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lov3lycosmos · 2 months ago

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𝑃𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑀𝑦 𝐵𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠- Jung Wooyoung

Genre: smut MDNI

Summary: during a dinner with Seonghwa, Yunho, and San...Wooyoung decides to push your buttons, literally.

Warnings: use of vibrator, multiple sex scenes, dirty talk, some degration, teasing, cursing, public sex, squirting, fingering, oral (f and m), let me know what I missed!

Word Count: 5k

Cosmos Note: this was so fun to write omg wooyoung just has me in a CHOKEHOLD HOLY FUCK-

my library! (not proofread!!!)

You’re adjusting your dress for the fifth time when Wooyoung steps into the room, watching you from the doorway with that unreadable look in his eyes. You know he’s been watching you get ready—he always does—but tonight, the air feels heavier. You can feel it in your chest. The way his gaze lingers. The slow drag of his eyes from your heels all the way up to your lips.

"You look unreal," he says finally, voice low and full of heat. “Like, actually insane.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just walks toward you until he’s behind you, fingertips lightly brushing the exposed skin of your arms. “It’s dangerous,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “You can’t expect me to see you like this and act normal.”

“I thought you said you could behave in front of the boys.”

“I said I’d try.” His voice dips. “Doesn’t mean I will.”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head toward him. “We’re just having dinner.”

“That’s what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can ask what he means, he takes your hand and tugs you gently toward the bed. “Sit.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Sit.” His tone is firmer now, commanding in that way that never fails to send a thrill down your spine.

You settle on the edge of the mattress, your thighs pressed together, your breath catching a little when he drops to his knees in front of you. He pushes your dress up slowly, deliberately, until it pools around your hips.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice suddenly softer.

“Of course I do.”

He leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Good girl.”

You shiver, thighs parting slightly on instinct. Wooyoung’s hand dips into his pocket, and when you see the small toy in his palm, your breath hitches. Sleek. Compact. Completely unassuming—except for the gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you, phone already in the other hand.

“You remember the rules?” he murmurs.

You nod, barely managing, “Green.”

He hums his approval and lowers his lips again, kissing along your thigh, his breath teasing, almost reverent. “This’ll be fun,” he whispers. “You’ll sit there at dinner all quiet and sweet while I have full control of this… just watching you squirm while no one knows a thing.”

“Wooyoung,” you whisper, heat blooming across your cheeks and deeper between your legs.

He grins, satisfied. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”

You do, and he slowly drags your panties down, pausing to kiss your inner thigh again, higher this time. The anticipation is a burning ache now, your pulse racing when he finally presses the tip of the toy against your entrance.

“You’re already soaked,” he teases. “All this just from getting ready?”

You gasp as he slides it in—slow, careful, too intimate—and your hands grip the sheets beneath you.

Wooyoung presses the toy in place with his fingers and watches your reaction. “Feels good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He pulls his phone out, tapping it once. The toy buzzes faintly inside you, and your whole body tenses.

He smirks. “That’s level one.”

“Level one?!” you gasp.

He kisses your cheek as he helps you stand, smoothing your dress back down. “You’ll survive.”

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The car door shuts with a soft thunk, and your heart is already pounding. Wooyoung slides into the driver’s seat beside you, phone resting lazily in the cupholder, the little glowing app still open. You eye it warily. He catches the look and smirks, starting the engine with a purr.

“You look so tense, baby,” he coos, backing out of the driveway with one hand steady on the wheel and the other brushing over your thigh. “Don’t tell me it’s already too much?”

Your breath catches as he taps the screen. Just once. The sudden buzz of the toy inside you makes your legs jerk, your back arching slightly against the seat. You clamp your thighs together instinctively, trying to stifle the whimper crawling up your throat.

“I can handle it,” you manage to say, though your voice is already thinner than you’d like.

Wooyoung chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but his fingers are working fast, sliding up the intensity again with a flick of his thumb. You let out a soft cry, curling forward slightly as the vibrations pulse deep inside you. You can’t even think, let alone speak.

He grins at the sound, tapping again, letting it ease down to a gentle thrum. “Just teasing,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you falling apart before the appetizers.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You huff and cross your arms, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way you twitch when the toy flutters again. You can’t believe you agreed to this. Can’t believe how wet you already are, squirming in the leather seat while he hums along to the radio like everything is fine.

