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oceantornadoo · 2 months ago

Text

team bonding

jack abbot x f!reader

undefined age gap, praise kink, smut

"alright, everyone, great work today. go home and", you raise your hand and it's clear on robby's face that he forgot about your announcement. "go ahead, doctor." he steps back a little and gives you the floor, tired brown eyes pleading with you to make it quick. "so, as you all know, i'm the admin liason." a role you picked up after robby pleaded with you to become the in-between him and gloria. you negotiated a higher salary and that was that, forced into weekly meetings with her to launch new ideas about patient satisfaction scores. everyone groans at your statement, anticipating a new rule.

"hey!" the crowd turns to dr. abbot, standing at the edge of the circle with his arms crossed, already frowning despite his recent arrival. "respect, people. i don't care if you haven't slept in twenty-four hours." everyone mutters their apologies and dr. abbot sends you a wink, a flutter of butterfly wings beat in your stomach. you nod in gratitude and continue, unable to blame robby for not stepping in since he looks like he's about to keel over from his own double shift. "as admin liason, i was able to convince gloria that to up patient satisfaction scores, we need some team bonding." the crowd doesn't groan again under abbot's watchful eye, but there's a wave of apprehension that travels through.

"so," you pause for effect, to which abbot rolls his eyes, "i got us a free night out at Taylor's!" the change is instant, a few people cheering while the rest clap. Taylor's is the favored Pitt bar, close to the hospital but on the right street where ambulance sirens don't echo and the drinks are good enough. you pass out a few clipboards with potential dates for people to fill out their availability and continue on. "it has to be this month, so pick your available times wisely. we've been promise free cover, even if the band is playing, and four drink tickets to a max of thirty people. i'll let you know what date wins next shift!" with that, you give the floor back to robby. as you step backwards, you stumble on a foot that wasn't there before.

"shit, sorry." you whisper, tracking the foot that didn't even flinch up to black scrubs before landing on abbot's face, serene and unmoving. "you picked the right foot to land on." he whispers back as robby continues his ending speech, a warm hand landing on the small of your back to steady you as you recover. "how many times have you made that joke?" you ask, smiling when he huffs. "not as many as you think. don't have a lot of people who know and chose to step on me anyway." you gasp in faux-outrage, quieting down when robby sends you a raised eyebrow. his speech concludes and the crowd disperses, some people waiting in line to fill out the availability forms.

"nice job on the free night out." abbot remarks. the praise turns you to mush, a fight to contain the warmth in your cheeks as you look at the crowd instead of him. "thanks. apparently, it's cheaper to pay for a bunch of alcohol than hire more nurses. i'll take what i can get." you answer, remembering the frustration you felt with how quickly the admins agreed to employee bonding over fixing the worker shortage. abbot nudges you, breaking you out of your memory of last week's meeting with gloria. "take your clipboards and go home, doctor. you look like you need it." he orders, pointing to the now abandoned clipboards. you gather them in your arms and adjust the strap of your bag slipping down your shoulder before turning to face him one last time. the silver that mixes in with his curly brown hair, his slashes of eyebrows, the fading scuff on his face. "you don't like my eyebags, doctor?" you blink your eyelashes suggestively, jokingly, but all he does is roll his shoulders before nodding his head to the exit. "never said that. get some rest, doctor."

never said that. he likes your eyebags?

you ignore the revelation and nod, determined to get home and sleep before contemplating your crush on your coworker.

the night out comes two weeks later, a rare friday where most of your crew is off at the same time. it's you, collins, and mckay sipping on drinks in a small booth and watching the baby doctors fail epically at pool. "no, huckleberry, you have to angle it this way!" santos and whittaker fight over the proper way to hold a pool stick while javadi stands off to the side, observing the pool table like she's never seen one in her life. "five bucks says whittaker accidentally hits santos with the stick." you giggle under your breath, your second drink taking affect. the two women to your right laugh, too smart to take a likely bet. "i'm insulted you're taking advantage of us in a bet you know you'll win." collins snickers, clearly tipsy from her second martini. mckay mutters under her breath that even her kid can play pool better than these idiots. you collapse into a fit of giggles at that, pitching towards the open air on your left and clutching at the table to stay seated.

except, that air is taken up by a very solid torso.

your head hits a pleasant chest, and you sink in for a second before immediately remembering yourself and straightening. when you do, abbot is looking down at you with a smirk written on his features, one hand clutching a beer and the other propped above the booth. his bicep flexes beneath his long sleeve shirt, 'US VETERAN' embroidered near his heart.

"abbot."

"think you can call me jack, seeing as you're drunk and off duty, doc." you roll your eyes. you're just tipsy and having a good time with the same people you've seen so much death with. it's something like contentment, being surrounded by your coworkers and knowing there isn't any pressure in your existence. no lives to save, no charts to fill out, just music, alcohol, and entertainment. "i'm not drunk, jack." you emphasize the syllables of his name, tasting them for the first time on your tongue. to prove your point, you hop out of the booth and stand in front of him, perfectly in control of your body. "see?"

instead of answering, jack's eyes sweep up and down your body, lightning fast. you suddenly remember the low-cut shirt you're wearing paired with your favorite jeans that show off the contours of your body usually hidden by scrubs. his gaze stops on your cleavage, just for a millisecond, but the triumph of it sinks into your bones. you take in the cargo pants he wears that cling to the muscle of his thighs, a bit tighter than the ones he wears to work. it gives you the impression that he chose his outfit on purpose, and you suddenly wonder who he had in mind when he did.

"pool?" he nods to the empty table in the corner, clearing his throat and lifting his eyes above your face like he can't look there. you say your goodbyes to mckay and collins before leading the way, picking up two abandoned pool sticks as you walk. the empty table is on the other side of the bar, obscured by the case of alcohol in the middle. you're in your own world here, tucked away from coworkers and friends alike. "not to be a cliche, but i really don't know how to play pool." you admit, handing him a stick. your hands brush, electricity traveling down your veins before you pull away.

"you never learned at another bar?" he asks, producing a blue cube from nowhere and rubbing it against the tip of his stick. it's practically obscene, that thought, and you're temporarily mesmerized by how his hand veins flex as he move the cube back and forth. he finishes with his, and instead of taking your own stick out of your hands, he simply steps forward and into your space, cube in hand. you don't move as you watch his biceps contract with effort, a few inches from your face. only when he steps back do you remember the question he asked.

"i'm usually dancing on tables, not playing pool, old man." you supply, memories of screaming favorite songs with friends coming to mind. he grunts a chuckle, gathering the stray balls on the table with a triangle-looking thing until they're all together in the center of the table before setting it aside. "c'mere, brat." he commands. your body follows his order instantly, delivering you into his place at the end of the table until you're almost toe-to-toe. "hit the white one into the others." you frown at his lack of instruction, the stick in your hand feeling as unhelpful as a hammer in an ER. deciding to improvise, you place it on the table and try to recreate the hand placement you've seen in the movies. clearly, you don't do it well as abbot sighs, the air escaping his mouth and settling on your exposed skin. gooseflesh ripples across the back of your neck and you shiver at the feeling.

all of a sudden, there's pure heat behind you. capable fingers rearrange your own around the thin part of the stick, not a single excuse or ask for permission following. his hands are dusted with coarse hair, fine and not yet silver. each movement is another shock down your spine, trying to restrict your breathing so you don't bump into the little bit of space between your back and his front. your hold now resembles more of that on a scalpel than a fist, allowing you to push the stick forward and back to adjust it. "better?" he asks, words right next to your ear. you nod, shaken at his proximity and his own lack of reaction to it.

"this is your easiest shot of the game. take it."

you ignore any suspicions of a double entendre and push the stick until it clinks against the white ball. that one rolls forward, a bit slowly, until it knocks the other colors around. some don't escape the middle, and you sigh at the underestimation of force you had. one of the balls, a solid-colored purple one, rolls into the nearest corner of the table and dips down from sight. you squeal in success, sure that means something good. when you turn, you forget the stick in your hand, almost whacking him in the face.

"stand down, soldier. game's barely started." he says in a brusque tone, softening it with a half-cocked smile. you now realize how close your bodies are, one heaving breath enough to touch your chest to his own. you don't take it, but you don't step away either. "a ball went in! that's something good, right?" you ask, eager for more praise. his eyes flick to the ceiling, a deep inhale traveling into his lungs, before finally meeting yours. "yeah, sweetheart. good job."

sweetheart.

it nuzzles into the corners of your heart, settling on the floor and curling into itself. sweetheart. he doesn't comment on the slip of tongue, if it was one, simply watching and waiting with that iron stare of his. sweetheart. like melted chocolate and sugar spun whisps and fresh fruit, juicy on your tongue.

"teach me more?"

he teaches you about stripes versus solids with a hand hovering at your back. he points out angles and compares them to procedures with his knuckles brushing your own. he lets you cheer when you've hit the wrong ball in and protest when he hits three in one go. with each quip, you stand closer to him and try not to sink into the cedar scent of his cologne. you're a little more sober now, the alcohol haze receding, and you can track the firm but patient tone he uses to explain distance and force.

it's your last ball, a solid blue one that stares at you resolutely. jack already won, ages ago, but he ordered you to practice with all the ones you had left. you weren't going to leave his orbit if he didn't want you to, practically forgetting about your coworkers on the opposite end of the bar. you bend over the table, and despite you being secure with your stance, jack crowds your back, hands hovering over your wrists. "show me what you've got." he urges. the need to please him is a living thing under your skin as you put your every effort into the hitting the ball. your stick wobbles a bit but makes contact with the white ball, which knocks the blue one into the waiting net. job finished.

"i won!" you abandon the stick in favor of the doctor behind you, forcing him into a hug as you cheer. he mutters that you technically did not win, by any means, but wraps his hands around your waist anyway as yours encircle his neck. you've never felt so much of him at once; the corded muscles of his neck and his back coalescing into pure strength beneath you. you pull back, barely an inch, and for a second, he doesn't let you move. then he does, like you've imagined it, hands returning to his sides.

"jack..."

you trail off, unsure of how to address this thing between you. he has to have felt it, all this electricity with nowhere to go. jack abbot is fearless, so you've thought, until he takes a half step back. "i'm your attending." he reasons, though you've made no argument. you stay leaning against the pool table, needing him to be the one to come to you. "you're an attending, not mine. different shifts too." he shakes his head at the truth coming out of your mouth. "old man, remember?" he adds. you scoff at that, crossing your arms against your chest. the action pushes up your cleavage, and when his eyes dip for a second, you know you haven't lost him. "not that old. ten years apart, if you round." you won't plead. you won't debase yourself to earn his attentions, no matter how good his praise feels.

"i'm divorced, sweetheart. not exactly the best track record with relationships." he admits, a fact you'd already surmised by the faded tan on his left hand. "jumping to marriage already, jack?" your joke has the opposite of its intended effect as he stiffens at your words. "i'm too old to be casual." he reasons. "and i'm old enough to know what i want, but i won't beg, jack." you state, refusing to plead. it won't work if he doesn't want this as much as you, isn't willing to put aside skeletons in closets and just-

jack abbot takes a step forward and kisses you.

his hand cradles your skull, sinking into your hair and holding you in place. his other hand drops to your waist, tugging you further into his grip until you're not quite sure where you end and he begins. it's gentle but possessive as your breaths combine -- feels like you've done this before, the comfort of coming home safe and sound. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, tugging him further into you. finally, you can sink your fingers into his salt and pepper curls, their softness surprising you.

"there's a bathroom that locks back here." you surprise yourself by suggesting, a sudden need to make real all this yearning. in another life, your first time with him would be on a king mattress surrounded by candles and rose petals, but time is your enemy as a doctor. you know you've picked correctly when he doesn't second guess your suggestion, simply kissing your jaw before pulling you into the hallway off his right. tactical skills lead him into the all-gender bathroom, his hand wrapped in yours as he tugs you after in him. the lock clicks into place.

"c'mere." there's a surprisingly clean granite countertop he lifts you onto with quiet strength. deft fingers pull down the neckline of your shirt and the cup of your bra until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. "fuck, jack." you whine as he rolls your other nipple between his fingers, the suddenness of it sending sparks to your core. you dip your hands back into his curls, nails scraping against his skull. you can't control how your hips buck into the air, need bubbling up and out of your skin. you've been wet this whole time, since he came up to you in the booth if you're being honest. you need him now.

"jack," you pull him off you, his lips red from lavishing your breasts. "another time. i need you." he swears at your urgency, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down to your ankles. your underwear is a lacy scrap of pink you picked out, hoping, and he whistles appreciatively. "this for me?" his thumb pets the wet spot on the front, trailing down as he presses down the length of your seam. he slips under the fabric, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "yes, yes, for you." you moan as he experiments, finding a pace you like. there's spit on your tits and your pussy is seeping over his fingers, belaying your desperation. despite that, there's an ache, an emptiness deep inside.

"please, jack." you ask. he hums, eyes locked on how your clit hardens under his thumb. "please, what?" he replies, calm and collected. "need your fingers." you plead. there's enough emotion in your voice to make him exhale a harsh breath before pulling his thumb away and hooking it around your underwear before pulling down. you open your knees wide, letting him get a look of your glistening pussy, needy for him. jack pushes in one thick finger, watching with rapt attention as one knuckle goes in, then two. his thumb finds your clit again and you're struck with how naked you feel in front of his clothed body.

one finger becomes two, crooking this way and that as he listens for your little sighs. you don't want to come like this, want to come on his cock even if the stretch hurts. you tug his belt loop until he steps forward between the cradle of your legs. that building crash of an impending orgasm is settling in your stomach and you lay a hand on his wrist, stopping him instantly. "shit, something hurt?" you shake your head, instead reaching for the top button of his cargos. "want your cock." you whisper, a little shameful of your desperation. he groans, helping you with the button and zipper until his pants drop, revealing black boxers. you run your palm against his hardness, smiling when he exhales loudly.

"take it out, baby." he orders, another petname rolling off his tongue. you follow his instructions, dipping your hand in and pulling out his cock. it's heavy in your hands, beads of white precum gathering at the tip. you guide him forward into your waiting pussy, stopping when he squeezes his hand on your knee. "i don't have a condom." he sighs. your heart flutters in your chest. "i'm clean and on birth control." you whisper. "i'm clean too." he grunts. this time it's him leaning forward until his tip taps against your clit before moving down to push against your weeping hole. you whine at the stretch as he pushes in, regretting the lack of prep you advocated for. his forehead lands against yours, his breaths coming out in pants. "so fucking tight." he mutters, straining as he controls his pace. you pant and attempt to relax, letting him slip further and further in until he's at the hilt.

"i'm close, jack." you admit, clit still fluttering from its earlier attention. "i am too." he kisses the side of your cheek before gathering you in his arms, tipping you back until your head hits the mirror. the angle allows for a wider stretch as he pulls out and pushes in again, the intrusion getting easier to take. jack experiments with small thrusts until your breathing evens out. once it does, his hips snap in controlled movements as he fucks you. that thumb rubs your clit again as praise drips from his lips, each sentence sending you closer and closer to orgasm.

such a good girl.

so good at taking it, baby.

just a little more, you can do it.

"feels like heaven, sweetheart." he growls, sucking at the skin of your neck. that's what sending you over the edge, crying into his arms with the satisfaction of praise. you're floating and still moving as he fucks you through it, cumming only when you're an inch from overstimulation. warmth fills your tummy and you look down to see cum slip out of your pussy, spilling over his cock. he slips out of you with a grunt, shushing your whines at the sudden emptiness. fingers fill you instantly, pushing cum back in until it won't stay anymore. he cleans you up with paper towels, kissing the insides of your thighs reverently to heal the sting. jack drags your panties up your legs, satisfied when you jump off the counter onto wobbly legs with his cum in your underwear. he tucks his cock back into his boxers and drags your jeans up your legs, zipping and buttoning them until you're covered back up. strong hands squeeze your jaw until your mouth opens for a wet kiss, practically debauched after what you've done.

