wobbled, a breathless chuckle escaped him, and he tightened his hold, steadying you against his body.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured, smirking against your temple. “You can barely stand.”

You let out a weak laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder, your fingers gripping his biceps for balance. But then, as you pulled back slightly, your gaze dropped—and you saw it.

San’s cock was still achingly hard, standing thick against his abs, flushed and leaking, twitching slightly with every deep breath he took.

You giggled, lifting a shaky hand to brush over his abdomen, teasing. “What about you?”

San groaned, tilting his head back with an exasperated sigh, his fingers flexing against your waist. “We’ll take care of that later,” he muttered, though the way his jaw clenched told you just how difficult that decision was for him.

You arched a brow, still teasing. “Later?”

His dark eyes flickered back to yours, burning with something deep, possessive. His hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, making sure you felt just how hard he still was.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice low, almost dangerous. “Because if I fuck you again right now, I won’t stop—and I need you in one piece, baby.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but before you could respond, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear.

“Whenever I’m away from you,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, “I get closer and closer to insanity.” His hands squeezed at your hips, his breath hot against your skin. “You ruin me, baby.”

And the way he said it—so raw, so needy—made you realize one thing.

You were absolutely not done for the night.

NETWORKS: @illusionnet @blossomnet @mirohs-aurora-society

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @strawberry-mingi @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @memorabxlia @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @tahiraax1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz @chai0tea @miyaluvvsyou @lezleeferguson-120 @sopematesxx @joyfulcadence @puppytruther

[fangirlfuel]

Everything You’re Not

(Is Everything I Want)

---

At first, you didn’t notice it. The glances. The whispers. The comments buried in harmless conversations.

You were just the girl who loved Charles , the one who never missed a FaceTime call, who stayed up during red-eye flights just to catch a glimpse of him crossing the finish line through a blurry stream. You made him laugh when he was tired, gave him space when he was under pressure, and believed in him when the headlines didn’t.

But the more races you went to, the more it chipped away at you.

It wasn’t just the glamor. It was the quiet way you were not like them , the other girlfriends, fiancées, models, heiresses. You weren’t wearing Balenciaga. You didn’t know how to walk in sky-high heels across gravel without wobbling. You weren’t friends with designers or stylists or team principals’ wives.

You were the girl who bought Zara on sale. Who still checked your bank account before saying yes to weekend plans. Who couldn’t afford to fly to every race unless Charles offered, and when he did, your stomach twisted into guilt.

You weren’t used to being taken care of. You were used to being enough on your own.

But suddenly… you weren’t.

Not in this world.

Not when the cameras loved every other woman’s angles. Not when Twitter compared your outfit to someone else's Dior. Not when fans whispered things like, She’s cute, but she’s not WAG material.

You hated that you cared. But God, you did.

—

You didn’t bring it up to Charles. Not at first. He was already under so much pressure, the car, the strategy, the championship, the media. You didn’t want to add your fragile self-worth into the mix.

But he noticed anyway. Of course he did.

He noticed the way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way you shrank beside him at races instead of holding his hand like you used to. He noticed how you suddenly insisted on staying home. On watching from your tiny apartment with the curtains drawn. He noticed your silence more than anything.

And eventually, he asked.

Not as Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s star. Monaco’s golden boy.

Just as your boyfriend. The man who adored you.

—

He flew to see you right after the Barcelona race, skipped the fancy gala, the yacht party, all of it. Just knocked on your door in a hoodie and jeans, carrying a bag of groceries because he knew you wouldn’t have eaten.

You opened the door and tried to pretend everything was fine.

He stepped in and kissed your forehead.

“You’re lying,” he said softly. “Even your hug felt different.”

You froze.

“I’m just tired.. ”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “Tired feels different. This is something else.”

You bit your lip.

“I’m not like them, Charles,” you said suddenly, voice cracking. “And I think the whole world knows it.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard.

“The girls in the paddock. The ones on Instagram. The ones who can afford to be at every race. Who wear designer without trying. Who look like they belong in your world. I don’t. I feel like some….out-of-place tagalong who’s embarrassing you.”

His entire face fell.

You laughed bitterly, tears burning behind your eyes.

“Even when I do show up, I get compared to everyone else. I don’t want to ask you to fly me places. I don’t want to be the reason people say you could do better.”

Charles reached for you before your voice gave out.

“You are never an embarrassment,” he said fiercely, hands cupping your face. “You hear me? Never. Not for one second.”

You looked down.

“I’m just… not enough, Charles. Not for this life. Not for you.”

“Stop.”

His voice broke a little. Like he couldn’t believe you’d ever say that about yourself.

“You don’t have to wear Dior for me to love you. You don’t need to be anyone but yourself. You’re not less than because you don’t live out of a suitcase or spend ten thousand euros on a purse.”

He took a deep breath, then leaned in closer.

“You are the only person in my life who makes me feel like Charles. Not the driver. Not the brand. Just me.”

Your bottom lip trembled.

He continued, voice low and unshakable.

“You think I want someone who treats me like a trophy? You think I’d trade the way you hold my hand when I’m anxious for someone who knows how to pose for a photo? No. Never. Because you are the person I come home to !, not Monaco. You.”

You let yourself cry then, your walls cracking wide open in his arms.

“I hate that I care what people say,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to fight this alone anymore.”

You nodded against his chest.

“And for the record,” he added softly, tipping your chin up, “when you walk into the paddock? You are the most beautiful woman there.”

You scoffed through a watery smile.

“I mean it,” he said. “You walk in like you don’t even know you steal the spotlight. It kills me. Half the team has a crush on you.”

“Liar,” you mumbled, blushing.

He grinned, kissing you slow and sure.

“I love you. Not for how you look in front of a camera. Not for what you wear. Not for how rich you are.”

He brushed a tear from your cheek.

“I love you for being you. For grounding me. For making me laugh. For never treating me like I’m more than human.”

You felt your chest finally loosen, the heaviness lifting.

“You don’t have to be like anyone else, amour. I didn’t fall in love with them. I fell in love with you.”

You nodded, breath hitching.

“I’ll still get insecure sometimes,” you whispered.

“And I’ll remind you,” he said, holding you tighter. “As many times as you need.”

You melted into him.

For the first time in a long time… you felt like you belonged.

————

PS.

[enhaeil]

CATER 2 U! ☆ 박종성

"cause baby this is your day, do anything for my man, baby, you blow me away. i got your slippers, your dinner, your dessert and so much more..anything you want.. let me cater to you.."

cater 2 U - destiny's child

a/n: if u know me, no u dont. first time writing smut tho! this nasty

spoiled!wife! reader x husband!jay

cw: fluff, smut, unprotected sex, praise kink, lap dance, oral (both f&m) uhm yea thats all i think

✩ ₊˚ —

jay loves to spoil you. ever since you got with jay, you've never paid for a date, your nails, your hair; whatever you needed, he provided. he'd give you his last if you asked him for it.

jay who gets off to you spending his money. he loves seeing you in a new dress he bought. he loves seeing the nails he paid for wrapped around him in the night. he loves seeing you full of dinner from a fancy restaurant he took you to.

when asked how he does it, his explanation is quite simple:

"it's easy, love. I pay for your hair, and in return, I get a beautiful smile on your face. I buy you designer heels, you model them for me. I pay our rent, you get bent over the bed later... it's a win-win!" he says matter of factly.

but what jay fails to bring up, and what you've come to notice about the beautiful man you call husband ...

he secretly enjoys being spoiled, too.

and what better day to do it than his birthday?

— more under the cut

jay's in the mirror fixing the last few buttons on his shirt, still deciding to pick up a shift on his day because 'how else will he take you to the bahamas?'.

you lay in your shared bed, still naked and somewhat sweaty from the 'good morning, happy birthday, just because' sex that just occurred 10 minutes ago.

you tried to convince him to stay for another round, or two, or three or four, but to no avail. that's okay. y'all have till 12 AM anyway.

'alright baby, i'm off to work. i should be back soon,' he says, making his way over to your vulnerable form in the bed.

he presses a goodbye kiss to your lips, but you being needy, tries to turn into round two.

jay pulls away hesitantly. 'you're gonna make me late, love. i'll be back later, and we can have all the fun you want.'

and with that, he presses a kiss to your forehead, and he's out the door.

the moment you hear his car leave the driveway, you're up out the bed.

you take a quick shower before throwing on something casual to run a few errands. jay gets home around 6:30, so you need everything to be A1 by then.

one of the most important stops you had to make was the music shop.

your man loved guitars, it was known to everybody. so, for his biggest gift, you got him a custom-made guitar. it was made of the perfect materials and even had his initials engraved in it.

on the way back home, you also stop at a grocery store and a lingerie store, wanting to have something new for your loving husband to unwrap later.

time flies quickly, and before you know it, there's thirty minutes until jay comes home.

you take in your surroundings, giving them one last scan. you look at the giant '23' balloons you have floating around, the streamers, the flowers, the food. everything looks just how you imagined.

you spritz on one last squirt of pheromone perfume and wait on the couch for the sound of his keys.

a few minutes pass and you hear him approaching, causing you to stand up and smooth out your dress.

the door opens, and jay doesn't immediately notice everything, focused on taking his shoes off.

but man, his face when he realizes ... should've recorded that shit.

'baby... what's all this?' he says, looking around.

'happy birthday, jay. it's for you... !'

he stands there stunned, with the dopiest smile on his face. your heels finally click towards him, pressing a kiss on his lips.

'come on, let's eat.' you say, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the kitchen, purposely swishing your hips as you walk, definitely drawing attention from jay.

he tears that food UP!

he leans back in the chair, stuffed with the meal you made for him. you swiftly grab his plate and yours, throwing them on the sink, making them tomorrows problem.

you sneak behind him, rubbing his shoulders, feeling the tenseness leave his body, as he throws his head back. (if you know you know.)

god, he looks so good ... eyes blown out from being a little wine drunk, hair a little messy from work ... yea, it's time to get him up in that bed.

you lead up to your shared bedroom, stopping at the door.

'I have one more big surprise for you..'

you open the door, reveal a beautiful guitar sitting on its stand.

jay's mouth drops open before he dashes over there, picking up the instrument.

'baby... how ... you didn't have to do this for me...' he says, studying the guitar design, thick fingers grazing over the strings ... those thick... beautiful fingers ..

you stride over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, playing with the hair on his nape.

"of course I did, jay. you've given me everything i've ever wanted ... this is the least I could do.' you reassure him.

he sets the guitar back on its stand before wrapping his arms around your waist. you can tell he's been hitting the gym lately, his strong arms wrapped against you. he buries his face in your shoulder, taking in your scent.

