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shawtuzi · 4 months ago

Text

✰ YOUR TEETH IN MY NECK ✰

a/n: i’ve been getting a lot of requests for more musician!eren and his fav fan girl and this is also ur reminder to go read the reverb series bc we would not be here without her

cw include: black fem!reader, sexting, exchange of nudes, mention of drug usage (eren was high per usual), sloppy kissing, oral f&m!receiving, unprotected sex, mating press & prone bone position, see from the side, multiple orgasms, eren nuts in and on her lmao, lots of dirty talk, an ‘i love you’ confession bc they’re so obsessed with each other, eren has a god complex andddd i think that’s it lmao/// wc: 5.2k

new message from renny ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

i’m in the city. i wanna see u.

the cursor of your laptop circled around his message, a giddy smile spreading across your lips. you clicked on the message, your manicured fingers typing messages upon messages of how much you missed him, and couldn’t wait to see him.

it had been almost a month since you last saw eren. after your sexcapdes on his tour bus eren had invited you to join him on his pj to the next city, and you had no other choice but to say yes! that dick was entirely too good to pass up.

you can happily say you’ve now joined the mile high club, because the second you got on the jet eren demanded privacy so he could indulge in you once more. you were sure jean and his security team could hear your screams of pleasure, the way you begged for eren to fuck you harder, deeper, but you didn’t care in the slightest.

after turning his bones into mush from your ridiculous riding skills, eren returned the favor by fucking you in mating press until your eyes crossed, and drool was slipping past your puffy lips.

your night in his hotel went the exact same way. eren folded you into every position he could while you chanted his name like a prayer, soaking the hotel sheets with your essence. he liked you. he liked the way you had just as much stamina as him. he liked that you were just as nasty as him, like how you stuck your tongue out for him to spit on, or how you begged him to put you in a chokehold while he hit it from the back.

what he really liked about you though, was the way you looked at him. eren already a sort of god complex, and you definitely didn’t help the way you looked at him as if he created the moon and stars.

after a very tearful goodbye on your end you headed back to your city, but that didn’t stop you from texting everyday. sometimes he replied, sometimes he didn’t because of his busy schedule. he always did call you though, usually it’d be past midnight but that didn’t matter to you—especially when he’d always say bye to you by tapping his tip against the screen, muttering a sultry ‘we miss you.’

new message from renny ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

i miss u too mama.

send your addy, i’m coming to you.

you squealed into the soft cotton of your sheets, your sock covered feet kicking wildly against your mattress. thee eren yeager was about to come to your lil ol’ apartment, like this couldn’t be real.

you carefully typed out your address, your toes wiggling in excitement. you shut your laptop and rolled out of bed, quickly shuffling your feet to your closet.

you figured he’d have you out of your clothes minutes after he got here, so you settled on ditching your pajamas, and wearing just your pink robe.

message sent to renny ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

are u gonna do all that stuff you said in your messages?

you pupils dilated when the gray bubble popped up, your teeth clamping onto your bottom lip. eren texted you a lot of dirty promises, making you squirt on his dick in the prone bone position being the one you were most excited for.

whenever you were bored at work, or before you fell asleep at night, you’d imagine him having you in a tight chokehold while he fucked into your sore pussy from behind. that usually led to you sending eren explicit videos of your rubbing your pulsing pussy desperately, whining n’ babbling about how you wish it were him making you cum instead.

eren would only make it worse by feeding into it. while he recorded himself stroking his cock, he’d be growling out filthy praises about your cute cunt and how good she’d feel wrapped around him.

new message from renny ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

you’ll see

[attachment: 1 imagine]

just know i’m ready, been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.

a whine bubbled in your chest as you zoomed in on live photo of his very prominent print. his tatted hand was gripping onto it, and if you clicked on it, the live photo would show him squeezing it softly. the cuban chain on his wrist glistened obnoxiously from the flash—you couldn’t wait to the feel the cold metal against your neck when he choked you.

you loosened the knot on your robe, exposing your breasts more than they already were. your nipples were peeking out, giving eren just the perfect peek to what is to come.

message sent to renny ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

hurry up :((

[attachment: 1 image]

while you were giggling to yourself, eren was gripping his phone in frustration. he needed you, now. ever since he last saw you all he could think about was you. your face, your scent, your voice, your pretty moans. he was totally smitten.

“we’ll be arriving shortly,” the driver said in a monotone voice. eren hummed, unlocking his phone to tell you he was almost there.

he was thankful you didn’t leave in the city, the last thing he would want are fans or paparazzi invading your privacy. but it was california after all, and unfortunately there were rumors he was seen at a hotel with a mystery girl, but he made sure his team squashed those rumors from circulating any further. fame can be intense, he’d be crushed if his lifestyle scared you away.

“m’not sure how long i’ll be here so, uh, just tell jean i said don’t wait up,” eren’s tone was cool as he spoke, but inside he was actually excited to see you. he pulled his hoodie up, scoping the scene before stepping out of the car. as eren walked towards your apartment building he heard—

‘psst! up here!’

he slowly looked up and there you were, standing on your balcony, wearing nothing but a robe and a pair of slippers. your hair gently moved with the light breeze, and you had the giddiest smile on your lips—this shit felt like it was a scene out of movie.

you bounced on the balls of your feet as you waited for eren to make it to your door, and finally you heard three knocks. you couldn’t deny that you were nervous—he was a celebrity after all. someone who was known globally and loved by many, he was just a very intimidating guy.

the second you opened the door, you were yanking him in by his hoodie, your chests clashing together. “damn girl, miss me?” eren grinned, wrapping his arms around your waist. you bit your lip, looking at him with nothing but swirls of love and lust in your eyes. “yeah, i did.” eren nudged his nose against yours, blindly kicking the door shut behind him and locking it.

when he heard the click! his lips were on yours, a strong scent of vanilla and jasmine hitting his nose. “w-was the flight here okay? you look tired,” your hands cupped his jaw as you examined the under his eyes. you way you looked at him and touched with such care, as if it were natural, had eren feeling things. weird things. he always told others he’d probably never fall for a fan yet here he was, leaning into your touch like a lovesick puppy.

“yeah it was fine. just been a busy week is all, but don’t worry about that. it’s good to see you. you look good. i look this robe on you.”

when he smiled you saw flashes on gold on his teeth, and that had a gush of wetness dripping from your pussy. “thanks . . . i like your grills. like a lot.” eren breathed heavily through his nose when your thumb ran over his bottom lip, getting a closer look at the grills.

you whined when his lips smushed into yours again, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip. you parted your lips, and he wasted no time slithering his tongue into your mouth, groaning when your tongue swiped across his grills. “take this shit off,” eren’s fingers fumbled with the strings on your robe, slowly pushing it off your shoulders when the knot was undone.

you puffed your naked chest out, giggling because you had left eren utterly speechless. he stepped closer to you, and then closer, and closer until you were backed up against the wall. “i’d try to keep my legs steady if i were you,” his breath was hot on your neck, sending shivers up your spine.

your hands pushed against his hard chest when his hand pushed between your thighs, his ring and middle finger dipping between your folds. “y’know i had to postpone so much shit because i just couldn’t go another day without seein’ you? doesn’t that sound insane? we barely know each other, yet i just can’t get you or this pretty pussy outta my head.”

your lips trembled, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers rolled around you swollen clit. “g-good. i did what i was supposed to do when we fucked then,” your words had eren groaning, his head dipping into your neck to kiss and suck at the sweet smelling skin. he kissed his way down your neck, and eventually your chest, taking his time as he rolled his tongue around each nipple.

he kissed the skin above your naval, smirking at the hello kitty jewelry pierced into the skin. “such a pretty girl, knew you were special the second i saw you in the crowd,” and it was true! out of all the fans that were in the audience, you caught his attention the most. the cheered the loudest, knew the words to every song, and you looked damn good sharing a blunt with your friends as you sung along to his songs.

your back slumped against the wall when you felt his hot tongue circle your clit, his hands snaking behind you to grab at your ass cheeks. every slurp and suck had your legs shaking, so much so that eren just said fuck it and threw your knees over his shoulders.

he was a sloppy eater. his tongue switched from french kissing your clit, to fucking into your clenching hole, all while moaning drunkenly against your pussy. you weren’t scared to rough him up either, your hands tangling themselves in his hair and fucking his mouth. “m’so close renny.”

that only encouraged eren to increase his assault on your clit, flicking the bud back and forth until your thighs were clamping around his head. wave after wave of your cum coated his tongue, and eren happily lapped up all of it. god, you were fucking sweet.

you gasped when eren lifted you off his shoulders, “w-wait stay close to me.” eren nearly lost his balance when you jumped into his arms, your legs wrapping around his slim waist. out of instinct eren cupped your behind, holding you closely to him. “i wasn’t goin’ nowhere mama, now where’s yours bedroom?”

you gave eren directions to your bedroom, all while you were kissing his neck and jaw. “it’s cute in here. it’s really . . . pink,” eren chuckled as he looked around your room. what caught his attention the most was the mountain of plushies on your bed, all varying from sanrio characters to anime characters.

he laid you down gently on your bed, smirking at the pout on your glossy lips. “thank you. now drop your pants m’hungry,” your pink, freshly pedicured foot pressed down on the bulge in his sweats, then pushed against his abdomen. eren lifted your foot up and kissed your ankle, “whatever you want baby.”

eren shed his hoodie and sweats, leaving him in a white wife beater and briefs. you eyed the small, wet patch stained into his briefs, your mouth watering at what was hiding underneath. you sat up, your arm hooking around his thick thigh to pull him closer. eren’s head tilted back when you mouthed at the print in his briefs, your tongue lolling out to lick at the wet patch.

your teeth clamped onto the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down until they were mid thigh. eren’s jaw dropped the tiniest bit when you nuzzled your face into his cock, your tongue peeking out to lick at the base. “c’mon. open that pretty mouth,” his tongue ran over the gold on his teeth as he watched you like a predator stalking its prey.

your mouth parted once more, sucking the tip of his cock in your mouth. you hummed around the muscle, your mouth watering at the salty, yet very sweet taste of him.

“let me fuck your mouth, pretty girl. open up,” you whimpered around eren’s dick as he pushed more into your mouth, strings of saliva dripping from your lips and onto your thighs. your tongue rubbed over the protruding veins on the underside, this earned you a pat on the head, followed by eren cradling your jaw. his thumb ran over the bulge in your cheek, “you’re so pretty.”

you took more of his cock into your mouth until your nose nudged against soft tufts of hair. suddenly you felt a hand squeeze at your throat, the action had you choking around his cock, fat tears now running down your cheeks. “ooou shit, that was tight. do it again for me, baby.” he squeezed at your throat ever so softly as he fucked it, his head tilting back out of pure pleasure. seriously, where have you been all his life.

your cheeks hollowed around his dick, sucking harshly until he had to pull you away by your hair, a thin line of spit still connected to your lips. “mmph, hang your head off the bed. you know what to do.”

indeed you did. after a night of dirty texting you found out that eren was quite fond of throat fucking—especially if a girls head was hanging off the side while he did it. there was something about hearing those violent gags and chokes that had his balls tightening every time he thought about it.

you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, even though you’ll just get messy literally all over again, and laid down on your back, your head hanging slightly off the side. eren took this opportunity to grasp at your tits, flicking your pretty brown nipples with his thumbs. the cool metal from his rings had them hardening in seconds.

“mm so pretty, now open up gorgeous,” eren tapped his tip against your lips, chuckling when you stuck your tongue out to get the exact same treatment. he rubbed the tip of his cock over the curves of your lips, before running it over your tongue. you greedily swallowed the pre that dribbled onto your tongue.

without warning, eren thrust his hips forward, sheathing more than half his cock down your tight throat. hot tears already began to brim at your lash line as he began a steady pace, the obnoxious noise of you gagging echoing throughout your room. “mmph, good lil fuckin’ throat. you’re fuckin’ perfect y/n ‪‪❤︎‬” eren’s head tilted back in a moan, his adams apple bobbing.

he preferred his head very sloppy, and you were perfect for that. you didn’t mind the spit bubbles that foamed up at the corners of your lips, or the snot that trickled from your nose. you were fine with all of it. all just to please him. his hips stuttered when your hand reached up to toy with his balls. “fu-ck yeah, play wit’ ‘em while you suck it. that’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

his praise had your heart fluttering, and your pussy drooling with need. you were perfect for him. that’s all you could’ve asked for.

your nails dug into eren’s muscly thighs when his hips pushed forward, forcing the entirety of his cock down your throat. you suddenly felt something warm in the back of your throat, and hummed. it wasn’t until you were choking pretty hard that eren pulled out, his half had cock resting on your face. your thighs clenched together when the musky scent that was him wafted into your nose.