Then—he takes a turn you weren’t expecting. Off the main road. A quiet little pull-off where trees line the sides and the restaurant is definitely not.

“W-Wooyoung?” you ask, breathless. “Where are we—”

He’s already putting the car in park.

“Five minutes,” he says casually. “Maybe ten. Just wanna see something first.”

You start to protest, but he’s already reaching over, gently tugging your seatbelt aside as he leans in close. His voice drops to a whisper as his fingers trail up your thigh again. “I’ve been thinking about this since you walked out of the bathroom,” he murmurs. “How good you’d taste like this. Full of my toy, legs shaking, trying so hard to be quiet.”

He leans further, mouth brushing over your jaw, then lower, until he’s between your legs, pushing your dress up once again. He kisses the inside of your thigh—then bites, gently but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

And then—

The toy buzzes to life again, stronger now, and your hips buck. He grins, locking eyes with you as he presses a hand to your lower belly, holding you down, and leans in.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, right before he slides his tongue along your soaked folds.

You gasp, biting your lip hard. The added sensation of the toy inside while his mouth works you over is blinding. You can't focus, can't think—he's licking, sucking, moaning into you like he’s starving for it. The pressure’s mounting too fast, too much, and you’re so close to falling over the edge.

BZZZZZZZT

Your phone screen lights up on the dash. The contact reads Yunho.

You whimper. Wooyoung lifts his head just slightly, licking his lips, his chin shining. “Answer it.”

“W-What?!”

He raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. Pick up, baby.”

“No—Wooyoung, I can’t—”

BZZZZT. BZZZZT.

You scramble for the phone with shaking hands, managing to swipe it just in time. “H-Hey!” you squeak.

“Hey!” Yunho says, voice cheerful. “Where are you guys? Seonghwa’s already getting impatient, and San’s—well, being San.”

You try to steady your breathing, but Wooyoung dips his tongue back down between your folds, and your voice catches in your throat. “S-Sorry! We’re—um—we’re just… running a little late!”

“Everything okay?” Yunho sounds genuinely concerned now. “You sound out of breath.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to scream as Wooyoung adds a finger, pressing inside next to the toy, curling just right. You’re dying, you’re melting, and you have no escape.

“Y-Yeah! Just—uh—traffic!” you stammer. “And I dropped my phone! We’ll be there soon, I promise!”

“Alright,” Yunho laughs. “Drive safe, okay?”

You somehow choke out a goodbye and hang up. The moment the call ends, Wooyoung slams the toy to its highest setting.

You cry out, loud and raw, body jolting as your orgasm hits so hard your vision goes white.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re squirming and twitching beneath his tongue, hands tangled in his hair, your moans turning into desperate pleas for mercy.

And finally, finally, he pulls away, licking his lips again like he’s still starving.

“You good to walk into that restaurant?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You blink at him, still dazed. “I hate you.”

He laughs, smug. “We’re only just getting started.”

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The walk from the car to the restaurant feels like hell.

Or maybe heaven—if heaven was hot, sticky, and full of tension that buzzes under your skin like the soft pulse currently teasing you from inside. The toy shifts ever so slightly with every step, sending small jolts of heat up your spine. You swear you’re walking slower than normal, but Wooyoung’s hand at the small of your back keeps you moving, gentle but firm. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You want to shove him into the nearest wall and yell at him—or maybe beg.

Instead, you push the door open and step into the warm lighting of the restaurant. It smells like grilled meat and soy-based sauces, and you spot them immediately—Seonghwa, San, and Yunho, already seated at a booth near the back.

San’s eyes light up when he sees you. “Finally!” he calls, waving exaggeratedly. “We were about to order without you.”

Wooyoung chuckles beside you. “Sorry, ran a little late.” His tone is smooth as always, not a single hint of the chaos he left brewing in your core.

You greet them with a strained smile and slide into the booth beside Wooyoung, across from Yunho. Your legs press together tightly the moment you sit, trying to find some semblance of relief. But the toy is still on—low, gentle, maddening.

“How was the drive?” Seonghwa asks politely, sipping his water.

Wooyoung shrugs casually. “Relaxing. Took a scenic route.”

You bite your lip.