'geez baby, you smell heavenly, this a new perfume?' he says going back in to press some kisses on your bare shoulder.

'it's a secret' you smile, parting from him, guilding him to sit on the bed. 'now wait here, i left something in the bathroom..' you say sneaking away. little did he know you had something planned.

you freshen yourself up in the bathroom and strip your dress off, revealing the black lingerie you hid under. you then hit play on your phone, cater 2 u by destiny's child blasting through the bluetooth speaker in your room.

you strut out the bathroom and make your way towards jay as the intro plays. just when this man thought you couldn't wow him more.

"Baby I see you working hard, I want to let you know I'm proud, let you know that I admire what you do. don't know if I need to reassure you, my life would be purposeless without you.."

beyonce sings through the speaker as you sway your hips and roll your body to the music.

"You inspire me to be better, you challenge me for the better, sit back and let me pour out my love letter"

jay leans back in awe, adjusting his position in reaction to his pants, starting to feel tight.

"remain the same chick, you fell in love with. I'll keep it tight, i'll keep my figure right I'll keep my hair fixed.."

you point towards jay as you make your way towards him, bending over in front him, giving him a closer look at what you have to offer him.

"when you come home late, tap me on my shoulder, I'll roll over.. baby, I heard you, i'm here to serve you. If it's love you need, to give it is my joy, all I wanna do, is cater to you boy"

you finally plop down in jay's lap, rolling your hips on top of him, chest right his face as you grind right against him.

the song continues, you feeling jay get harder underneath you with each verse as his hands rest on your hips.

you grab his face, looking right into his eyes. you see lust, want and need. but even behind that, jay's eyes are filled with so much admiration and love. as the song comes to an end, you see his eyes become glossy, causing yours to water as well.

you press a passionate, needy kiss to his lips as your hips continue to the beat.

the song finally ends, but your hips don't. dangerously in love comes on next in the recommended songs, perfect.

you and jay's kisses progressively become more rushed, both of your bodies falling back onto the bed, you straddling him.

your hips never stop moving, as you grind on him through his pants.

'fuck, princess ... keep moving like that.'

you do exactly that, hands trailing down to the buttons of his shirt, exposing his bare chest. you lean down to kiss down his chest, leaving marks as you go down.

you finally get off him, giving jay a second to catch his breath. your hands fly to his belt, unbuckling it and pulling down his pants, revealing what's underneath.

typically, jay is the one going down on you. one of his favorite activities, truly. he won't even ask you for head, for he feels its degrading, but that never stopped you and it definitely won't tonight.

you rid his boxers and lick a stripe up his length, making him groan out loud.

you've been needy for your husband since this morning, so you don't waste any time taking him in your mouth.

jay let's out another strangled groan, almost as if he tried to hold it in but couldn't anymore.

you use every trick you know he likes, trying to have him hurdling towards the edge before he can even realize.

'mm... i love this dick..' you say taking him back into your mouth.

you notice jay had a physical reaction to that ... this man has a praise kink. you decide you're going to use this to your advantage tonight.

you wrap your hands around what's not in your mouth and hum against him.

'my handsome husband... treats me so fucking good. just wanna suck him dry as a thank you ...' you say looking at him throught your lashes.

jay's hips jerk up. you can tell he's really close.

you take him all the way to the back of your throat, tears brimming at your eyes as swallow around him. jay's hands hover over your head, his stomach contracting.

'fuck baby i'm gonna cum..' he says, breathing increasing.

you hum against him again, moving your head up and down, sucking him like it's your life's mission.

you take him to the back of your throat one more time before he releases, shooting down your throat with a loud moan.

you continue to work him through his orgasm, happily swallowing what he gives you and continuing to lick him up.

you finally get up from your position, giving jay a goofy smile like you didn't almost end him.

'bring that ass up here, pretty.' he says as his hands, signal for you to come closer.

he pulls you in for a nasty, lustful kiss, one that says everything you need to know. he pulls apart, readjusting himself on the pillow, giving you a look you know all too well.

'jay... tonights about you only..!' you say, rubbing your hands on his chest.

'exactly ... and right now, I want to taste you.

the look he gives you sends shivers down your spine as you climb your way up to his face. you hover over his lips before he pulls your set to the side, grabs your waist, and forces you down.

you let out a sharp moan as you feel him work his magic on you. this man truly is good at everything he does.

he eats you like he's starved. like he's been denied the taste of heaven for years and doesn't know if he'll ever have it again after this. like he's been waiting for this moment.

'yes- fuck, jay ... it's yours, baby i promise.'

he hums against you, only speeding up his actions, head moving side to side.

you would be embarrassed, you know, at the amount of slurping and wet noises coming from down there, but he doesn't even give you the breath to. before you know it you're cumming all over his face.

jay pulls away with a pop before you hop off him.

'still got another round in you, baby?' you say grabbing his length and getting it ready for you.

'i'm ready to put a baby in you if anything. you look so good like this.' he says, rubbing your ass as you get ready to arch for him.

you giggle at his comment, but luckily, he didn't see you clench at the thought of being filled up.

you make your arch as deep as possible before wiggling your ass in front of him. he gives it a slap before rubbing himself through your folds, covering himself in your slick.

he finally slides himself in, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding. he gives you a second to adjust before he pulls himself nearly out and slams back into you.

jay knows your body like the back of his own hand, so it doesn't take him long to make you feel like your gonna cum.

'fuck baby ... you're s-so fucking deep.' you say as each thrust lunges you foward.

jay sounds angelic as he moans every few thrust. that's enough to get you pregnant right there.

'yea baby? 's too much?" he says, slowing down, making you feel every ridge and inch.

'mm-m no ... fuck it's so good..'

he picks his pace back up, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

'you close, baby? you gonna cum for me?" he speaks as he reaches for your hand.

'yes jay fuck... keep fucking me like that.. this pussy's all yours..'

''m gonna make you a daddy.."

jay's pace falters immediately, thrusts becoming uneven.

'fuck, y/n, you can't just say that.' he says eyebrows scrunching. you can tell he's close.

'please jay ... i want it so bad ... want you to cum so deep inside me ... wanna give you a baby jay ... you're gonna be such a good father..- fuck you're gonna make me cum.'

jay lifts your leg up, forcing himself deep inside as he releases right there, triggering your release right after.

after a few minutes, jay finally lifts up off you and pulls out, being careful not to waste anything.

'you really wanna have a baby?' he says as you guys lay there, catching your breath.

'jay, you're literally the best man I could ask for. i'd give you 9 kids if you asked me to."

he laughs at your statement before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

'9 kids it is.'

[jellesreid]

Father’s Day

In which Spencer and his daughter have a daddy daughter date at the thrift shop before going home to reader!mom for Father’s Day fun. (Fluff!)

masterlist

tags: Father’s day, dad!spencer, mom!reader, thrift shop, thrifting, clothes shopping, cafe date, daddy/daughter day, cuddling, gift recieving, tea party.

warnings: None! super fluffy for Father’s day

Note: Sorry that I’m not writing as frequently I promise I’ll be writing more soon, thank you for the love on all my fan fics it’s very much appreciated!

—————————💘————————-

The first unusual thing about today was that you had a lay-in, something you hadn’t had since giving birth to your and Spencer’s daughter just shy of four years ago. The second unusual thing was that the side of your bed that was occupied by your husband was empty and cold. That was something that happened occasionally due to his job; however, in his place was always your curly-haired princess, but not this time. 

You rubbed your eyes a little confused and saw the notification on the phone saying Spencer had left home around an hour ago. 

You sat up and turned to the side spotting a handwritten note next to a, now, cold cup of coffee. 

Good morning Sweetheart, 

I made you coffee in case you’re up soon. Don’t worry when you see Delilah and I aren’t home, I’ve taken her out to get a blueberry croissant and to the thrift shop. She can model her clothes when we are home. 

I love you, sleep well.

Spencer Reid. 

You giggled at him signing off this letter with his full name but your heart warmed at the relationship he had with your child. That’s when you remember what day it was, Father’s day. 

———————————————————

Across town, Spencer was driving to the thrift store with his favourite person in the world besides you in the back of the car munching on a blueberry croissant allowing all the flaky pieces of pastry to fall to the floor. 

“Are you enjoying that honey?” Spencer asked, looking into the rearview mirror. 

“Mhm,” Delilah managed back as her mouth was stuffed full. 

Spencer pulled into the car park not too far from the door and waited for Delilah to finish eating.

“Do you think Mommy is awake?” She asked still chewing her food.

“Maybe, are you done?” 

“Yep,” She put the pastry bag on the seat next to her, “What do we look for here Daddy?” She asked while Spencer unclipped the seat belt for her car seat. 

“We can look for anything in here, hopefully, there will be some pretty clothes for you.”

Delilah took hold of Spencer’s hand as they walked across the car park and inside the door of the thrift store. 

“Oh, it’s very big, wow!” She said taking in her surroundings. 

“It is,” he smiled down at her as they walked to the children’s section in the thrift. 

“Should we call mommy?” 

“I think we should surprise her with the pretty outfits we find for you, honey.”

“But she might feel left out,” Delilah pouted. 

“She’ll be fine darling, you can show her everything when we get home,” Spencer said as he picked up a pair of baggy jeans with a flower on the back pocket that had been designed with pink gems, “Do you like these?” 

“Uh huh, pretty flower and PINK!” 

“Do you want to help me look?” Spencer ruffled his daughter's curly hair.

She scrunched her nose and nodded before going to the next clothing rail grabbing the hem of each item to look through the clothes as she was too small to reach the coat hangers. 

“DADA! They have Hello Kitty!!” A small yell echoed across the aisles not long after she’d gone to explore. 

Spencer made his way to Delilah carrying a few pieces of clothing he had found for her, “Show me, honey.”

Delilah pointed to the t-shirt, letting her dad take it from the rail. The top was long sleeved with a small hello kitty on the front.

“Would you like that one sweetheart?” 

Delilah nodded her head quickly, “Yes please.”

After a little more shopping Spencer and Delilah had compiled enough clothes to call the thrift shop successful and head home. 

———————————————————

Upon opening the door Spencer heard the sound of the TV coming from their bedroom and as soon as the sound hit Delilah’s ears too her face lit up with a big smile squirming for Spencer to put her down. 

She took off toward the bedroom while Spencer carried the bags of clothes into the house and up to the bedroom where he caught sight of you and your daughter cuddling on the bed. 

“Well aren’t you both gorgeous,” He smiled widely, his heart exploding.

“Yes I am,” Delilah answered proudly which earned a laugh from you and Spencer. 

“What have you both been up to then?” You asked. 

“We got clothes!” Delilah answered. 

“Did you? Were there lots of nice things?” 