“heh, cute. you ready for me to fuck you now mama?”

your tongue ran along his cock, savoring the taste of him, “i love your dick ren, could stay here forever.” eren’s head tilted back as you sloppily kissed all over the base of his cock. he was fully hard once again in no time, the veins on the underside thrumming against your puffy lips.

he backed up to give you some room to get up, only for you to yank him back again. you propped your chin on his hard stomach, batting your freshly done lashes up at him. “what position you want me in renny, m’all yours please tell me what to do.”

there was that look again. that fucking look. that look where you stared at him like he was reason for your very existence. “i’ll do anything you want,” you murmured, pressing little kisses all across his abdomen. you whimpered when eren used both hands to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze at him.

“i think i might love you.”

he didn’t know what kinda fucked up shit this was but he didn’t even care, he loved it. he loved . . . you ❤︎

his pretty lil fan girl. his number one fan. someone that would kiss the ground he walked on if he asked. you were perfect.

“that’s really sweet renny, but i think you’re just high and tired,” you giggled, teeth clamping onto your bottom lip. “you sayin’ you don’t love me back baby?” eren grinned, moving one of his hands to your throat, squeezing rather roughly. he needed to hear you say it, even if you didn’t mean it.

“of course i love you ren. loved you since you first debuted, i knew i had to get my hands on you. now look at you; in my very pink room, telling me you love me because im the best you’ve ever had.”

he couldn’t even object or give snarky remark back because unfortunately you were right.

his hands moved to your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

“i may be high, and i may be a little tired, but i do know that i really like you.” his teeth nibbled on his bottom lip as his hands wandered across your naked body.

“well good. i don’t ever wanna see anything about you and other girls in the blogs again or i’ll block you ‘kay?” eren was laughing until you interrupted him saying a monotone ‘i mean it.’

he leant over you, his chain dangling over your face. his thick brows were pulled together, and if you looked close enough you could see the pout on his lips. of course he’d only see you, but the thought of getting blocked by you had his heart tightening. “i only want you to myself from now on, can you handle that superstar?”

eren gasped when your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer to you. his dick sat right between your sopping folds, the tip nudging deliciously against your clit.

“fuck, yes. yes i can handle it, i can’t handle being blocked by you though. best fuckin’ pussy i’ve ever had y/n ❤︎. don’t break my heart like that,” he rocked his hips slowly, coating his cock in your essence. you had him right in the palm of your hand and god, it felt so good. “don’t make me write some corny love songs about you, because i will.”

“would that really be so bad? i wouldn’t mind having a song written about me.”

“i’ll write one for you anyway, i’ll write ten fucking songs about you and this pussy, shit,” eren’s nostrils flared the tip of his cock accidentally slid into your pussy. he couldn’t help but just bottom out completely, his balls sitting snuggly against your ass.

your mouth parted, a breathy moan slipping past your lips. “mm, do it. i dare you renny.” eren just moaned in response, his eyes fluttering shut. heaven. this was heaven.

“i will baby, i will. i pr-promise.”

each time he pulled out a loud squelch followed. you sucked the cross attached to his chain in your mouth, whimpering around the cool metal. eren settled for fast, deep thrusts, the angry tip of his cock bumping harshly into that spongy spot deep inside you. “so fuckin’ hot. you’re so fuckin’ hot,” eren was damn near panting like a dog, his tongue dangerously close to dangling out of his mouth.

your body moved up slightly with each hard thrust, your breasts bouncing wildly in his face. the sharp canine part of eren’s grill grazed your nipple, his hot tongue coming out a second later to soothe the sting. “you smell so good, y-you’re so good.” embarrassingly enough eren’s thrusts were already getting sloppy. he was close.

“are you about to cum? hm? gonna nut in my pussy ren?” all eren could do would moan, his face nuzzling itself into the crook of your neck. you sobbed out eren’s name when he pushed your knees up, the angle of his thrusts reaching deeper inside you. he licked his thumb, bringing the digit to your swollen clit.

“c’mon baby, make that pussy cum. wanna feel that shit.” your legs shook violently as you second orgasm of the night hit you. eren fucked you through it, growling out curses each time a steam of your cum hit his lower stomach. his cock slipped out ad second later ribbons of cum were painting your tummy in thick, white strands.

eren’s head fell forwards, wispy strands from his disheveled half up, half down bun tickling his forehead. “shit, m’still hard girl. you’re gonna kill me,” eren’s hands cupped your face, smushing his lips against yours in a clash of tongue and teeth.

he pulled out briefly to turn you around on your tummy. “i’m gonna borrow one of those real quick,” he murmured, tatted hand reaching above you to grab one of your many plushies. he arched your back, placing the plushie underneath the pudge of your stomach. “comfortable mama?” his nose nudged against your cheek, his lashes tickling you.

“yeah . . . put it in.” eren tapped the tip of his cock against your clit before slipping in, groaning at the warmth that welcomed him. he yanked your hair back, exposing your neck. “o-ohhh fuck,” your eyes rolled into the back of your skull when eren’s bicep hooked around your neck, putting you in the perfect chokehold. not too tight, but not too lose either. his strokes were slow, but deep, allowing you to feel every vein and ridge on his dick against your sensitive walls.

“this what you wanted the most right? always talkin’ about my muscles, you satisfied now baby?” all you could do was moan pathetically, nodding your head rapidly. “you’re g’nna make me cum again renny, y-you’re gonna make me cum!” your feet kicked wildly against the bed, tears free falling from your cheeks and onto your sheets.

eren grunted, tightening his hold on your neck, “do it.” your body thrashed beneath him, shaking violently as your orgasm hit you in intense waves. the soft cotton of your sheets was basically rubbing your clit raw, adding way more overstimulation than you needed.

eren’s thrusts were relentless, his pace never once faltering as you came. he pressed his hips snuggly against your ass, rolling his hips until you were clawing at the sheets. “keep fucking me l-like that, god yes!” eren groaned, pulling his hips all the way back before slamming back in.

“thas’ right baby, m’your god. your everything,” his teeth nibbled at your ear, licking over the shell of. ugh yes he was your everything :(( you loved him, you adored him, you were his biggest fan. you’d do anything for him if it meant you got fucked like this on a regular.

“hah! ah! ah! o-oh shittt,” you sobbed out, tears soaking your chubby cheeks. eren cursed under his breath when his dick slipped out, a stream of your cum following seconds after. you clawed at the sheets, trying to get out of his grip, but eren kept you steady, shushing your whines with kisses.

“no more renny,” you whimpered, your face nuzzling into the crook of his bicep. “ngh, you don’t mean that baby,” he cooed at you, pressing a kiss to the side of your face.

eren laid on his side, pulling you close to his chest. his heart was beating so fast, it felt like he was high. this must be what people call being ‘pussydrunk’ because he swears if he was asked to speak a full sentence he’d fail.

he lifted your thigh up, slipping his cock between your folds. your body quivered, arching against his chest. “you wanna be my girlfriend? c’mon i know you wanna say yes, just say it,” you didn’t even have time to process his words before his tip was slowly sliding in. the question must’ve been good right? you’ll just say yes.

you squeaked out a yes! when he bottomed out, your backside pushing against his pelvis. he couldn’t believe you actually said yes, he couldn’t believe he actually even asked you that. what were you doing to this poor man?

eren hiked your thigh up, starting up a fallow n’ shallow pace. his lips crashed into yours, moaning into your mouth with a scrunched up face. “we’ll figure somethin’ out, you just—just gotta be mine.”

“i will renny—hah! all i’ve ever wanted is to be yours.” your thighs clamped around eren’s wrist when you felt his fingers strum against your clit. most people would look at you like you were nuts for even accepting such an offer, but they wouldn’t understand. you’ve loved eren and his craft since he first debuted six years ago. his music got through some of the hardest times of your life and for that you were eternally grateful to him—so yes, you’ll worship the ground he walks on and love him like no other.

his free hand shimmied underneath your back, wrapping around your waist. god he was so fucking close. he needed you as close as possible.

“cum with me mama. i’m about to nut, c’mon take it, take it, take ittt,” his hips pushed up against your backside one last time, emptying his balls inside you for what won’t be the last time tonight. he just needed a breather.

your body thrashed against his as you came with a scream. eren covered your mouth, whispering filthy praises in your ear as you rode our your high. he stayed snugly inside you, caressing your stomach with light touches.

it was silent for ten minutes as you both caught your breath, eren not once loosening his grip on you, he didn’t even pull out when you turned around to face him.

“you meant what you said right? about me being your girlfriend?” eren cracked an eye open and was met with your brown ones staring right back at him. was he sure about this? i mean the man didn’t even really know you like that but . . . fuck it, why not. he shrugged, brushing his hair out of his face. “yeah, as long as we keep it on the dl for now. i got a lot—”

“that won’t work.”

eren’s brows furrowed, “what do you mean that won’t work? you’re not in charge here at the end of the day.”

two days later . . .

‘breaking news! well known musician eren yeager was recently seen out shopping in beverly hills with what looks like a new boo! my, my look at all those shopping bags, seems like this girl has got our boy whipped! we believe this is the same girl he was seen with, about a month ago, heading into a hotel in chicago. fans are buzzing like crazy trying to find out who this mystery girl is! it seems to be she has no social media, but never fear my sources are working day and night to find out who she is! until then this is . . .’

jean shut off the tv, pure anger radiating off of him. “you wanna tell me what that’s all about? who the fuck even is this girl—”

“i’m his girlfriend,” you came from around the corner, wearing nothing but one of eren’s shirts. you approached eren from behind, where he was sitting on the couch, a bored look on his face as usual. he visibly relaxed when he felt your hands massage his shoulders. “yeah, she’s right. as of two days ago we’re official.” eren turned his head to press a kiss to the top of your hand.

“eren, you still have the international leg of your tour to do! there’s no way you can focus on that with a distraction—” eren let out a long sigh, his head flopping against the back of the couch. “jean, you’re really not talking about shit i wanna hear right now.” he just wanted to spend time with you, granted you both had been holed up in his hotel room for two days, besides the random shopping trip you just had to go on.

you weren’t a fan of keep your relationship a secret, hence why you made him take your ass the most expensive strip mall you could find. you’d never shopped in a luxury store that was completely empty until eren made his security clear the area so you two could shop in peace. he had so much power over people, it turned you on a lot.

“she’s not gonna be a distraction. she’s gonna come on tour with me, and keep me company. i’d ask if was a problem, but i really don’t give a shit. i pay you entirely too much for you to be bitching at me like that.”

jean’s mouth parted, but no words came out. it wasn’t uncommon for eren to talk to him like that, but it was certainly new to have an audience watching.

you combed your fingers through eren’s hair, frowning at the annoyed look on his face. “is there anything else you wanna discuss?” eren’s ring clad finger tapped against the couch impatiently. jean looked at eren, then you, then back to eren, and back to you. “ah, no. i guess that’ll be all eren.”

“i need you to schedule me a session at the studio, m’workin’ on a new song,” eren called out just as jean was about to shut the door. “dumbass better have heard me.”

he looked up at you through his lashes, “i know i sound a little harsh, but if you’re not an asshole to that guy he’ll run you over. only reason he still has a job is because he’s damn good at it.”

you shrugged, making your way around the couch to sit on eren’s lap. you wrapped your arms around his neck, “i don’t care about none of that. now tell me about this song you’re writing! what’s it about?”

“i think you know what it’s about, mama.”

#eren smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger smut #eren x black y/n #eren x black reader #eren x black fem!reader #eren yeager x black reader #eren jaeger x black reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #attack on titan x black reader #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan smut #aot smut #aot x black reader

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k-hotchoisan · 1 year ago

Note

hiiiii <333 I have lovedddd lovvvveeeddd alll of your works I actually spent my day reading each and everyone of them I love it so muchhh!! 😭❤️

I have a request teehee, could you write one where Sannie is like a professor in your college and there’s little teasing here and there and where he ends up having her alas!! DOM - SAN ‼️💋

his favourite

<prof!san x fem!reader>

Prof Choi likes playing favourites.

You’re his favourite.

Genres/Warnings: smut, dom professor Choi San, pwp, face fucking, unprotected sex, oral (m receive) ,mutual pining, age gap, size kink, cream pies, mild jealousy plot, sir kink, light bondage (just tying up reader) teasing, sexual tension, teaching assistantxteacher obv forbidden but we still eat it up anyway!

Word count: 12.3K

a/n: happy birthday to the man of my dreams </3 enjoy this little choi san birthday treat. i put my love into this so please love this as much as i did! and thank you @bro-atz for the tidbits of help as always 🩷

apply for taglist here!

You stare at the laptop screen, scanning through your details on the application form, double, and triple checking that everything was filled in correctly.

“Which professors are you trying as a teaching assistant for?” Your roommate asks, her neck craning over to see you attaching the file to six different emails, to six different professors within the department, pretty much answering her question the moment she reads off each professor’s email.

“Why not try for the department chair?”

You scrunch your eyebrows as if it’s the first time you’re hearing that.

“Who?”

“Professor Choi?”

Your eyes widen, your neck almost getting whiplash from how fast you turned to your roommate at the sound of his name.