San leans forward on his elbows. “You guys look kinda—glowy,” he says with a grin. “Like you were doing something fun.”

You almost choke on your water.

“We were just getting ready for tonight,” Wooyoung says, tone light but with a glance toward you that makes your thighs tense. His hand slides under the table, fingers resting just above your knee. The contact is warm, innocent—for now.

Menus are passed around, and the guys are quick to start discussing what they’re ordering. You’re trying your best to read through the options, but Wooyoung’s thumb begins to move—slow, soft circles against your thigh—and the toy gives a gentle thrum that makes your breath hitch.

You shift in your seat. The menu shakes slightly in your hands.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Yunho asks you.

Your brain scrambles. “Uh… I—I think maybe the bulgogi?”

Wooyoung hums. “Good choice.”

It’s so casual, like he isn’t currently testing the limits of your self-control with a remote-controlled vibe between your legs. Like he isn’t smirking right now because he knows you're already soaked and it’s barely ten minutes into dinner.

You try not to glare at him. Try not to let your lips part when the toy pulses again, a little stronger this time—just enough to make your hips shift under the table.

Conversation flows easily around you. San is ranting about a gym fail from earlier in the week, Seonghwa is giving Yunho shit about being too picky with food, and Wooyoung is the picture of calm.

But beneath the table, he’s not stopping. His hand inches higher, fingers brushing under the hem of your dress while the toy keeps its steady pace.

“Doing okay, baby?” he murmurs low in your ear, voice too soft for the others to catch.

You nod stiffly, gripping the edge of the table.

Your food arrives shortly after, and the smell is enough to make your stomach rumble—but eating proves to be almost impossible. Every time you lift your chopsticks, a sudden twitch of the toy throws you off. And the worst part is how normal everything looks from the outside. You’re here, having dinner with friends, smiling when they laugh. No one would guess that you’re sitting there with your thighs clenched, heat pooling deep in your belly, and a remote in Wooyoung’s back pocket that holds your sanity hostage.

Then, halfway through your plate, the buzzing shifts.

Not stronger—just slower. Deeper. A long, rolling vibration that makes you grip your chopsticks so tightly your knuckles whiten. You can't breathe.

Wooyoung picks up a piece of meat, holding it out to you.

“Try this,” he says sweetly, as if he’s not watching your every reaction, as if his hand didn’t just slide a few centimeters higher.

You open your mouth, letting him feed you, and try not to moan when the toy pulses again.

You chew mechanically. Nod. Smile. And all the while, you’re fighting the urge to squirm in your seat, to press your thighs together, to shove your face into his neck and whimper please.

But instead, you swallow, pick up your water, and take another sip with shaking hands.

Wooyoung leans back, smug. His fingers retreat—for now—but the toy doesn’t stop.

You’re not sure how you’re going to survive the rest of this dinner.

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You're barely halfway through your plate when things start to unravel.

Wooyoung’s hand, which had been resting innocently on your thigh, shifts upward again—fingertips brushing dangerously close to where the toy thrums steadily inside you. His palm settles over your panties, warm and possessive. You keep your eyes fixed on your bowl, pretending to listen to Yunho’s story, but your heart is thundering in your chest.

Then his fingers start moving—slow, subtle pressure, just enough to push the toy deeper against that tender spot inside you.

You inhale sharply through your nose.

The fabric of your panties is the only barrier left between his touch and your soaked, sensitive core. The heat has been building steadily this whole time, but that added friction is what tips the scale. You can’t focus anymore—on the conversation, on the food, on anything except the unbearable, searing pleasure crawling up your spine.

You clench the chopsticks so tightly they creak.

Wooyoung's voice is low, directed toward Seonghwa across the table. “Yeah, we tried that place once. Food was alright.” He’s so calm. So casual. And you’re trembling beside him.

Your thighs press together instinctively. You think you might be able to ride it out—just breathe, blink, survive—but then he rubs a little harder, just the heel of his palm pressing perfectly, and the toy syncs with the pressure.

And that’s it.

Your legs twitch. Your breath catches. Your body locks up for half a second—and then the wave crashes.

Your orgasm hits you hard, fast, and almost entirely silent. Almost.

Your lips part around a strangled sound—barely audible over San’s laugh—but Wooyoung hears it. He feels it. The way you seize up beside him, hips rocking against his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused. His fingers still gently as your walls flutter around the toy, soaked panties clinging to your skin, and then—

He freezes.