The curly-haired girl nodded and looked at Spencer.

“Oh yes there were lots of pinks and flowers and Hello Kitty pieces,” Spencer added after Delilah’s prompt.

“Would you like to show me, Lilah?” You asked brushing down her curls that had gone fluffy since she dived onto the bed moments ago.

“Uh-huh! Like, try on?” 

“If you’d like to sweetie, I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t mind helping you.”

You sat up in bed and waited for Spencer and Delilah to come back through to model her outfits. 

The brunette girl walked into the bedroom with her hands on her hips in a summer dress covered in pink hibiscus flowers. 

“Oh beautiful honey,” You smiled. 

“Love?” Delilah asked, posing for you. 

“Yes, I love it.”

“Okay, next!” Delilah scurried out of the bedroom and back to her room to change into the next outfit. 

The next time she came back she was wearing the jeans Spencer first picked up along with the Hello Kitty shirt she had found herself.

“Oh honey, you look adorable,” You spoke with adoration. 

“Isn’t she just?” Spencer said walking in after her. 

“I’m adorable because you made me Mommy,” Delilah scrunched her nose with a giggle. 

You laugh and Spencer nods, “I agree with her actually.”

After a few more outfits had been tried on Delilah flopped onto the bed as if she were exhausted. 

“Sweetheart, don’t you have something for Daddy?” 

Delilah gasped and whispered, “Is today Daddy’s day?!”

You nodded and watched as she slid off the bed and rushed out of the room. Spencer sat beside you on the bed, wrapping an arm around you. 

“Happy Father’s Day babe,” You said, snuggling closer to him and leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for making me a father,” Spencer said hugging you tighter.

Delilah rushed back through with the card she had made Spencer at school, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!” She jumped onto the bed, passing the card over to him. 

The card was decorated with blue glitter and lots of hearts and her best drawing of herself, Spencer and you. Inside the card, she had tried to write in her best handwriting, ‘To Daddy,

Happy Father’s Day. Lots of love Lilah’ but a few of the words had been misspelt. 

“Thank you sweetheart, I love you lots too,” He said pulling her closer with his spare arm and kissing her head. 

“I was thinking,” Delilah looked up at Spencer, “For your Daddy’s Day present we could have a tea party?” Her mannerisms gave the impression that she was shy to ask with the way she tried to bury her face into him and only look up at him when she was trying to use her puppy dog eyes but they were simply exaggerated. She knew she would always get what she wanted with Spencer, he could never say no to her.

So, his Father’s Day was clearly going to be spent having a tea party with the best thing that ever happened to him besides you. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The US Copyright Office frees the McFlurry

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I have spent a quarter century obsessed with the weirdest corner of the weirdest section of the worst internet law on the US statute books: Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the 1998 law that makes it a felony to help someone change how their own computer works so it serves them, rather than a distant corporation.

Under DMCA 1201, giving someone a tool to "bypass an access control for a copyrighted work" is a felony punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500k fine – for a first offense. This law can refer to access controls for traditional copyrighted works, like movies. Under DMCA 1201, if you help someone with photosensitive epilepsy add a plug-in to the Netflix player in their browser that blocks strobing pictures that can trigger seizures, you're a felon:

https://lists.w3.org/Archives/Public/public-html-media/2017Jul/0005.html

But software is a copyrighted work, and everything from printer cartridges to car-engine parts have software in them. If the manufacturer puts an "access control" on that software, they can send their customers (and competitors) to prison for passing around tools to help them fix their cars or use third-party ink.

Now, even though the DMCA is a copyright law (that's what the "C" in DMCA stands for, after all); and even though blocking video strobes, using third party ink, and fixing your car are not copyright violations, the DMCA can still send you to prison, for a long-ass time for doing these things, provided the manufacturer designs their product so that using it the way that suits you best involves getting around an "access control."

As you might expect, this is quite a tempting proposition for any manufacturer hoping to enshittify their products, because they know you can't legally disenshittify them. These access controls have metastasized into every kind of device imaginable.

Garage-door openers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Refrigerators:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/12/digital-feudalism/#filtergate

Dishwashers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/03/cassette-rewinder/#disher-bob

Treadmills:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/22/vapescreen/#jane-get-me-off-this-crazy-thing

Tractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

Cars:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty

And even printer paper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#dymo-550

DMCA 1201 is the brainchild of Bruce Lehmann, Bill Clinton's Copyright Czar, who was repeatedly warned that cancerous proliferation this was the foreseeable, inevitable outcome of his pet policy. As a sop to his critics, Lehman added a largely ornamental safety valve to his law, ordering the US Copyright Office to invite submissions every three years petitioning for "use exemptions" to the blanket ban on circumventing access-controls.

I call this "ornamental" because if the Copyright Office thinks that, say, it should be legal for you to bypass an access control to use third-party ink in your printer, or a third-party app store in your phone, all they can do under DMCA 1201 is grant you the right to use a circumvention tool. But they can't give you the right to acquire that tool.

I know that sounds confusing, but that's only because it's very, very stupid. How stupid? Well, in 2001, the US Trade Representative arm-twisted the EU into adopting its own version of this law (Article 6 of the EUCD), and in 2003, Norway added the law to its lawbooks. On the eve of that addition, I traveled to Oslo to debate the minister involved:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/28/clintons-ghost/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

The minister praised his law, explaining that it gave blind people the right to bypass access controls on ebooks so that they could feed them to screen readers, Braille printers, and other assistive tools. OK, I said, but how do they get the software that jailbreaks their ebooks so they can make use of this exemption? Am I allowed to give them that tool?

No, the minister said, you're not allowed to do that, that would be a crime.

Is the Norwegian government allowed to give them that tool? No. How about a blind rights advocacy group? No, not them either. A university computer science department? Nope. A commercial vendor? Certainly not.

No, the minister explained, under his law, a blind person would be expected to personally reverse engineer a program like Adobe E-Reader, in hopes of discovering a defect that they could exploit by writing a program to extract the ebook text.

Oh, I said. But if a blind person did manage to do this, could they supply that tool to other blind people?

Well, no, the minister said. Each and every blind person must personally – without any help from anyone else – figure out how to reverse-engineer the ebook program, and then individually author their own alternative reader program that worked with the text of their ebooks.

That is what is meant by a use exemption without a tools exemption. It's useless. A sick joke, even.

The US Copyright Office has been valiantly holding exemptions proceedings every three years since the start of this century, and they've granted many sensible exemptions, including ones to benefit people with disabilities, or to let you jailbreak your phone, or let media professors extract video clips from DVDs, and so on. Tens of thousands of person-hours have been flushed into this pointless exercise, generating a long list of things you are now technically allowed to do, but only if you are a reverse-engineering specialist type of computer programmer who can manage the process from beginning to end in total isolation and secrecy.

But there is one kind of use exception the Copyright Office can grant that is potentially game-changing: an exemption for decoding diagnostic codes.

You see, DMCA 1201 has been a critical weapon for the corporate anti-repair movement. By scrambling error codes in cars, tractors, appliances, insulin pumps, phones and other devices, manufacturers can wage war on independent repair, depriving third-party technicians of the diagnostic information they need to figure out how to fix your stuff and keep it going.

This is bad enough in normal times, but during the acute phase of the covid pandemic, hospitals found themselves unable to maintain their ventilators because of access controls. Nearly all ventilators come from a single med-tech monopolist, Medtronic, which charges hospitals hundreds of dollars to dispatch their own repair technicians to fix its products. But when covid ended nearly all travel, Medtronic could no longer provide on-site calls. Thankfully, an anonymous hacker started building homemade (illegal) circumvention devices to let hospital technicians fix the ventilators themselves, improvising housings for them from old clock radios, guitar pedals and whatever else was to hand, then mailing them anonymously to hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#medtronic-again

Once a manufacturer monopolizes repair in this way, they can force you to use their official service depots, charging you as much as they'd like; requiring you to use their official, expensive replacement parts; and dictating when your gadget is "too broken to fix," forcing you to buy a new one. That's bad enough when we're talking about refusing to fix a phone so you buy a new one – but imagine having a spinal injury and relying on a $100,000 exoskeleton to get from place to place and prevent muscle wasting, clots, and other immobility-related conditions, only to have the manufacturer decide that the gadget is too old to fix and refusing to give you the technical assistance to replace a watch battery so that you can get around again:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/26/24255074/former-jockey-michael-straight-exoskeleton-repair-battery

When the US Copyright Office grants a use exemption for extracting diagnostic codes from a busted device, they empower repair advocates to put that gadget up on a workbench and torture it into giving up those codes. The codes can then be integrated into an unofficial diagnostic tool, one that can make sense of the scrambled, obfuscated error codes that a device sends when it breaks – without having to unscramble them. In other words, only the company that makes the diagnostic tool has to bypass an access control, but the people who use that tool later do not violate DMCA 1201.

This is all relevant this month because the US Copyright Office just released the latest batch of 1201 exemptions, and among them is the right to circumvent access controls "allowing for repair of retail-level food preparation equipment":

https://publicknowledge.org/public-knowledge-ifixit-free-the-mcflurry-win-copyright-office-dmca-exemption-for-ice-cream-machines/

While this covers all kinds of food prep gear, the exemption request – filed by Public Knowledge and Ifixit – was inspired by the bizarre war over the tragically fragile McFlurry machine. These machines – which extrude soft-serve frozen desserts – are notoriously failure-prone, with 5-16% of them broken at any given time. Taylor, the giant kitchen tech company that makes the machines, charges franchisees a fortune to repair them, producing a steady stream of profits for the company.

This sleazy business prompted some ice-cream hackers to found a startup called Kytch, a high-powered automation and diagnostic tool that was hugely popular with McDonald's franchisees (the gadget was partially designed by the legendary hardware hacker Andrew "bunnie" Huang!).

In response, Taylor played dirty, making a less-capable clone of the Kytch, trying to buy Kytch out, and teaming up with McDonald's corporate to bombard franchisees with legal scare-stories about the dangers of using a Kytch to keep their soft-serve flowing, thanks to DMCA 1201:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Kytch isn't the only beneficiary of the new exemption: all kinds of industrial kitchen equipment is covered. In upholding the Right to Repair, the Copyright Office overruled objections of some of its closest historical allies, the Entertainment Software Association, Motion Picture Association, and Recording Industry Association of America, who all sided with Taylor and McDonald's and opposed the exemption:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/10/us-copyright-office-frees-the-mcflurry-allowing-repair-of-ice-cream-machines/

This is literally the only useful kind of DMCA 1201 exemption the Copyright Office can grant, and the fact that they granted it (along with a similar exemption for medical devices) is a welcome bright spot. But make no mistake, the fact that we finally found a narrow way in which DMCA 1201 can be made slightly less stupid does not redeem this outrageous law. It should still be repealed and condemned to the scrapheap of history.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[lanf1an]

DREAMS lando norris pt.7 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.8

Next race weekend you walked on to the paddock unsuspectingly. But you couldn’t not notice multiple press taking your photo. Someone had shot a photo of you or your outfit before, but never this many.