“Why the fuck would I try him?”

Your roommate shrugs in an attempt to hide her amused reaction from your reaction at his name.

“Who knows? I’m confident he remembers you even though you spent only one semester with him”, she hums turning away to pour herself another ice drink from the pitcher. “On a serious note, you may as well just get all the help you can get. Besides, what are the chances that Prof Choi sees your email? He’s the department chair. I’m sure his mailbox is just flooded anyway.”

True, you think to yourself, turning your head back to your laptop, and adding the professor’s email address in. But you still hesitate, staring at the application form, your cursor hovering over the send button. Your roommate looks over at you, and she decides that your wishy-washy behaviour is just being the biggest nuisance on earth, so her hand flies over yours and helps you to press send, and she watches you freak out at her while she giggles and escapes after committing her crime, chasing your roommate around the kitchen island for a good seven minutes.

Settling back down in defeat, you sigh in your hands, giving yourself pep talks.

Right.

The chances are close to zero that Prof Choi will see my application anyway.

The chances of him remembering me are close to zero anyway.

You shut your laptop, and the applications are completely erased from your mind.

“Yo, check your emails, babe. The application results are out for me”, your roommate says, her eyes glued to her laptop screen.

You settle yourself down across her, a chilled drink in your hand, pulling up your email inbox. As you expected, you see the subject headline ‘Teaching Assistant Application Results’, and you expand the email.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you mutter, loud enough for your roommate to hear. Her head pops out from behind her screen.

“Who did you get?”

“Choi San.”

Professor Choi San. His classes weren’t the bane of your existence—but he, himself was.

And the fact that it only took one semester to solidify that claim. Almost everyone wanted to get into his class, so fucking many of them just squealing over how he looked almost god-like. You wonder how much of a swoon he would be, how much of the rumours that travelled down the stream were factual, though with thousands of students constantly fighting for a spot in his class, you sure were coloured surprised when you landed a spot in Professor Choi’s class.

The moment he walked in, the whispers within the confines of the lecture hall erupted into gasps and squeals. Unfortunately, the rumours were right—the moment ProfessorChoi walked in, it was as if your eyes naturally followed his movement—confident strides in his steps dictated by his outfit—a simple dress shirt under a dark gray vest that accentuated his wide shoulders and skinny waist.

He was so fucking handsome—his hair neatly slicked back, frameless glasses sat on his nose bridge, his sharp and small eyes hiding behind the lens. Undoubtedly, seeds of infatuation began lodging themselves in you. Well, it’s not like you had a chance with him anyway, especially when the gold band reflected from his ring finger being a huge indicator. Maybe keeping him as an eye candy would work out just fine.

Prof Choi’s classes were interesting, and he as a professor, other than being a distraction during the majority of his classes, held his credentials. However, at times, some sarcastic comments would bubble to the surface, and even though he did tend to commend top-scoring students for tests, he still maintained professionalism for the most part—the content taught wasn’t rocket science anyway. You saw yourself being able to breeze through the syllabus for the most part until you received your grade for one of your essays. You stared at his comments, marked in red lines, circles, and words—tone cold and direct—not that you weren’t used to it, but this time? You felt his comments alongside him marking you down were completely unjustified.

It was then that you pushed past the group of girls who would stay back after class to shamelessly flirt with him, under the guise of wanting to discuss more about the content taught that day, and you stood before the group, asking to speak to Prof Choi personally. Prof Choi did have people staying back after class to consult with him about grades, although they would stay shortly with him staying stern to his marking rubrics, but when he realised you weren’t backing down on top of the way you approached him so directly, it intrigued him.

His office was spacious, considering that he was the department chair—and without introductions, he had you dive in immediately in consultation.

You wasted no time, flipping through the spent pages of your essay, pointing out areas where you felt his comments were unjustified. Prof Choi listened, and he refuted your points, some of which you decided to accept but not for one particular part;

“This part had no proper scientific support of your argument for this point-“

“Bullshit”, you cut him off. Prof Choi blinked, shocked at the blunt cut from you. His eyebrows were scrunched in confusion next, wondering if he heard right that a student not only just cut him off, but cussed at him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s here. A small significance value is still something isn’t it?” You replied, pointing at the paragraph after. He glanced at the paper once more, forcing himself to focus while you fought back that your argument was supported.

So you made Prof Choi sit before you and listen to your elaborations, and needless to say, he was rather impressed, although he had to hold his expression neutral.

You came out of the consultation victorious—the day Prof Choi called you over after his class again, handing you your script, and you saw your total marks shooting up to a gorgeous score. Your head was so into the clouds that you returned a smirk along with a shrug—showing off your victory and satisfaction as your thanks—an I told you so, leaving the professor to stare after you in awe while you practically skipped to your seat.

That sealed your fate.

From then on, Prof Choi would have his attention on you—recognising which seat you picked to sit in in class, wondering why you hadn’t dared sit nearer. And when it came to picking people to answer questions, his gaze would fly to you immediately—either waiting to call you out once you raised your hand or simply calling you when he felt like it. For some sick reason, he finds the way your face scrunches up in stress when he calls your name in his honey-soaked voice amusing, and even adorable at times, though he would never admit it. But oh, did he love the comments and answers you would give him.

Despite that assignment being the only one where you decided to consult Prof Choi, following every grade release of an assignment, he would single you out, especially after class, to fucking ask if you had questions regarding said assignment, which honestly started to freak you out—mostly because he never gave you the attention before, and you weren’t used to it. The whispering gossip in the class about you being the teacher’s pet slowly reached your ears too, and even Prof Choi heard it—and he only exacerbated that rumours by constantly giving you his attention.

Every time you reached your dorm, the words that left your mouth which your roommate could recite verbatim, “I swear to god, Prof Choi has it out for me!”

Not to mention you were fucking relieved when the last day of his class rolled around, but unfortunately, his parting words to you were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around, y/n”. You did everything in your power to avoid getting into his class and even bumping into him, which seemed to work swell.

Until now that is.

Now here you are again, standing before the familiar heavy wooden door, staring up at the wooden plate, embossed with gold lettering “Department Chair Choi San” staring right at you. You had to physically drag yourself off your bed to prepare for the first day partnered with Prof Choi. And when your roommate’s words of “oh come on, he can’t be that bad. He’s hot!”, echoed through your ears, it all the more made you want to just ditch your first day by clawing your eyeballs out.

You had to collect yourself before Prof Choi collected you.

With a raised knuckle, you rap against the door, taking deep inhales in the process. His voice, which sounded deceivingly like honey, remained the same as you remembered.

“Come in.”

You pause for a moment, embracing yourself before holding onto to doorknob and pushing his door open.

There he was, Professor Choi, his eyes focused on the scripts on his desk, which had piled up. His space remained the same as you remembered, for the most part—shelves littered with awards and files, the same desktop taking up one-quarter of his huge ass desk, and the couch with the coffee table left to the side of the room. Prof Choi wore a stern look of concentration on his face, still preoccupied with finishing up marking his scripts.

When his pen pauses and his gaze shifts towards the door, a small smile spreads across his face. He lifts his head and drops his pen, interlocking his fingers on his desk with growing amusement when his eyes meet yours.

Fuck, he’s still so handsome.

“Professor Choi”, you greet, holding your expression neutral as you bow, forcing yourself not to fidget with your tote bag.

“Y/n!” Prof Choi greets almost too enthusiastically. “I would assume you would be more than delighted when I picked you to be my teaching assistant.”

“Honoured, almost”, you reply. It’s taking all of your energy not to break his gaze. He’s staring at you with unreadable eyes, and you’re wondering if the fluttering in your chest is from the anxiety or the way Prof Choi is staring at you.

Prof Choi laughs, and it tickles your ears a little too good.

“Sit. We have a lot to go through today”, he gestures to the seat before him, and you take it.

He switches on his monitor to his course syllabus and turns the monitor slightly towards you.

“Oh, before we begin, it’s a pleasure meeting you again, y/n.”

Oh boy, was being Prof Choi’s teaching assistant a fucking handful. You knew it was gonna be rough, but to be assisting Professor Choi San? He was on another level—his schedule would be filled to the brim with meetings with the faculty on top of conducting classes weekly. You struggled in your first month, learning the ropes, especially from a busy and challenging professor like him. He wasn’t mean or cold at all, on the contrary, more direct and meticulous. Well, he had to be, considering his position. Nonetheless, it felt like he was always too busy to attend to your questions sometimes, and that would leave you to your own devices.

You stand in the aisle, looking down at the assortment of foods lined up in the chiller. Has Prof eaten yet? Does he even eat? What does he even eat? By instinct, you pull out your phone and open his chat.

[you]: Hi Prof. Have you eaten? I’m at the convenience store near the campus. I could grab something quick for you.

A couple of minutes go by, but your phone doesn’t receive a ping, and you had to reach the office soon. So you pick up another tuna rice ball for the professor alongside yours before making a beeline for the cashier.

Prof Choi hears the knock on his door and as usual, he utters his usual “come in”. His gaze lands on you, and he glances at the clock.

“You’re on time today”, he points out.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “I’m always on time, Professor.”

“You’re usually in a little earlier.”

“Right, because I got you this”, you reply, rustling through the plastic bag in your hands, fishing out the rice ball.

He looks up at you, confusion hinted in his expression. He doesn’t take the food yet.

“What’s this?”

“Tuna rice ball. Surely only having coffee in the morning is not filling your stomach.”

You put the food in front of him. “Besides, I messaged you but you didn’t reply. So I just chose something safe. Unless you’re telling me you’re allergic to tuna or something.”

Prof Choi blinks. His hands reach out to take the snack from the desk, unwrapping the plastic packaging as he watches you leave his office to grab a mug of coffee. He glances over at his phone, and sure enough, your name is there with your message.

Since then, his reply would pop up in mere minutes whenever you asked him if he wanted anything to eat.

Of course, the more you spent time with him, the more you grew comfortable, and all the thoughts you ever stressed about slowly faded off. Prof Choi grew more relaxed around you, internally grateful that you’re able to tank a significant fraction of his workload for him. Undoubtedly, you also come to realise that Prof Choi is human after all—he obviously would make mistakes, even as someone of his caliber, and deep inside, you found it rather cute, well, until you had to stop yourself from developing deranged thoughts.

Not to mention, another problem seemed to pop up—his flirty banter. He likely picked up that it made you flustered sometimes, and since then, he wouldn’t let it go, relishing at the way pink creeps up your cheeks when he would say something that wasn’t like his ‘professor-self’, and at worst, feeding into your crooked thoughts.

You stare at him as he types away, particularly, the metal band around his ring finger. You wonder who was the lucky lady who had the chance to be with him. You blink.

What the hell were you thinking?

“It’s rude to stare, you know”, Prof Choi’s voice snapping you out of your daydreams.

“I’m just wondering about your ring, that’s all”, you reply, forcing your attention back to your half-marked assignments.

“I’m not actually married”, he suddenly confesses, and for some reason, it makes your heart beat slightly faster.

“Huh?” Is all you manage to reply.

Prof Choi chuckles. He pauses his work on the desktop, turning his attention to you. Even though you have worked so closely with him for a while already, you can never seem to find your composure around him.

Even though you see his face every week, you can’t seem to wrap your head around how insanely good-looking he is, how sometimes you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, because it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself slowly flushing.

“I wear it on my ring finger so the students stop asking about my marital status”, Prof Choi clarifies. You watch him pull the ring from his ring finger and fit it over his index.

“So you’re single”, you echo.

He nods, “I’m single.”

What is this strange feeling of relief?

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. You’re not looking directly at him, and you don’t realise the way he’s looking at you attentively. And if you do, you just might combust.

“I’m…single too”, you answer, trying to meet his gaze, fidgeting with the red pen in between your fingers.

“And why’s that? Too busy fighting with your professors for grades?”

You glare at him.

“I think it was my professor picking fights with me”, you reply quickly, jabbing right back at him.

You watch Prof Choi lower his gaze, a smile spreading across his cheeks—an actual smile—his dimples showing up. Oh fuck. Just when you thought you could depend on your ribcage to contain your heart properly, you found out Prof Choi could actually smile.

When he looks up at you again, you break the eye contact, your gaze flying back to the papers before you.

“You know, I’ve met many students, but you were the first to cuss out at me.”

You did? “I did?”

Your professor nods, cocking his eyebrow at the way you had seemed to have simply forgotten something as eventful as that.

This time, Professor Choi bursts into a chuckle, completely amused by your reaction.

“Is that why you kept-“

“Giving you chances to answer in class for credit? You should really thank me for that. Your grade for my class was one of the highest you know.”

You feel your cheeks flush. But before you can retaliate, Prof Choi cuts you off.

“Jokes aside, no. I think the discussion we had that afternoon had an impression on me. The cherry on top was you cussing at me. I liked that. Refreshing and endearing”, Prof Choi continues, his attention seeping back to the pile of scripts before him.

“I think this side of Professor is pretty refreshing and endearing too”, you let it slip.