You feel it too. A hot gush between your legs—sudden, uncontainable, soaking through your underwear and trickling past his hand.

His head slowly turns toward you, eyes wide for the first time tonight.

He wasn’t expecting that.

You’re trying so hard to stay composed—staring down at your food like it holds all the answers to your shame—but your cheeks are burning, your thighs are a mess, and the seat under you is definitely damp.

Wooyoung swallows hard. His hand pulls back an inch, fingers glistening under the table in the dim light. He stares down at them for a second, then at you, his breath caught in his throat.

Your jaw tightens.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, baby… you really couldn’t hold it, huh?”

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes still locked on your plate. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from shattering into pieces right there.

His voice drops even lower.

“You just made a mess in a full restaurant… and I haven’t even turned the toy all the way up.”

You don’t even look at him.

You can’t.

Your body’s still buzzing, the aftermath of your orgasm simmering through every nerve ending—your panties soaked through, thighs slick, the soft hum of the toy still pulsing deep inside you like a cruel reminder. You shift in your seat and flinch at the wetness. There’s no hiding it now.

Your fingers clench around the edge of the table.

“I—uh—excuse me for a second,” you mutter, your voice shaky but controlled enough not to draw suspicion.

San glances up from his bowl. “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, just… bathroom.”

You don’t wait for a response. You stand up quickly, trying to keep your legs steady as you do, but the moment you straighten, a sticky warmth trickles between your thighs. You’re soaked. You pray to every god that it hasn’t leaked down your legs, that there’s no visible stain on your dress as you turn and walk briskly toward the restroom.

You don’t dare look back at the table, but you feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Burning into the back of your neck like he’s holding himself back from dragging you into the bathroom instead.

As soon as the restroom door clicks shut behind you, your hands shoot down to lift your dress, heart pounding. You let out a breathy curse at the sight of your panties—utterly ruined, dark with wetness. A soft hum still vibrates from inside you, faint but relentless. You grip the sink, trying to breathe through it, thighs trembling.

He made you come in the middle of dinner. At a table full of his friends.

And now you’re standing here, trying to gather yourself while the toy hasn’t even been turned off.

Your phone buzzes in your purse.

A message from him.

Wooyoung:

| Don’t take too long, princess.

| You’ve got something of mine inside you, and I’m not done playing yet.

Your knees almost buckle.

You stumble into the nearest stall, the lock clicking shut behind you as your back hits the door.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The toy is still vibrating—gentle but persistent—and your thighs instinctively squeeze together around it, desperate for friction. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Wooyoung didn’t tell you to come again. He didn’t even give you permission to touch. But you can feel it, curling in your stomach again, dragging you right back toward the edge.

And the ache is unbearable.

One hand presses over your mouth to muffle the whimper that escapes as your other sneaks beneath your dress, fingers trembling as you rub quick circles over your soaked panties—trying to stay quiet, trying to be fast. You’re so close. You can’t stop now. You can feel it building, all heat and pressure and want, thighs trembling as your back arches slightly from the door.

Your body doesn’t care that you’re in a public bathroom. It doesn’t care that you didn’t ask.

All it knows is that you need it again.

“F-fuck—” you whisper into your palm, nearly there, your fingers moving faster—

And then the vibrations stop.

Gone.

Just like that.

Your body jerks in shock at the sudden loss of stimulation, and your eyes fly open in panic. You fumble to check your phone, heart thundering in your chest, hands still shaking.

Wooyoung:

| Did you really just try to come again without asking me?

| You think I wouldn’t know?

A second message follows before you can even respond:

Wooyoung

| Keep those legs closed until I get there.

| Or I swear I’ll bend you over that sink in front of everyone.

Your pulse explodes.

Suddenly, the room feels hotter. Smaller. You swallow hard, frozen in place, not even daring to touch yourself again. You’ve never felt more caught, more owned.

And you know now—you’re not done paying for it.

Your whole body freezes when the door creaks open.

You barely have time to pull your hand away, still shaking, panties soaked and heart racing. Footsteps echo across the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, and your stomach drops when you hear the stall door next to you creak open… and then close again.

You don’t dare move. Not until you hear his voice.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait?”