You were barely five minutes into the paddock when the first question came—not for a quote, not about his suit or his styling, but about you.

“Excuse me—” A reporter stepped into your path, microphone in hand. “Can we get a quick comment?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—uh, I don’t really—”

“You and Lando Norris seem close. Should fans be reading into that?”

Your stomach tightened. “I’m just here for work.”

“Come on,” the reporter pressed, a smirk playing on his lips. “No truth to the rumors? No secret romance?”

Before you could respond, a familiar hand landed on your lower back, a firm presence against you.

“That’s enough,” Lando’s voice cut in, smooth but commanding.

The reporter’s smirk faltered. “Just doing my job.”

“Then ask about racing,” Lando replied easily, guiding you past them with a subtle grip. He didn’t drop his hand until you were inside the McLaren hospitality, away from prying eyes.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “That was ridiculous.”

Lando leaned against the counter, watching you. “You okay?”

You nodded, even though your pulse was still racing. “I just—ugh. This is exactly what I didn’t want.” You really wanted to be professional, working at LV.

He studied you for a moment before sighing. “Just stay in hospitality for the rest of the day.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look he gave you made it clear—he wasn’t asking.

“I’ll get them to back off,” he added, jaw clenched. “But just stay in here.”

So, you stayed.

Hours later, as you were going over some last-minute details, Max leaned against the counter beside you, an amused smirk on his face.

“You know why they’re all watching you noe, right?”

You glanced up. “Because reporters are vultures?”

Max chuckled.“Well, yeah. But also because Lando’s stopped screwing around.”

Your blinked. ���What?”

Max shrugged. “Think about it. Lando’s always had random girls floating around, models, party girls, but for the past couple weeks? Nothing. Just you. They noticed.”

You stared at Max, throat suddenly dry.

He shrugged. “I just think it’s funny you haven’t noticed.”

-

That night after the race, you were at the club with the McLaren team, Lando and you had discussed a plan.

“You sure about this?” he asked, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Positive,” you replied. “Let’s give them something else to talk about.”

The plan was simple: flirt with other people, redirect the media’s attention, kill the narrative before it got too real.

You spotted a Red Bull engineer leaning against the bar and made your way over, offering a bright smile and just the right amount of laughter. Lando, meanwhile, let himself get cornered by two models who clearly didn’t care about F1.

From across the club, your eyes met. And held.

His jaw tightened.

You quickly turned back, not wanting to see him with the girls, focusing on the guy in front of you, lightly touching his arm and whispering something in his ear. 

Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Lando: Come outside. Now.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool air hit you—followed immediately by Lando.

“Bad idea, we’re going home” he said, voice low, shaking his head. 

You nodded, the car ride back to the hotel was tense. Silent.

Inside your room, he shut the door behind him with a soft click. You turned to say something—anything—but he was already crossing the space between you.

Lando pressed you against the wall, mouth crashing against yours, all frustration and tension and unspoken words. His hands roamed over your body, gripping, claiming, desperate.

“I hated that,” he breathed, kissing down your neck.

“You told me to flirt,” you whispered, tilting your head back.

“I didn’t think I’d hate it this much.”

Your hands were already tugging at his jacket, your voice breathless. “I didn’t think I would either.”

His voice was low in the dark. “Is this what it’s going to be like?”

You swallowed. “What?”

“The press. The attention.” His voice was softer now, more serious. “Flirting with other people just to prove a point.”

You hesitated. “I just… I don’t know how to handle all of this.”

Lando exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. “Then let me handle it.”

—

Except, it was Louis Vuitton who handled it when she got called in a few days later.

The rumor buzz hadn’t died down.

If anything, it had only gotten louder since the club night. The media had latched onto her like hungry wolves, headlines speculating everything from secret relationships to "McLaren’s mystery girl." She avoided the comments, scrolled past the tagged photos, but they lingered like smoke.

You walked into the office. The room was cool and modern, sterile in that corporate-chic way, and your boss was already seated, tablet in hand. Another woman you vaguely recognized from PR was leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually.

“Take a seat,” she said said, not unkindly. “This won’t take long.”

You sat, knees tightly together, palms on your thighs. Trying not to look like you were bracing yourself.

“We’re moving you,” she said. “It’s a good thing.”

“Moving me where?”

“To the new Real Madrid partnership team. It’s a big rollout, very high profile. We need sharp people on it.” Her tone was firm but complimentary. “You’ve done good work. This is a step up.”

Your stomach fluttered. This should’ve been a dream. A high-profile campaign. A nod from the top. 

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity.”

The woman from PR spoke then, casual, almost teasing. “Just, a word of advice, at Louis Vuitton we do not mix our personal interests with our clientele.” Her smirk didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve got real talent. Would be a shame.”

It was framed as a reward. And it was, in a way. But the subtext was loud and clear.

“We’ll loop you in with the Madrid team this week,” Marta said, already looking at her tablet again. “Exciting times.”

“Absolutely,” you murmured, already halfway out the door.

You didn’t let herself breathe until you were outside. 

You realized how lucky you were you got a promotion instead of being fired at your dream job, and you hated the fact you had almost messed it up.

—

WN: Im back???!!! I still have many chapters for this story in my drafts so i would like to finish it, so sorry for the long break!! Might even finish my other story or write one shots/shorter stories, requests welcome xx

tl: @freyathehuntress @linnygirl09 @sarx164 @joannaln4 @widow-cevans @444-leqz @laneyspaulding19 @mayax2o07@n3versatisfied @anayaverse @tvdtw4ever @honethatty12 @meyla123x @liz140569

[jhdyuiee]

After Hours

★ pairing: model!jaehyun x fem!reader

★ tags/warnings: smut!, fluff (at the end :p), semi-public sex, car sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, making out/kissing, oral (m receiving), tit job, fingering, cum eating, jae is a honkey dog (:3)

★ w.c: 1.6k

★ a.n: hi! it’s been a chaotic last couple of weeks but i’ve returned!!! this might be a short one but after all the jaehyun angst i’ve been releasing, i think we need a good little hehe ;) . enjoy this one, i love yall & don’t forget to take care & stay safe! jiji out 🤍

***

“open your mouth a bit more, love.”

“w-wait j-jae,” you muttered before his lips came crashing into yours. you almost lost yourself in the moment, in jaehyun’s lips before you were brought back to reality.

the party, after party.

you gently push him off you, he groans. you guys were tucked away in a dimly lit hallway, away from the eyes of the attendees.

it was your boyfriend’s big day; he walked first on the runway for a top designer brand. he brought you along, and you couldn’t help but proudly admire your boyfriend on his big day. he shunned the brightest, perhaps you were a little biased.

and now you two attended the after party, but it seems the drinks got to jaehyun. you should’ve known when he started to subtly touch you, leaving a burning blaze along your body. and it wasn’t until he whisked you two into some hallway that you knew it was serious, you could feel it in his already hardened member that was pressed against your stomach.

jaehyun kissed you with such possessiveness and want, while holding your face so warmly. you eventually became too lost in the pleasure, feeling yourself melting into him by the second. your arms intertwined around his neck, pulling him closer to your body. his warmth seeped through your beautifully made dress, nearly melting the thing off your body.

his tongue delving into your mouth, teasing your own. this wasn’t even a kiss no more, it was something else, something deeper. you couldn’t even breathe anymore.

“wa-wait, le-let’s go-go some-somewhere el-else,” you said breathlessly. you didn’t want to part away from him but if you didn’t, you would’ve collapsed.

jaehyun doesn’t say anything. he goes silent, noting his unreadable expression. he just comes back to your lips, using his teeth to tug your bottom lip before licking it.

grabbing your wrist, jaehyun drags you out of the dimly lit hallway. it was almost like you two were being chased, trying to get through herds of people.

once you two were outside the venue, cameras clicked, snapping shots of you two; the loving couple.

thankfully the limousine arrived soon. jaehyun lets you go first before hopping in next. the driver shuts the door, and jaehyun takes the opportunity to shut the tinted window separating you two from the driver.

“get on your knees love,” jaehyun says as he begins to free his strained cock from his pants.

you were on your knees in no time, staring right at his aching cock. already leaking with his pre, you tried inching forward but he stopped you.

“let me see your tits first, please,” he says, practically begging.

sliding the straps off, your tits are freed. jaehyun groans, bringing his hands to fondle them. you moaned his name when he let go of them with a pinch.

“come a bit closer now, love.”

and you do, practically a centimeter or two away from his cock. jaehyun’s hands came back to your tits, holding them together before sliding his cock in between them. you both whimpered, equally enjoying this.

jaehyun lost himself in the way you began to spit on his tip, giving him easier access to slide between your tits. the way you used your mouth to bring whatever you could into your mouth, left him weak. he felt himself getting closer, he felt it in the way he started twitching. fucking your tits faster until he finally came in your mouth.

feeling his hot seeds in your mouth, you swallowed them all, leaving not a single drop to waste. “fuck, you’re too perfect,” he grunts, grabbing onto your jaw before colliding his lips onto yours again. he could taste himself on you. it was almost animalistic, the way you two were lost in your own erotic world.

you climbed on his lap, his arms traveling underneath your dress to cup your ass. he played with the flesh of skin as his tongue continued its exploration inside your mouth. when the two of you departed you could see the saliva that connected you two.

moving a hand to your panties, he could feel as your juices soaked it through. “fuck, so wet. you’re a dirty girl aren’t you?”

he has a way with words, a way that gets you weak in the knees. he toys with your cunt, rubbing your clit teasingly. you could’ve cum from just this foreplay if it weren’t for the way he stopped.

“come on, ride me love,” jaehyun asked as he slid your panties to the side.

sinking onto his cock, slowly, you feel it stretching your gummy walls. his cock never fails to satisfy your every need. you grabbed onto his shoulders for some leverage, your eyes watching as he watched where you two connected. jaehyun decides to take matters into his own hands, grabbing your hips to shove you down on the extra inch that was left.

“j-jaehyun!” you moaned, long forgetting you two were still in the limousine.