His pen pauses in mid-air. You don’t catch his gaze completely softening on you.

As the semester continues on, you began easing into the class schedules. You watch prof get swarmed by a group of students, a usual ritual that happens right when the class ends. At this point, you had grown used to it. Sometimes the students would come and approach you instead, which honestly surprised you, but your heart would feel warm, knowing that these students trusted you.

It was then you became acquainted with another teaching assistant under Prof Choi, who joined shortly after you did—Choi Jongho. Initially, he came off as a rather shy individual, but the both of you warmed up quickly with each other, sharing the workload and bonding over gossip with each other. Gosh, was he fucking amazing with gossip, especially when it came to Professor Choi. Soon enough, the both of you were texting almost on a regular basis, the conversations weighing more towards academic topics sprinkled with a little gossip.

“You’re going off with Choi Jongho?”

“Yeah”, you reply, bunching the papers in your hands. “I’ve got some things to discuss with him about.” Partially true.

For some reason, even though your professor has been completely swamped with papers to grade and meetings to attend, you would always find him loitering around your desk from time to time. He seems to especially enjoy doing that when you’re around.

“You’ve been spending an awfully lot amount of time with him”, Prof Choi points out, looking over your shoulder as he watches you scribble on another student’s paper.

“Yeah, we get along well actually. Isn’t that a good thing, Prof? Both your teaching assistants are besties.”

For some reason, that makes Prof Choi frown, but you’re too absorbed in your work to notice it.

A couple of minutes go by, and you still feel his presence, not that you mind, but you’re starting to find it peculiar that he’s been hanging around your desk a lot recently.

“Do you have something to discuss with me, prof?” You ask, eyes still glued to the paper.

“Yes”, he replies, taking another sip from his mug. “What do you think of Choi Jongho?”

Such a random question to ask, you think. Maybe he’s just making sure you and Jongho get along well?

You pause, giving yourself to think, tapping the back of the red pen against your bottom lip, taken aback by Prof Choi’s sudden question, but the conversations you and Jongho had resurfacing into your brain, and a giggle escapes you, which makes Professor Choi subconsciously narrow his eyes and furrow his brows.

“He’s fun to be around, and despite how he looks, he’s actually got a wicked sense of humor. Oh god, wait. Let me tell you what you he did that day while we were having lunch together-“

You turn your head to continue to run your mouth, only to slowly trail off when realise his face is just inches from yours, and you swear your heart is on a treadmill from the lack of distance between you and Prof Choi. It’s as if time paused, the both of you sinking right into each other’s gazes. You can’t help but notice how intense his gaze is, and you can’t seem to decipher his thoughts, but from the way this situation played out, you swore he’d just lean in and kiss you.

Your heartbeat accelerates at the thought—why would he do that?

And when his fingers are on your chin, your rational thoughts are getting flushed out.

“That’s an awful lot of cute things about Choi Jongho. I’ve never heard you talk about another Choi like that.”

You swallow hard, your body still frozen in spot.

“What do you think about him then?”

“Jongho? I was just-“

“No. Choi San.”

Oh god. You could only stare back at him. Prof Choi tilts his head, his eyebrows raised, waiting for his answer. His cologne floats and almost shuts down your senses—has he always smelled this good?

The corner of his lips curl slightly at the way you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights.

“I t-think Prof-“

“San. Choi San”, he corrects you.

Another hard swallow the more you try to focus your gaze on him.

“I think Choi San’s a great professor. He’s really competent, a lot softer than he presents himself as-“

Fuck you can’t think. Not when he’s staring down your eyes to your lips like that.

“Mmhm.”

“And he’s really so-“

Then a loud knock echoes across the room, breaking the tension. Prof Choi’s body doesn’t shift, but he looks up at the door, shouting “door’s unlocked”, before he stands back upright, adjusting his glasses and walking back to his desk.

Jongho’s head peeks in, then he bows at Prof Choi before he walks to your desk. You stare up at him with a forced smile.

“Ready to go? I was waiting for your message”, Jongho says, his eyes glancing over the professor, then you, a strange feeling that he probably interrupted something.

You nod, while shoving your belongings into your bag, then slinging it on your shoulder.

Barely being able to look at Professor Choi, you still force yourself to, bowing goodbye to him.

“Thank you Prof Choi. See you tomorrow.”

He looks up from his desk, right into your eyes.

“See you too, y/n.”

You can’t help but wonder how far things would have gone if Jongho didn’t knock the door.

Jongho isn’t an idiot. Initially, he assumes that you and the professor were on much friendlier terms considering that you came in before he did. Granted, the workload he would give the both of you was the same, he would take the initiative to have lunch with the both of you both individually and together whenever he had pockets of free time, but what roused his awareness was the lingering glances Professor Choi would cast at you from time to time, the way he seemed to relish the reactions you would give him whenever he teased you.

He notices the way your ears would grow red even when you roll your eyes at the professor and jab him with another playful snarky remark.

Though he wonders how dangerous things could get, Jongho thinks this could get interesting.

The semester continues smoothly, the only change being that Jongho being absent from the office more often due to his other commitment to soccer. You remember him telling you he had quite a big match coming up, the sparkle in his eyes bright and twinkling whenever he talks about said sport.

If he wasn’t in classes, he’d be off for training, hopping into the office from time to time to pass Professor Choi marked scripts and reports. Prof Choi pretty much didn’t mind—he stated as long as Jongho did his job, he could be free to do what he wanted outside of being a teaching assistant.

Needless to say, the office was mostly Prof Choi and you, now even more time spent with him with Jongho mostly being absent. By then, the both of you had grown so accustomed to being in each other’s presence that banters amongst each other became the norm—the both of you competing with each other with unserious remarks, laced with almost flirtatiousness, just to see who would back down first.

Then came the proximity—since Prof Choi would wander over your desk as if he had all the free time in the world, he would somehow strike up another conversation with you, leaning over to hear you better, his arm bumping into yours to look over at the papers you were grading to check if you were doing them correctly. But what he absolutely adores the most is when you’d roll over to his desk to pester him with your questions—sometimes even testing him on his own content.

He likes the way he gets to be closer to you. He likes the way your shoulders touch his when you lean in to push the paper towards him so he can see the script better.

He likes the way you would finally look up and meet his eyes when you’re done formulating your question, waiting to hear his opinion.

Today is no different—Professor Choi being so used to the notion that he would only be seeing you in the office, the corner of his lips pull upwards at the thought of the types of banter you would have with him, the kinds of shenanigans you would bring into the office.

He hears your knock at the time you would always arrive, watching the way the door opens, and your head popping from the door, as you greet, “Hi Prof!”

“Good morning, y/n”, he would greet back, sipping on his morning coffee.

You walk over to his desk, dropping his tuna rice ball. “Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast, Prof!”

“You can stop calling me Prof”, Prof Choi suddenly says, twirling the pen in his hand. For a second, you wonder what triggered the sudden change. You’ve been calling him Prof since day one, pretty much used to it already, the only time you didn’t was when he—never mind. The thought of it is making your face flush again.

“Is there something else you want me to call you?” You ask, trying to calm your heartbeat down when that memory suddenly resurfaces.

“You can call me San. I’m fine with that. I know you’re still my teaching assistant but we’ve been working closely. I think it’s fine to drop the Prof honorific.”

You try out.

“Sure thing San”, you reply. “Though it’s gonna take a while for me to get used to this.”

“If you’re able to cuss in front of me, calling me by my name should be the least of your worries, y/n”, San teases.

You raise your hand, feigning a stance ready to smack him before you lower your arm, listening to the way San laughs before rolling your eyes and sinking into your desk.

The day marches on as normal—attending a class or two with Jongho before he’s whisked away to his soccer practice, leaving just the two of you for the rest of the day.

San is leaning at your desk again, looking at you typing out your report. He squints slightly before he leans down to your shoulder, his finger pointed at one of the paragraphs, asking you about the content. You answer him, and when you turn your head once you’re done, you find yourself looking at San’s side profile mere inches away—his sun-kissed skin, his pretty lashes, his thick, well-trimmed eyebrows, and the way his lips protrude out a little—he always looked like he’s pouting in the most adorable way.

That’s when you realise a problem seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, try as you might to ignore it, repress it—that you’re falling for your professor. Fast.

You snap back to reality, finally aware of how loud your heart is beating against your rib cage, and your hand flies up in instinct as a divider between you and San. San blinks at the sudden movement, confused.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” He’s not moving.

“I think I’ve got something on my face.”

San cocks an eyebrow. “You do? Let me check-“

His palm covers yours, bringing it down to the table, and you’re kicking yourself for sprouting such a self-sabotaging lie.

Why? Because now San has his hand on yours on top of his face in full view of yours, his eyes meeting yours before his gaze flutters around your face, checking for whatever hell you said was on your face.

His gaze meets yours and for a split second, something else glints in his eyes.

The door swings open, and San straightens himself up, slightly irritated at the interruption, leaving you to spin your chair away from San, your hands cupping your cheeks, the heat warming you up against the cold air conditioner. The heat from his hand on yours lingers for a little longer.

Jongho walks in, his duffel slinging on his shoulder with his shoe bag clipped.

“Hey, Prof. Hey cutie.”

San blinks. What did he just call you?

“Hey jjongie. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on your colleague instead.

“Supposedly, yeah, but there was a sudden downpour midway so training got cancelled. Might as well get some work done here”, he shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor.

San is wrapping his head around the fact that you and Jongho seem to have pet names for each other.

“Didn’t miss me too much right?” Jongho teases. “‘Cause I did!”

“That’s a first coming from you jjongie”, you reply, surprising a smile.

“Of course! It’s been a while, how could I not? We should go eat dinner together sometime.”

San only stares on in silence, pretending to sink back into his grading.

Jongho walks over to your desk, taking his turn to look at your report. San watches the way Jongho’s arm is comfortable over your seat, as he asks you about your report, talking to you as if San wasn’t just behind you seconds before.

The fact you’re entertaining him—hitting his arm playfully and laughing at his remarks—all the more rouses some kind of irritation in San. It’s like a boiling pot.

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jongho leans in to whisper something into your ear although it’s bugging him so fucking much. For once, he wishes Jongho’s training didn’t cancel.

“Oh right before I forget”, Jongho mutters, rushing back to his desk, digging through his bag. He walks back over with a paper in hand and places it before you. You glance down and your face brightens up—it’s a ticket to his game.

“For real?” You exclaim, your eyes bright, taking the ticket in your hands. “I’ll definitely make time for you.”

“I’ll score goals for you, kay?” Jongho teases, his eyes glancing at San, who is progressively looking more irritated.

“Ah, Is San not going?”

“San? Since when were you on first name basis with him?” Jongho wonders aloud, the suspicion only brewing even more.

“Jongho, don’t you have reports to hand in?” San asks curtly.

You feel like you are caught in between crossfire for some reason.

Jongho smiles, then has your head under his arm, which elicits another irritated reaction from your professor.

You have never had Jongho done this before. In fact, you recall him offhandedly mentioning that he’s never a physical touch person, and that anything with physical touch makes him shudder.

“Relax, Prof. You’d rather your subordinates get along than not right?”

Just when San is about to reply, Jongho suddenly exclaims.

“AH, coach is calling me back to the field. Prof, I’ll send you the report by tomorrow okay? See you guys!”, Jongho hums as he runs back to his desktop to turn it off.

“Has he always been like that?” San wonders aloud, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I guess. It’s actually what makes him cute.”

“Cute? You think Jongho is…cute?”

“Is he not? Doesn’t he remind you of a bear? Big and cuddly.”

San clears his throat, and you watch him walk over to your desk, his hand resting on the tabletop. He leans in.

“So… you find it cute when he gives you pet names?”

“Well, I mean-“

“You find it cute when he plays with your hair?” San curls your locks around his fingers.

You can’t seem to get words to leave your throat.

“You find it cute when he has his hands all over you like that?” He’s leaning in even closer this time, arms trapping you at either side.

“Prof-“

“No. It’s sir.”

Your mind is in a whirlwind at the way he’s towering over you, his scent the only thing filling your olfactory senses, the way he’s staring right into you, gaze sharp as a blade.

“You find it cute when his touches run up your body like this?” His fingers are trailing up your arms, every touch he burns into your skin, and when his thumb pauses at your chin, you realise you’re royally fucked.

Once more, his face is mere inches away from yours. You wonder if you’ll be teased like two previous times before.

“Of course you don’t. You’d rather I do that to you, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, staring at your lips like it’s his reward to claim.

“Good girl.”

Of course, he claims it.

His kisses are so greedy—his lips prying yours open, and you feel yourself completely give in to him, surrendering whatever resistance, rationale, repression to Choi San.

You want more—you want seconds. Every swipe his tongue passes your lip, it makes your head float. How does someone taste this fucking good?

He pauses mid-way—barely a couple of seconds, to pull off his glasses and strew them across the desk—then goes back to devouring your lips.