"c'mon, sweetheart. still got two drink tickets left."

i can't stop thinking about him. pls enjoy.

#jack abbott #jack abbot #dr abbott #dr abbot #tornadothoughts #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt #reader insert #smut #jack abbot fic #dr abbot fic #jack abbot smut

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cybermindz · 7 months ago

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max verstappen x fem!reader

⟢ summary. max wasn’t doing a very good job at being an attentive boyfriend, always busy and not paying you any mind, so when you voice your dismay he gives you exactly what you want.

⟢ contains. slight angst, nsfw, smut : unprotected séx, côckwarming ♡, softdom!max, crybaby!reader, he’s stubborn and mean asf (madmax hehe), you ride him in his gaming chair, dirty talk, creampie, begging, mention of alcohol consumption, usage of petnames (e.g. baby, sweetheart, love), wc : 6.4k

nora's ☆ note. peek-a-boo! srry for being gone, this has been in my drafts since jan LMAO. it’s my first time writing something angsty, hopefully it’s up to par w the rest of my writing (o´罒`o) anyway love u all, i’m going through all my work that’s been collecting dust <3

Your feet padded down the endless hallways of the penthouse you currently resided in, searching for Max with a glass of gin in hand. One of his favorites.

The boisterous district of Fontvieille Monaco has gone long quiet as the evening begins to fade in. It was the most treasured part of your day—when the sunset casts over the ocean and how the crowds of people start to diminish slowly one by one. Loud voices and laughter simmering down, back into their homes or into fancy restaurants and bars to enjoy the rest of their night.

Each roll of the blue waves along with the golden disk already beginning to touch the surface ocean water is a view you could never get sick of. The sun slips quickly behind the line of the horizon as it spreads its last rays—stunning hues of oranges and yellows seeping through the windows of your living room, allowing to emit a shadow of your figure on the floor and walls with each step you take as you continue your hunt for your boyfriend.

It is where you feel the utmost of tranquility—the calmness of this environment is a way for you to wind down without having to care for anything else outside of the place you call home, to help wash away any troublesome thoughts. Usually these hours are spent with you and Max watching a movie or making a home cooked meal together. Usually your limbs would be tangled with one another in sacred and intimate ways.

Though this time around, your surroundings don't put you at ease, it doesn’t shake away your worries. In fact, it’s worse than usual.

This current lifestyle by all means, was everything you could ever dream of. You were incredibly lucky to be the partner of someone like Max. The Dutchman who is portrayed and misunderstood as a villain half of the time is actually a gentleman.

Your lover was so genuine and kind, as sweet as the gleam of sun that is currently kissing your skin—the warmth filling your whole body, bringing an overwhelming sense of comfort. It’s the sole reason why you fell in love with him, and you fell hard.

His own love for you is like a garden—blossoming into heavenly flowers within his fast beating heart.

He dotes on you, cares for you when you need it most, like tending to a single daisy amongst a field of grass. Nurturing and watering it with the most fondness, just like he does when kissing you, and god his kisses are to die for. His lips soft against yours like a warm embrace, so tender and delicate, melting into each other's souls. It always felt as if it were the last, as if the world was crumbling beneath the bottom of your feet. Nothing around you mattered, just the two of you in that space sealing in the gap.

He’s a race car driver for crying out loud—bound to be blunt and direct. But the persona he shows to the crowds of people and millions behind a tv screen is only half of who he truly is. Sure he can have a nasty temper at times during the highlights of his career but those were all under heavy stressful circumstances. In no way shape or form has his impatience and anger on track reach you from behind closed doors…until recently.

That familiarity of admiration for you has suddenly turned into rushed and quick pecks on the lips, hugs lasting only a fracture of a second. There wasn’t any long lasting gentleness to those intimate actions anymore, no adoration laced behind them.

This switch in attitude has you dwelling on it in an unhealthy way. Concerns filling your brain as he hardly devoted any time to you recently. Perpetually blowing you off with an “I’m busy.” and other broken promises to make it up to you whenever you’d suggest going out together for the day.

You genuinely didn't mind it at first, you out of everyone understood how important his career was to him. But, he’s constantly conducting business calls, in emergency meetings, or practicing on the race simulator. You were aching for him, in more ways than one.

It’s lonely enough with him having to travel all around the world 12 times a year with an extra addition of other flights for further business matters. And, with your own work you aren’t usually there to accompany him more than you’d wish. So with the rare occasions of him actually having a break with you at home and to have him not pay any attention to you was, without any exaggeration…starting to annoy you.

In contrast to the beautifully painted sky outside your windows showcasing its eternal beauty of lovely colors, your mood was somber and gloomy. Almost like the soon to be night sky beneath a cascade of iridescent stars on the sandy shores of Monaco—the air thick with a cold breeze and scent of salt, the feeling melancholic.

With an intake of a breath through your nose, the tracks of your light footsteps halt when you finally reach the blackwood door that leads into his office you were positive he was in. You make sure to knock three times—an order you mustn't forget, not wanting to walk in on him potentially streaming a game or being in a meeting with his camera on.

Upon hearing a faint, “Come in.” from the other side of the door, you enter the office with caution. Staring into the dreary space, anyone would be aware of how grim it was; pens and papers scattered across his work desk messily, the trophies resting on the display shelf held a sheer layer of dust, and the cold temperature didn't make it any better. The atmosphere alone coerced goosebumps to emerge onto your skin.

Max himself looked disarrayed, sat in the race simulator on the other side of the room. You walk over to stand beside the makeshift car seat to get a better look at him. All the noticeable tell-tale signs didn't go unnoticed by you, he was pushing himself too much. It was really displeasing to see him not taking care of himself. His light brown hair framed his forehead with eye bags digging into his skin, and there was a prominent little line in between his eyebrows—indicating that he’s been focusing for too long.

“Hey, everything okay?” Setting down the cup of gin on the wooden desk concernedly, you pull off his headset and brush your hand through his locks—pushing them back into place. Max doesn’t tear his eyes off the screens of his multiple monitors, barely sparing you a glance or reacting to the contact of your touch like he normally would.

“Hi baby, yeah…yeah ‘m alright,” he mumbles slowly, almost as if he didn’t register what you said.

“I got you a drink.” A frown makes way onto your features when he doesn’t say anything after that, not even acknowledging the alcohol in front of him. With a tilt of your head you wait expectedly, continuing to burn holes on the side of his face—like you were trying to read into his thoughts. “You coming to bed soon? You should get some rest.”

“Mhm…in a bit.”

You didn’t know why you thought the outcome would be anything different. The monotone lack of response from him had you sneering as a combination of anguish and irritation consumed your body. He’s still looking at the screens, an intense focus in his irises—a need to complete the race laps of the simulator even with his headphones off.

You knew then that he’s not honest with his intentions, being dismissive as usual and leading you to the feeling of neglect yet again. Though this time you’ve reached your limit, patience running thin.

Whilst huffing out an annoyed breath you toss the headset into his lap without a care, “Liar.”

That was a terrible mistake.

His reaction was just about immediate, bewildered at your sudden outburst. “What was that?” Max finally turns his head, eyes narrowing to look at you as you saunter off to the door. You intended to just retire into your shared bedroom alone, tears already pooling at your lash line from all the pent-up frustration with your back facing him.

“If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t dare to walk out that door.”

Halting your footsteps, a shiver bolted up your spine, the previous anger briskly replaced with unease. You’d like to think it was from the cool air that was blowing from the vents instead of his bleak words.

“Get back over here,” he spoke assertively, voice low and ominous—like he was disappointed in your unexpected change of mood, making your skin crawl with uncertainty.

It was a dangerous gamble between wanting to defy him or to finally have all of his attention after two weeks. But you knew better than to test his warnings and tolerance especially after hearing that irked tone. Blinking away the unshed tears, you steel yourself to shift your body and face him again.

“Now. Sweetheart, don't make me repeat myself.”

Your breath hitches, this was probably the first time in days where he’s held eye contact intently with you for longer than twenty seconds and it just about has you stumbling over your feet. The icy glare spoke for itself, already irritated with the way you lashed out at him, which is rare coming from you. He’s got a pounding headache and the last thing he wants to deal with is your little attitude.

His mean demeanor nearly made your eyes water again by the time you returned to his side, following his order. Within a split second, Max chucks the headphones to the ground bitterly. The loud clank! it makes when it hits the wooden floor has you jolting out of your skin, his annoyance radiating off of the small scowl on his face and actions.

In swift movements he pulls you down to straddle his lap without a word, a squeak of surprise leaves your lips since you didn’t have time to process what was happening.

The proximity has your heart skipping a beat, a rush of heat spreading throughout your entire body with nervousness. It was slightly cramped in the space between him and the pc steering wheel—leaving you little to no room to breathe, chest brushing against his to not have your back pressed into the metal material.

You felt that familiar ache in your stomach building up from how close he was and how he was holding your waist to keep you steady. It really didn’t take much for you especially since you’ve missed his warmth—his big veiny hands on your body. Your mind begins to whirl already, making you desperate for more right away, it was easy to tell from your quickened breath.

He observes your small frame all but quivering atop of him, dressed solely in one of his t-shirts that was evidently larger on you and a pair of panties peeking from underneath.

“What’s gotten into you huh?” His eyes lingered a while longer on your bare thighs that were scantily covered. He strokes it with his hands lightly, the contact igniting a trail of fire in its wake on your supple skin before his sharp gaze snapped to return to your face, “always interrupting me.”

You can practically hear the erratic rhythm of your heart beating in your ears because of his fierce scrutinizing eyes, and it doesn't benefit you in the slightest when the expensive cologne he knows drives you crazy wafts into your nostrils—making it even harder to concentrate. The air gets thicker by the second around your heated bodies.

“What’s gotten into me?“ You’re muttering under your breath, looking everywhere but his burning stare to try and rein yourself, “Max you…you hardly have time for me anymore.”

He’s a busy man, engrossed and occupied in his job. You get it, you truly do, you understand the fear he must bear of not wanting to be last. Carrying that title of being number one is both a blessing and a curse. It doesn't help that he's his own worst critic, correcting what he thinks he could do better by practicing on the simulator as much as he possibly can—it’s the only thing that occupies his mind.

The amount of pressure he must feel has to be overbearing—all the more for a non-stressful winter break, he’s been losing too much sleep and he couldn’t even bother to mind your concerns. All you wanted was to take care of him in different ways, you’ve tried for days but those days turned into two weeks and you’ve had enough.

One of his hands smooths over your back, humming gruffly while the other jerks your chin to force you to look at him with a firm grip so you don't pull away, “Y’know I have to be on top of my work right?”

“Yes! Of course I do but—“

“I’m doing this for us.” He then takes both of his palms, dragging them down your sides tantalizingly to grasp your hips. Max kneads the flesh briefly before guiding you with a secure hold to have your clothed heat rub at his crotch that's already flinching, growing hard underneath you. He does so almost mockingly, knowing just what you want and eliciting a shocked choked gasp from you, “working so I could get you the things you want.”

Your small hands went to hold onto his broad shoulders at the unexpected friction, it was getting tougher to keep yourself grounded—body trembling with the effort to stay in check, to stop yourself from grinding down on him greedily like you so desperately wanted.

“Max,” your face is sullen as you speak just above a whisper, he was mere inches away, so close you can almost taste him. You could just…lean forward a bit, claim his lips and have him again, “I don’t care about that, I just want to spend—“

“Time with me.” He interrupts again, stealing the rest of the sentence out of your mouth like he’s heard it a hundred times before and you can't seem to get snarky with him at the moment because of the way he was gradually rolling your groin against his. A rush of butterflies stirs in your tummy from the staggering sensation.

Max reaches under the hem of his baggy shirt that's draped over you with an exasperated exhale, his touch ticklish as his fingers dance along the soft skin near the band of your underwear. You can start to feel your body seeking more of his attention, so close to being obtainable you can taste it on the tip of your tongue.

“Is that it? Fine. If that’s the case, then you’re going to sit still.”

His words pique your interest at once that you seem to ignore his condescending behavior—content with just getting to be in his presence again.

He takes notice of your tongue peeking out to wet your lips in expectancy, earning a flicker of amusement on his features before quickly masking it back with a stoic expression. You can feel him trail lower and lower until the tips of his fingers reach your sensitive bud to circle it delicately over your panties, almost feather-light to tease you. The response from your body was instant, mewling and arching your back. Your clothed breasts were now flush against his chest, allowing more warmth to exchange between the two of you.

“All you wanted was to get your little pussy wet huh?” He lets out a scoffing chuckle, making a wave of humiliation wash over you from the way he puts it. You shake your head in denial, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that you are in fact sexually frustrated.

“N-Ngh! No!” But he can see right through your miserable bluff, especially with your heavy puffs of breath and stammering.

You were utterly touch-starved that your underwear was already dampening under his touch with your growing arousal. All from just sitting on his lap and light traces of contact.

“No? Then why are you soaking my fingers right now?” A sense of pride always filled his body knowing the affect he had on you, to have you heat up and slip into that sweet headspace with just a few ministrations. “Aww my sweet baby, you just needed a bit of my attention? Is that it?”

Max continues to work you up with a lazy smirk on his lips, watching you closely for each little face twisting reaction, “answer me sweetheart.” He lightly taps at your clit, another chuckle almost slipping from his throat when you sit up straighter because of it.

“Yes Max, I…want you.” Your voice comes out a bit whiny than you intended but you don’t seem to care because of the way your brain is clouding, craving more without question.

“There’s my good girl.”

With your lower lip sucked between your teeth you brace yourself for more, blood pumping with excitement. He was finally going to fuck you like you’ve been wanting for days, right?

Wrong.

What you didn’t expect was to be fully naked, straddling his cock whilst he ignored you.

Dumbfounded was an understatement.

As you watch the clock on the other side of the office—perched on top of the door behind him, your sanity quickly dissolves with each passing tick. It took you about ten minutes to realize the vast amount of self-control he held. So while you were sitting on his lap, firm length sheathed deeply inside you—Max simply returned to the simulator, superbly content with this proposal. You on the other hand, couldn’t stop the tremor of your thighs.

Breaking the tense silence with an unsatisfied grumble, you wrap your arms around his neck in hopes to get more direct contact of his skin on yours. Your frame was taut and rigid above him, trying your damn hardest to not make any sudden movements like he ordered.

Being able to finally feel him again like this but not allowed to do anything about it has you on edge, you eagerly wanted—no needed some sort of relief. So with much contemplation your movements get bolder with a grind of your hips, though it only makes him give you a stern look in exchange, enough for you to force into a stop at once.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, giving a light smack on your plush ass as a warning. “Stop fuckin’ moving,” he hisses through gritted teeth, still annoyed with you and it had your heart aching uncomfortably.

You should be the one that was upset but you felt so vulnerable and deprived, especially with him still being fully clothed, his shorts and briefs pushed down just enough to free his cock making you feel all the more exposed and in the mercy of his hands. You so miserably needed more of him, all of him.

“Max please,” you can’t help but beg now, knowing that it’ll usually weaken his resolve with that angelic voice of yours, “I can’t.”

It doesn't seem to deter him though. A sense of disappointment engulfs you, he was so hellbent on teaching you a lesson that you know you don't even deserve.

“You can and you will. What happened to being my good girl?” His hands never leave the steering wheel behind you and his voice, not even in the slightest—doesn’t waver whenever he speaks, practically like he was unaffected with your warm wet cunt wrapped around him, “besides, isn’t this what you wanted? Don’t make me punish you.”