The door to your stall rattles gently, then opens—

Wooyoung steps inside and shuts it behind him, eyes locked on you like he’s ready to devour you whole. You don’t even try to defend yourself. Not with the way his jaw is clenched and his phone is still glowing in his palm.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, crowding you back against the stall wall. “You were about to come all over your fingers without permission. Didn’t even ask me, baby.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat dry, legs trembling under his stare.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it.” His voice is low and dark, dripping with that dangerous edge you’ve come to crave.

Then he’s dropping to his knees.

Just like that.

Hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress up, tugging your panties down slow enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t say another word. He just looks up at you—like he owns you—lips already brushing your dripping folds.

And then he devours you.

Right there, in a bathroom stall, tongue licking into you like he’s starving, like this is his favorite meal and he’s been denied it all day. Your hand shoots to your mouth to muffle the broken whine that rips out of your throat. His grip on your thighs tightens, anchoring you in place as he feasts, nose brushing your clit every time he moves, tongue relentless and precise.

Your knees nearly buckle.

Your orgasm builds again—harder this time—your whole body shaking as you try to keep quiet, try to hold it back. But Wooyoung knows. He can feel you clenching, your thighs twitching, body tensing like a live wire.

And he pulls back.

You whimper, on the edge, desperate and ruined.

He stands, lips shiny, eyes blazing. “If you wanna come so bad,” he whispers, pressing his body against yours, “you’ll ask. On your knees.”

You don’t even think. You just move. The guilt, the ache, the unrelenting need all crash into each other inside you, and your knees hit the cold tile with a quiet thud. You look up at him from the floor, flushed and needy, your breathing uneven.

Wooyoung stares down at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half amusement, half disappointment—but all dominance. “Oh?” he murmurs, his voice a low hum. “Is this your idea of an apology?”

You nod slowly, fingers reaching for his belt with trembling urgency. “I-I just… I’m sorry,” you whisper, too embarrassed to meet his eyes but too desperate to stop. “Please.”

His gaze sharpens as you undo the buckle, and he lets you work in silence, letting the tension thicken like smoke. You pull his pants down enough to free him, and your lips part slightly as you take in the sight of him—hard already, the tip flushed, precum beading just enough to taunt you.

Wooyoung chuckles, slow and wicked. “You’re drooling already, baby,” he says, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “So fucking needy, even with the toy off.”

You lean forward, tongue flicking out for a tentative taste. He’s warm against your lips, slightly salty, and you moan softly as you swirl your tongue around the tip. He hisses at the contact, a hand threading through your hair, gripping lightly but firmly. “That’s it. Show me how sorry you are.”

You take more of him in slowly, inch by inch, letting your tongue press along the underside, your mouth wrapping around him with sinful devotion. His head tips back with a low groan. “Fuck, your mouth always feels so good…”

But it’s not just about pleasure for you. You’re trying to earn it—to get back in his good graces, to beg for the high he took away. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, the toy inside you still dead silent and unmoving, leaving you aching, twitching for more.

Your hands slide to his hips, fingers curling in his waistband as you take him deeper. He twitches in your mouth, and you moan around him, tears starting to prick at the corners of your eyes from the stretch.

Wooyoung glances down, breathing harder now. “Such a good girl when you’re on your knees… Look at you. All messy and needy, and I haven’t even touched the remote.”

You pull back just slightly, your lips glossy and slick as you suck gently on the head. “Please,” you whisper again, voice shaky, your cheeks burning. “Please, Wooyoung. Let me come. I’ll be good, I promise…”

He smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of you begging, so desperate and teary-eyed in the middle of a public bathroom, licking and sucking like your life depends on it.

“Keep going,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see how much that pretty mouth can convince me.”

You don’t stop.

Your tongue keeps working him with slow, worshipful licks, your lips wrapped tightly around him, head bobbing in a rhythm that grows needier the longer you go. His grip in your hair tightens, hips twitching slightly, but he holds himself back, just watching you—his desperate little mess on her knees, trembling from the restraint he’s forced you to hold.

Your thighs are clenched so tight it hurts. The toy inside you still isn’t moving. It’s maddening—being full but empty, stretched but unsatisfied. You moan around his length, letting the sound vibrate through him, and Wooyoung’s jaw clenches with a sharp inhale.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “You’re gonna make me cum like this?”