San would smile in between kisses when he hears your whimpers. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you tremble slightly at his touch. It all goes straight to his cock.

He thinks you’ll be even more adorable when he ruins you.

When San pulls back, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, watching your glazed-out expression with amusement.

"I'd love to continue messing you up, but I have a meeting to attend. I’ll deal with you later, sweetheart. See you next week.”

His touch lingers on your chin for a couple of seconds longer before he pulls away and shifts to walk back to his desk, leaving your heartbeat wild and erratic, and your thighs squeezed tighter.

Since then, that was all you ever thought about—the slight smile before his lips collided with yours, the way his words rang in your ears. You could barely meet his eyes.

In more instances than one and with any chance given to him, he’d close up any physical distance he had with you. Worried that your emotions would bubble and overflow when he does that, you developed a habit of avoiding his eye contact.

Even after classes, you swore he was casting you glances even with lines of students waiting to talk to him.

“Did you piss Prof off or something?” Jongho asks as he shuts his laptop.

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “It’s just that he’s been eyeing you down like a hawk recently. Did something happen between the both of you?”

You freeze when the flashbacks of the taste of his lips return to your memory when you remember how hungry he looked just wanting to devour you.

“Y/n?”

You blink, then force yourself to meet Jongho’s eyes.

“No. Nothing happened. At least I hope I didn’t make any mistakes.”

“You’re fine. There’s a reason why the department chair chose his teaching assistants.”

You laugh softly at his words.

But when you hear San’s voice from behind you, you almost jump.

“Y/n, Jongho, the both of you can wrap up here and head back to the office”, he instructs. You feel his warmth radiating from behind, and it only makes your heart jump at the proximity.

You watch Jongho slowly pack up, small conversations sparking between the both of you about his soccer practice.

You glance at the door. San isn’t back yet.

“I think it’ll take him awhile to be back. The students there seem to really like him.”

No doubt, the female students for this class seemed a lot more assertive, almost always demanding all of San’s time. Well, not that it should matter. It’s not as if he should mean anything-

“Y/n? Are you okay? You seem pretty off recently. Even Prof’s pretty worried”, Jongho’s voice grounding you back to the cold office.

You force a smile and shake your head.

“I’m fine. I guess it’s just so much workload to deal with.”

Jongho places his hand on your shoulder in comfort, “You’re doing fine. You know you can approach either of us if you’re struggling right?”

You feel comforted, even though your messy thoughts weren’t even about the workload, so you return an assured smile before waving Jongho off for his soccer practice.

You’re wondering what you’re feeling nervous about, because when the door of San’s room opens, you jolt slightly.

“You’re still here?” You hear San ask.

“Yeah. Need to reply to some emails and double-check some of their assignments.” Not a total lie. It’s the swirling feelings he’s been giving you whenever that day surfaces in your mind, the small bouts of attention he pays you and the touches he lets linger a little too long that’s all a dopamine rush in you. You can’t help but want more. But in the same breath, meeting his gaze will allude doom for you.

San nods as he sits back at his desk, going right back to his computer. The silence continues for awhile and you’re surprised that you’re even able to concentrate.

“Y/n”, you hear San call you.

Your gaze doesn’t break from your screen. “Hmm?”

“Come here. Help me look at this.”

You walk over, ignoring the way your heart is just pounding so damn loudly. It’s painfully obvious that San is staring right at your face, and it’s also painfully obvious that you’re avoiding looking at him.

And it definitely seems to be ticking him off.

Your eyes stay locked to his screen reading off whatever is on the screen, and nothing is processing in your brain.

“It looks good”, you curtly reply, trying to ignore the fact that you’re being stared down by a certain professor. You turn away, your eyes still not acknowledging San, only for your professor to stop you in your tracks.

“Now where do you think you’re going?”

He’s making you face him now.

You’re still not giving him eye contact.

“Back to my desk?” You say, looking off into the distance. But San seems to have other plans.

“You know ‘looks good’ isn’t the feedback I’m looking for, right?”

Shit. You know that clear as day.

Now San has both his arms trapping you on his desk.

You somehow still manage to avoid his sharp gaze even when you’re backing up against him, easily letting him corner you.

His belongings are strewn all over the desk when he pins you down. By some miracle, only papers flutter down his desk.

And you’re finally looking right at him.

“You’re finally looking at me, y/n”, he states the obvious. “Now tell me, did I do something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t, sir”, you reply curtly.

He leans in closer.

“Then why are you avoiding my eye contact?”

You shut your eyes and squeeze them. There’s no pure way out of this—your dirty thoughts are seeping into the smallest crevices of your brain, and the more San is prodding you, the more it makes you throb.

“It’s because that evening when we…” you feel your cheeks burn with every word leaving your lips.

San is waiting for you to continue.

“When we kissed…couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And?”

“It made me want…more.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re honest?” He chuckles. “I’m gonna finish what we started sweetheart, like I promised.”

It makes your heart flutter.

“Am I getting your consent for this?”, San’s voice rings in your ears. You’re finding it hard to focus, especially when his thumb is pushing past the corner of your lips, and you’re just growing wet as fuck.

This is not right. This is so dangerous.

“Yes sir”, you reply back, trying to ignore the way your cunt is just tingling from the feeling of San’s thick erection pressing against you.

“That’s my good girl”, he praises before he dives in for a hungry kiss, his fingers roaming around your body, squeezing your tits before he unbuttons your shirt at an agonising pace. He smiles on your lips when he hears your soft gasp, and he presses his lips down to your jaw and then to your neck, sucking and biting the soft skin against your neck, his erection growing tighter against his trousers when he hears you moan and squirm.

When he’s satisfied with the light marks he decorated down your neck, his lips are pressed against your ear, and his hands are moving dangerously close to your cunt, and inevitably, your bottoms are off in seconds, leaving you in your pretty panties.

“I would prefer fucking you on my bed instead for the first time, but taking you on my desk? Maybe not too bad.”

Your cunt squeezes at the sound of San cussing. You never thought he’d sound this fucking hot.

He groans when his fingers press against the soaked patch of fabric hiding your pussy. All that wetness for him. He bunches up the fabric and rubs it against your clit, the friction drawing frustrated whimpers from you, much to his satisfaction. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s driving you crazy.

San’s fingers finally hook against the waistband of your panties, sliding them off your legs, and pocketing them, much to your shock.

And he doesn’t give you much time to focus on that because when he pulls his cock out from his unzipped pants, it makes your head spin from how thick Choi San is.

“Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’ll fit, sweetheart, like it’s made for me”, is all the warning San gives before he lines up to your hole and pushes his cock in.

You can’t tell what’s fucking you up more—the way his cock is stretching you open or the San groaning in relief when he finally gets to stuff you full.

You bat away your tears, his cock so fucking full inside of you, pressing against your walls, being squeezed so perfectly by you.

God, Choi San thinks he’s in heaven.

His fingers brush across your cheeks, collecting your teardrops. His eyes lack any ounce of empathy.

“Aw, are you crying because it feels good? You look so fucking pretty crying when I’m stretching you open.”

You barely find the words to reply to him, all stuck in your throat, your mind only flooded by the way San’s cock is buried in your cunt, your thighs trembling from the pleasure. It’s almost sickening. You know you shouldn’t be doing this—not with your professor, not on his fucking desk, but when he has you wrapped you around his finger and cock fucking the daylights out of you, it’s a temptation you can never resist.

A soft hiccup escapes past your lips when San pulls out almost all the way, his cock covered in a sheen of slick and precum before he pushes himself in once more, groaning when you clench around him for the nth time.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. God, I could just fuck you all day. You’d like that right?”

You’re barely keeping track, eyes rolled to the back of your head while your thighs twitch from the pleasure, but you manage to hold the eye contact, and through blurry tears, you mutter a weak, “Yes sir”.

“Of course you do”, San hums before he pulls out once more and starts fucking you dumb on his desk.

No matter how much you try to cover your mouth, bite your tongue or your lip, your moans only come out louder in defiance, the dopamine shooting up your pussy over and over again whenever San’s cock hits your pretty spots.

Your mind is addicted to the way San’s shirt is buttoned down his chest, his cleavage almost fully out for you to gawk at, the way strands of his hair cling to his forehead because of the sweat, the way his eyes roll back when he feels you squeeze him with every loud fuck, and the way he looks down to you from time to time before he eats up your pathetic moans with hungry kisses.

He fucked you up so good, you didn’t even realise it until now.

“S-San”, you manage out a whimper, “please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for.

“Please… you feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. It’s so fucking good”, you babble, trying to force your eyes open.

San can’t help but smirk when his ego is being stroked so nicely like that, especially by you. He’s a good person, of course, he’ll give what his good girl wants.

His thumb slides south on your body until you feel the ticklish sensation of him on your clit. Cream and precum pooling at the base of his cock makes it even worse for you—with every graze, his finger pressed onto your clit, the knot tightened in your stomach.

Your nonsensical strings of words only push San to tease you more as he endearingly watches you break slowly when your orgasm builds up.

Your body twitches, your back arches, your eyes roll back, white splashes beneath your eyelids. Your orgasm burning through you while you cry out San’s name and you twitch pathetically on his cock, letting your cream leak all over his wet cock.

“Fuck. You’re such a good fucking girl for me, aren’t you?”, you hear San curse. He fucks you through your orgasm, the overstimulation building up. The sensitivity feels so fucking good.

His hand catches your jaw, and he forces you to meet his eyes.

“Wanna pump you full of my cum, keep you so fuckin’ full for days on end,” he huffs, “but not now, sweetheart.”

Not that you minded, but there’s a strange tinge of disappointment ringing at the back of your head.

San thrusts into you a couple more times before he pulls out, his thick and wet cock resting on your pelvis, twitching as his hand takes over.

Nothing can beat Choi San’s fucking face when he cums. He looks like he’s in fucking heaven, and he’s tearing up the sky because of you. His fingers leave light marks on your thighs, you hear him groan at such a low tone that your cunt flutters uselessly against the air. Translucent spurts land on your skin, but it barely registers in you—you’re too busy swooning over the way your Professor just cummed over your body.

San’s high dies down, and he catches his breath, casting you a glance, red dusting his cheeks, before he reaches out for the tissue box to clean you up.

A quick kiss on the lips before he goes on to collect all the papers all over the floor.

That night he drives you home, filling the space with light conversations as if he didn’t just railed you on his desk.

It’s only when you reach home that you realise one important thing—San still has your panties.

You know you shouldn’t be telling secrets to your colleague, especially when it’s about your fucking boss. But here you are, facing Jongho, who has his arms crossed in front of you.

“What’s up with you and Prof?” You predict the words that leave his lips.

You hesitate to tell him, unsure how you should even say it, where to even start.

The worst part you knew clear as day was that nothing changed since that day. You chalked it off as San being swamped with assignments to deal with, that’s why the topic was never brought up again, but something still irked you. The only comfort you had was that the semester was ending, and so was your term as San’s teaching assistant.

Maybe it was how it was meant to be. Just nothing more than that.

But when you realise the dreaded feeling prickling at the back of your eyes, you knew you were fucked.

“I don’t know how to even start jjong”, you sigh. Jongho scrunches his eyebrows.

You watch his expression switch from one to the other. You expected him to freak out at you, yell at you for unprofessionalism or something, but he doesn’t.

“It’s so fucked up. But I just can’t help but wonder if he feels anything”, you mutter. The thought of you not being the only one he’s doing this with makes your stomach churn. But somehow, in the most twisted ways, confiding Jongho made you feel slightly better.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to play that card I guess”, Jongho shrugs. “But you should mentally prepare yourself for the results, that’s all I gotta warn you. I just need your consent to play along.”

It’s a risky bet you’re playing, but drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

As the semester closes to its end, so does the workload. San feels a lot lighter on his shoulders, and while he’s grateful for his teaching assistants for lifting a significant amount of workload off him, the end of a semester meant the end of the working relationship between him and his teaching assistants. He usually doesn’t feel that much, considering he has had many teaching assistants in the past, but for some reason, he feels a sense of discomfort lodged in his stomach when he thinks about having to let them go.

Especially one of them.

He sighs, removing his glasses from his nose and shutting his eyes while reviewing the exams. San feels like a fucking idiot when his eyes land on your empty desk, his frustration bubbling when you cross his mind again.

Even though he pretends to keep himself busy by flooding his mind with work, somehow, you would bubble to the surface once more, pushing him into the pits of frustration when he’s reminded of the way you get a kick arguing and refuting him just to get a reaction out of him, the way you taste like sweetest thing on earth he’s ever tried and the way you completely unravel when San fucks every single thought out of you—

He bites his cheek.

No. He has to keep it professional. At least, until the term is over.

He just doesn’t know how to tell you.

He knows he’s entered deep waters when he crossed the line that evening, the sight of you undone right before him snapping all his rationale. More than anything, he’s suffering the withdrawals, maybe that’s the punishment he has to bear.