“you’re beautiful,” he grunts, admiring how you look on top of him. his girl.

he helps guide your hips to bounce on his cock, eventually stopping when you get the hang of it. you pick up on your pace later on, letting his cock deliciously stretch you out.

jaehyun watched as you got lost in your own world, in his cock. sliding his hands to your ass again, gripping it until he roughly slaps each cheek. he watches your face twist in both confusion and pleasure. he continues the action until he’s sure you won’t be able to sit on your ass the next day.

he stops, using his hands to guide you back onto his cock. jaehyun helps you by thrusting his hips into your wet cunt.

it got rough and intense, your walls pulsing around his cock the deeper he reached you. you neared your end, nearly seeing the stars as you felt your tummy knot.

jaehyun grabs your hand, pressing it to your tummy. “feel my cock? fuck- so deep, yeah?” you don’t respond, blabbering nonsense. feeling him as he fucked you ignited something within you. the way he hit your womb, if only he could…

“fuck, i’m close love, should i let it out inside, breed you? fuck my seed into you until you’re pregnant with our child?”

shit, jaehyun really does have a way with words. he was gonna be the death of you.

“y-yes! gi-give me yo-your ba-baby!” you moaned, feeling yourself also close to coming.

“fuck, don’t worry baby, i’ll give you my child,” he grunts. you could feel him twitch inside you before giving you a thrust that got you seeing stars.

you came all over his lap, coating him in your juices; his delicacy. not long after jaehyun came too, now coating your sweet pussy with his cum.

you collapsed on his shoulder, still feeling as the car continued to move. however jaehyun didn’t care, he didn’t even let you rest before he had his fingers inside you.

one digit, two, then three inside your leaking pussy, trying to fuck his cum back into you. “i’m serious about the child, love. i’m not gonna stop until i’m sure you’re pregnant,” he whispers into your ear.

you were still quite sensitive from your previous orgasm that you came almost instantly, mini orgasms coming afterwards. jaehyun didn’t stop fucking his fingers until a while afterwards, orgams afterwards. you even passed out before you could even feel when you two arrived, when he carried you back into your hotel room.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

the next morning.

you tried opening your eyes, but the morning sun was too bright as it seeped through the room. yet once you regained your eyes you saw your boyfriend, jaehyun plopped on his elbow.

“good morning love,” he says as he leans down to peck your cheek.

it was almost as if the small kiss triggered something because the recollection of last night replayed in your mind. you felt your face get hot. you quickly prayed the driver didn’t hear your piercing moans.

“what’re you getting all shy about?” jaehyun asks, almost sounding teasingly.

“don’t act dumb,” you grumbled. jaehyun chuckles, leaning back down to capture your lips. a completely opposite kiss from last night’s.

“i’m sorry, but not sorry about that. i mean how could i resist you when you looked so gorgeous last night,” he admits. your face feels even more hot. you were going to die from embarrassment, not his words.

“you’re just too cute,” jaehyun chuckled, pecking your lips before getting up. he walked towards the bathroom before stopping.

“oh, and love, i’m serious about the baby. if you want we can-“ jaehyun started saying before you threw a pillow at him.

unfortunately you missed, jaehyun erupts in a fit of laughter. he holds his stomach, your reaction is just too funny. “stop laughing before i go over there myself,” you threatened the man you love.

he holds his hands up in defeat. “alright, alright i’ll stop. how about instead we stop by milan for a nice stroll and get some ice cream?”

your eyes instantly lit up. “yes!” you shout, too excited.

jaehyun smiles, “and then we’ll come back to the hotel for some baby-making,” he says before making his way to the bathroom.

you’re rendered speechless, he just won’t give up. well, lucky for you, you won’t either. the thought of forming a family with jaehyun is all too beautiful, too perfect.

getting up, slightly struggling, you knock on the bathroom door. “i’ll look forward to the ice cream,” you paused. “… and the… baby-making.”

you didn’t have time to go back to the bed before jaehyun dragged you into the bathroom. you gigled, and so learned he wouldn’t be able to uphold his promise to have sex after the ice cream date.

***

© jhdyuiee

2024. 10. 06

final a.n: the end! tune in next week for 2 new stories (maybe even 3) hehe!!! thank you for 300 followers as well (i’m a bit late :/) but nonetheless thank you for the support, thank you for being my motivation!!!! i love you all so much, take care! <3

[austinbutlerslovers]

Romantic Rêverie

Label Mature 18+

Summary Being with Austin in Paris fills your heart with amour for him. Especially when he can't keep his hands off of you during the YSL Fashion show, and even more so when you can't wait for him to ravage you back in your penthouse suite.

🔗 Masterlist

💝Romantic Smut💝 Austin loving •affectionate •intuitive • physical touch•love language wait for it • good girl •praising •patient •passionate•eye contact • enjoys watching you come• still hard girl • on top• body worship• consecutive ejaculations• everyone knows his name• orgasms •creampie

*Written by popular demand with @butdaddyilovehim99 🤤🩷

Romantic Rêverie

The sleek car door opens and the Parisian night air is crisp against your skin as you step out with Austin. 

Flashbulbs explode around you, the chaos of cameras and shouted names blending into a blur, but you forget all of it the instant you feel the warmth of Austin’s palm settle on your hip.

He guides you effortlessly on the red carpet, his fingers pressing through the sleek fabric of your dress as he walks you up the grand steps. His pace is confident, measured, every movement of his body like foreplay, the way he glances at you, the way his thumb grazes your lower back.

On top of it all, he looks devastating.

His suit is midnight blue, so dark it’s nearly black, the kind of color that only reveals itself under the right light. The tailoring is loose in a modern cut on his sculpted frame, the crisp white collar of his dress shirt holding a black tie with the faintest silver stripes neatly against his chest.

You’re captivated as you stare at him, utterly and hopelessly caught in his rêverie.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear, amusement laced in his tone as his fingers trail over your hip.

“You keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it through the show,” he teases, his voice dipping lower, softer, something  just for you.

You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks that he’s already caught you, and his blue eyes darken knowing exactly how much you want him.

Inside, the Palais de Tokyo is magnificent. The hall glows with warm, golden light illuminating from polished marble walls, the high ceilings amplifying the hum of conversation. 

The space is filled with an elite crowd, fashion icons, designers, ambassadors, everyone dressed in the pinnacle of Parisian luxury.

Champagne glasses are passed to you both as Austin mingles effortlessly. He moves through the crowd greeting and chatting up his peers with the kind of presence that draws everyone’s attention without seeking it.

When your champagne is refilled again Austin smiles at you lifting his glass “Saint Laurent can put on a show,” he teases clinking his glass against yours, his blue eyes gleaming in the low light.

You smile as you take a sip, the crisp bubbles tickling your tongue, but you barely register the feel—Not when Austin is standing this close, when his suit is brushing against you, when his voice is a deep steady timbre as he exchanges pleasantries with another guest while his fingers trail up your side.

As the lights dim to signal the start of the show Austin’s hand finds the small of your back guiding you gently to the front row 

He takes his seat beside you, his long legs crossing effortlessly, one arm draping over his knee as his presence radiates quiet confidence.

As the lights rise, the runway comes to life. The first notes of the music hum through the venue in a deep pulsing rhythm that vibrates the space, setting the tone for the event. 

Models emerge one by one, striding with effortless grace, their silhouettes sharp against the illuminated backdrop.

Austin watches intently beside you, his posture relaxed as his palm rests against your lower back.

He leans in occasionally pointing out designers, giving you quiet insights into the world of fashion that he’s become so familiar with. 

But the champagne has gone to your head, and the way his voice drops just a little lower with every word, the way his lips softly graze your ear when he speaks, sends a shiver down your spine.

And he notices.

Austins smirks as he hums with quiet approval, the sound low and indulgent as he pulls back to glance at you.

His gaze darkens with desire when he sees how much you want him. Your eyes are wide, lips parted in shallow breaths as your body betrays just how desperately you need his touch.

And He knows.

Austin always knows.

As the show comes to a close all the model sashay down the runway with the designer for the finale as the crowd erupts into polite applause

The moment the lights rise, signaling the end, Austin’s hand finds yours, guiding you through the crowd of his peers as he offers polite goodbyes.

Once at the Lune Courtyard of the Palais de Tokyo, you spill out into the cool Paris night. 

His sleek black car is already waiting beyond a roped-off group of fans pressing eagerly against the velvet barrier to catch a glimpse of the celebrities in attendance.

Their voices rise, calling his name the moment they spot him, a chorus of excitement cutting through the night air.

He pauses with effortless charm, flashing his signature smile for selfies before signing a few autographs, his pen gliding swiftly over outstretched posters and photos.

His free hand stays locked with yours, fingers intertwined as if unwilling to let you go.

Then, with a final graceful wave, he turns, guiding you into the car.

Once in the backseat Austin brings you closer, his arm sliding around your waist as he pulls you against him.

“You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you in there,” he says, voice low and sensual, his breath grazing your ear. 

“When you looked at me like that, I nearly lost it.” He confesses, and your heart pounds as his lips find yours, drawing you into a searing kiss, tasting faintly of champagne and the intoxicating edge that’s undeniably him.

Your fingers trail through his stlyed hair, pulling him closer as the city blurs past in streaks of gold and shadow. 

He deepens the kiss and your lost in him, the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the low pleasurable hum in his throat.

Once outside the hotel you both get out of the car hand in hand stealing glances at each other as you walk through the lobby unable to contain your excitement.

The elevator ride is a haze of stolen kisses, his hands sliding over your dress as your back presses against the mirrored wall.

The ding of the elevator door barely registers before you’re in the hall, his hands roaming your body as you cling to each other, desperate to reach the room.

When you finally get to the suite, he fumbles with the keycard, swearing under his breath as you kiss along his neck.

Once inside the hotel penthouse suite the city glows beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance, but you barely notice it—Not when Austins hands are warm on your waist, guiding you back to the bed.

“Stand right here,” he says, his voice calm with authority.

He pulls off his suit jacket, one shoulder at a time the slow, intentional movement keeping you locked in place, unable to move even if you wanted to.

Then he starts on his tie, the striped black silk sliding through his fingers as he loosens the knot, slipping it off with practiced ease.

You bite your lip as you watch him, your pulse hammering deep in your core, and he catches it—in the way you shudder as you exhale, in the way your thighs press together trying to contain your arousal.

He smirks as his fingers move to his cuffs, undoing them with ease, before unbuttoning his dress shirt exposing the strong lines of his torso.

You reach down in anticipation, slipping off your heels, and bringing your fingers to pull the zipper of your dress until he makes a low tsk to stop you.

“Not yet, baby,” he says, his voice as smooth as silk as he undoes his belt, the metal clinking faintly. 

His blue eyes lock onto yours as he grins as if daring you to disobey, and your pulse pounds in your ears as you nod, surrendering completely to him.

He strips fully, his broad pecs and firm arms sculpted by the city glow streaming through the windows. 