You pull back just long enough to whisper breathlessly, “I want to. Please let me—please let us.”

He stares down at you for a second, and then you see it—his hand slipping into his pocket. Your stomach flips. He pulls out his phone, eyes still locked on you.

You’re still sucking him off, tongue swirling faster now, desperate for any sign he’ll give in. And then—click.

A soft buzz ignites deep inside you.

Your entire body jerks. You moan loudly around him, eyes rolling back as the toy finally comes to life again, vibrating low and deep right against your sweetest spot. He smirks when he sees your thighs quiver, your hands gripping his hips like you might fall apart.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish without me, did you?” he pants, voice darker now. “You’re gonna cum with me, baby. Right here. Right now.”

You nod frantically, mouth still wrapped around him, lips slick, face flushed. The pressure builds in your core so fast it’s dizzying, the buzz hitting you perfectly, the stretch from earlier leaving you already right on the edge. Every swirl of your tongue now is shaky and desperate.

Wooyoung groans, hips bucking slightly as he hits the back of your throat. “Fuck—just like that. Don’t stop. We’ll cum together. You ready, baby?”

You whimper a muffled yes, eyes fluttering shut as the orgasm rushes toward you, hot and fast and impossible to hold back. And when you feel him twitch on your tongue, groaning your name—

“Now, baby. Let go.”

You explode.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, a silent cry escaping your lips as you keep sucking through it. The toy pulses right into your peak, milking every second of it, and Wooyoung cums deep in your throat with a strangled moan, fingers tangled in your hair as you both ride it out.

You’re still trembling when he gently pulls away, chest heaving, your lips swollen, slick on your chin, mascara threatening to smudge.

And he looks down at you with a proud, dangerous grin.

“Now that’s my good girl.”

Your breathing is still erratic, knees weak, head resting against his thigh as the high slowly fades. Wooyoung's hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair now, stroking you down gently like he’s grounding you back to earth.

A soft click sounds from above — the toy finally powering off.

You let out a small whimper of relief, thighs still trembling from how hard you came. But Wooyoung is already crouching in front of you, guiding you up with warm hands and a soft, “C’mere, angel.”

He helps you stand, even if your legs are jelly. His hands stay steady around your hips, holding you close as his eyes dip down. “You did so well,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”

His hand disappears beneath your panties again — not teasing, not playful this time, just careful and precise. You brace against his shoulder as he slips two fingers in, curling them around the now-slick toy and sliding it out of you slowly.

You let out a soft gasp at the stretch, at the feeling of being emptied again. But what catches you off guard is the sound he makes next — a low groan, absolutely filthy — as he lifts the toy to his lips.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he slowly licks it clean.

Deliberate. Intense. He never breaks eye contact with you.

Then, with a wicked smirk, he tucks the glistening toy into his pocket like it’s nothing and reaches for some toilet paper from the dispenser. He’s gentle, carefully wiping between your thighs, brushing over the sensitive parts with soft dabs and tender strokes.

You’re flushed all over again. Not from embarrassment — but from how soft he is with you. How, after ruining you completely, he still treats you like something delicate. His thumb brushes your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Still with me, baby?”

You nod.

“Good. Fix your lipstick—” he smirks, handing you your lip gloss from your bag, “—and let’s go say hi to the boys, yeah?”

You try your best to clean up. The ache between your legs lingers, your body still too sensitive, but you manage to pull yourself together enough to walk out with him.

As you both return to the table, you feel it instantly — three pairs of knowing eyes.

Seonghwa raises a brow, swirling his drink slowly.

San bites back a grin, his gaze flicking between you two with unmistakable amusement.

And Yunho? He just shakes his head, laughing softly into his glass. “Took your time,” he says, not even pretending to play dumb.

Wooyoung pulls your chair out for you with a smug smile. “Sorry, had to take care of something important.”

You sit down, cheeks still warm, heart still pounding — and when you glance at the three men across from you, you know they know exactly what that ‘something’ was.

But no one says anything else.

They just smirk, sip their drinks, and continue the conversation like nothing happened.