He glances at the colourful ticket at the corner of his desk. It’s Jongho’s big game. Even though he usually doesn’t let himself intertwine with his subordinate’s personal interests, it’s hard not to.

In addition, you’ll be there. Maybe he’d snag you after the game and talk to you properly.

The meeting ran overtime, San glances down at his silver watch, realising he’d missed almost thirty minutes of Jongho’s game. Despite the exhaustion, he pushes it aside and heads to the stadium.

He watches the brightly lit scoreboard as he takes a seat on the bench, Jongho’s team is in the lead by one point.

Somehow he gets wrapped up in the game, cheering when Jongho’s team takes championship as the benches all burst into loud cheers too.

He gets up to leave, already thinking of drafting a text to congratulate Jongho in his head, maybe get him a small congratulatory gift on the side.

Then he spots you, just rows below. Now, he’s walking down as if on instinct, to get to where you are.

San pushes past the crowd to approach you. He’ll offer to drive you back—he knows it’s all an excuse but anything to get you into his space once more.

His arm outstretched, reaching out to tap your shoulder, then suddenly stopping when he sees Jongho appear right in front of you. That’s fine. San could just congratulate him at the same time—

Which all of those thoughts immediately disintegrate when he watches Jongho cup your cheeks with his hand, his eyes widening in complete silent horror as Jongho leans into you for a kiss.

You seriously doubt that Jongho’s plan would work. Didn’t San decide not to come anyway? You heard it with your own ears too.

Nonetheless, you pushed it to the back of your mind, focusing on cheering for your friend, watching the leading scorer jump from one team to the next. You couldn’t help but erupt into cheers when Jongho’s team won, screams echoing through the open stadium.

You watch Jongho walk up to the benches where you are, and his arms wrap around you, his smile big and bright, competing with the stadium lights.

“Congratulations, baby bear”, you tease, pushing against his shoulders lightly. Jongho inches close to you.

“He’s behind you by the way”, Jongho mutters, loud enough for you to hear, but not long enough for you to process, because his hands are cupping your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lips.

He hears you muffle some kind of question but your lips stay sealed.

“You owe me one for this,” is the last thing you hear before he leans in. Your eyes widen in shock, and you freeze in your spot, even though his lips don’t meet yours, evidently separated by Jongho’s thumb, his action had caught you off guard.

You barely have the capacity to process what had just happened, and you feel someone’s warmth tightening against your wrist.

Jongho lets go of you immediately, but you’re staring right at your professor, who is staring right at Jongho with an unreadable expression, with his fingers curled tightly against your wrist. It feels like an eternity since you saw him. He’s not wearing glasses today and his hair is down instead of his usual slicked-back look, donned with a simple dress shirt and tie which framed his wide shoulders so perfectly.

“Congratulations on your win, Choi Jongho. I believe you should be with your team to celebrate right?”

Jongho only smirks back. “Right. See you babe. Thank you, Prof. See you next week.”

Jongho casts you a glance, the mischief twinkling in his eyes before he turns his heel down the stairs and back to the field.

What the fuck just happened?

And you find yourself staring up at the male before you, his gaze piercing into yours.

“Prof—San?” You blink. “I thought you weren’t-“

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. Why would I not want to see the cute relationship my teaching assistants have right?” His voice is laced with venom.

San doesn’t really elaborate further, leading you to his car, sealing your fate once more when the passenger doors close shut.

He’s all over you. His body is burning up, maybe just as fast as yours is, and it’s making you feel dizzy. His moves are aggressive, impatient and you swear you feel something else too—desperation.

“S-San—“ you gasp, in an attempt to take control of something.

“It’s sir to you, sweetheart”, his voice low and gentle, but commanding. Goosebumps scatter across your skin, making you shiver in response when his palms slide up your waist.

You never saw it coming—from the second his hand grabbed yours, pulling you away from Jongho, his eyes locked into yours for a moment before he turns to Jongho, then to the car ride back, where you noticed the way his knuckles turned pale from gripping the steering wheel. On the walk to his car, you asked him where you were going, and all he did was turn to you and reply, “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Now you’re becoming undone once more under San’s touches, trapped beneath him like the first time, now at his place, on his fucking couch instead.

“It was just foolish of me to just let it be, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Fucking you dumb on my desk wasn’t a good enough indicator, was it?”

“S-sir…!”

“And you think it’s cute getting all cuddly with Jongho? Letting him kiss you all over, touch you all over?” San mutters, his fingers wrapped around your throat, his grip tightening slightly and you’re sure he’s about to leave light imprints.

But oh, was it so fucking exhilarating—the thought of Choi San riled up like that, a sight you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure if fear or excitement running through your veins right now, but what you do know, is that if he finds out that your panties are completely soaked through, you’re fucking done for.

His lips collide with yours again, branding himself as some kind of oxygen thief when he’s turning your mind into complete mush.

“I’m not sure if it’s a little game to you sweetheart, but if it is, I think you need a reminder.”

You breathlessly look up at him, and he looks ethereal even when he’s panting and looking pissed as hell.

“What reminder, sir?” You dare ask back.

The side of San’s lips tugs upwards. His hand leaves your throat and trails down your blouse, effortlessly unbuttoning the apparel until he tugs it off you, panting at the sight of your tits hugged by your lace bra. Your bottoms are off again on the floor of his bedroom, alongside any ounce of rationale. Your soaked panties are agonisingly pulled off your legs, and before you know it, his hands spread them open too. It takes all of San’s self-control to not stuff you full. At least, not yet.

“It’s my cock you’re gonna cum all over. Even when you have another guy’s lips on yours, it’s my name you’re gonna fucking scream.”

Oh. Oh god.

The pieces of what Jongho was trying to do suddenly come together, unfortunately, the realisation doesn’t last long because San has his lips greedily on yours again on top of the way his full-blown erection is pressing onto your pussy.

“Sir”, you manage out a weak mutter when he finally pulls away, trying to press and grind against his clothed dick for some friction or anything to rid the burn that’s going through your body. But San remains still.

“Use your words since you love using your mouth so much.” Like kissing Choi Jongho.

Your mind is a complete puddle.

“I really…fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now, sir”, you beg, red flushing your cheeks, but it’s not from the shame. There’s a feral glint in San’s eyes that you don’t miss.

“No”, is all he answers, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

“Not until I’ve fucked your mouth full, sweetheart.”

All you can do is watch him speechlessly as he hooks his index finger on the knot of his tie and loosens it, unraveling it back to its original form.

“Hands together”, he commands you, and you do so immediately, basking in the scent of his cologne while he leans into you, his hands tying knots around your wrists with his tie. “Don’t let it loosen, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now on your knees.”

You’ve never dropped to your knees so fast.

San forces you to watch him unbutton and lower the fly of his trousers, and you’re just doing your best not to get drool on his expensive carpet.

When his cock springs out, you’re also forced to watch him fuck his palm at a slow pace, drinking in his groans, slick staining your inner thighs, and the fucking floor next if you don’t do anything.

His cock is heavy against your cheek when he taps it there, and your tongue slips out of your mouth by instinct, given experimental kitten licks on his slit, before his fingers catch your chin, and he forces you to look up at him.

“Look at me”, he instructs.

You do. You do your best not to break the eye contact, trying not to be sidetracked by his big fucking cock, but your eyes can’t help but dart to his appendage.

“No, keep your eyes on me”, he redirects once more, his fingers fixing your head in place.

Then he slides his cock into your mouth and pulls out a choked moan from you.

“That’s it. Good girl”, he grunts when you start bobbing your head, fucking his cock with your mouth.

His fingers trail to the back of your head, but he’s using all of his strength not to force your head down.

But as you pick up the momentum, it’s an automatic reaction to push your head down so his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes are watering but fuck you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Your head spins whenever his wet cock is forced down your tight throat, and you break eye contact a few times, which San has to tap your jaw to make you keep eye contact while he fucks your face.

“I’m cumming, sweetheart. Fuck. Keep that pretty little mouth open for me yeah?” He groans, bucking his hips, letting streaks of warm white paint your throat and mouth, watching the way you’re looking up at him with doe eyes, taking his cum in your mouth like a good girl. His good girl.

He smudges his thumb against the corner of your lips before his arms carry you up, only to dump you on the couch.

Your back is on the couch again, hands still tied behind your back and legs up with San pressing his body weight on you.

He props your leg on his shoulder, and he stretches you open inch by inch. You gasp when he fills you up, your walls immediately clenching around him.

“So fuckin tight for me, sweetheart. You take me so well.”

His thrusts are growing more aggressive mixed in with the possession that’s bleeding in and it’s setting your whole body on fire. Your words are caught in your throat when he’s buried into you to the hilt. He groans at the way your pussy is fluttering pathetically against him.

It feels so fucking good that nothing but stars engulf your vision when his cock stuffs you full to the hilt again. His name leaves your lips like a mantra on top of broken moans and whimpers, and it only makes San fill up the space in your pussy all the more better.

His shoulders are so wide that he’s towering over you, his fingers forcing you to face him whenever you’re drifting because of the pleasure, his eyes feral when you look so fucked out for him. And when he combines his heavy thrusts with a squeeze around your throat, it makes your mind shut off and your cunt cream all over his dick.

“Good girl, looking all so fucked out for me.”

His cock is hitting all the perfect spots, and it’s driving you insane with the knot tightening in your stomach at such a fast pace. You think you’re sliding off the couch but San isn’t letting you—especially not when his thrusts are keeping you on the couch. His name continues to leave your lips in broken moans every time he fucks you.

San snakes his fingers to your scalp and he tugs sharply, enough to force you to look up at him. You’re tearing up again, and it feels so fucking good with the way he’s keeping your hair tugged while he fucks the ever-loving shit out of you.

“My name does sound much better when you’re crying it doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

You choke back a moan when he hits your g-spot once more.

“Y-yes sir.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Full. So full sir. Want more. Please. Need you to ruin me”, you beg once more, your mind floating in an endless euphoria.

“Oh, I definitely will”, San hums, watching in sheer pleasure as your eyes roll back when his cockhead presses perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

Before you realise it, your orgasm hits you like fucking train, spreading through your body like a fucking wildfire, engulfing every crevice of your body.

He’s gonna break you, and you’re fucking loving it.

“San-“, you cry out, not registering the way he’s wiping the tears off your eyes. “So good. You feel so good. Cumming so much-“

“I know, sweetheart. It feels so fucking good doesn’t it?” He asks with a smile, satisfied when you nod frantically while he rubs your thighs.

Your thighs are shaking from how good this all feels, cream staining your inner thighs and his cock when he pulls out.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart”, San reminds you.

He turns you over, keeping one hand on your tied hands, while the other pressing your head against the back of the couch. He lines his cock back to your cunt, pushing into your hole once more. You choke on your moans again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes until he’s fully seated in you once more.

The sounds are even wetter now, especially when you’re overstimulated, pussy just being so perfectly abused by Choi San. You fucking love the way his hands are around your neck, forcing you against the cushions when he fucks you dumb from the back.

Your stomach is in knots once more, the feeling building up faster than the previous time, and all you can mutter is that it feels so good. San thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you’re not having banters with him and being this cock drunk for him.

Then he pulls you off the couch, letting you catch a breath before he sits you on his lap, his cock still buried in your cunt, and starts bouncing you off his cock from below.

He alternates between melting your brain with his pornographic moans right at your ear and planting more love bites down your jaw.

“Gonna cum again. You feel so fucking good in me. Oh god”, you hiccup through your tears, the sensitivity pushing your limit.

“Cum as hard as you want, sweetheart. I’ll let you milk me dry, fill you up so fucking good that you’ll be leaking with my cum for the next two days.”

That was enough to set you off. Your pussy convulses when your second orgasm hits, fireworks bursting in your eyelids, long drawn-out cries while San fills your tight cunt with his warm and thick cum, while his groans fill up in your ears. You feel his fingers massaging your thighs, coaxing you from your high.

You’re dizzy, and light-headed as your head slumps against his shoulders, too spent to acknowledge the male behind you leaving more marks down your neck.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” San breaks the momentary silence, well aware that his softening cock is still in you.

Your hand flies up to his chest to stop him, even though you’re still recovering from seeing stars.

“We need to talk-“

“After we clean up”, he cuts you off, lifting you off his cock and carrying you bridal style to his bathroom.

But you’re stubborn.

“N-no. It wasn’t what you thought it was”, you say, feeling your tears well up in your eyes on top of the weight.

The prickles are starting to form at the bottom of San’s heart, but he’s more focused on trying to hose you down with warm water. But he’s listening you run your mouth, not that he minded.

“We didn’t kiss”, you reiterate.

Now he’s just confused. He stares at you.

“We just had sex, y/n”, San reminds you, trying not to let the red reach his cheeks.

“No—I mean Jongho and I. We didn’t kiss”, you clarify.

San doesn’t really know if he should believe your words or his eyes, but now he’s focused on lathering your hair and body.

“That wasn’t what I saw”, he replies, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s cause we did this-“ you huff, turning his head to face you, imitating the way Jongho had slid his thumb between your lips and his, demonstrating San the fake kiss.