He’s mocking you. You can almost see his lips quirking up into a smile as you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck with no retaliation afterward, so eager to please him.

The only thing you can possibly do was snuggle closer for the little bit of warmth his clothed body can radiate in the cold office and listen to the loud roar of V6 engines coming from the game. With tightly shut eyes, you try to think of something to distract you but nothing works as your mind parades itself from the feeling of his fat tip kissing your cervix, stuffed full.

This was already punishing enough, none of this was painful oh no—it was the complete opposite. But, the pleasure rising up and not having your desires fulfilled was tearing you apart. It was borderline torture.

The stretch makes slick from your pussy drool on his girth, a mess pooling straight down his balls and whenever he would move his feet on the pedals of the simulator—his thigh jumps, making you shift on his lap and bounce ever so slightly on his shaft. It has you whining against his ear like a bitch in heat.

Max’s eyes burn into the screen of his pc after perceiving the sound of your soft whimper and whines against his ear, breath tickling his skin and making it prick up. He always loved any noises that he could pull from you, his possessiveness and ego feeds off it. He's transfixed—entranced by how sweet it sounds. He can’t lie, he did miss you. Missed having you close like this, desperate and easily acquiescent for him, your soft voice all breathless and needy.

Just the feeling and connection of you.

He clenched his jaw when your velvet walls fluttered around him, his own self-control was close to snapping. But being an asshole just to spite you seemed more pleasing, he purposely moved his legs more forcefully on the pedals to elicit more of those pretty little cries of pleasure.

Though he completely freezes up the moment he hears you sniffling against his neck, hot tears hitting his shirt seconds after.

Max knows he's been a shit boyfriend but he's too prideful to admit it, so frustrated and harsh while his sole center of attention was on how to be better, better, better with his work that he seemed to forget your own needs. He’s conflicted at the moment as he thinks about it, infuriated at himself for taking it out on you.

You were trying so hard for him, to be his good girl that you always were despite your own discontentment and bitterness to his treatment towards you. You didn’t want to upset him any further even if this was his own doing, it made both his heart stammer and his cock twitch from how kind you are to him. He didn't deserve you.

When you feel that certain jerk inside of you, your one track mind really couldn't stop your lips from speaking once more through your small sniffles. “P-Please Max,” you attempt again with hesitation, lip bitten raw from your constant chewing, “I can’t take this much longer.”

His self-restraint finally snaps.

Your ears perk and pick up the sound of him sipping, completely downing the glass of alcohol that was disregarded earlier in one go. He hisses harshly after the burn cascades down his throat with each gulp and then leans forward, muscles flexing slightly as he places the now empty cup on the desk with a soft clunk before turning off the gaming system.

The unexpected silence causes your stomach to twist in a knot, no longer capable of hearing the thunderous engines of formula one cars—just his ragged breathing and ticking of the clock.

Anticipation nags in the back of your mind, a hundred things running all at once while you sit there pliantly and unmoving, silent tears cascading down your face.

You can't help but think that you’ve surely done it this time, you’ve pissed him off now haven’t you?

“So ungrateful for all the things I give you, hm?” He eventually speaks amidst the strained quietness. The words he utters out didn’t hold any actual malice, voice softer now. His anger giving away to more vulnerability as his hands went to pry your face away from his neck, holding it in his palms gently.

It ached to see you hurt, the pain in your features mirrored in his own heart. His hands trembled subtly while he cradled your soft cheeks, thumbs brushing away the salty tears that fell—trying to comfort and soothe you, “always complaining.”

You lean further back slightly to get a better view of his features, seeing a mixture of emotions swirling in his irises.

Pity. Sadness. Longing.

You could feel it with the way he held you with care, you could feel it in the air—through his soft breath against your skin. Your own heart tugs a bit when you realize that he was feeling guilty. Guilty for doing this to you, for mistreating you.

“I miss you.” You hiccup whilst his thumbs continue their calming motions on the apple of your cheeks.

He focuses on your pretty face stained with wet tears before brushing some loose strands of hair framing your face, tucking it behind your ear and he couldn’t help but marvel at how cute you looked. You were nuzzled into his hands like a kicked little puppy—doe glassy eyes staring into his own.

Max lets out a shaky breath out his nose when a pout adorns your pretty pink lips, he wants to kiss it away, hear those moans you’d make against him. But first, he really needs to apologize for his negligence.

He coos at your broken voice, torn between his self pity and yearning for your presence even if he didn't deserve the slightest bit of your leniency, “‘m right here baby.” His chest continues to sting as your tears increase, the weight of his words hitting you harder than he expected.

He knows that his reassurance has touched a nerve, that you've been longing to hear those words for days. That he was never really gone, he still cared for you the same, just too stubborn about his own emotions. While keeping his tender hold on your face, his gaze never leaves your watery eyes. He wants you to feel his unwavering love, a necessity to put your mind at ease, “let me kiss you, can I?”

A soft hum coming from your throat and a small nod is enough confirmation for him to pull you into a fulfilling gentle kiss, one that you were familiar with, the kind that you yearned for so severely. The adoration was felt again as he put much effort and devotion behind it. It felt so good being cherished like this again.

With a pleased sigh passing through you, Max tilts his head—removing one of his hands from your face to hold your nape, intending to deepen the kiss even further. He takes the opportunity to push his tongue past your lips when you part your mouth.

The taste buds on your own wet muscle begin to flood with the flavor of bitter alcohol as it dances and tangles along with his. It was all so, so intoxicating. And he revels at how your lips always manage to be plump and soft, as tasty as he remembered. He mutters against them gently yet firm as he speaks, trying to convey his conflicted feelings, “so sorry my love, ‘m so sorry.”

He places a few chaste kisses on you before pulling away slightly so he can stare up at you for a moment, his pupils tracing every inch of your naked body. He can't get over how beautiful you look with desire and need whirling in your eyes. His heart stutters again with so much regret when you sniffle and hug his shoulders, pressing closer like you were trying to meld into one.

A small glimmer of light breaks through the storm of emotions when the sound of a sheepish giggle comes from your mouth. The lighthearted noise that he’s grown to love over the years of knowing you filling the tense air. Your saccharine voice overflows his ears with words of forgiveness, too compassionate for your own good. He muses at the fact that even through the stressful and pressuring times—the neglect, you were always there to welcome him with open arms.

Max rids the confines of fabric still clinging to his body with a sense of urgency, like a man on a mission to make it up to you. He tosses them to join the pile of your clothes forgotten somewhere on the floor before returning his mouth on you, this time on the column of your neck, peppering it. Starved and parched for you, just as much as you were for him.

His kisses are hot and wet, tongue lapping at your skin while his hands wander over your chest. He can feel you responding to his touches once more, pulse quickening just beneath his fingertips, your breathing coming out in faint gasps.

Small “I love you’s.” tumble from him like a mantra without stopping his focus on your skin. The once pained expression on your face now changed into an alluring one within ticks—cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide, and mouth slightly parted from all the attention.

It only fueled his hunger even more, growing impossibly harder inside of your pussy. “So fuckin’ pretty, I could stare at you like this forever.” His lips work their way up to your ear, licking the shell of it provokingly, the action has the hair on your arms standing stiffly. Max’s voice was direct and rough as he whispers, “fuck yourself onto me, go on baby you can move for me now.”

It's like a fire switch has gone off in your brain. At last, you lift yourself up until his flushed pink tip peeks out to the point of almost slipping out and slowly sink back down. Both of your mouths fall open to let out a low satisfied moan in unison. Your eyelids flutter, half-lidded now, barely being kept open with furrowed brows as you gape back at him.

“Haah!—“ your breath gets caught in your throat as he braces his feet on the floor and plunges his hips up to meet yours when you lift yourself again, stuffing his fat cock into your soaking heat in one instantaneous push. Your small hands claw on his shoulders in surprise, leaving red scratch marks on his pale skin.

“Breathe for me baby…yeahhhhh just like that. I can see you dripping for me, my needy girl look at you—so fuckin’ wet,” he bites his lip to stifle the guttural moan that threatened to slip at the sight before his eyes, “Missed you so much too—shit.”

He continues to run his filthy mouth with a vein protruding his neck and stills his hips so you can set your own pace, your walls shuddering around him in response to all of his words. Whilst you repeat the same action again and again, you’re already not able to formulate a single thought from the mind numbing sensations. Just mentally saturated at being filled to the hilt over and over and over.

“F-fuuuuuck, so good Max—feels so good!”

“That’s it, just focus on feeling good, ‘m here s’okay. You have me now.” He devours your mouth once more, this time with great fervor—his tongue exploring every inch of the wet cavern more hastily, tasting every bit of what you can give.

He swallows each and every little sound coming from you, every whimper and whine because of each drag of his length, feeling it reverberating through his mouth down to his chest—now full of warmth and contentment.

Max’s hands on your breasts continue to squeeze, fondling your mounds until his calloused fingers pinches and rolls your nipples between them to pebble up in the cool air, adding a jolt of pleasure in the mix. The feeling of you taking him inside, the sounds of your sweet gasps—it drives him insane. He groans deeply, breaking the kiss to have his head fall back against the chair.

You’re fucking him so good all of his tension and worries are melting away from each roll of your hips. Maybe a little too good that he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from ramming into you like a madman.

"Keep using me however you want sweetheart, don’t stop ‘till you're satisfied,” he mutters, ragged and hoarse.

You can hardly focus, it was too much for you to endure. All you can make out is how good he feels, how his mushroom head hits that spongy spot with the way you’re taking him in so deep at this angle. This is everything you've ached for, so it’s no surprise how easily you’re falling apart so early on along with him. So overly sensitive and responsive to each stroke of his stiff cock, being able to feel every ridge and vein.

The observation of him splitting you open was incredibly arousing to gawk at. Strings of slick connects where the two of you continuously meet, hot and sticky with a translucent white painting the base of his length as you continue to cream around him.

He swears he feels like he’s floating, going absolutely delirious, and it’s obvious with the way he wouldn’t shut his mouth. Max always gets this way from the taste and feel of you, it’s like his mind couldn't fathom anything else around him.

“You're so good baby, so good for me," he praised, palms going to grip at your hips tightly. He’s clutching you so securely as if he can't bear to let go, leaving crescent shaped indents on your hips from his blunt nails. "You love this, you love being filled up by me, don't you?"

“Y-Yes, Max," you moan out needily, your own fingers digging into his shoulders, "I love it so much. Mnnh—so big.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he tries to hold back, to prolong the need to just pound into you, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pants. The sound of wet plaps! from skin slapping against each other fills the office walls when you move a little faster—air thickening around you further with the smell of sex. His brain clouds, losing himself in the pleasure you bring upon him. He can feel his willpower slowly giving way to his desire and need for you, but he wants you to have this.

The view of you riding him and your sweet whimpers was making it harder for him to control himself. He shuts his eyes and clenches his jaw to focus on not coming so quickly, “You're so tight, so perfect. Can’t even fuckin’—hah! Can hardly think straight.”

He makes it a point to hold out for you, so you can come at the same time just how he always likes. But you whine and suddenly stop, legs starting to strain. The vulgarity of his words, the sensations, it was all getting too overwhelming.

Max groans at the loss of pleasure, reopening his eyes to look at your flushed disheartened face, “What's wrong baby?”

“Need you,“ you whine frustratedly and press your forehead against his, swapping breaths as you both pant, “I can’t…”

"Need my help?" He grabs your hands to place it behind you so you can grasp at the steering wheel, this allows you more leverage and support to slam down onto him, “Lean back and hold onto this sweetheart, hold on tightly.”

For extra measure he snakes a strong arm around your back, holding your waist sturdily as he helps guide you to fucking him more harshly now.

“Oh f-fuck! You’re s-so deep!” You tip your head back, bearing your hickey covered neck to him. He almost came from the sight alone, a low groan bullying it’s way out of his mouth.

“Yeah? That’s better isn’t it baby?” He asks softly but there’s a clear hint of teasing, a playful mocking in his tone. Though his voice is finally starting to waver, all of it sends him into overdrive as he draws close to bursting at the seams. His fingers from his free hand tease the skin of your inner thigh, making your hips stutter slightly. “Oooh, s-shit just felt you squeeze around me, you like that?”

“No teasing Max,” you whine and cinch your brows together, looking back at him with a small scowl but it looks more of a pout in his eyes, “touch me please.”

“Demanding now are we?” Deciding to not be mean anymore than he already has been tonight because of how precious you looked—he licks the calloused pad of his thumb and presses it harshly against your clit, neglected and swollen. He circles it, spreading his spit and your wetness slowly. You shriek at the added stimulation and grip the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turn white.

“My good girl, my everything, all I ever need.” He’s babbling again when your pussy clamps down on him at the praise. Both of your brains seemingly go fuzzy yet in tune with one another, only thinking of one thing and it’s that sweet release.

With each moan from you, a sharp groan and grunt comes from him. His own hips begin to move with you again, no longer capable of keeping still, his thrusts matching each lift of your body. The pleasure builds and builds, becoming almost unbearable.

“So. Fucking. Good.” He punctuated his words with each buck, becoming more sloppy as time goes on—hanging so dangerously close to the edge. And he knew that you were almost there too, he could feel it in the way you were moving against him desperately, clenching and shaking around him. "You're close, aren't you, baby?"

Incoherent babbles of yes's and pleas were all you can respond with. Each drive of his hips were now constricted because of how hard you squeezed around him, your walls pulsing like a vice as your body goes taut.

He didn't stop, couldn't stop, he needed you too badly, needed to feel you as you fell apart for him, all because of him. His thumb rubs more vigorously against your bundle of nerves to heighten the pressure in your core, ready to burst at any given moment.

“Y-Yeah I know I'm right there with you, come on baby,” he urges and leans forward, licking and speaking against your ear, knowing that it’ll drive you even closer to your peak, “I want you to come for me–come with me.”

Your vision begins to blur, nerves on fire as you can only focus on the blissful pleasure. The moans coming out of you now louder and more high-pitched as you chase for your orgasm. He angles his hips and snaps up into you harder, now hitting your sweet spot more incessantly. You suddenly go quiet, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you come around him in a silent scream.

“Holy shit, gooooood fucking girl,” his concentration switches to pure ecstasy when he watches you shake atop of him, he can feel everything—every muscle and contraction around him, it was enough for the heat burning in his abdomen to explode along with you. The base of his cock throbs as spurts of cum shoots inside of you while a guttural moan rumbles deep within his throat.

His thrusts begin faltering as he tries to coax the most of your orgasm out of you, pushing his cum further into you as much as he can until the fat head of his now flaccid cock burns in overstimulation.

You collapse onto his chest blissed out and limp when you finally come down from your high. Completely fulfilled again as he hugs you to his sticky body, not caring to pull out, keeping you plugged full of his cum. His chest heaves against your head, rising and falling almost like a soothing lullaby, sitting there and just listening to each others heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry again my love,” he speaks after a while of calming quiteness.

“Shhh don’t talk about it anymore,” you chide playfully, resting your chin on his chest to stare up at him, “just don’t ignore me like that again.”

“Oh I don’t plan on it.”

The familiarity of your bond re-emerges. The tension and hurt from earlier is entirely gone, replaced by a sense of comfort and ease with you lax in his arms. His eyes drinks in the sight of you with a content smile plastered on his face. He’ll have to book a getaway for the rest of his winter break and take you over and over to make up for lost time.