Except now, under the table, Wooyoung’s hand slides over your thigh again.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

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martinroyhall · 2 years ago

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BYD DOLPHIN jumps the competition winning Carbuyer.co.uk top honour

It looks like we’re going to be hearing more and more about BYD as they continue to rapidly expand throughout Europe. And now news has arrived up on the top floor of MotorMartin Towers that the BYD DOLPHIN has achieved a remarkable double triumph by being named Carbuyer.co.uk Best Small Electric Car and Carbuyer.co.uk Car of the Year in the 2024 Carbuyer New Car Awards. Accordingly, these awards…

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#2024 Carbuyer New Car Awards #Best small electric car #BEV #BYD #BYD ATTO 3 #BYD DOLPHIN #Carbuyer.co.uk #Carbuyer.co.uk Car of the Year #compact electric vehicles #EV

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orangeblossomsintheair · 6 months ago

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HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!�� you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

—-

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

“I need to call Daniel..”

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harrysfolklore · 1 year ago

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driving lessons - op81

summary: oscar piastri teaches his girlfriend how to drive for the first time

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Life is full or ironies, and the fact that your boyfriend is an F1 driver and you don't even know how to drive is definitely one of them.

You always found it funny how someone who could navigate the most challenging race circuits with ease was dating someone who couldn't even navigate a parking lot, and was utterly terrified of being behind the wheel.

"I just can't believe you don't know how to drive," Oscar said while you were having dinner at his place one night.

"Excuse me, mister. Not all of us dreamed of driving cars for a living since we were kids," you teased, making him chuckle.

"Well, I guess I'll have to teach you how to drive, since that's what I do for a living."

You laughed at his enthusiasm, shaking your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm a lost cause when it comes to driving. I get anxious just thinking about it."

"Oh come on," he threw his head back, "I'll be a great teacher. We'll start slow, maybe in an empty parking lot. If it doesn't work out, we can stop anytime."

You thought about it for a second, you were at an age that it was downright embarrassing to not know how to drive, and maybe Oscar could actually help you face your fear of being behind the wheel.

"Okay," you agreed, "But you have to promise not to laugh at me, and we're not using a one of your McLaren luxury cars."

Oscar's eyes lit up with excitement. "Deal! We'll use something more… beginner-friendly."

"Beginner-friendly?" you raised an eyebrow, "Like what? A go-kart?"

"Hey, don't knock it till you try it," he laughed, "But no, I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, safe, regular car."

"Fine, but you have to be patient with me," you warned, pointing a finger at him, "I mean it, Oscar. One hint of frustration and I’m out."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I promise. Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout," you narrowed your eyes playfully.

"Minor detail," he waved off your accusation, making you laugh, "Seriously though, I think you'll surprise yourself. You're tougher than you give yourself credit for."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you retorted, but you couldn't help but smile.

"Maybe not, but it might get me dessert," he shrugged, leaning closer, "And maybe a makeout session before we head to bed."

You threw your head back in laughter, grabbing his cheeks playfully and pecking his lips a couple of times.

"You're a teenager," you said, shaking your head. "But fine, you get dessert, and you snogging session. Just remember, no racing techniques, I don't need to learn how to drift around corners."

"Drifting? In your first lesson?" he placed a hand on his chest in mock offense, "I'm hurt you think so little of me."

"When are we doing this again?" you said, moving to place your empty plates in the dishwasher.

"How about this weekend?" Oscar hoped off his stool, helping you clean around the kitchen, "I'll find us a nice, empty parking lot, and we can take it from there."

"Oscar Piastri, F1 driver with podiums to his name will teach his girlfriend how to drive in a parking lot," you said as you shook your head, "How ironic."

Saturday morning arrived and it was time for your first driving lesson. After breakfast, you and Oscar headed to the empty parking lot in a small, compact car for the lesson. It was far less intimidating than one of his sleek, luxurious cars.

"Alright, let's get started," he said, opening the driver's side door for you. You took a deep breath and slid into the seat, adjusting it to fit your height, Oscar got in the passenger seat and handed you the keys.

"First things first," he began, his voice calm and steady, "Let's go over the basics. Adjust your mirrors so you can see clearly, and get comfortable with the controls."

You nodded, following his instructions. Once you were settled, he guided you through starting the car and putting it into gear.

"Wait," you said before starting the car, "You're teaching your dummy of a girlfriend how to drive a regular car, okay? Don't expect some professional Formula 1 driver stuff from me."