San only stares at you wordlessly when you pull back, only more questions than answers.

“But why would he do that for?”

“He was trying to rile you up.”

“For what?”

“To see if you felt anything for me?”

“By kissing you?”

Oh god. It felt like the more you explained, the more San was getting the wrong ideas. You let your head sit in your hands, unsure if it’s from the embarrassment or the fact that you don’t even know where to start.

“It wasn’t a kiss, Choi San”, you groaned, your hands leaving your face, suddenly self-conscious that San is staring intently at you. “After we, um, fucked the first time, you acted like nothing happened, and I felt like shit about it, and I told Jongho and then…” you trail off, feeling your cheeks heat up again. It’s probably the hot water, at least that’s what you try to convince yourself with.

“I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with, San”, you sigh in defeat. Your eyes are downcast, but you feel his fingers cup your cheeks, and his lips press onto yours. You swear you could go another round again.

The silence hangs in the air for a while, only the sounds of the shower filling the emptiness when he pulls back.

“I didn’t do anything since after that evening because I wanted to properly tell you after the term ended.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you, too.”

You blink. Somehow that shocked you more than the both times he fucked your brains out.

You don’t answer him because your head is just swarming with so many thoughts, and San lets you do so, satisfied that he’s finally have you quieten down so he can finish washing you up.

Even when he’s dressed you in his oversized hoodie, San peppers you with kisses, basking in the way you sometimes cover his face with your hands to stop him, which only rouses him to continue to attack you with his lips.

San’s arms are tight around you when the both of you are finally on his bed. You smell like his favourite body soap and he can’t seem to get enough of it—nuzzling against the crook of your neck, muttering sweet nothings. You think this is probably your favourite version of Professor Choi.

Your fingers twirl around his splayed-out locks, and you speak.

“Prof Choi”, you tease, and San looks up, and it’s the first time you actually see him pout—it almost makes you combust.

“I told you to stop calling me that”, he frowns, burying his face, feigning trying to cut off physical contact from you, which only makes you laugh in response.

“I just wanted to disturb you”, you respond, trying to yank him back into your arms. “I do have a question though.”

His head pops up from his pillows and he stares at you, waiting for you to speak.

“When did you realise you had feelings for me?”

He pauses, giving himself a couple of minutes to think.

“The moment I received your teaching assistant application.”

📚 Bonus Epilogue 📚

“Prof Choi!” One of his teaching assistants calls out to him.

He turns his head and attention to her, pushing up his glasses.

“Yes?”

“I need help with this part of the assignment. Could you help me check that I’ve marked it correctly?”

San nods, taking the papers from her.

As he scans through her work, the teaching assistant’s eyes glance down at the band hugging his ring finger.

“Prof, you’re married?”

San pauses his writing to glance at the glistening gold on his finger, and a small smile spreads across his cheeks.

“You know, I used to wear a ring on my ring finger so students would stop asking me if I was married or not.”

She raises her eyebrows, her curiosity piqued. “So you’re not?”

“I am.”

Her eyes brighten, invested in her handsome professor’s love story.

“Tell me more then”, she asks.

San scoffs playfully, turning his gaze to her.

“All I can tell you is that she’s always been my favourite.”

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network: @atzhouse @cultofdionysusnet @cromernet

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shy9-29 · 6 months ago

Note

omg I love seeing new creators on tumblr! But hear me out.. do you know how Jake was showing engene a video or smth on his laptop, then an ad came out and it sounded like a girl moaning?? Could you make it seem like it was actually jake and y/n’s intimate moment from last night that Jake recorded and it happened to be saved on his laptop? Tysm also early happy new years 🎉🥳

Uncovering Secrets: Jake’s Weverse Slip-up

pairing: sim jaeyun x reader

wc: 941

synopsis: your boyfriend Jake decides to go live on weverse in one of HYBE’s studio rooms, while you’re sitting off camera, waiting for him to finish. A specific comment comes up, leading Jake to turn on his laptop, revealing an intimate video of you two that he took from last night.

authors note: wow. Okay I’m proud of this one 🤓 also I’m pretty sure you meant this video but if not, I’m so sorry 😢 it took me quite some time to write this but lmk if you have any more suggestions as my requests are currently OPEN 🤗

warning: nsfw, harsh language, jake is an idol, minor degrading, protected sex, mentions of jungwon, not proof read recorded sex. lmk if I missed anything

age: 18+ minors dni.

—

As Jake began his Weverse Live for engenes, the viewer count were already at 900k people. Sitting at a desk, he placed his phone against a laptop, allowing them to see his face, but not his screen.

He scanned through the chat, which was brimming with comments, and a particular one caught his eye—“What song have you been playing non-stop?”

“Non-stop, huh?" Jake grins into the camera, contemplating for a moment before his lips curve into a sly smirk.

“There's this one song I can't seem to get out of my head recently." He looks back at his laptop, clicking on his mouse a couple times before turning back to the camera.

He momentarily diverts his attention to the laptop, his cursor clicking a few times before he refocuses on the camera. "So the song is called 'Overdrive' by Post Malone," he explains, his expression showcasing a cheeky yet playful side.

His gaze subtly flickers in your direction, noticing you scrolling on your phone with your legs crossed, waiting for him to conclude his live. “It came out-like yesterday, and it’s really good so imma play it,” he says. A sound of a mouse being clicked is heard afterwards.

Jake impatiently taps his foot, waiting for the laptop to come back to life. And then, without warning, the sounds of rhythmic slapping and guttural grunts, mixed with high-pitched moans, start echoing through the live feed.

Your heart sinks as you realize what's happening—it’s the video he took of your guy’s intimate session from last night. Frozen in your spot, you glance nervously at the laptop, hoping that his fans won't catch sight of you.

Jake panics as he tries to keep a casual demure, hoping there aren’t too many questions from engenes coming in. He mumbles something under his breath that no one can’t quite make sense of, a look of panic in his eyes.

“This is not it,” he says casually, the sounds of clicking getting faster as his laptop is frozen in place.

“Uh,” Jake says, his mind racing at the sight of the comments flooding in. “Wait,” he mutters. His eyes flicker back and forth between the frozen laptop and the camera. You then decide to take action, stepping behind the camera to end the live.

As the live feed abruptly ends, Jake lets out a sigh of relief, his heart racing. He turns to face you, his eyes wide with panic and embarrassment. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” he grumbles, running a hand through his black hair, tugging at the strands.

The room fills with the sounds of the video you captured and Jake's labored breathing. You break the silence, your voice cutting through the air. "Jake, what's that video doing on your laptop?" you inquire, your gaze locked on the laptop, the video now showing Jake pounding into you relentlessly, your hair all messed up and ruined as you hear him saying, “yeah? being such a good girl for me huh?”

Jake's face turns beet red as he quickly slams the laptop shut, the sounds of your moans and his grunts immediately silenced. He avoids your gaze, his ears burning with embarrassment. “I-I don't know, it must have autoloaded or something...”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding your accusing gaze. He knows he's caught red-handed, the evidence of his secret recording plain as day on the laptop screen. He swallows hard, his mind racing for an excuse, any excuse.

Finally looking at you, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment, he admits in a small voice "I... I recorded it because I wanted to watch it again. You were just... I got carried away..." He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the ends nervously.

You sigh at his words, slouching back down into the couch. “Okay..” you start off, “well what are you going to do with engenes? the whole video is downloaded onto weverse..”

His expression turns grave, his mind racing with the implications. He pulls out his phone, navigating to Weverse and seeing the numerous screenshots and clips being shared among engenes. He swallows hard, his palms sweating, then letting out a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"They're either going to assume I'm just really horny or that I forgot to click off porn," he chuckles, attempting to lessen the tension as he stretches his arms behind his back.

His eyes meet yours, a mix of embarrassment and amusement in them* "Or both, probably," he adds with a faint smile, trying to lighten the mood. He stretches his arms behind his back, trying to ease the tension.

Suddenly, the door swings open forcefully, and Jungwon stomps into the room, an urgent tone in his voice.

"Jake, what did you just do?"

—

idssoowosos:dkskwi lwk I’d freak 😭 reblog to show support <3

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lvrclerc · 27 days ago

Text

✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company.

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised.

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute.

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger.

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.”

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look, “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment.

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto fanfic

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lazysoulwriter · 2 months ago

Text

you don’t have to do it all today. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: mentions of ADHD symptoms (overwhelm, procrastination, distraction), comfort, soft domestic Pedro, emotional support, no cure — just care.

---

There was a pile of clean laundry at the foot of the bed. Your laptop was open to three different tabs — all deadlines, all blinking cursors waiting for magic that just wouldn’t come. Your phone was next to you, but you hadn’t checked it in a while. The guilt of ignoring texts was tangled up in the shame of having done… nothing today.

And still, your brain was running. Loud. Fast. Useless.

You stared at the email draft you’d rewritten five times and still hadn’t sent. The cursor blinked like a dare.

“Baby?” Pedro’s voice floated in from the kitchen. Soft. Careful. Like he knew. “Did you eat?”

You blinked again. “What time is it?”

“Almost 3.”

Shit.

He appeared in the doorway a second later, a little furrow in his brows as he looked at you. You knew that look. You hated that look. It was gentle, but it always made your eyes sting.

“Did you get stuck again?” he asked, already walking toward you.

You nodded before you could stop yourself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He crouched beside you, hand sliding gently under your chin to tilt your face toward his. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“I just— I want to do it. I do. But I open the file and then I remember I need to send that other email, and then I forget what I was doing, and the laundry’s there, and now it’s been hours and I’m still doing nothing and—”

“Breathe.” He placed a hand on your chest, right over your heart, grounding. “It’s okay.”

You breathed. You didn’t cry. Not yet.

He pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. Your brain’s just got a lot of tabs open.”

You gave a breathy laugh at that. “So many tabs.”

He smiled. “Alright. How about this — I’ll put on a timer. Fifteen minutes. We do one thing together, just one. You pick. Then we take a break.”

You hesitated. “Can it be the laundry?”

He nodded. “Perfect. I’ll even fold if you let me hold up your underwear and dramatically guess which pair’s your favorite.”

You groaned, but smiled. “Fine.”

He kissed your cheek. “There’s my girl.”

And maybe the work would still be there tomorrow. Maybe the emails would wait a little longer. But Pedro’s patience — his understanding of a brain that didn’t always cooperate — was the first thing in days that made you feel safe enough to try again.

And sometimes, that was everything.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal blurbs #pp #x reader #fanfic #imagines #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal cute

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giuliannna · 2 months ago

Text

PICTURE PERFECT

— hamzah makes it known that he’s taken by you ᥫ᭡ requested by this ask

the room is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of his laptop screen, casting shadows across the walls and your sleeping face.

you’re curled against him, your cheek resting upon the soft blue fabric of the crewneck covering his chest. you’re completely enveloped in a deep sleep, your breathing slow and even.

hamzah is halfway propped up against the headboard. his laptop is perched on his thighs, a single airpod placed loosely his ear. he has an editing program opened up, but he hasn’t clicked anything in a while.

because now.. he’s just staring at you.

you look peaceful. way too pretty for it to be fair. the kind of pretty that makes his chest ache a little. your lashes are resting against your cheeks, your lips slightly parted. one of your arms is draped across his torso, neatly manicured nails resting limply just below his collarbone.

his arm is wrapped around you, palm flat on your back beneath the blanket - holding you against him without even realizing it, like second nature.

he glances over to the corner of his screen, spotting the icon for the camera application. without thinking, he opens it up right away, hovering his cursor over the photo button.

click.

the picture is stupidly cute. him, curls a little messy, his expression soft and tired. you, asleep and delicately draped over him. the lighting is bad, the quality is grainy, and still - it’s perfect.

he stares at it for a second. he then picks up his phone and opens instagram, tapping on the ‘edit profile’ button.

change profile picture?

he grins to himself as he selects the photo and saves the new alteration to his account’s appearance.

satisfied, he puts his electronics to the side and focuses in on you. his hand finds your waist under the blanket again, thumb tracing little patterns as he presses a small kiss to your hair.

the next morning, you wake to the sound of birds outside the window and the soft vibration of your phone on the bedside table. you squint, reach for it, and tap on the text notification you received.

the message was from a friend you weren’t very close with, and attached to it - a screenshot of an instagram profile.

hamzah’s profile.

you freeze. you narrow your eyes at your phone.