#𝐂𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐑✸𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐙 → f1 #animated dividers from @/cafekitsune #formula 1 #formula 1 smut #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x reader smut #formula 1 x y/n #f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 x reader smut #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x reader smut #max verstappen x y/n

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nikkento-writes · 1 month ago

Text

Guess

Summary: You’ve got the most horrible roommate imaginable. The worst part of it all: he’s incredibly fucking hot. When you find out he’s stealing your dirty underwear, you decide to get back at him the best way you know how.

Word Count: ~2.6k

cw: explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, mutual masturbation, underwear stealing, panty kink

Author's Note: In honor of brat summer approaching, I’ve written a little piece inspired by the song Guess by Charli xcx (ft. Billie Eilish of course). This song has always seemed so Toji-coded to me. I hope you enjoy! Divider credit to @/cafekitsune.

To say that you’re not the biggest fan of your roommate is the understatement of the century. The disdain and contempt you have for Toji Fushiguro isn’t without reason, though. Since you moved in about two months ago, he’s been nothing but the epitome of a bad roommate. He’s messy, never cleans up after himself, eats your food without asking, disrespects your boundaries. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, used take-out containers on the counter until you can’t take it anymore and have to throw it out yourself. Groceries you’ve allocated for yourself always mysteriously disappear into his protein smoothie or post-workout meal. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s “accidentally” walked in on you naked in the bathroom after a shower. His apology is always a lazy, “Oops, sorry”, his gaze lingering way longer than it should. He was a walking red flag since the beginning. If the rent wasn’t so cheap and the location so close to your work, you’d have been out of there after the first week.

It also doesn’t help that you’re stupidly attracted to him.

Call it carnal attraction or whatever, but no matter how fucking irate he makes you, you can’t help fantasizing being trapped beneath his massive pecs, bulging biceps surrounding you, kissing and licking him all over that delicious scar across the right corner of his lips. You know he has a big dick; you haven’t seen it for yourself, but you’ve peeked at the outline of it through those grey sweats he always wears, parading it around for everybody to admire. He’s brought women home before, railing them in his bedroom across the hall, their moans always so excessive and wanton that even the max volume on your noise-cancelling headphones isn’t enough to drown them out. Another goddamn reason he annoys you beyond wit’s end, even if you do imagine yourself being on the receiving end, getting pounded by that huge cock of his. Screaming “Fuck me Toji!” over and over again into his pillow until it’s wet with your spit.

Ugh, what a fucking prick.

It finally crosses the line though. You start noticing it two weeks ago when you were folding laundry. A few pairs of missing underwear. At the time, you chalked it up to the washing machine eating them to never be found again. It happens, nothing too concerning to worry about. But when you clock that it’s always a certain pair, something skimpy, something silky, something tiny, like the thongs you typically wear on a date, then you start to suspect something more nefarious. In this case, someone.

You decide to test it out by laying out a trap, a small piece of cheese to lure the rat. In this case, it’s panties, the lacey black pair with the little bows. You suspect the worst, that your disgraceful and frustratingly hot roommate is totally sneaking into your room to steal your worn garments. Part of you still gives him the benefit of the doubt, a very tiny, miniscule part of you. But of course, it’s just as bad as you think. Because when you come home, it’s completely gone from the top of your hamper. Despite the evidence being clear as day, you can’t fully believe it. This sick fuck is actually taking your dirty underwear!

When he leaves for the gym, your body reacts before your brain can tell you to stop. If this motherfucker is sneaking into your room to take your things, then you have every right to sneak into his room to take it right back. You march straight for his bedroom and search the first place you think he’d be hiding this filthy secret of his: the bedside drawer. And lo and behold, it’s there in all its perverted glory. Five pairs all bunched up next to a half-empty bottle of lube and an obscene sex toy. Real classy.

In theory, you should be disgusted, absolutely appalled by this abhorrent discovery. And you are, you absolutely are. It’s right there, your dirty underwear further defiled by whatever vile acts he’s committed with it. It’s awful, totally repugnant and revolting and sleazy. Straight up nasty. You imagine him laid out on this bed, your hot pink thongs between his fingers as he strokes his throbbing cock in his fist, precum dribbling out of the tip. Or your silk piece stuffed inside his mouth as he fucks his fleshlight so hard that its fake pussy lips rip at the seams. Perhaps all he does with it is sniff it, inhale your womanhood through his nostrils so deeply that he can almost taste your pussy. And maybe he does just that, running your lacey panties across his tongue, salivating at how delicious you are in his mouth.

Oh no, oh god no. This is bad, this is so so bad. You’re not disgusted by this at all. In fact, you’re aroused. You’re wet just thinking about him getting off to your panties, his brows furrowed tight, sweat beading off his forehead as he jerks himself into oblivion. And if he’s allowed to have this much fun with it, why can’t you?

By the time he returns from the gym, you’ve already washed the evidence and have it back in your possession. You confront him after his shower, knocking lightly on his door dressed in a nightgown that’s a little too short on you. He opens it, sporting a tight white tee and an even tighter pair of briefs, scrubbing a towel over his damp hair as if he isn’t casually looking like a Calvin Klein model. “What do you want?” His tone is blunt as usual, expression indifferent, though his eyes take a quick scan of you up and down in the attire you’re wearing.

You swallow your nerves, smiling politely at him. “I just wanted to ask you something. Can you come to my room?”

There’s a tinge of confusion when his brow raises ever-so-slightly at you. This never happens; the two of you tend to avoid each other at all costs. He’s never been invited to your room before. Still, he follows you down the hall, not questioning it. You lead him inside, not bothering to shut the door closed. Pointing at the floor, you tell him, “Please sit.”

He glares at you. “Excuse me?”

“I think you’ll want to be seated for this,” you respond, unbothered.

“What the fuck are you – ”

“I found my underwear in your room.”

He gawks at you, then quickly gathers himself to deny it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really? Seems like you know exactly what I’m talking about. It was all there, right next to your lube and fleshlight.”

This shuts him up. Taking a deep breath, he steps towards you, pointing an accusing finger. “You had no right to sneak into my room.”

You do the same, shortening the distance between you. “You had no right to sneak into my room and steal my dirty underwear, you fucking freak.”

“You have no proof,” he challenges you.

“The proof is right here, asshole.” You point to your bedside drawer, where the evidence lies hidden from view. “I have reason to report you to the police.”

He crosses his arms over his big chest, his nipples peaked through the fabric. “Then fucking do it. See if I care.”

The tension is so heavy between you, it’s taking everything to resist yourself from pouncing on him. You give him a smirk, feeling confidence you’ve never felt before. “Not yet. Doesn’t seem fair that you got to have all this fun in my expense. I want to play a little game with you first.”

He snarls at you. “What the fuck are you on about?”

You sit down at the edge of your bed, the hem of your nightgown riding up your thighs as you cross one leg over the other. “Out of all the ones you’ve taken from me, I want you to guess which pair of underwear I’m wearing right now.” You fold your hands over your lap. “And no cheating.”

At first, he’s perplexed by this proposition, unsure if this is real or if it’s just some trap he’s destined to fall for again. Then, he gulps loudly, asking, “What happens if I guess right?”

You grin at him. “I’ll let you fuck me.”

He licks his lip, erection growing in his briefs. “And if I’m wrong?”

“You’ll have to watch me play with myself. And get these panties dirty all over again.”

He can’t help himself from swearing under his breath. “Sounds like a win-win situation.”

You chuckle. “Trust me, I think you’re a loser either way.” Scooting farther back onto the bed, making sure to pull down the hem of your gown to hide yourself, you ask, “So…what’s your guess?”

You’re fully aware of how ridiculous this “game” is. Toji is completely right; it’s a win-win situation. If he’s right, he’ll fuck your brains out. If he’s wrong, you get to torment him by spreading your legs while he watches, wishing he could fuck you. And to be quite honest, you’re hoping he’s wrong. To see him on his knees, groveling, begging for a touch, a taste. It’s a sight you want to engrave in your memory. You realize in this moment that you’re just as much of a freak as he is, finding pleasure out of this fucked up situation.

Toji studies you carefully, trying to see if he can get a glimpse of an outline, shape, or color. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s familiar with the panties he stole from you. You haven’t accused him yet of specifics, but he can guarantee that whatever your suspicions are, they’re absolutely right. He’s sullied them in all the ways he can think of. But this is something he never dreamed could actually come true. First and foremost, you absolutely despise him, for good reason. Even he can admit to himself that he’s a terrible roommate. He knew he’d eventually get caught, he wasn’t exactly being discrete about it. It was always there, your bedroom door wide open, waiting to be snatched up. In his fucked-up mind, he saw it as an invitation. You were too dumb to notice it before, but he always figured you’d catch on. His secret would be exposed, get the cops called on him, maybe get a smack in the face or restraining order, no big deal. But this right here is an outcome straight from his wet dreams. You in front of him, on the verge of spreading yourself open upon finding out the truth, wantingto be fucked. Being a complete degenerate has finally paid off for Toji.

After what seems like hours of him contemplating, you clear your throat to regain his attention. “Final answer?”

He’s got a one and five shot of getting it. There’s no way he can tell what you’re actually wearing, no matter how hard he tries to manifest x-ray vision. So, he makes an educated guess based on his own personal favorite of the bunch. It’s a tough choice to make, considering he likes them all. The silk ones were the first he stole from you. It feels so good on his cock, smooth and luscious on his skin. The cheeky pair is fun because he imagines you parading around in it, your ass bubbly and bouncy as he pictures himself admiring each cheek with a hard slap. Despite all the options, there’s still one that reigns supreme in his head. “The pink thongs,” he finally answers.

The pervert likes the ones with the least fabric, big shocker. You mimic a wrong buzzer sound, shaking your head at him. “Nope, you lose.” Lifting the hem of your dress up, you reveal the lacey black underwear, the one you caught him with. “Guess you’ll just have to watch.”

He sucks air through his teeth, breathing out, “Fuck.” His hand hovers over his briefs, palming his boner. “You’re a fucking slut, aren’t you?”

You slip your hand beneath the fabric, middle finger circling your already aching clit. “Takes one to know one.”

It surprises you when he actually does get down on his knees, getting as close to you as possible without making contact, rubbing himself faster. “You gonna make a mess for me?”

“Only if you do it first.” You gaze at his hand, obscuring the cock you’ve been dying to see for yourself. “Show me how big you are.”

“Fuck,” he swears again, shrugging his briefs down his thighs. His cock is sprung against his abdomen, bigger than you imagined. The tip leaks with precum, veins prominent on the shaft, his balls hung heavy. Your brain turns to mush as touch yourself, thinking about how good he’d feel completely unsheathed inside you.

“Am I big enough for you?” he grunts, stroking himself with a tight fist, his forearm flexed.

You nod, spreading yourself wider, your wetness starting to seep through the lace. “Even bigger.”

“You think about this cock?” He massages his balls in his other hand, saliva practically drooling out the corners of his lips. “Fuck yourself to it?”

“All the time,” you tell him, dipping your finger in your wet cunt, smearing arousal on your clit.

He laughs, his voice getting huskier the closer he gets to his limit. “I bet you do. Smelled it all over your panties. Tasted it.”

Asshole. An absolute deviant. Depraved and disgusting human being. It’s all so fucking filthy and you like it. You’re getting off to it. It drives you crazy when he admits it, the mere thought of your dirty underwear in his mouth. His debaucherous nature has clearly rubbed off on you, and at this point, you’re too far gone to ever go back to normal. Hell, the two of you aren’t even touching each other and this is still some of the hottest sex you’ve ever had. Some of your guilt for being equally as weird as him is absolved by the fact that you’re not crossing that line of actually fucking one another. Not yet at least. For now, you can live with that.

You jerk against your hand, needing to feel more. Toji groans, “Are you close?”

Unable to verbalize your response, you nod, bucking your hips faster.

“Show me,” he demands. “Show me how wet that pussy is.”

You hook your finger on the crotch of the panty, revealing yourself to him, cunt shiny and glistening. All of it for Toji.

This does it. He curses, lifting his shirt up, wrist working overtime as he orgasms on himself, cum shooting out onto his chiseled six-pack. It’s enough to push you over the edge; you rub yourself through it until your panties are soaked.

He relaxes, pulling his briefs back on slowly, using the hem of his shirt to wipe himself off. You watch him as he stands up, staring at you still on display for him. You smile, removing your hand from the mess you made, fiddling with the waistband. “Want a consolation prize?”

He scoffs, trying to contain his excitement at this unexpected offer. “Are you serious?”

You shrug as you slide the panties off, tossing it over to him to catch. “Yeah. It’s pretty hot knowing you get off to this kind of shit.”

Toji plays it cool, walking away with them in his hands and leaving with a quiet, “Goodnight.” An hour later, he’s sucking on the fabric saturated with his saliva and your cum as he fucks his fleshlight, desperately wishing it was you.

#toji fushiguro x you #toji smut #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk smut

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maxcontainersline · 1 year ago

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We offer Shipping container for rent! Do you require additional working space? Get a safe, contemporary office container right here! Contact us today!

https://maxcontainersline.com/standard-rentals/

#Standard rentals #max containers line #Shipping container #office container

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seungmins52ndhairstrand · 4 days ago

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can we get the opposite of skz accidentally confessing 👀 so instead reader thinks they’re texting another member but they’re actually texting skz

You accidentally confess to bsf!skz

Contains: Hyung line x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: cursing

A/n: sorry to split this into 2 parts but I'm not by my computer so 10 pics max:( thanks for the request!!! I really enjoyed writing this<3

Enjoy🛴

💜Masterlist💜

Maknae line here

Taglist: OPEN

@velvetmoonlght @chengmeiauau

@iknow-youknow-hyunho @nougatjade

@alice3876 @my-neurodivergent-world

@androgynouscrownorbit @casperlynn23

@lixies-favorite-cookie @jisungooner

@justwonder113 @notmedina127

@geni-627 @chimmyn0chu

@beppybeesnuggets

@angel-writes-skz-here @wolfhallows4

#skz #skz smau #stray kids #stray kids fake texts #stray kids smau #skz fake texts #stray kids x reader #stray kids texts #fake texts

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swampjawn · 3 months ago

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If you wanted to animate an object spinning really fast, there are three main embellishments at your disposal. You could add smear frames, you could add doubling, or if you wanted to get a little crazy with it, you could have that object bend and stretch to really emphasize the inertia of the motion.

Or you could do all three at the same time!

I didn't want to like Zenshu at first.

Saying I'm not a big fan of isekai as a genre would be an understatement, so I was straight up peeved when I found out that what I initially thought would be a flawed industry's unflinching look in the mirror made by THE studio that has become the symbol of the Japanese animation industry's broader problems with overworking and underpaying, this was just gonna be yet another in a long line of paint-by-numbers escapist power fantasies in a genre that was tired from the moment it was born, just like yaboy, sleepy to the max if you know what I'm saying.

And this recreation of a scene from Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984), (which was one of the first breakout roles for anime legend and Evangelion director Hideaki Anno) certainly helped soften my attitude towards it, but a series of references to old stuff wouldn't be enough.

(both versions trimmed here)

But its tribute to classic anime and animation in general goes beyond just references.

This absurdly over the top modernized version of a magical girl transformation animated by Keisuke Toyoda (豊田桂祐 ) feels like it contains all the possibilities of animation and imagination in just 3 preposterously dense cuts. There is just WAY too much going on here at once, in a way that feels very self aware.

Every color you could imagine, lighting from three different directions, what looks like three different layers of effects and sparkles, countless compositing effects, what looks like some sort of 3D particle simulation in the background,

this psychedelic background art that seems to represent Natsuko's blood vessels, a bit where you can see what it took me several episodes to realize are Natsuko's actual blood vessels and skeleton through her body,

and… some birds of course.