The defined contours of his abs tighten down to his narrow waist, his sharp hips framing his hard cock amplifying his commanding presence before you.

He steps closer, his touch affectionate and warm as he takes his time worshipping you in your elegant low-back dress. 

“I’ve been thinking about this moment as soon I saw you slip this on,” he confesses, his hand sliding along the slit, caressing the bare skin of your thigh.

“You’ve been thinking about this moment all night too, haven’t you?” he says with a knowing look, his fingertips gliding over the exposed curve of your back, tracing up your spine to your neck.

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, your eyes filled with lust for him, your voice so soft and needy, it’s clear he’s unraveled you completely.

“It was written all over your face, baby,” he teases, his fingers slowly tangling in your hair “Everyone could see it,” he whispers and he draws you into a deep, consuming kiss.

His lips slide against yours with possessiveness, his tongue slipping in to explore yours with velvet strokes, coaxing soft moans from you. 

His solid strength presses into you, his hips pinning you with an unspoken claim, the raw edge of his desire pulling you deeper into the haze of him.

He’s completely naked as he lowers you onto the bed with gentle strength, his warm hands sliding up the soft skin of your thighs, thumbs catching the hem of your dress and bunching it slowly around your hips. 

“You’ve been so good for me tonight,” he says, hooking his thumbs into your panties and pulling them down, the depths of his blue eyes holding yours in a silent promise as his hands guide your legs apart. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

He lowers his head, kissing along your inner thighs before his tongue flicks out, delivering soft, teasing licks against your clit that make you arch beneath him. 

Your arousal is already slick and warm against his mouth, and it drives him wild as he hums against you in pleasure.

“Austin please,” you beg, your voice trembling as your fingers tangle in his hair, trying to guide him up, trying to get him to satisfy your need to feel him deep inside.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his voice deep and reverent. “I love it when your this needy for me baby,” he says, pressing a final kiss to your thigh.

He climbs on top of you, his broad shoulders flexing with strength as he settles his weight over you, his-skin hot against yours. 

You’re panting heavily as he strokes your hair back, cooing at you. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you now,” he promises, his tone soft and soothing.

He nudges your legs apart as his thick cock slowly pushes in, guiding so deep it’s overwhelming as the tight stretch of him inside sends a jolt of heat through your core

“Fuck…you feel …so perfect, take it all for me baby,” he encourages, his voice low and reverent, his breath brushing your ear as he settles, letting you feel every inch of him.

He moves with slow precision, each thrust a testament to his passion, his gaze fixed on you watching every reaction. 

He angles his hips just right, a subtle tilt that presses a spot deep inside, his fingers grazing your cheek to catch the flutter of your lashes, as your breath hitches.

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxes, his tone soft but commanding, “Show me how good it feels for you.”

Your walls tighten around him instinctively as your soft moans grow heavier, your chest rising in shallow, desperate breaths.

He smiles with a faint curve of his lips as he watches you. “So… pretty like this,” he says, his voice filled with admiration.

His thrusts deepen, rhythmic and powerful, his body tensing with each push, his broad pecs tightening as his abs flex driving into you. 

One hand cradles your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip with care, while the other rests at your hip, fingers holding just enough to steady you against his relentless thrusts. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” he praises, his voice cutting through the haze of pleasure. 

His thick cock strokes you just right, building an unbearable heat that makes your body clench tighter around him as he hits the perfect spot inside of you over and over with each rhythmic thrust.

“Your so close baby ” he whispers, his voice low and knowing as you teeter on the edge of ecstasy.

You nod, a shaky breath escaping you as your walls flutter and tighten against his cock.

“Come for me,” he urges, his tone shifting to a gentle command.

His words push you over the edge, as you feel a surge of pleasure crash through you, sharp and radiant. 

Your hips tilt up to meet his thrusts, lips parting in soft broken moans as you lock onto his stunning blue eyes, intense and unwavering, his focus entirely on the way you fall apart for him.

“Austin!” You moan feeling a flood of warmth and bliss course through leaving you trembling, and he’s right there with you, his loud groans of pleasure echoing as he comes inside you.

His hips rock back and forth, his cock pulsing with each clench of your walls, moving in perfect sync with your shuddering body until you’re both breathless.

Your satisfied sounds fill the room, pupils blown wide, lips parted in soft exhausted exhales as your cheeks flush a deep rosy hue.

He watches you captivated, before lowering down to press lingering kisses from your forehead to your lips. “You’re so perfect,” he praises.

His hand strokes your hair gently as he slowly pulls out, his cock still hard, his body reluctant to leave yours.

He lays down beside you, both of you still catching your breath, and he gently pulls you onto your side.

His fingers find the zipper of your dress and slide it down, helping you peel it off to reveal your bare skin.

His hands roam over you, warm and possessive, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, before his lips find yours again in a deep consuming kiss.

You kiss him back, lips parting eagerly, tasting the faint salt of his skin as his rock hard cock presses against your thighs.

He ruts gently, a low hum of pleasure escaping him, the friction stroking his need to have you all over again.

It’s not long before he pulls his lips away, his breath ragged as guides you on top of him with firm hands on your hips.

“One more, baby,” he says, voice rough with desire, “ride me like a good girl.” He breathes, and you nod, eager to please him, lifting your hips as he aligns himself beneath you.

His cock slides back in, thick and warm, filling you with a tight, perfect stretch as he pulls you down, urging you to sink fully onto him.

You moan as you settle, feeling the pleasure radiate in a deep, throbbing heat pulsing from where you’re joined.

He takes in the full view of your body on top of him as his hands explore, sliding over your breasts, your ribs, your hips.

“Baby, you’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, his voice brimming with want and desire.

You begin to move for him, rolling your hips in slow circles, savoring the way he feels inside you.

Your hands press against his chest, fingers digging into his firm pecs as you ride him, soft moans falling from your lips.

You lift and settle in a steady rhythm, each downward push a sharp slap against his pelvis.

His face is pure bliss eyes fluttering closed as he moans in pleasure, only to open them again, locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

You indulge him in the sensation, your hips grinding harder, faster, chasing the tension building inside you.

His voice is low and rough, grunting “unh, fuck” as you begin to bounce on him.

“Austin,” you moan, loud and unrestrained, your voice so sharp you’re sure everyone in the halls knows his name by now.

He grips your thighs, fingers sinking into your flesh as he thrusts up to meet you, the force making your breath catch.

His thick cock hits deep as your mind unravels into a haze of incoherent pleas—“yes, Austin, please, yes”—the words tumbling out as the pleasure consumes you.

Your orgasm hits first in a sudden, shattering wave as you cry out, “Austin!” feeling a surge of pleasure rock your core.

Your hips falter as your walls clench tight around his cock pulsing with every surge of bliss that floods your body.

He’s right behind you, his release crashing through as a loud, guttural “fuck, yes” tears from his throat as his hips buck hard and fast, spilling thick, hot streams inside you.

His hands grip your hips, holding you down to take it all, each deep pulse of his cock syncing with the aftershocks shuddering through your body.

You both moan, breathlessly as he pulls out, his come warm and slick, coating your thighs.

He guides you down beside him your bodies still tangled as you rest on his arm, spent and sated.

His lips brush your forehead as his hands stroke your back, and you’re lost to him, the world fading to nothing but the steady beat of his heart against yours, feeling his breathing softening as the moment slows.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice low and reverent, a small smile tugging at his lips as you look up into his eyes.

“I love you too,” you say affectionately, and he pulls you closer wrapping you both in a romantic rêverie.

END 🇫🇷

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me List @purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @psycheetamore @soft-mama-reads @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @dunevitani @unicoo @gyratingpresley @thejoywillburnoutthepain @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @stars-remain2 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @missjadesticsreblog @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @skulliecadaver-blog @jjubilee-fluff

[reveriebae]

Miami's model

pairing(s) : Park Seonghwa x reader

word count : 5108

summary : You thought you could escape Seonghwa, but he always gets what he wants. And he wants you. He finds you, traps you, and teaches you a brutal, punishing lesson—one you’ll never forget. You’re his. Always.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Obsession, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, rough and punishing dynamics, choking, overstimulation, degradation, messy oral. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : I feel sick of using Y/N for the reader so I decided not to do it anymore, Oh! And also...I'm a sucker for blowjob scene these days lol. Actually, this one should be part of Songfic but...it's not. I wrote this the whole night and it's my favorite Seonghwa fic after love overdose, hope you guys like it🫶

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐 smut under the cut 🪐

The runway lights were blinding, flashing like a thousand hungry eyes as you strutted forward, heels clicking against the polished stage. The dress—thin as sin, clinging to every curve—was meant to steal attention. And it did.

Men watched. Women envied. Miami was full of people who wanted something from you—lust, admiration, jealousy. But none of them made your skin crawl like him.

It was a slow, creeping awareness. Like an animal sensing a predator before it sees him.

Your body moved on autopilot, hitting your final pose. But your pulse slammed against your ribs.

He was here.

You knew it before you even spotted him. That stare—heavy, possessive, taunting.

And then you saw him.

Seonghwa sat in the VIP section, drowning in dim, golden light, a glass of dark liquor cradled in his long fingers. He looked almost bored, lips barely curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but not far from it. Like he’d been waiting.

Your throat went dry.

Miami was supposed to be your fresh start. New name, new hair, new city, new life. But he always found you.

You tore your eyes away, walking back down the runway, fingers trembling against the fabric of your dress. The second you were backstage, you grabbed your bag, slipping past models and designers, ignoring the bubbling chatter. Your driver was outside. You just had to make it to the car—

“Room 1803. Don’t make me come find you.”

The text made your breath hitch. The number was unknown, but you didn’t need a name.

Seonghwa.

The walls felt too tight, the air too thick. He’d given you an option, but you knew better. If you didn’t go to him, he would come to you. And that would be worse.

The hotel loomed over the city, its glass windows reflecting Miami’s neon skyline. Inside, the lobby pulsed with quiet luxury—crystal chandeliers, expensive cologne, the murmur of high-profile guests who had no idea you were walking straight into the lion’s den.

Room 1803.

Your heels barely made a sound against the plush carpet as you stepped into the elevator, your breath shallow. You could still turn back. You could walk right out, catch the next flight, disappear again.

But you knew how this would end.

Seonghwa didn’t give up. He never had.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Every step toward his door felt heavier, like gravity itself was dragging you down.

You knocked once. No answer. Your fingers curled into your palm. Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe he—

The door clicked open.

Seonghwa stood there, leaning against the frame, watching you the way a predator watches a trapped animal. Dark suit, silver rings, eyes that held every promise of ruin.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Good girl.”