"I promise, just the basics," Oscar chuckled, shaking his head, "We won't be racing anyone today."

"Okay, here goes nothing," you took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition, the engine coming to life with a low hum.

"Great job," Oscar said with a small smile, "Now, put the car in drive and slowly take your foot off the brake."

You hesitated, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over you. "What if I mess up?"

"You won't," he said confidently, "And even if you do, it's all part of the learning process. Just take it slow."

You took a deep breath and lifted your foot off the brake. The car began to roll forward and for a moment, everything seemed fine until you pressed the gas pedal a bit too hard. The car jerked forward, causing you to panic and slam on the brakes.

"Whoa, easy there," Oscar said, "You're not at Silverstone, remember?"

"This is so much harder than it looks," you huffed, feeling your frustration bubble up, "How do you make it seem so effortless?"

"Years of practice and maybe a little natural talent," he winked, "But seriously, you're doing fine. It's all about getting a feel for the car, let's try it again."

Taking a deep breath, you eased off the brake and gently pressed the gas pedal. This time, the car moved forward smoothly, and you couldn't help but smile at the small victory.

"See? You're getting it!" Oscar encouraged. "Now, let's try a gentle turn. Just steer to the right."

You gripped the steering wheel tightly, turning it slowly to the right. The car responded, and you managed to navigate the turn without any major issues. But as you straightened out, you accidentally hit the windshield wiper lever, causing them to whip back and forth at full speed.

Oscar burst out laughing, and you couldn't help but join in, despite your embarrassment.

"Well, at least we know the wipers work!" he joked.

"Ugh, I feel stupid," you groaned, fumbling to turn off the wipers.

"It's okay, baby," he leaned in to peck your cheek quickly.

"Stop kissing me, I'll get distracted," you teased.

"Okay, okay," he said, composing himself, "Let's try another lap around the parking lot. This time, no wiper incidents."

You nodded, determined to get the hang of it. You practiced driving around the empty lot, getting more comfortable with each turn and stop.

As the lesson continued, you found yourself improving bit by bit, though there were still moments of frustration.

"Ugh, why won't this stupid thing go where I want it to?" you groaned, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"Hey, it's okay," Oscar said soothingly. "You're doing great. Just remember to relax your grip a bit. The car will respond better if you're not strangling the wheel."

You did as he said, and you found yourself driving more comfortably around the parking lot, improving with your turns and stops.

"You know," he said at one point, "If you keep this up, you'll be ready to join the grid next season."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Yeah, right. I'll leave the racing to you, thank you very much."

"Fair enough," he said, grinning, "It would be really hard to fight with my girlfriend for the championship."

"Is your girlfriend Max Verstappen and I'm just finding out?" you teased, making him laugh.

"That's a secret I'll never tell," he joked, causing you both to burst into laughter.

After a few more laps around the parking lot, you were feeling more confident behind the wheel. Until the final challenge of the day approached: parking the car.

"Let’s try parking," he suggested after a while, "Find a spot and take it slow."

You spotted an empty space and carefully guided the car into it, but misjudged the angle and ended up crooked. You groaned in frustration. "Why is parking so hard?"

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. "Well, parking an F1 car in the garage is definitely easier, no tight spaces to worry about."

"Ha-ha, very funny," you retorted, but couldn't help but laugh along with him, "Alright, let me try again."

You pulled out and tried parking again, failing to get the car neatly within the lines. "How was that?"

"Okay, so maybe parking isn't your strong suit yet," he teases, "Good thing you're not in a pit stop competition."

"Fine, I had enough for today," you said, unbuckling your seat belt, "I'm ready to go back to being your passenger princess."

Oscar laughed, getting out of the passenger seat and switching positions with you.

"You did great, really," Oscar said once he settled in the drivers seat, leaning over to kiss you, "I'm proud of you, you know. You really pushed through your fear today."

"And we're both still alive so that's a good thing," you joked, making him laugh, "Thank you for being a great teacher, baby."

"All I did was sit here and provide moral support, it's not like I know anything about driving or cars," he teased, "You did all the hard work."

You rolled your eyes with affection, leaning in to kiss him again.

"Maybe next time we'll try an actual road," he suggested.

"Or maybe you can teach me how to do a proper donut," you said, making him throw his head back in laughter.

"Only if you promise not to tell the team."

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