Most of the main elements are animated on 2's, but there are so many layers -- the timing of each offset from the rest -- that it almost feels like the whole thing is animated on 1's because there is practically no single frame where at least something doesn't change.

It's really an assault to the senses that contrasts hilariously with the mundane action of actually sitting down at a desk and drawing. There's even a little death note reference thrown in there to poke fun at this contrast!

And fully committing to the sailor moon bit, they repeat this stock animation in almost every episode. While it's no masterpiece plot-wise, it is at least more than I expected on that front too, but that's more than I can get into here. I talk about that some more and a bunch of other stuff in this video, from which this post is an adapted excerpt! Go watch it and comment, "wow sWIMP John, I used to like your videos but you've really fallen off hardcore. Go back to making magic school bus AMVs. Unsubbed."

#anime #animation analysis #video #youtube #mini essay #zenshu #gif warning #gif

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giannaln4 · 8 months ago

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GIANNA'S KINKTOBER '24 SEASON

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Kinktober day six.

Shower sex (5.2k words)

summary: Lando had the fantastic idea to save time by showering with you.

warnings: NSFW, +18, smut, MDNI, stablished relationship, unprotected sex, the Max mentioned is Max F.

Any time you agreed to take a shower together was always meant to be romantic, just that. But of course, one thing led to another, and it inevitably always ended with him fucking you against the wall.

It started off cute, Lando washing your hair and you washing his, sharing short kisses and exchanging ‘I love you’s’, until he decided to wash your body, and you let out a low moan when he reached your tummy as he stood behind you.

He couldn’t contain his devilish smile, his eyes darkening when they met with yours. “And I thought you were being innocent today,” he whispered, keeping his hand there.

“I am. You were the one who suggested we shower together.” You defended yourself, but if you were being completely honest, you wanted him as soon as he undressed himself in front of you.

“We have to save time, that’s why we are showering together. Max is gonna kill us if we are late again. But if that’s the case, I guess you won’t mind if I keep going.”

“Be my guest,” you swallowed hard, squeezing your legs a bit, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He continued washing your body, going straight for your thighs, but now he was much closer to you, your back almost pressed to his chest. The shaky breath that escaped his lips when he parted your thighs let you know he wanted you just as bad, and he was just teasing you, so you decided to play along.

“My turn,” you said, turning around to face him. You grabbed him by the shoulders and made him turn around, starting with his strong back and then down his front, going for his chest and then his tummy. You purposefully made all the way to his V line, lingering there for a moment before going back up.

Lando had his eyes shut as his cock started to grow, trying to keep his composure as hard as he could, but man, any time your small fingers got close to his area, he almost bucked his hips.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You were the one teasing him now.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” You were now approaching his dick again, but this time, you didn’t stop. You kept going until you got there, and when you did, you grabbed it between your fingers. He almost let out a moan at this, but he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

That was until you started stroking him slowly, not putting enough pressure but enough for him to admit his defeat. A low whimper echoed through the shower, making a smile appear on your face.

“You sound so pretty when you are trying to keep it down,” you whispered as you placed a kiss on his shoulder. “But I like it more when you are loud for me, baby, show me I’m making you feel good.” You said as you picked up the pace

“Mhm, fucking hell.” He was enjoying it as much as you hoped he would, his body jolting a bit at the feeling.

You knew him so well that you knew just the right amount of pressure to use as your hand travelled up and down his length, exploring it fully as your thumb occasionally took a moment to sweep his head. It all felt like heaven to him — you taking your time to make him feel good as you whispered encouraging words in his ear.

“Mhm, feels so good, baby.” Lando moaned out as his eyes dropped where you were holding him, the sole sight of your hand making him squirm under your touch.

The shower was getting hotter by the second, and he wasn’t trying to hold his moans back anymore, so his pretty sounds echoed through the bathroom and into your ears, making you more eager to have him inside you as you stroked him. At this point, you were feeling so desperate for attention that your unoccupied hand left his shoulder and went straight to your dripping pussy, playing with it just barely to relieve some of your neediness.

Lando took notice of this and realised he wasn’t giving you any attention, making him feel guilty almost immediately. He knew that you didn’t actually ask to get something in return, just like he didn’t ask for anything in return when he was pleasing you, but how could he leave his girlfriend unattended?

“Stop,” he said in a shaky tone. “I wanna be inside you.”

“But we have barely-”

“Please,” he insisted as he turned around to face you, making you drop his dick and take your hand away from your clit. “I need you.”

With that, you just nodded and started kissing him, passionate and rough. His hands found your hips to bring you closer to him, making you moan into the kiss as soon as you felt his hard cock pressed against your skin.

Lando carried you and pinned you against the nearest wall, holding you as tight as he could without hurting you. The cold tiles against your skin made you hiss, but you didn’t care. You only cared about him.

With your legs wrapped around his waist, he was running his free hand up and down your body, almost as if he wanted to make sure he touched every inch of your soft skin.

Lando used one of his hands to run his fingers through your folds a few times, wanting to see how wet you were, and man, you were so wet for him that you didn’t need any more preparation. He took his cock after that, stroking it a couple of times slowly before guiding it to your entrance.

The sigh of relief you both let out at the feeling was music to your ears, and the way you were already squeezing him caused him to moan one more time as he pressed his forehead against yours. “Ready?” He asked after a few seconds.

“Yes, please.”

As soon as you said this, he started moving, setting a delicious pace for the both of you. The last thing you wanted was to be late again for Max’s dinner, so you knew you had to be quick. Luckily, that position made your clit rub against his pelvic bone with every thrust, bringing you to the edge a lot faster than usual, and the water running down your bodies somehow made it hotter.

"Faster,” you whimper, and he immediately complies.

Your arms around his neck allowed you to tug at the hair on the back of his head, the feeling only making him more desperate for a release.

His pace became sloppier as he approached his high, a string of moans and your name leaving his lips as soon as he came inside you, pushing you over the edge and bringing you to your sweet release soon after. Lando found the crook of your neck to try and steady his breathing.

Your body was slipping down the tiles and back to the ground, your legs feeling like jelly, but he immediately sensed you struggling to keep yourself standing, so he quickly brought you up to his chest and wrapped his arms around you.

“See? We both showered and even had time for a quickie. This is a real time saver,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

↺ back to navigation — Kinktober masterlist

#giannaln4 kinktober #lando norris #ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris smut #lando norris x you #f1 #formula 1 #lando norris x y/n #lando norris oneshot #lando norris one shot #ln4 fluff #ln4 fic #ln4 imagine #giannaln4 writes

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cutehoons02 · 2 months ago

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We don’t pray for love,we just pray for cars!

Fast Hearts: Hyung Line F1 series

*pairing: Park Sunghoon F1 Red Bull driver x sports Journalist

*trope: Enemies to lovers/Forbbiden love

*driver: Park Sunghoon=Max Verstappen

*synopsis: Sunghoon is the synthesis of the journalist hater. He respects their work but when a young girl without fears and a little cheeky enters the world of F1 and Sunghoon for him is a disaster. This journalist loves to tease him, sometimes ask inappropriate questions just to make fun of him and drive him crazy. Sunghoon every time he sees her would like to put it in his place because he hates her but at the same time is attracted by her but the problem is that he should not be distracted by anything because he is fighting for the world championship for his first time with Red Bull.

*tags: At first they can’t stand each other, Hoon is really asshole with her (at first) but she also teases him always, kisses, 2 sex scenes (doogy style-normal sex) unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) fingerings, masturbation (f.m) sucking, the list of races is random (there are not all races of a season of F1) pet names (baby doll) (hoon,hoonie)

11.8k (💙) *English is not my native language

You were in your final year of sports journalism, and with your top grades and a way with words that had already made more than one professor uneasy, you were lucky enough to be selected for an exclusive internship with F1 TV. Not just any TV, but the official platform of Formula 1: young, viral, fast-paced. Interviews, exclusive content, and, most importantly, social media. It was the first race of the season in Bahrain, and you were already at the center of your first post-race conference.

Jin – the undisputed king of Mercedes – had just won. Again. The seventh time in a row, and no one even raised an eyebrow anymore. But your attention wasn’t on him.

To his right, in second place, Park Sunghoon seemed like a shadow just about to explode. His dark eyes fixed on the Red Bull can in his hands. A hard face, clenched jaw, raven-black hair slightly tousled. He was gritting his teeth with elegance.

From what you knew, he had been with Red Bull since he was 17. A prodigy, a winner, stubborn. He’d come close to winning the championship the previous year. This year... he wasn’t accepting any compromises. He had to win. And today, a single mistake at the start had cost him everything.

It was at that moment that you raised your hand with the microphone between your fingers. Everyone turned to look at you, including the content creator beside you who was filming for social media channels. Your voice, clear and calm, was the one that made him raise his eyes.

“Park Sunghoon, the car this year seems more balanced, more aggressive in the corners. So, if you don’t win the championship… can we say that maybe it was never the car’s fault, but yours?”

Silence.

A brief, icy silence.

Jin gave a small smile and lowered his face. Jay, third on the podium, made a soft “oh” with his lips.

But it was Sunghoon’s gaze that took your breath away for a second. He looked you up and down slowly, with surgical precision. Narrowed, dark eyes, full of contained disdain. You felt them slide from your hair down to your legs, where they lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

He slowly ran a hand through his silver hair, then responded.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

His voice was low and sharp, like a thin blade.

“You see, in your line of work, asking smart questions is the first step to staying in it for the long haul. Next time, try harder.”

You bit your smile.

“Oh, so if you lose, we can say the car wasn’t the issue and you made a rookie mistake at the start? Or should I ‘ask better questions’ even to the telemetry data?”

The crowd let out a small “ooooh.” Jin coughed to hide a chuckle.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw. He gave you a long, penetrating look, then stood up with a swift movement of the chair, leaving Jin and Jay still seated.

Without saying anything else, he walked off.

You watched him go, your lips slightly curved in a smile.

Welcome to Formula 1.

The Red Bull plane had landed a couple of hours ago, and as was customary before every race weekend, Sunghoon had decided to cycle along the entire track. It was one of his rituals: silence, asphalt, and a visual analysis of the circuit before the data and telemetry took over. He was accompanied by Jake and Jay. The three of them were known in the paddock as the 02z: all born in 2002, growing up together on karting circuits, adolescent victories, fierce rivalries, and shared dreams. Now they were professionals, but their friendship – though rough and competitive – was still alive.

Jake, the McLaren driver, was the kind of guy who smiled too much, even when he lost. He loved afterparties, Twitter memes, making TikTok videos, and his dog Layla, who followed him everywhere. He always had a joke ready, but he was also a fierce driver when it came to racing.

Jay, on the other hand, was the "rockstar driver." He played guitar before races, had a philosophical air about him, and had a cover-worthy smile, but when in the car, he was as determined as few others. He was supposed to be Sunghoon's teammate at Red Bull, but he had chosen Mercedes, aiming for a long-term plan. He was balanced but stubborn. Once he made a decision, no one could change his mind.

And then there was Sunghoon. Cold, calculating, focused. He lived only for F1. The only one who skipped F2, catapulted directly into Formula 1 thanks to the Red Bull Academy. The previous year he had come second. This year… everything revolved around the championship. The rest was noise. The sun was setting behind the Jeddah skyscrapers, painting the track in orange and pink hues. They cycled in single file and then in parallel. No one spoke for a few minutes until Jay broke the silence.

-You know, I’m still recovering from that press conference.- Jay said, his tone amused, sharp, and cheeky. Jake chuckled and said, 'That stuff is already in the best moments of the year. I mean, it has meme potential for sure.' Sunghoon didn’t respond, but his jaw muscles tightened slightly. -The scene: you shutting up a newly hired intern… and her schooling you in front of Jin.- Jay said, and Jake chuckled, looking at Sunghoon, repeating the words you had said a week before: 'Can we say it was your fault, not the car’s?” Boom. Mic drop.' Jake mimicked the gesture with his hand, pretending to throw a microphone. “It was a stupid question,” Sunghoon said, annoyed. -It was the truth, said in a bold way. Maybe that’s why it hurt you so much.- Jay said, staring at Sunghoon, who gripped his bike handlebars tighter. 'And anyway… she’s cute. I looked her up afterward. There are clips everywhere, even in Layla’s profile reels.' He laughed at his joke, while Sunghoon slammed on the brakes and stared at him with the coldest look he could muster. “Don’t start with this too,” Sunghoon said with an icy stare. Jake raised his hands and laughed, 'I’m just saying the pictures turned out well, and she seems like a nice girl…' “I don’t want to hear that name in my presence again. Got it?” Sunghoon said, his voice firm, sharp as a blade. -Damn, you’re more sensitive than a diva at the Met Gala,- Jay said. 'Admit it, she made an impression on you.' Jake laughed. “No.” -Mhm. I’ve known you since you used to steal new tires at karting. If you say no with that voice, it’s a brutal yes disguised as an excuse.-Jay replied with an arched eyebrow. Sunghoon began cycling again, faster. But the two easily caught up with him. 'I can’t wait for you to interview me. I promise I’ll answer with 'Yes, miss,' but only if you say it.' Jake responded, glancing at Jay. 'Come on, Hoonie, maybe she’s exactly the type you need. You need someone to break your facade now and then. You know, someone human. With emotions.' Sunghoon didn’t speak, but his hands were gripping the handlebars as if he wanted to break them. His gaze was fixed on the asphalt in front of him, but the images of the press room were still in his mind: full lips, nerdy glasses that couldn’t hide the cheeky attitude, the voice that didn’t shake in front of him. The voice of someone who didn’t kneel. Not even in front of someone like him. Jay (whispering to Jake) -Do you think he’s already thought about it while taking a cold shower?- Jake (laughing) 'Yeah. But he says it’s hatred. Some lies he tells himself really well.' Sunghoon slammed the brakes abruptly. He turned to them with a fiery look. “Whoever talks about her again… will walk the track on foot. On an empty stomach.” He shouted, annoyed by the bickering behind him. -Shit. Sorry, boss.- Jay replied, laughing, but under the threat, Jay and Jake were laughing. They were laughing hard because their cold, cynical, icy friend… was finally distracted. And that could be far more dangerous than any rival on the grid.

Qualifying had been like dancing on the edge of a knife. In Jeddah, to set a good time, you had to brush against the wall. Literally. Not centimeters. Millimeters. And Sunghoon had done it. Not a scratch, not a smudge. But the clock had spoken clearly: P2. Jin, once again, was faster than him. That evening, in his motorhome, Hoon had consumed himself with the data, the telemetry, every line of the racing line. His engineer knew him well: when he was like this, it was best to leave him alone. No music, no chatter. Just Jin, Red Bull, and obsession. Sunday – Race Red light. Three. Four. Five. Go. Perfect start. Millisecond reaction time. Jin kept the lead, but Hoon was glued to him. Less than 0.3 seconds for twenty laps. At Turn 22, he got so close he could see the carbon fiber on the Mercedes quivering under the pressure. Then, at the end of the straight after the second DRS zone, he did it. He dove in. Fake left, entered right. Jin closed too late. Contact? Almost. But he made it. P1. The pit crew exploded. His heart was pounding in his chest like a tribal drum. But Jin wasn’t the type to back down. After six laps, he was back. Right behind him. 0.4. 0.2. 0.1, and then it happened. In the second sector, amidst the chaos of walls and blind corners, Sunghoon suddenly lifted his foot. He braked. For just a moment. That was enough. Jin launched at full speed, and couldn’t react.

BANG.

The Mercedes hit the diffuser of the Red Bull. A piece of carbon wing flew onto the track. Screams on the radio.

Jin (via radio): “Is he f*cking insane?!”

Sunghoon (via radio): “What the hell was he doing?! I was letting him through! He knew that!”