The way he said it made something tighten in your stomach.

He stepped aside, letting you in. The suite was sleek, expensive, but the only thing you could focus on was the sound of the door locking behind you.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—”

“Three months.” He took a slow step forward. “That’s how long you lasted this time.”

He was close enough now that you could smell him—something deep, intoxicating, laced with the sharp burn of whiskey.

“I should be impressed,” he murmured, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your chin up. “But I’m not.”

His grip tightened, just for a second—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“Now,” Seonghwa whispered, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, “why don’t you tell me what you were running from, baby?”

As if he didn’t already know the answer.

Him.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Seonghwa’s fingers traced the line of your jaw, his touch deceptively soft, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

“I wasn’t running,” you murmured, even though you both knew it was a lie.

Seonghwa chuckled, low and dark. “You’re still a terrible liar, baby.” His fingers slid down, brushing over your collarbone, ghosting along the strap of your dress. “But go on, keep pretending.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His touch was light, teasing, but it carried a promise. A warning.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Three months,” he mused, like he was still processing it. “Three months without my hands on you. Without hearing you beg.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m not—”

His fingers wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. Your breath hitched, and he tilted his head, watching you with something unreadable.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” Seonghwa murmured, thumb tracing circles against your pulse. “But don’t lie to me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The room felt too warm, the air too thick. He was too close, too overwhelming.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t step back. Instead, his other hand slid to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “Tell me something, baby.” His voice was smooth, almost lazy. Deceptive. “Did you think about me while you were gone?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “No.”

His smirk was slow, lethal. “Then why are your thighs pressed together?”

Heat surged through you, betrayal flooding your veins. Because he was right.

Seonghwa leaned in, his breath brushing your ear. “You can fight me all you want,” he murmured, voice dropping into something dangerous. “But we both know how this ends.”

Your breath shuddered out of you. Because he was right about that, too.

The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, like a loaded gun waiting to go off.

Seonghwa’s fingers lingered at your waist, a featherlight touch that still made you feel caged. He wasn’t touching you the way he wanted to—not yet.

Because he was patient. He always had been.

Your pulse hammered against your skin, betraying you, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not playing your game.”

Seonghwa chuckled, the sound deep, knowing. Like he had already won.

“My game?” His thumb brushed over your hip, so subtly you almost thought you imagined it. “Sweetheart, you were the one who ran. That made it a game.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, just enough that his lips hovered near your jaw, not touching, just teasing. The air between you burned.

“I don’t chase things I don’t intend to catch,” he murmured.

A shiver ran through you, frustration and something far more dangerous curling in your stomach. You wanted to move, to push him away, to do something to break this unbearable tension.

But that’s exactly what he wanted.

Seonghwa was waiting—waiting for you to break first.

So you forced your expression into something calm, something indifferent. You let your lips curl into a smirk, tilting your chin slightly. If he wanted a game, you’d play.

You leaned in, just barely, your lips hovering near his jaw the same way he had done to you. “Then why haven’t you caught me yet?”

The change was instant. His grip tightened, his breath hitched—just for a second, but you felt it.

Then his fingers flexed against your waist, and his lips curled into something dark.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was smooth, a slow unraveling of control. “You think I haven’t?”

The air between you snapped.

But he didn’t kiss you. He didn’t move closer. He just stayed there, waiting.

Because the second you gave in? You’d never escape again.

The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm cracks the sky apart.

Seonghwa still hadn’t touched you the way he wanted to. That was the worst part—the way he let the tension stretch, the way he made you feel like you had a choice, when you both knew the truth.

You weren’t free.

You never had been.

And yet, you still fought against the inevitable.

Your smirk didn’t waver. “If you think you’ve caught me, then why are we still here?”

His grip on your waist tightened—a silent warning.

You had no business taunting him like this, but the moment was slipping, your last sliver of control hanging by a thread. You had to use it.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, almost as if he were amused. But the heat in his eyes told a different story.

“You want to pretend you have a choice?” His fingers ghosted along the edge of your dress, not lifting it, not moving past the barrier, but close enough that your breath stuttered. “Fine.”

He took a single step back.

It shouldn’t have felt like a slap. It shouldn’t have made your stomach drop.

But it did.

The space between you was small, insignificant, but it burned.

Seonghwa tilted his head, watching you with that same knowing smirk. Daring you.

“Go, then,” he said simply. “Leave.”

The challenge wrapped around your throat like a collar.

Because you knew what he was doing. Giving you the illusion of control, just to watch you crumble under the weight of it.

Your body screamed at you to move. To turn on your heel, walk out of the suite, disappear again. But you didn’t.

Seonghwa’s smirk deepened.

And that’s when you realized—this was what he had been waiting for.

Your silence was louder than any confession.

Seonghwa stepped forward again, slow, deliberate, reclaiming the space between you. His fingers traced your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel. “I was wondering how long you were going to pretend.”

Your stomach tightened. You had lost.

And he was going to make you feel every second of it.

Your breath stuttered, heart hammering against your ribs as Seonghwa leaned in—slow, deliberate, inescapable.

There was no space left between you now. No room to run.

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his touch featherlight, but his grip at your waist? Firm. Claiming.

"You ran for three months," he murmured, lips ghosting over your cheek, just shy of pressing against your skin. "Tell me, baby, was it worth it?"

You didn't answer.

Because you didn’t know.

All that effort—changing your number, slipping through cities, never staying too long in one place. And for what? To end up right back here, in his hands, exactly where he always knew you’d be?

Your silence made him chuckle, dark and deep.

"That's what I thought."

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control now.

Your breath caught when he finally pressed his lips against your skin, just beneath your ear. Soft, warm, too much.

“You should’ve known better,” he murmured, dragging his lips lower, down the line of your neck. Like he had all the time in the world.

Your body betrayed you—the way your fingers clenched, the way your breath shuddered.

Seonghwa smirked against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Are you scared?”

Your pride flared, even as your body gave you away. “No.”

He chuckled again, low and knowing. “Liar.”

Before you could snap back, his hands slid lower—slow, unhurried, claiming every inch of skin as if reminding you that you belonged to him.

Your stomach tightened.

He wasn’t rushing.

Because Seonghwa never rushed when he had you exactly where he wanted.

“Say it, baby.” His voice was silk and sin, coaxing and commanding all at once. His fingers brushed the fabric of your dress, teasing, but still not giving you what you wanted.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to speak.

But Seonghwa just smirked.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse. “I have all night.”

Seonghwa was taking his time.

It was deliberate—the way his lips hovered, the way his hands teased without giving in, the way he made you feel like you were the one unraveling first.

Because you were.

You could feel it—the slow, agonizing pull of control slipping from your fingers.

His lips pressed to the curve of your jaw, soft and warm, but his grip on your waist? Unyielding.

“You’re holding back.” His voice was smooth, velvet-dipped steel, pressing against every weak spot he had spent years memorizing.

His fingers traced the fabric of your dress, barely there, just enough to set your nerves on fire.

“Still pretending, baby?” His breath was hot against your skin. Mocking. Daring.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

But Seonghwa didn’t wait for your answer. He already knew it.

His lips trailed lower, down the column of your throat—a slow, sinful descent.

Your breath caught.

That was all it took.

Seonghwa smirked against your skin. “There it is.”

Your stomach tightened, twisted, burned.

The hand at your waist slid lower, tracing the curve of your hips, fingertips ghosting over the hem of your dress, but still not moving it.

“You’re so stubborn,” he murmured, lips pressing against your pulse. Feeling it race. Knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed hard. “And you’re a—”

His teeth grazed your skin—just a tease, just enough to steal the rest of your words.

Your nails dug into his arms, but you weren’t pushing him away.

Seonghwa chuckled. “What was that, baby?”

You hated him. You hated how easily he could unravel you.

But more than that?

You hated that you wanted him to.

Seonghwa tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils were dark, heavy-lidded, drunk off your slow submission.

“Say it,” he murmured. A demand. A command.

Your pride fought it.

But your body had already answered.

His smirk deepened.

“You’re already mine.”

And then, finally—he kissed you.

The moment his lips claimed yours, the last thread of control snapped.

Seonghwa wasn’t gentle.

The kiss was deep, demanding, consuming—a punishment for every second you had spent away from him.

His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you flush against him, no hesitation, no escape.

You gasped against his mouth, but he didn’t let you breathe. Didn’t let you think.

Because he knew—if you had a second to think, you’d remember why you ran.

So he kissed you harder.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up—your hands in his hair, your hips pressing against him, your lips parting for him.

Seonghwa groaned, deep and low, swallowing every sound you made like it was something he had been starving for.

His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, and before you could protest, he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing.

You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the nearest surface—the cool marble of the suite’s counter top.

Seonghwa never broke the kiss.

His fingers traced up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher—still teasing, still making you feel every damn second of it.

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, his lips kiss-swollen, his pupils blown.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Three months of running, just to end up right where you belong.”

Your body burned.

Because he was right.

Seonghwa leaned in again, his lips ghosting over yours, just barely not touching.

“Say it,” he whispered.

Your nails dug into his arms. “Say what?”

His smirk deepened. He wanted you to break.

He wanted you to admit it.

But you weren’t giving in that easily.

So you smirked back. “Make me.”

And that was all it took.

Seonghwa’s eyes darkened—and then, he ruined you.

The second the words left your mouth, everything changed.

Seonghwa didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t hold back.

Didn’t let you think for a single second that you had even a shred of control left.

His hand was at your throat in an instant—not tight, not choking, just there, just enough to make you feel the weight of his control.

His lips were on you again, but this time, there was no patience.

The kiss was deep, bruising, possessive—a warning and a punishment all at once.

You gasped, but he swallowed it, swallowed everything.

His grip at your waist tightened, fingers pressing deep into your skin as he pulled you forward, forcing your thighs to part around him.

The cold marble beneath you was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.

His other hand trailed down your thigh—slow, teasing, just to spite you.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His voice was rough, breath warm against your lips. “You think you can still win this game?”

Your stomach tightened.

Because he was right—you had never been winning.

You had just been stalling.

And Seonghwa?

He was done playing.

His fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

Dark. Hungry. Merciless.

“You ran.” His voice was low, steady, dangerous. “Now you take what you’re given.”

Your breath hitched.

His smirk was pure sin. “And I’m not feeling generous tonight.”

Then, he ruined you.

You barely had time to process his words before he made good on his promise.

Seonghwa grabbed your hips and yanked you closer, your body dragged effortlessly across the cold marble—like you weighed nothing, like you were his to move, to control, to break.

And you were.

Your legs trembled, wrapping around his waist on instinct, but he didn’t let you settle—no, that would be too easy.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place, forcing you to feel every second of anticipation, every unbearable moment of not getting what you wanted.