It was a dirty move. A trick. A provocation. Soon after, Jin passed him again. He still had enough pace, despite the damage, to close P1. Sunghoon, P2. Again. But this time, with the taste of blood between his teeth.

Post-race – Parc fermé He got out of the car as if he were stepping on broken glass. His helmet still on, his fists clenched. The crowd cheered, but he heard nothing. Just anger. Frustration. And shame. Jin approached him immediately. Taking off his gloves, visibly agitated. 'Are you crazy? What was that?' Jin said, disappointed. “If you wanted to pass, you could’ve. I left you space.” Sunghoon said coldly. 'You braked suddenly. In the middle of the track. This isn’t karting, Hoon. If you want to win a championship… do it like a man. Do it clean.' Jin said, staring at him with those severe, veteran eyes. He was in his eighth championship. You didn’t play games like this. Not like this. Cameras were everywhere. Microphones even more so. But no one dared to interrupt them. That’s when he saw you. Dressed in a long paddock outfit, beige sand, soft and light like the wind blowing from the Gulf. Big sunglasses, a little smile on your lips. The F1TV microphone in your hand, but no question. Just a fixed gaze on him, in silence. A mute challenge. A reminder. He hated you. And yet… he just wanted to rip that outfit off you. Sunghoon via radio, entering the pit box: “Tell the press office I’m not going.” PR (via radio): “Hoon, there’s the mandatory press conference.” Sunghoon (cutting): “I’m not going into that room. If needed, fine me. I won’t talk to anyone. Especially not her.” The Red Bull garage door slammed shut with a thud.

The press room was cold. But the adrenaline from the race still burned on the skin, like the Saudi sun. Jin was sitting composed, his gaze focused yet relaxed. Next to him was Heeseung, but the second-place seat was empty. Sunghoon hadn't shown up. No statements, no comments. Just silence and the usual arrogance. You, with the microphone in hand and your heart still racing from the race, asked the routine questions. Precise, professional. But inside, you were seething. That guy was getting under your skin. And beneath your surface.

With your team, you'd just closed a piece that you knew would explode like a bomb in the paddock. Headline:

“Park Sunghoon: pure talent or just ego in a helmet?”

Subtitle:

“Today’s move on Jin was a gamble on the edge of safety. When ego surpasses adrenaline, risk turns into a threat. And Sunghoon is playing with fire.”

The article ended with:

“Respect is earned by acknowledging your mistakes. But perhaps that kind of respect doesn’t interest Sunghoon. Not for now.”

The sky was turning pink, the Arabian sunset descending like velvet over the team tents. You were walking near the Red Bull motorhome, ready to wrap up the weekend… when you saw him. Sunghoon. Leaning against the back of his motorhome. His eyes are down on a tablet. Your article opened in front of him. He had his hair pulled back with a band, a Red Bull in hand, and his jumpsuit pants slung low on his hips. He had that lone wolf look. Or maybe, a hunted animal. You stopped. “Are you out of your mind?” you snapped. “That move… You both could’ve been out. What the hell were you thinking?” He slowly lifted his eyes. Started at you with that dark, sharp look. “I don’t need a babysitter. And certainly not a nosy journalist who gets excited writing about me.” He raised the tablet. “What’s this? Now you’re pretending to be a moral judge?” “You risked someone’s life.” “My life, and mine only.” He chuckled. Cold. Cynical. “That piece of yours is crap.” And that was when your vein popped. Without thinking, you shoved your hands into his chest and pushed him against the wall. He didn’t move an inch. He just blocked you with one hand on your side, hard. Too hard for just a defense. His fingers dug into the lightweight fabric of your dress.

“Christ. But this… this drives me crazy. The way she challenges me. The way she touches me. I want to shut her up, not with words. But with mine. And I shouldn’t. I’ve got a damn championship to win. And yet I’m thinking about what she looks like under that dress.” Hoon thought as he shot you a glance.

He looked at you with pupils slightly dilated. A flash crossed his gaze. “Watch out,” he hissed, inches away from you. “You’re not important enough yet to use those words.” But you didn’t back down. “No?” you whispered, your heart in your throat. “But enough to get a reaction from you. Mentally… and physically.” He slowly released your side, but he did so with deliberate slowness. He turned to leave, but muttered something through clenched teeth: “Next time… choose your words better. Or you might find yourself having to swallow them.” And disappeared into the motorhome, but you knew that wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

The Australian sun had just set, but Albert Park still shimmered with the glow of victory. Sunghoon Park had finally won. First win of the season. First time ahead of Jin. He had driven like a demon straight out of hell. Surgical precision, aggressive yet clean overtakes. The Red Bull was flawless—but he was more than that. You’d followed him all weekend, like always. But this time, the story had changed. And you knew it. So, with your heart pounding in your throat and your brain lit up like an engine pushed to its limits, you wrote an article. For him.

Title:

"Sunghoon Park: Fueled by Hate. And Finally, a Win That Burns."

He drove like he had fire under his wheels. Like every corner was an answer to every word written, every look given, every laugh behind his back. Did he finally show a human side? No. Thankfully, no. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne trembled for him. Because when he wins... it hits you. Like a wound that burns. And damn, it leaves a mark.

Well done, Park. Keep going. Maybe, in the end, someone will love you for this, too.

Click. Published.

And you knew he was reading it. You felt it, under your skin.

That evening, you wore a knee-length black dress with a modest neckline but sensual style. Your hair was down in soft waves, and you wore a floral perfume with warm undertones.

You weren’t looking for him. But you weren’t avoiding him either.

You rode up to the eleventh floor alone. But when the elevator stopped at the sixth, he stepped in.

Black shirt, collar open, eyes cast down but fully aware. You turned your head to speak.

"Just wanted to say... nice job today. You finally woke up."

He didn’t answer right away. Closed his eyes for a second, then slowly turned to you.

"Your piece. I read it. Poison in the shape of praise.

You’re good with words. Almost as good as you are at playing with me," he said, voice hoarse.

"And you’re good at reacting when I mess with you. We work."

He took a step closer. Too close. The elevator kept rising, but time stopped.

"You provoke me. Always. You wanna know the truth?" He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, speaking just inches from your lips.

"It turns me on like hell." And he said it with a smirk that promised nothing good—then he kissed you. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent. Fiery. An implosion.

His lips were hot, and hungry. His hands grabbed your waist and the back of your neck. Your body hit the elevator wall with a dull thud—but you didn’t complain.

You couldn’t. You were too far gone.

Sunghoon’s tongue pushed into your mouth with force, weeks of restraint pouring out in one breathless moment. His kisses were rough, and dirty. He bit your lower lip too hard, then moved to your ear.

"I can't take it anymore. Pretending. Ignoring you. You drive me crazy and I don't know if I want to kiss you... or shut you up with your hands tied behind your back."

he whispered, panting.

He bit your ear—first gently, then harder—while lifting you slightly against the wall, fingers digging into your sides like he wanted to leave a mark. You scratched his shoulder blade. He chuckled. A low, wicked laugh. Bastard. And god, so sexy.

"I thought you needed focus, Park," you said, moaning.

"Apparently, you are my focus," he murmured, trailing his hand along your thigh—and your whole body shivered.

DING. Floor 11.

He pulled away. His eyes were glazed, but clear.

"This isn’t over," he said darkly.

"It hasn’t even started," you whispered as you stepped past him, legs shaking—but the fire? That was just beginning.

Barcelona.

The circuit where it had all begun.

Where Park Sunghoon, just seventeen years old, had won his very first F1 race as a rookie—blowing away every prediction, every doubt, every insult hurled at him online.

That day, the world had dubbed him the Ice Prince. Unshakable. Precise. Ruthless.

But this time… this time, he hadn’t won.

He’d finished fourth. A wrong strategy, an unstable car after the second pit stop, and far too many thoughts clouding his head.

He’d been leading the championship for weeks. Max had dropped out of the top spots. Jin was only a few points behind and yet, something… something was slipping through his fingers.

Jake and Jay noticed it too.

On their days off in Monaco, when they went running along the coast in the morning or locked themselves in the gym, they saw how Hoon trained harder than necessary. How he sometimes drove one of his vintage cars for hours—just to outrun his thoughts. How he studied telemetry in silence, even on rest days.

Jake—with his loud laugh and Layla the puppy always in his arms—tried to make him smile.

Jay, more observant, said nothing. But he watched and now and then, during quiet moments, the two exchanged knowing glances and smiled.

Because they knew something Hoon would never admit:

There was a journalist—with too much light in her eyes—who was getting under his skin.

Barcelona. Post-race.

In the Red Bull garage, the air was tense.

Mechanics worked in silence. No one dared speak to him.

The team principal had simply nodded and said:

"Today wasn’t your race. But the season is long."

But Sunghoon wasn’t listening. He had taken off his race suit, changed clothes, and now sat outside the motorhome, hidden in the shade.

The sun was setting slowly, and the roar of the engines had faded into the distance and that’s where you found him.

In a corner of the paddock you knew by heart. Your heart saw him first—before your eyes did. He was sitting there, the Ice Prince. Only that night, the ice was starting to melt.

You walked over—this time with no microphone. Just your voice.

“You didn’t run away this time,” you said softly.

He looked up slowly. Tired eyes. Angry eyes.

“And you’re still not tired of chasing me,” he replied, voice low and laced with venom. You stopped just a few steps away. Silence. There was no challenge in your stance—only honesty.

You looked him in the eye. He didn’t look away.

“I saw you make mistakes today. For the first time… you looked human.”

His jaw tensed. He gave a small nod. A silent admission.

“It’s not easy, trying to be perfect… is it?” Silence again. Only the distant hum of generators and the pounding in your chest.

Then, he spoke.

“I don’t want to be perfect.…I want to win. I want to deserve the seat I’ve been given and every time I screw up, every time I lose, it feels like I’m spitting in the face of those who believed in me.”

He looked down.

For one fleeting moment, he seemed fragile.

“And me… in all of this… am I just a distraction?” You didn’t ask out of pity. Nor to provoke him. You asked because you wanted to know.

He inhaled deeply. Didn’t look at you. But his voice wavered—barely.

“There’s no room for you. There shouldn’t be room for anything. But you… you’re there. Always. Because you provoke me every damn weekend, and I think about you, I see you—when I drive, when I lose, when I lock myself in the gym, when I race along the Côte d’Azur, even then. And I wish I could rip you out of my head forever. But you’re there. In my thoughts. And you drive me insane.”

His fingers moved—slowly. He took your hand. A gesture that wasn’t like him. A crack. A surrender. A silent confession.

His skin was warm. His grip firm, but not rough. He looked down—like he hated himself for it.

“And that… is the problem.” You didn’t reply right away.

Then, slowly, you knelt beside him—still holding his hand.

“Maybe… you’re not the problem. Maybe the problem is that, for the first time… you’ve found something you can’t control.”

He looked at you. Eyes not full of tears—but of storm.

“If I let you in, I won’t be able to focus. And if I keep you out…I won’t be able to breathe.”

Silence.

“Then choose what scares you more: losing… or feeling something.”

He didn’t answer. He let go of your hand but he didn’t stand. Didn’t walk away he stayed. With you and in the silence of the Catalan night,

for the very first time, it wasn’t the sound of an engine keeping him company—but you.

The sky above Silverstone seemed to barely hold the weight of the tensions built up on track, it had been an explosive Grand Prix. Sunghoon started second, Jin third. Everyone’s eyes were on them. No one was talking about anything else. The battle between them had become the main storyline of the season. And when, on lap 37, Jin attempted the inside pass, Hoon didn’t back down. The two brushed against each other, their tires touched, and the Mercedes flew off into the gravel, ending the race. Sunghoon continued, but the damage to the floor of the Red Bull sent him sliding to fourth place. Zero points for Jin. Just twelve for him. A disaster for both and a perfect explosion for the media.

After the race, the air in the paddock was as tense as a rubber band about to snap. Sunghoon got out of the car with his suit unbuttoned to his chest, sweat on his skin, his face burning. He threw his gloves onto the wall and ignored anyone who tried to speak to him.

But you were waiting for him.

Microphone in hand, posture impeccable, eyes determined.

You had watched the replay several times: the move had been risky, borderline. And you wanted his version but you also wanted to provoke him. You wanted to break through his ice. You intercepted him just as he was about to enter the garage, with two PRs on his heels.

“Park, got a second?”

He turned, saw you, and stopped. His black eyes immediately narrowed.

“What is it now, you want to ask if I tried to kill Jin?”

“No. But if you want to talk about it, we can add it to the interview.”

Silence. The cameramen were already there. The microphone was on.

You took a deep breath, then pressed on.

“You’ve been complaining all season about how Jin is treated like a deity. But today, when you had control, you chose to push him off. Is this the champion mentality you’re trying to show the world?”

Sunghoon stared at you. His eyes turned to stone.

“You know what the problem with this generation of journalists is? You all think the track is a reality show. This isn’t Netflix. This isn’t ‘Drive to Survive.’ It’s Formula 1. And I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Then why do you seem so obsessed with what we write? Why do you read every single line that concerns you?”

The shot hit its mark. You knew it a muscle twitched on his jaw.

Then, without saying another word, he turned and disappeared into the garage but the look he gave you… was a promise.

The call came less than thirty minutes later. From his PR.

“Mr. Park would like you to come to his office. Room 813. He says he ‘wants to discuss your journalistic skills.’”

You didn’t respond, you just went, you opened the door without knocking.

The room was bright, modern, with large windows looking out onto the now-empty track. Sunghoon was standing there, hands in his black pants pockets, a tight t-shirt that hugged his chest.

As soon as he saw you, he lifted his chin.

“Took you less time than expected. Ready to apologize?”

You closed the door slowly behind you. The blood was pounding in your temples.

“Apologize? For asking a question any journalist would ask? You called me here to hear applause or to confirm that you have thin skin when it comes to criticism?”

He stepped toward you, slowly, like a predator.

“I called you here because what you did was personal. It wasn’t a question—it was an attack. And you know what? You like it. You like to poke me. You like to make me lose control.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Because you’re arrogant. Because you think the world owes you something just because you drive faster than the rest. But you know what I saw today? Panic. Haste. A kid who feels threatened by someone who’s won more than him.”

He stopped just two steps away from you. Looked down at you.

“You’re just a brat. A nuisance. A background noise. And you’re playing with fire.”

You moved closer. Anger, excitement, tension—it was all mixed together.

“And you’re a walking ego with an inferiority complex. But hey, at least one of us has the balls to admit it.”

His gaze burned. He took a step forward. Then another. Now he was too close. You could feel his breath.

“Kneel.”

The word hit like a whip you didn’t back down. Your eyes locked onto his.

“Fuck you.”

He smiled. Cold. Obscene. Dangerous.

“I’m asking you to choose. Either you run like everyone else who can’t handle me…Or you show me that your mouth serves for something useful.”

Time stopped.

There was no noise—only the beating of your heart.

His hands had closed on either side of your hips, not touching you, but surrounding you with the tension of the gesture.

It was then, in that suspended moment between hate and desire, that you realized neither of you would give in first.

Sunghoon looks at you like you're a mistake. But the noticeable swelling in his pants screams the opposite. "What is it, champ?" you say bending your head to the side. "Are you afraid of a journalist who asks uncomfortable questions even with her mouth full?" He doesn't laugh. He never does. But his eyes shine with repressed desire, burning anger. "You talk too much." growl. "And you don't know when to shut up." You laugh, provocative. "Perhaps. But I bet I could teach you to moan my name before you can silence me." At that moment he snaps. He grabs you by the back of his head and pushes you against the wall, his forehead a breath away from his. "Don't tempt me, little viper. I'll break you."

"Promises, promises…" you whisper, biting your lip. Slowly, you kneel before him. Look at his belt, then go back to his eyes. "Can I open the gift?" Silence. Then a dry: "Do it. But no scenes." You unlock it with slow fingers, and you already feel the heat growing between you. When you unbutton his pants and lower them, his black by Supreme "Really Supreme?" raise your eyebrows. "Did you want to impress someone?" "Shut your mouth… or use it well." You laugh slowly, and then you light up. "Oh, don't worry. She'll be busy for a while." Lower the bigboxer, tense, throbbing. You bite your lips. Feel the water rise. "Christ, Hoon … below you are a champion even without a helmet." He looks at you as if he wants to pierce you, but the beating that pulsates on his toe betrays his self-control. You stroke it with slow fingers, going up and down. With your other hand, you stroke his side hard, feeling his muscles contract under your skin. "Let me guess…" whisper, as your tongue grazes its tip. "That's the weakness you didn't want me to find out." "Silent," he grunts. "Suck, now." You look at him, provocatively, and say: "I'm not as good as you think." His hand grabs your hair, squeezing it at the root, forcing you to open your mouth. "Then learn. I just want to hear my moans and the sound of your throat as you swallow me."

You take him between your lips slowly, while he sighs a " Fuck…” that sends a shiver down your spine. Feel his warm skin on the tongue, the tip smooth against the palate. You begin to move, lips tightened around him, tongue working in slow circles. He groans quietly but does not give up control. He guides you with his grip on his hair, and moves you as he wants. "Look how good you are when you stop talking…" he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "Maybe I should keep you like that more often." You cast a glance at him, while your mouth is full of him, and slightly tighten your grip around his left testicle, to challenge him. Sunghoon moans, a growl that becomes a crude groan. He pulls your hair with more force. "You're playing with fire, bitch." With one blow, he pushes it deeper into you. Your hands are clasped, one against his belly, the other pumping him with alternating rhythm to your mouth. You are moving as if you are enjoying a delicious dessert, sucking and licking with ravenous attention. You're destroying it, and you know it. He looks at you like he can't believe how well you're doing. Or how crazy you're driving him. "God, I can't stand you…" he moans. "But I swear you will never find another who fucks you like that." Lift your mouth for a moment, your lips shiny. "Who talked about fucking? I'm here to do a thorough investigation…" "Head down. Mouth open." And push, this time decisively. His hips move, and he penetrates you deeper, while his sighs turn into broken grunts. The salty taste of his skin, his smell, the tension in his voice that's all. He's coming, and you know it. "Take it all, bitch. You owe me." And with one last hoarse groan, you hear it explode in your mouth. His seed invades your palate, salty and bitter, while his hands hold you firm against him. You watch him calmly swallow it, never taking your eyes off his. When it ends, you're still there, satisfied, your mouth licking your lips slowly. "I would say that this …" you whisper, standing up," … deserves an adult-only article." He grabs you by the waist, holds you tightly against himself, and in a low, hungry voice says: "I hope you're not done. I certainly don't."

He lifts you off the ground with one hand behind the nape of your neck and the other on your hip. His body is hot, still tense from the pleasure you just gave him. "Anyone who stands against me… " growls against your neck, in a deep and dangerous voice, "…you have to accept the consequences!" You try to mask the excited trembling in your voice. "I just did my job as a journalist…" Sunghoon pushes you to the desk. Red Bull sheets are scattered everywhere. Strategies, telemetry. And also … your printed article. "This?" he says, grabbing the paper. "Your version of "work"?" You take it and read it aloud, with a cheeky chuckle:

“Has he finally shown the human side? Nope. And fortunately. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne shook for him.”

He looks at you with those sharp eyes and whispers, "You're not as important as you think. But fuck, how crazy you make me…" He folds you firmly on the desk. Paper rustles under your skin. Feel the cold wood on your bare thighs. Lift your skirt up, slowly. "Always in these good girl skirts…" he spits with sharp contempt. "You're a bitch, especially with me." He hits you with a slap on the butt. Strong. It makes you gasp and moan almost reflexively. The pain stings you but immediately mixes with a jolt of pleasure that leaves you breathless. "Oh, Christ…" you sigh. "You like it, huh?" murmur against your back. "Do you want another one?" You don't answer. He moves your panties to the side. And when he looks, he remains silent for a second that seems eternal. "You're already so wet." His voice is lowered, almost fierce. "And I didn't even touch you." With two fingers he opens you, and caresses your clitoris with the precision of those who want to punish and reward at the same time. A groan escapes you, raw, primitive. "Look how you tremble." He sticks a finger in you slowly, then a second. The obscene sound of your wet body makes him smile. "So soaked. For me. Just for me." Then he lowers his pants again. His cock, hard and shiny, leans against your entrance. "Tell me you want it." he orders you. "Fuck me, Park." whispered. With a strong push, he gets into you. It's chunky, hot, and fills you with an impact that leaves you gasping, fingernails sinking into the edge of the desk. "So tight…" he moans. "As if no one had ever taken you properly."

Every shot is deep, and brutal but rhythmic. The desk moves under you, sheets sliding to the ground. One is you. One is him. One is your sharp tongue, and the other is his fierce response. His hands grab your hips. Then they slide up, one to the neck, the other to the breast. He pulls you back against himself as he continues to push in. "Yell at me how much you hate me." "I hate you…" he whispers through his teeth, trembling. "…but fuck, continue." And he does. It takes you stronger, deeper, until your thoughts are no longer words, but moans, cries, broken requests. He fucks you like it's the only way to silence the war between you. When you feel that you are about to come, he whispers in your ear: "Let me feel how a journalist who can no longer use words trembles."

His cock pushes back into you with a force that takes your breath away. A scream escapes from your throat as you feel the pressure inside grows like a wave about to overwhelm you. "I want to come …" moans, the voice broken. "Please let me come…" Sunghoon does not slow down. But he bends over you, his mouth warm against your ear. "And why would I do that? For a bitch who writes articles just for the pleasure of teasing me?" You stutter, confused by pleasure, almost unable to think. "I… I … it was just … part of my job…" He grabs your chin from behind, forcing you to turn your head slightly towards him. His eyes are cold, and hungry, yet full of something darker. "Then pray." he orders you, pushing even harder inside you.

"Fuck you." you spit with a trembling voice, looking for a shred of control. But he looks at you with a sharp grin. "That's exactly what I'm doing, baby doll." Then it almost completely comes out of you, leaving you empty, about to go crazy. You feel the emptiness, you feel the absence, and your body moans in despair. "No … no, please…" he whispers, his voice broken. He smiles, satisfied. "Good girl." He caresses your clit with two fast, precise fingers, and a moment later you come with a choked cry, your moods dripping down her still pulsating shaft, which fills you all the way again with a deep thrust. Your moans mix with his. Every stroke sends you another spasm of pleasure. Feel the orgasm explode inside you like a slow and devastating bomb. "Where… where do you want to come?" he groans, his breath panting. "I'll take the pill…" you gasps. "I'm clean… and you?" "Me too. Regular tests. No girl in months." "Then fill-fill me. In. I want to hear you come inside me." With two final thrusts, you hear it explode. His hot seed invades you, you feel it squirt deep, and then overflow. The threads of his pleasure begin to trickle out of you along your thighs, while he stays there, inside you, panting, his forehead resting on your sweaty back. You both tremble. You both groan. Both of you, for an instant, are alive only in that wild, dirty, sincere bond. He stays inside you a little longer, his hand holding you steady against him. His breath caresses your nape. Then he slowly walks away, and you feel the heat dripping from you as he gently turns you around this time. Rest your head against his bare chest, sweaty, still shaken with pleasure. And he, unexpectedly, slips a thumb on your cheek, calmly stroking.

"You are a damned temptation." he murmurs in a hoarse voice. You look up and, with a weary but cheeky smile, whisper: "You'll see what I write this time. The title will be:

"Pilot under pressure: unexpected explosion".

He snorts, but he has a half-smile. "Don't think too much about me during the summer break." he tells you, the voice returned harder. "And if you even try to date some poor idiot, remember that only I … can take you like that. Only I can make you feel alive." He bends down to pick up his pants and looks at you once again. Then with a silent gesture of the chin, he points you to the door. "Now go. Before I change my mind and fuck you against the window again."

The summer holidays in Formula 1 were the only time of year when you could finally escape. No circuits, no hospitality, no press conferences with arrogant drivers and eyes like ice.

Just your home, the salt on your skin, and your feet in the warm sand of the Mediterranean.

You spent the days with your hands buried in bowls of cold pasta and grilled fish, the evenings filled with ice cream, slow conversations, and light dresses. Yet every time you closed your eyes… there were no seashells or waves to lull you to sleep.

There were his hands.

His pushes.

His killer gaze that seemed to say, “Never try to forget me.” And it worked. Because you couldn’t.

Some guys had asked you out. One with the gentle smile of your father’s pharmacist, another was a Danish surfer you met at a beach party. All nice, available, perfect for a summer fling.

But your body didn’t react. Your mind went blank the moment you thought about kissing anyone else. Sunghoon had branded you.

Not with sweetness, but with that cold fire only someone who never gives anything can make burn and you hated him for that.

Because he didn’t even give you a reason to stop thinking about him.

No paparazzi shots.

No compromising photos.

No mysterious girl appearing in his stories.

He had spent a week in Korea, you had found out by accident from a fanpage post that had spotted a picture of him at Incheon airport. But then he had returned to his kingdom: Montecarlo.

Jake, Heeseung, and Jay were posting stories on luxury boats, laughing with glasses of white wine between their fingers, and evenings by the Côte d’Azur. But not him.

He was like a shadow behind them. He showed up occasionally, with an expression too serious for a man on vacation.

Training.

Silence.

Balanced meals.

Zero clubs. Zero Oisha. Zero Twiga. A championship driver a war monk.

Sunghoon Park seemed to live in selective chastity, as if sex—even the wild kind with you—was a distraction only allowed in the heat of an impulse. Then? Nothing.

Yet you still felt his skin on yours, like a scent that wouldn’t go away.

The way he had taken you, teased you, humiliated you, and made you come at the same time.

The way he had looked at you in the end, while saying in that raspy voice:

“Only I can make you feel alive.”

He had kept his promise.

But now? He had left you to manage that emptiness. And you hated getting lost in emptiness. Maybe that was what hurt you the most: no longer even having the chance to truly hate him.

Sunghoon Park never smiled at Monza. He didn’t answer questions with enthusiasm, he didn’t sign caps, and he didn’t shake hands more than necessary. He had returned from vacation with the same sharp discipline he had left with: trained, focused, unreachable. No gossip, no distractions, no women. The only thing that mattered to him was winning and Monza was his. He could feel it. Every turn, every meter, every gear change seemed to align with his blood. But there was one problem. You. You, with your fluttering skirt and the media badge, wore like a summer bracelet. You, laughing too loudly in the press room, asked questions that drove him mad with frustration and desire. You, who never bent to him and perhaps, for this reason, you had become impossible to ignore.

The sun was beating down on the Monza paddock.

You were talking to two colleagues when one—a British journalist in a too-tight tie and oversized ego—got a little too close.

He laughed at his own jokes, brushed your elbow too often, and then, with a winning smirk, he said:

'Are you sure you’d rather interview those Korean robots than go out with a real man?'

His hand brushed your back, lower than was professional. Before you had time to respond with your usual sharp sarcasm, a cold voice interrupted the scene.

“Get your hands off her.” The tone was so low and sharp that the air seemed to freeze.

You turned.

Sunghoon was there. His suit was half-open, dark hair slightly tousled, sweat on his skin, eyes darker than usual.

The journalist looked at him, trying to laugh it off. 'Relax, champ. We were just talking.'

“I don’t care. You’re two seconds away from ruining your career.” Hoon’s voice was flat. Serious. Lethal.

The colleague made a ridiculous apologetic gesture and disappeared into the crowd. You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. What a knight.”

Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But he didn’t walk away either.

He was staring at you. Eyes locked with yours. As if he were looking for something. As if he wanted to make sure you were okay.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, you know? I can handle myself.” Your tone was provocative but sweet. He tilted his head slightly.

“It’s not for you. It’s to avoid breaking his nose and ending up in the headlines.”

You burst out laughing and that was when you saw it. The corner of his mouth curled. A half-smile and then, for just a second, his gaze drifted down to your bare legs, to your throat as you laughed, to the fingers holding your notebook.

Then it returned to your eyes.

He had been looking when he shouldn’t have.

The moment was interrupted by the roar of engines. The race was about to start.

After the race – Podium

He had won. Sunghoon Park had won Monza in front of the sea of red, the screaming fans, the delirious engineers but when he raised the trophy, his eyes only searched for one thing.

You and there you were. Radiant smile, hair tousled by the wind, eyes sparkling from the sun… or perhaps from something more.

You approached later, at the back of the paddock.

“Congrats, champ.” You said it with a strange tone. Affectionate. Almost tender. Sunghoon slowly turned around. He looked at you and for the first time, he didn’t respond with sarcasm.

He didn’t call you “annoying.” He didn’t roll his eyes.

“Thank you.” Just that. One sincere word. Calm. Real and then, quieter still:

“I missed you.”

You stayed there, suspended between the smell of gasoline and the setting sun and the mask he had always worn… seemed to have cracked just a little.

The humidity in Singapore clung to your skin like a wet dress. Even at midnight.

You’d spent the whole weekend feeling hot, restless, and confused: – restless from the heat, – restless because of the race, – restless because, ever since Monza… things between you two were no longer clear.

Sunghoon had changed. But he wouldn’t admit it. He was still quiet, but now he searched for you with his eyes. He was still cold, but his gaze softened when he spoke to you.

And today, when Jay won with his new team and Hoon came in second… he smiled. A real smile.

You’d asked him, microphone in hand: “First time I’ve seen you happy about not winning.”

He’d run a hand through his sweaty hair, shrugging. “My two best friends were on the podium with me. Doesn’t happen often.”

Then, a quick glance sideways. “And Jay earned it. He pulled off the lap of his life. I respect that.”

It was the longest sentence he’d ever said to you. And maybe the most honest.

That night, the Fullerton hotel was dressed in gold. From the top floor, the track looked like a constellation of artificial stars.

You’d had two rum-and-pineapple cocktails, with something else in them that made you feel both weightless and burning hot.

Wearing a short black silk dress, hair loosely curled, you smiled like a girl who knew she was playing with fire.

Then you saw him. Sunghoon. Suit unzipped, a half-buttoned shirt, collar open, hair slicked back with his fingers. Beautiful. Untouchable.

But your body remembered him too well and your mind hated him for it. You walked up with a little smirk and said: “You know, I thought you were going to kiss Jay on the podium today. You looked so… happy.”

He stared at you for a second. “Are you drunk?”

You pouted. “Just a little… just enough to find you even sexier than usual.” Sunghoon clenched his jaw. A moment later, he grabbed your wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Hey!” you protested, laughing. “I just want to have fun. Can’t you play along?”

He turned to you, eyes low, voice rough. “You will have fun. Just not the kind you’re thinking of.”

With a bold spark, you whispered against his ear: “Are you… my fun, Hoon?”

He placed a hand over your mouth. Not hard—just enough to shut you up. You looked up at him, your tongue lightly grazing his palm.

He pulled it back instantly. “You’re impossible.”

The hotel room was cool with air conditioning, but your body... was burning. The night’s humidity had seeped into your skin. And the tequila into your blood. You were still laughing as you leaned back against the closed door, your bare shoulders brushing the wood.

he black silk dress clung to you like a second skin, slipping lower with each heavier breath.

“Didn’t think you were the type to rescue drunk damsels at the post-race party.”