“You think you get to tease me?” His breath was hot against your skin, his tone dark and amused. Like he was enjoying this.

Like he was enjoying watching you fall apart for him.

His fingers traced the inside of your thigh—lazy, unhurried, just enough to drive you insane.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, body betraying you with every twitch, every involuntary movement that told him exactly how much you wanted it.

Seonghwa chuckled—low, deep, cruel.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his lips along the edge of your jaw. “Already so desperate.”

Your nails dug into his arms, frustration boiling over. “Then stop teasing and do something.”

His grip tightened instantly.

Your stomach flipped, heat flashing through your body at the shift in his expression—mocking amusement replaced with something darker.

Something lethal.

His fingers trailed higher, so close, so fucking close, but stopping just shy of where you needed him most.

Then, his voice dropped—a whisper of a promise.

“Oh, baby.” His lips ghosted over your ear. “You don’t get to make demands.”

Then, without warning—he gave you exactly what you wanted.

I’ll be all that you need, baby

Seonghwa’s voice, low and thick with dark amusement, echoed in your head even as he forced your legs further apart, spreading you open like he had all the time in the world.

"You're trembling," he murmured, dragging his lips down the length of your neck, feeling every shudder, every twitch. His fingers were slow, teasing, barely grazing where you needed him most—because he wanted to hear you beg.

And he would.

His grip tightened at your waist, fingers pressing deep, like he was staking his claim.

"Tell me, baby," he whispered, breath hot against your jaw, "was running worth it?"

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, refusing to give him the satisfaction—but he felt the way your body reacted, how it betrayed you.

Seonghwa chuckled. "That’s what I thought."

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside you—deep, rough, punishing.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat, nails clawing at his shoulders, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust.

He didn’t want you to.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching your expression twist, half-lidded eyes filled with something desperate. "Three months of running, just to end up like this—spread out and soaking for me."

Your stomach clenched. It was humiliating. It was intoxicating. It was exactly what he wanted.

His pace was slow at first—deep, curling strokes meant to tease, to make you squirm.

Then, suddenly—he slammed his fingers inside you, rough and unrelenting, forcing a strangled cry from your lips.

"What's wrong, baby?" Seonghwa's smirk was pure sin, dark eyes locked onto your face, watching you unravel. "You wanted me to stop teasing, didn't you?"

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles in contrast to the brutal pace of his fingers.

The heat in your stomach coiled tighter, your body twitching, back arching—but just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he stopped.

Seonghwa pulled his fingers from you, slick and glistening, and pressed them against your lips.

"Lick."

The command was soft, but absolute.

You hesitated, glaring at him, but Seonghwa simply tilted his head, lips curving into something dark.

"You have two choices, baby," he murmured. "You do it yourself, or I make you."

Your lips parted slowly, hesitation warring with the heat curling in your gut—but Seonghwa had no patience left.

His fingers pressed forward, sliding past your lips, smearing your own slick onto your tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmured, watching as you swallowed around them, eyes hooded, pupils blown.

His thumb dragged down your chin, smearing the mess over your bottom lip before gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his.

“You taste that, baby?” His voice was low, teasing, but there was nothing playful about the way his cock pressed against your thigh—hard, thick, twitching with need.

“You made this mess,” he murmured, pressing his knee between your legs, forcing them apart again. “Now, tell me—”

His fingers slipped free, but before you could gasp for breath, he was on you again.

This time, his lips weren’t soft, weren’t teasing—they were bruising, consuming, taking everything you had left to give.

His teeth sank into your bottom lip, just enough to make you whimper.

"You wanted to act like a brat," Seonghwa muttered against your mouth. "Now, take it like a good girl."

Then, without warning, he flipped you over.

Your hands slammed onto the cold marble, your dress bunched around your waist—bare, exposed, vulnerable.

Seonghwa stood behind you, silent for a moment, drinking in the sight like he was committing it to memory.

Then—a sharp slap to your ass.

You yelped, body jerking, but his palm was already smoothing over the sting, his other hand gripping your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted.

“Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, lips curving. “Running from me and now you’re dripping all over the counter?”

Heat flashed through you, a mix of humiliation and unbearable need.

Seonghwa groaned, fingers tracing the curve of your ass, spreading you open just enough to make your stomach twist.

“So messy.” His voice vwas thick, dark, hungry. “And all for me?”

You bit back a whimper, refusing to answer.

Seonghwa hummed. “Still stubborn, huh?”

His fingers trailed lower—too slow, too teasing.

Then, suddenly—he shoved them inside you again, rougher, deeper than before.

Your body jerked violently, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your fingers curled against the marble, struggling to hold yourself up.

“Aw, baby,” Seonghwa cooed mockingly, fucking his fingers into you at a ruthless pace. “You’re already shaking.”

Your breath hitched, knees buckling, thighs quivering—but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let you breathe.

His free hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest to the counter.

Pinning you down.

“Where’s that attitude now, huh?” Seonghwa’s voice was all filthy amusement.

“You wanted me to stop teasing,” he murmured, leaning down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now you’re gonna take every single thing I give you.”

Then, finally—he undid his belt.

The sharp clink of his belt sent a shiver down your spine.

You barely had time to brace yourself before the leather slid free, the soft sound of it snapping against itself making your stomach clench.

Seonghwa chuckled—low, dark, so fucking amused.

“You’re breathing so fast,” he murmured, dragging the belt over the curve of your ass, teasing you with the promise of something crueler.

You gritted your teeth, refusing to react—but he felt the way your body tensed, the way you shuddered at the anticipation.

His free hand pressed against your lower back, forcing you down further, the cold marble burning against your flushed skin.

“Breathe, baby.” His voice was soft, mocking. “Wouldn’t want you passing out before I’ve even started.”

Then—a sharp snap.

The first strike of the belt landed across your ass, white-hot and instant.

You gasped, fingers curling against the counter, but you didn’t make a sound—not yet.

Seonghwa hummed, pleased and unsatisfied all at once.

“Not enough?” he mused. “That’s fine. I can go harder.”

The next hit was brutal.

A sharp cry tore from your throat, your body jolting, but he didn’t stop—didn’t let you recover.

Two more. Faster. Harder. Overlapping.

By the time he dropped the belt, your ass was warm, aching, the sting spreading between your thighs in a way that made you feel even filthier.

And Seonghwa?

He fucking knew it.

“You’re shaking, baby.” His fingers traced the fresh marks, soothing, teasing, making you squirm.

He leaned down, lips at your ear, voice dripping with sin.

“Are you wet from that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, heat burning under your skin—but you didn’t answer.

Seonghwa laughed, low and breathless, like this was the best thing he’d ever fucking felt.

Then—his fingers dragged through your slick folds.

Testing. Confirming.

And then he groaned.

“Oh, you are,” he murmured, pressing his fingers inside you again—slow this time, deep, filthy.

You bit your lip, stifling a whimper, but he wasn’t having that.

His other hand slid under your jaw, gripping your chin, tilting your head back just enough for him to hear every sound.

Seonghwa stepped back, his cock slick, throbbing, still twitching with the need for more.

But instead of flipping you over again—he grabbed your chin, tilting your head up.

A slow smirk spread across his lips. “On your knees.”

Your breath hitched, legs weak, body trembling, but you sank to the floor anyway.

You barely had time to steady yourself before his fingers tangled into your hair, gripping tight, forcing you to look up at him.

He was so hard—flushed, leaking, thick.

Your thighs squeezed together, heat pooling in your stomach, but Seonghwa wasn’t in a giving mood yet.

He tapped the tip against your lips, smearing the mess there, watching as your tongue flicked out instinctively.

His grip tightened, voice dropping lower.

“Open.”

You obeyed immediately, lips parting just enough—but it wasn’t enough for him.

His other hand pressed against your jaw, forcing it wider, wider, until your mouth was open exactly how he wanted.

Then, he pushed in.

The first few inches slid across your tongue, hot, heavy, intoxicating.

Seonghwa groaned, head tilting back, his free hand resting on your cheek, feeling the way your mouth stretched around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, watching as you struggled to take more, as your throat fluttered around him.

But struggling wasn’t an excuse.

His grip tightened in your hair, holding you still—then, he shoved deeper.

Your eyes widened, throat tightening, a muffled gag slipping out as he bottomed out, cock hitting the back of your throat.

Seonghwa shuddered.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips rolling forward just enough to feel you squirm.

Tears pricked your eyes, spit pooling, dripping down your chin, but you stayed still, hands gripping his thighs, waiting—waiting for him to use you.

And he did.

Seonghwa fucked your throat without mercy, each thrust forcing another choked moan out of you, your nails digging into his skin, your jaw aching, your body melting into submission.

“Messy fucking thing,” he murmured, watching the way you took it all—ruined, desperate, perfect.

Your lips hollowed, sucking harder, taking everything he gave you—and it drove him insane.

“Just like that, baby.” His voice was tight, strained, dangerously close to breaking.

His hips snapped forward one last time, holding you down, forcing you to take every last drop as he spilled into your mouth.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you still as he twitched against your tongue.

You swallowed, slow, teasing, showing him exactly how well you could behave.

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath, tilting your chin up, smearing the last traces of mess across your swollen lips.

His smirk was lazy, breathless.

“Good fucking girl.”

Then, without giving you a second to recover—he pulled you up, bent you over, and started all over again.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, burning, but Seonghwa didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Didn’t give you a second to breathe.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, spreading you open wide, forcing you to take everything.

His eyes were dark, wild, locked onto you like you were the only thing that existed.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the way you writhed beneath him.

His pace was relentless—deep, punishing, unyielding.

Every thrust dragged another sound from your lips—moans, whimpers, broken cries.

And Seonghwa?

He was fucking obsessed.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, grinding into you, pushing even deeper, stretching you beyond what you thought possible.

“You wanted this.” His fingers wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding.

Owning.

“You fucking begged for this.”

A sharp slap landed on your thigh, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight through you.

You whimpered, eyes fluttering—but he didn’t let you close them.

“Look at me,” he growled, forcing your gaze to his.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, smearing the spit, the mess, the ruin.

“So fucking pretty when you’re broken, baby.”

Your body was beyond control, shaking, oversensitive, but he wasn’t done.

Seonghwa’s pace stuttered, hips slamming into you one last time before he buried himself deep—spilling inside you, groaning, shuddering as he claimed you all over again.

The room was silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing—and the faint, sticky mess between you.

Seonghwa let out a slow breath, fingers tracing your swollen lips, your damp hair, your ruined body.

His smirk was lazy, satisfied, still fucking smug.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby.”

He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours, soft, teasing.

“Mine. Always.”