Your voice was light, tipsy, teasing. But your eyes... wanted him, Sunghoon shrugged off his blazer and left it on the chair.

White shirt unbuttoned to the chest, elegant black trousers eyes down, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t rescue you.”

“No? Then why bring me here?”

He stepped closer. Slow. Controlled. He smelled of aftershave and warm skin. “Because you were one step away from real trouble.”

“Maybe that was the idea…” A smirk played on your lips. You knew you were provoking him. And you loved it. He didn’t answer. He leaned in, took your chin between two fingers.

“You like playing games, don’t you?”

“With you? Always.”

And then he kissed you. Hard. Certain. Without mercy. His tongue claimed your mouth, and you moaned against his lips, grabbing at his shirt.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, gripping you with force.

“You’re drunk. And too turned on.”

“That’s on you.”

You rested your forehead against his chest.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Silverstone. And I hate that.”

Sunghoon lifted your face with both hands.

“Then hate me better.”

The kiss that followed was slower. Deeper. Then he guided you gently to the bed and knelt in front of you.

“Spread your legs.”

You looked at him with glassy eyes.

“Yes, champ.”

“Don’t say it like that. You know what it does to me.”

His voice was low, nearly a growl as your thighs parted, he slowly lifted the silk, revealing the delicate black underwear already damp.

He looked up at you.

“Always this ready for me, huh?”

“Only for you. But don’t get used to it.”

He gave a dry, sarcastic laugh.

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want to ruin it.”

His fingers brushed against the fabric you gasped right away. Then he moved under it. Slow. Precise. He was learning your body like he studied a track—curve by curve.

“God, you’re soaked already.”

“Stop talking to me like that...”

“Why? Sounds like even my voice gets you off.”

His fingers started moving in earnest. First slow. Then faster. One, then two. Then his thumb joined in, finding your most sensitive spot.

You were about to lose control. Legs shaking. Sweat trailing down your temples.

“Hoon... I’m gonna...”

“No. Not yet.”

He stood, eased you back onto the bed, and came over you. Your clothes still on, but desire naked. Blazing. His kisses trailed down your neck. Your shoulders. Between your breasts.

“You’re a constant temptation,” he murmured, lips hot against your skin.

“And a problem. One I’m not sure I want to fix... or destroy.”

You grabbed the back of his neck.

“Then destroy me.”

He pressed against you—hard, hot, exactly where you needed him. You moaned so real, it made him shut his eyes like it hurt. Then he looked at you—lips wet, eyes dark.

“This is the last time.”

“Are we sure about that?”

You bit his lip. He sighed—but didn’t pull away. In fact, his hand returned to you, deeper, faster. You came for him—shaking, breathless, undone. He held you close, gently kissing your forehead. Then he pulled back and looked at you and you, curled into his chest, whispered:

“You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

He turned, gave the faintest smile.

“And you’re not as a good girl as you pretend to be.”

Sunghoon felt at home. It wasn’t Seoul—no—but Suzuka reminded him why he’d started all this. The Japanese asphalt under his tires had a different sound. Almost intimate and this… this was the turning point.

The title was just within reach.

Jin, his most relentless rival, was only a few points ahead. One mistake… or a bit more courage. That’s all it would take.

You, on the other hand, arrived in Suzuka feeling strange.

Too quiet. Too alert. Something gnawed at your stomach—a mix between a warning and fear. It wasn’t jet lag. It wasn’t the heat. It was him.

You saw him from a distance, in the garage.

That blue-and-black race suit clung to his body like a gladiator’s armor. Head down, focused—but you could read beyond the surface.

You approached under the guise of work, your press badge clenched in your fingers.

“Here to confess you already miss me?”

His voice, sharp as always—but his eyes… searched for yours.

“No.” You bit your lip and handed him a canned coffee.

“I came to tell you to be careful at the start.”

“I’ve been racing since I was four.” He laughed quietly.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. But I…”

You hesitated. Then stood on your toes and kissed him—briefly—just below the mole by his eye.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you. But inside—inside, something cracked.

“Why did she do that? Why now? Why like this? It was a useless kiss, short…but it left me more exposed than a thousand words.”

You turned quickly and walked away. He stayed there, too still for too long.

The race start was clean then came lap three. The fight was on—Sunghoon and Jin, wheel to wheel through the fast section before Turn 9.

Your voice in the mic had just begun to rise when—CRASH.

Jin tried the inside, Sunghoon closed too late. The contact was sharp.

Hoon’s car slammed into the barriers—hard, direct a front wheel flew off. Carbon brakes burst into smoke. Global broadcast switched to instant replays, you didn’t scream, you didn’t speak, you let the mic fall.

-Where are you going?!- yelled the cameraman behind you.

But you didn’t stop. You tore through the media area, ran through the Red Bull hospitality corridors.

Two hours. Two endless hours then a doctor emerged from the medical room.

“Who are you?”

“His girlfriend.” The words came out without thinking a lie? Maybe but it felt like the only thing true.When you opened the door—he was there.

Laid out. Neck brace. Bandage on his brow.

Alive. You didn’t say a word.

You leapt into his arms—gently—and he pulled you in with one free hand.

Then he kissed you. In front of everyone. Without a second thought and something shifted. It wasn’t just tension anymore. It wasn’t just a game. It was truth.

You pulled back slightly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“You scared me to death.”

“I thought you only fell for the thrill.”

“No.”

You looked him straight in the eye.“You’re not just a problem anymore.”

He smiled. Slowly. Then closed his eyes and whispered against your forehead: “You’re my only distraction.”

The lights of Abu Dhabi didn’t just shine on the track. They lit up an entire season—racing hearts, stolen glances in the paddock, fingers intertwined in the shadows, and words never spoken out loud. The world was watching. And you… you couldn’t stop watching him.

The weekend had started with a tension that felt electric. Sunghoon started P2. Jin was on pole. Everyone knew it: everything would be decided here. The world title was balanced between two frozen flames. But you—deep down—you always felt it. That Red Bull helmet, number 02, would be the first to cross the finish line.

In the final laps, the air was so thick it could’ve been cut with a heartbeat. Lap 53. A crash. Safety car. Sunghoon’s radio crackled.

— “Box, now.” — “Are you sure?” — “Trust us. This is your moment.”

Fresh tires changed everything. Jin stayed out. And you held your breath. The last two laps became the cleanest, fiercest battle of the season.

And when he—at the penultimate corner—found that tiny window, that perfect braking point, when he slipped through like a scalpel and overtook Jin at Turn 9… The world flipped upside down.

Then, over the radio: “Let me hear her voice.”

It was the engineer—he turned to you, handed you the mic.

— “Copy, Park Sunghoon. Go claim your destiny.”

He laughed. He groaned something into the radio. And then he pushed. Pushed like the entire year was packed into those last two kilometers.

Checkered flag. P1. World Champion.

“You’re world champion!” you screamed, voice breaking, tears rolling down your cheeks. You heard him sob. Sunghoon Park. The ice prince. The robot. The boy without a heart. He was crying.

He parked the car like it was a ritual. Jumped out, and before removing his helmet, kissed the car. Then the tires—like he was thanking a partner. Then, the crowd. He threw himself into them, as if needing proof that it was all real.

On the podium, he was unrecognizable. Laughing, crying, shouting in Korean. He sang the anthem with a broken voice and champagne in his eyes. Jake and Jin sprayed him like kids, and for once, he just looked… alive.

And then he saw you.

You were there for work, still wearing your badge, mic in hand. But he didn’t care. He grabbed your wrist, ignoring cameramen, PR, the whole world.

“Sunghoon! I have an interview to—”

“Not now. You’re mine.”

He pulled you through the motorhome, down the still-warm hallways of the garage. Opened the door to his room. Closed it behind him.

Then he looked at you. And the silence hit.

“I can’t play this game with you anymore.” “Me neither,” you whispered. “I thought you’d just be an annoyance. A distraction. But instead…”

He stepped closer. His breath still ragged from the race. The smell of asphalt and sweat, of victory and desire, wrapped around you like heat.

Sunghoon's lips smelled of champagne and victory. And you … you were hungry. Of him, of his body, of his ego that smelled of warm skin and sweet sweat. He held you to himself with almost desperate force, as if he feared that you might vanish, escape, dissolve in the air of the suite. The noise of the party downstairs was just a distant echo. He moaned softly when you sank your fingers into his damp hair. “I can't take it anymore… " he whispered, his voice hoarse, tense. You smiled at him, cheeky. "Poor champion … so impatient.” Slowly, almost to punish him, you let him down the Red Bull suit, then the thermal jersey, revealing that body polished by fatigue and glory. The strained, sculpted muscles smelled of adrenaline. You stooped, sinking your lips to his candid, salty skin, sowing bites and hickeys like a signature. "They'll all see them," you whispered between bites. "Everyone will know that you are mine.” He grabbed your butt hard, barely growling. "Stop it," he admonished you, but the voice was shaken. You answered only with another slow lick on the line of hairs below the navel. You pulled his suit down altogether,and he stayed in bo bo His gaze burned. You rubbed against him, shamelessly, like a cat in heat. He snapped, grabbing you by the hips. “Christ. Look…” His hands, big, calloused, slipped under your sand-colored dress, mercilessly lifting it. "Raise your arms.” You did it, slowly, looking him straight in the eye. "Who the fuck are you dressed up for?” he growled, his gaze lost between your sand thong and the transparent bra. “For you, " you replied, almost chanting. "Just for you.” You rubbed against his erection, and he snorted a sharp laugh. "Keep it up and get on your knees before I get to touch you as you deserve.” He pushed you to the bed, decided, and when his teeth sank into one of your bare buds, your breath broke.

"Oh … Hoon …" you stammered, your voice broken with pleasure, as you tried to get your legs between his. "Do you see it? You're all mine already” he hissed at your skin. He sucked you, tasted you, explored you as if entitled to every inch. Then he stopped suddenly, and in a hoarse, rough voice whispered in your ear: “I wanted to fuck your breasts until you forget your name. But now … now I just want to sink into you.”

He slipped your panties with an almost sadistic slowness, the light fabric surrendering between his strong and impatient fingers. His dark eyes, shiny with desire, rested on your damp center, and the smile that folded his lips was typical of a man who knew he had won. "Look how reduced you are," he whispered, biting his lower lip softly. “All wet just because I'm looking at you. You've always been an arrogant little bitch, but underneath it all… two fingers of mine are enough to make you tremble.” His words made you groan. But it was the tone that broke you: low, rough, loaded with malice. "And now shut up," he added, as his lips glided slowly over your thighs. He began to suck your skin, to brand you with moist kisses and light bites, climbing up, approaching, barely touching you where you wanted to feel it most. You writhed under him, and the words came out to you in sobs, cheeky. "Come on, Hoonie…don't drive me crazy like that … ” "Shut up, baby doll," he hissed. "Dolls don't talk, they get used.” Then he looked you straight in the eye and let his tongue slide against you, with a decisive, expert gesture. The scream exploded in your throat, but he plugged your mouth with one hand, eyes fixed on yours. "You want them to hear you scream my name, bitch?” You nod, moaning under his grasp, and he growls a: “So you ruin me… and I like you crazy.”

His tongue moved in slow and deep circles, then quick and cheeky, while his breathing mingled with yours. When he stuck two fingers inside you, your body rose from the bed, arched like a stretched bow. "Say my name," he ordered. "Hoon… Hoonie, yeah…oh my God … ” "Stop coming without permission," he admonished you, clasping your hips tightly. ”I can't… please…I can't…" He added another, slow, torturing you, making you moan his name like a broken prayer. “You're taking everything so well, " he hissed. “I can't wait to replace these fingers with my cock, baby doll.” Those words sent you further. A warm, overwhelming wave shook you, and you came against his fingers and mouth. He drank it all, slowly, with a hungry and satisfied expression. "He knows about you and victory. Better than champagne.” Then he pulled up, his voice hoarse and his chest rising. "I hate you, bitch. But you're my drug.” And you, panting, with your legs still trembling, smiled at him with a cheeky air. “I know. And that's what fucks you.”

He kept you under him as if you were his all along, and maybe, in a way, you were. His hands clasped your hips with a force that left its mark, while his warm breath crashed against your neck. He was on top of you, hard, tense, ravenous. But he wasn't moving yet. Only the tip of him grazed the entrance to your pleasure, torturing you. "Hoonie…" you groaned, scratching his arms. "Not yet," he admonished you with a hoarse whisper, a threat stifled by desire. “You really are the greatest asshole I've ever known, " he snorted, his lips swollen with desire and his heart pounding. "And you the most unbearable little bitch in the whole paddock," he retorted, the fierce smile opening between his teeth. “But look how you shrink as soon as I touch you.” He bent down and brushed your lobe with his teeth. “Who would have said… the brilliant journalist, always with the answer ready… all wet for me.” “I'm just studying for an in-depth piece, " you muttered, your eyes ajar. "Behind the wheel: the ego of champions.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “You're about to find out how long the ego is.” Then he rotated the pelvis, causing you to tremble under him. You clenched his biceps with force, teeth sunk into the lower lip. "Fuck me, Hoon. Move. Now.” His gaze became more gloomy, hungry. “You're not the one giving orders, baby doll.” And with a sharp, deep blow, he pushed himself into you. A single, devastating lunge that made you scream. "Oh my God … yes … Hoonie, so…” He paused for a moment, just to look at you as you trembled beneath him.

When you felt his body stretch over yours, his breath breaking into a low growl, you knew he was getting there. Her hands clasped your hips tightly, and with a deeper push, you felt full, warm, completely overwhelmed. "Oh f-Hoon…" you moaned, hands scratching his sweaty back. He did not stop, he pushed again, marking you, as his hot seed poured into you in waves, making you gasp for the fullness that made you tremble. "Good little doll…" he muttered in a low, deep tone. “You took it all, like a real girl of mine.” That phrase got under your skin more than his last push, the one in which he sank you again with a muffled groan as if he needed to brand you for real. When he came out, slowly, a warm trail dripped down your inner thigh. He looked at you with satisfaction, then bent down and kissed your forehead with a sweetness you did not expect. You sank your head against his rib cage, still shaken, still sweaty. You hugged him, tight, and for a moment it was all silence. Then your fingers began to play through her damp hair. He relaxed immediately under that touch. You knew him enough to know he was giving up. To you. “That thing from before… " you muttered, your voice tumbled. “That stuff that I'm your girlfriend… was it a stupid joke or are you serious, Hoonie?” He lifted his face, resting on your chest. His eyes looked for you, and when you fixed that wayward tuft on his forehead, he threw you one of those crooked, arrogant smirks that you knew all too well by now. “When I speak, I never do it in vain, little doll, " he said in a hoarse voice. “Even though I hated you, over time you got into me. In the head, in the skin. Every time I saw you walking around the paddock in those provocative clothes and that naughty mouth, I just wanted to take you away. And yes … I like you. And yes … you're my girlfriend.” You giggled a subtle, cheeky sound. “But you didn't even ask me, champ. A little obvious, right?” He rolled his eyes, theatrical, then poked his face against your neck and whispered softly, his voice scratched with desire and tenderness. "You want to be my girlfriend, little dool?” You barely budged, with a defiant smirk. “Depend. Are you going to act like a model boyfriend or do you just want to fuck me until you take my breath away?” He laughed slowly, his chest vibrated against yours. “Both, if you let me.” "All right," you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend.” And you kissed him. Long. Deep. Slowly, as if it was the first time really. "Ok, but now shower," you muttered, brushing her sticky, hot skin. He sighed. “You're right, but… I don't want to let you go.” You clasped to him once again, fingers tracing circles on his back. "Come on, champ. You won this race too. But it's my turn to drive now.”

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