“lol. the girl in this youtube guy’s pfp looks like you.” the message read.

of course she didn’t know it actually is you - only your closest friends and family knew about your and hamzah’s relationship. it was better that way. easy, peaceful. out of the public eye.

but apparently, hamzah wasn’t being so private about it anymore.

you don’t reply. you close out of the conversation and open instagram instead to check for yourself.

sure enough, there it is. a photo of you and him, plastered on his account for everyone to see. your sleepy face pressed into his chest, his lazy grin. as his literal profile picture.

you turn your head slowly.

hamzah’s still asleep, one arm slung over your waist, mouth parted slightly against the pillow, blissfully unaware. you stare at him, then at your phone again.

you should be mad. or at least fake-annoyed. but all you can do is bite your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.

as if his unconscious mind felt your heart swell, he groggily pulls you closer in his sleep, holding you just a bit tighter.

you lie there for a minute longer, letting the sun warm your back, letting the moment exist.

eventually, you snuggle closer and nudge his arm as sunlight slips through the blinds, bright beams falling across the bed and his face.

“hamzah,” you mumble, lifting your phone and turning the screen toward him. “what’s this?” you ask teasingly.

he squints, blinking himself awake. your phone is right in front of his face, still displaying his instagram profile. the macbook photo he sneakily took last night - now his profile picture for the world to see.

“oh,” he says, voice scratchy from sleep. his lips tug into a cheeky smile. “you noticed.”

“you didn’t even ask me!”

“you were sleeping. and looking really pretty. so, i just did it anyways. couldn’t disrupt you.”

you stare at him. “hamzah.”

“what?” he laughs breathlessly, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer until your phone slips out of your hand and drops somewhere between your bodies. “i know we’re not public - but just let me have this. please, just this one thing? to let people know?”

you groan, hiding your face in his chest.

he kisses the top of your head. “c’mon, i like showing you off.”

“you’re annoying.”

“just admit we look good together and be done with it,” he teases.

you mumble something into his chest that sounds suspiciously like “we do,” and he just beams, arms tightening around you like he’s never letting go.

“uh-huh. and everyone else will know it now, too.”

xoxo giulia

taglist: @gulicore @thevoicelikesmartydoes @slushedup @arroganceisherfavoritecolor @layzerzlovesu46 @babysitter19 @marixoa @starjely @viennawaiits @a1exaaaa @freakzah444 @anginluv @gabwilliams @sturniyolo @screamertannie @brlwla @yourstrulykiya @thefantastickid @hamzaholic @isathefantastic @divinesturn @forestlv4r @mayapuma20 @ottakugirl @hamzahsbestone @pulcen @rustnroll

#giulianna ⁀➴#hamzahthefantastic #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #hamzah fic #hamzahthefanatasticxreader #hamzah fluff

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always-just-red · 11 months ago

Note

hihihi! sylus girlie here. as a college student i often never take breaks whenever im working and often stay up late finishing up assignments. then i stress out but never tell anyone and suffer in silence:’) i was wondering if you could do something similar with sylus x mc where mc often forgets to take breaks at the hunters association and is always the first the volunteer for missions so she could improve.

but then it’s starting to take a toll on her and is so so stressed, but feels bad about venting to someone or saying no to new missions.

maybe one day she’s doing a simple task like cooking herself dinner (or something) but accidentally burns herself and she just ends up breaking down and decides to call sylus and he immediately goes to her. :’)

feel free to decline or change anything! i just like the thought of someone comforting u when ur overworked and stressed bc i wish someone would do that to me lol.

Fast-tracked this one for you, anon! I'm really sorry you're having a tough time right now, and I hope this brings you a bit of comfort- remember, Sylus would want you to take care of yourself! Good luck with all your studies, and feel free to send in another request if ever you need it! 🥰

Technical Difficulties

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're not very good at asking for help when you're struggling. Thankfully? You don't always need to.

Genre: fluff + comfort ft. a very domestic Sylus!

Warnings/Additional tags: stressed reader (has a lil bit of a breakdown!), some swearing, uses of 'kitten' and 'sweetie', Sylus is so soft here he should come with a health warning tbh

| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

In the event of a wanderer incursion where evacuation of citizens is obstructed or otherwise not viable, association protocol 32.3-A dictates that you should first… That you should first… What?

Your pen is poised above the blank space where your answer should be. 32.3-A is a general procedure: something to do moving people to the nearest shelter. Or, wait— are you supposed to try to contact support, first?

You drop your pen with a huff and flop face-down onto the mock exam. It’s too much. Too much information, too much responsibility. Open textbooks are spread over your desk and around your head like an unholy halo— stacks of them, filled with codes and procedures. They’re supposed to be helpful, but they’re not; they’re drowning you.

Your phone pings and you glance up. Text from Tara:

Hi! Hate to be a bother, but did you finish glancing over that practice question for me? xx

Shit. You’d completely forgotten. You straighten, reaching for your laptop so you can load up your latest emails. You’ve got time to look over it; the exam isn’t for another two days. Breathe, okay? You have time.

Seven unread emails. What? You scan over them frantically. Two from the Captain: accepting additional mission requests you’d applied for. Were those both this week? One from Nero: you hadn’t sent in that finished report. Three from your colleagues, all scrambling for help with the exam. One from Tara:

Thanks for saying you’d look over this for me! You’re the best at this stuff!

Okay, so: Tara’s practice question. Nero’s report. Your own practice questions. Then… dinner? Maybe that should come first. You’d skipped lunch— had one slice of toast for breakfast. But you don’t wanna cook; cooking takes time, and you’ve got none. None.

Your phone is ringing, snapping you back to reality, and you peek over at it. Sylus?

“Hi,” you greet as you put him on speaker. On your laptop, you’re opening up Tara’s attachment.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Always straight to the point. “Uh… yeah?” you frown as you read through your friend’s work. “Why? What d’you need?”

Sylus sighs through the phone. “That was a test, sweetie. You failed.”

“Yeah, well…” you murmur, highlighting a sentence with your cursor. “Add it to the list.”

The man doesn’t find that funny. The phone is quiet— too quiet. “Are you alright?” he asks, just as your gaze wanders to check if the call has disconnected.

“Mmhmm.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Sylus.”

You stare down at your phone. He’s waiting for more, but you won’t give it to him. You’re one word away from slipping, and you can’t let the dam crumble, especially in front of him. He’s smiling from the phone call background: a photo he insisted would ‘ruin’ his image when you took it last week.

“I need to go, okay?” Your eyes are shining.

“Okay,” he says softly.

There’s a bleep as the call cuts out, and the photo is gone. Waiting beneath it is another text from Tara, and one from Xavier: Nero told me to txt U bout a report??

You swallow the ache in your throat and slump down on your desk again.

…

You wake up with a start, your head ringing. The tangerine sky outside your window’s turned dark— your laptop, too— and light spills from your desk lamp, yellow on white pages. There’s more, and you turn, tracing it back to where it leaks through the crack of your almost closed bedroom door.

You hadn’t left any lights on in your flat. You hadn’t switched on your lamp, either.

Tiredness is dulling your thoughts and your senses, but you know you feel uneasy. There’s something in the air: smoky, but not unpleasant. You can hear something as well. No— two things. A faint, almost imperceptible hiss, and a more obvious humming.

Hunter instincts kick in. You roll open a drawer of your desk, snatching up one of your standard-issue pistols and removing its safety with a click. You stalk up to the door, your trained footsteps near silent. You take a deep breath, clearing your head. One. Two.

Three! You shoulder the door open, leaping through with your gun trained forwards.

At the other end of your sights, Sylus turns, an eyebrow raised. Your kitchen stove seethes behind him, and he gives you a once over as he sluggishly raises both hands. “You flatter me, kitten,” he smirks in surrender, looking between your weapon and his: a spatula.

You lower your gun, your heart still racing. “I could have killed you, Sylus!”

“That’s the spirit.” His hands drop, too.

“How did you even get in here?”

He’s turned back to the stove, and he’s using the spatula to push something around a frying pan. “Hmm…” he muses, then blink— he’s gone. He’s at your fridge a second later, materialising from thin air. “I wonder,” he finishes as he reaches around for something.

Show off. “You know how I feel about you telepor…” No. “Phas…” No. “Magic…king…?” By now he’s watching you over his shoulder. “You know— that thing you do.” You’re twinkling your fingers. “What do you even call that?”

“Magicking, yeah.”

You huff in response and he laughs, walking back over to where he’s cooking two steaks and preparing a salad. You’re still coming to terms with the fact he’s even here, looking... quite frankly ridiculous, because he’s wearing your apron. It’s too small for him. Baby pink. Frilly, too.

“You know how I feel about you magicking into my home,” you mutter distractedly, because actually? He’s kinda pulling it off. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, tight on his arms. “Use the door like a regular person, you psychopath.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He sounds smug. Ugh, he must feel your eyes on him; he must know. You think he’s toying with the idea of calling you out, but he doesn’t, and when he does speak, the smugness is gone. “Mephisto saw you were sleeping. I didn’t wish to disturb you. You sounded… tired. On the phone.”

Guilt twinges in your chest as you draw up beside him. “Is that why you’re here? Playing housewife?” You pick at a frill on the apron.

“Poke fun all you want,” he sneers. “This shirt costs more than your entire wardrobe.”

“Snob.”

“Ha.” You have to retract your hand as he threatens it with the spatula. “Watch yourself, sweetie. I’ll remember that the next time you ask to ‘borrow’ my card.”

You laugh gently. Now that’s a threat. You’re about to tell him so when you hear a ping from the other room, and your heart sinks. Just a single sound, and you’re back to where you were an hour ago, at your desk with the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment as you excuse yourself and hurry back to your workspace, snatching up your phone. You missed three calls while you sleeping: all from Xavier. He’s been texting you, too.

Nero’s yelling at me

Wants to talk to U

Can U pick up? Pls?

It’s one report, for gods’ sake. You feel your chest tightening again. You just needed to proofread it, but it’s probably fine, right? You wake your laptop out of standby; you’ll just send it as it is. “I’ll just be a minute, Sy,” you call out. “Need to finish one thing.”

He mumbles something in response, and you imagine it’s for the best you can’t hear it. Your keyboard clacks as you tap out a quick email to Nero, then you surf your files for the report he so desperately wanted. It should be… here. You attach it. Hit send.

Nothing happens.

Huh. You hit send again. Then again— still nothing. You groan, trying to back out of the email. None of your keys are working. Your cursor is stuck. “Oh, come on,” you release on an impatient breath. Switch it off, switch it on again? You hit the off button. The screen goes black.

With a sigh of relief, you wait a moment before switching it on again. The screen stays black.

“No, no, no, no,” you plead quietly, but it doesn’t cooperate. Your phone rings and you snap, hitting more buttons: Answer. Speaker. “What?” you hiss.

“Whoa. Hi…?” Xavier’s voice is cautious. “I don’t know if you saw my texts, but Nero—”

“The report, Xavier! I know! I know!” You try holding down your laptop’s power button. “I’m trying to send it, but my shitty computer won’t—”

“No way!” Tara’s voice comes in on the other line; did they both get the night shift? “Hey you! Did you get a chance to—”

“No, okay?!” you practically cry out. “No! Can you two just back off? Please!”

“Oh, sorry, I…” Tara sounds upset, then distracted. “Wait, Xavier wants to speak to you.”

“Are you okay?” he asks after a second.

Okay? You just want everything to stop. “I’m fine. Shit, tell Tara I’m sorry. I am sorry, Xavier, I just… I just need my laptop to…”

Work. Work! Nothing’s working. Half of your files are on there. How much of it is backed-up? Panic is setting in, gripping your body like ice. Your throat hurts and your mouth is dry, the dam is breaking and you can’t stop it. Tears prick at your eyes as you blink at the blank, hopeless screen. Your reflection stares back at you.

You let out a sob, expelling days of frustration and exhaustion. Everywhere you look there’s something you need to do, something you need to learn, something you need to finish. You can’t. You clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling your own cries.

Xavier is speaking— saying something over the phone— but you can’t hear him.

The light changes, and there’s a figure above you, lifting the phone from the desk. “They’ll call you back,” the shadow says. Sylus.

“Wait, who is this?” Xavier.

“That’s Skye!” Tara.

Your friends’ distant voices cut out as Sylus ends the call. He sets the phone down again, nudging your laptop out of view, then lowers himself until all you can see is him: his red eyes, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “Come on, sweetie,” he coaxes, guiding your hands over his shoulders.

You understand what he’s asking of you. His arms wrap around you and you hold him tighter, letting him lift you out of your chair. He feels warm, his skin ever so slightly flushed from where he’s been standing over the stove, and he pulls your legs around his waist, letting him carry you with ease.

With your face buried in his shoulder, you can’t tell where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. His shirt is going damp against your cheeks. You want to stop crying, but you can’t with the taste of your tears on your lips. You feel weak. You feel pathetic.

Something solid is behind you, and Sylus is setting you slowly down on the kitchen counter. He’s away from you for a moment— moving the frying pan off of the heat and turning a dial on the stove— but then he’s back, standing between your legs, standing close. You’re looking down until his hand is under your chin, lifting it with the delicate touch one employs when inspecting a flower that might break.

He shushes you without a hint of impatience. “Look at me,” he directs quietly, and when you do, he unrolls his shirtsleeves— drawing the cuffs over his hands so he can use them to wipe your eyes. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You do— you tell him everything. The hunter’s exam. The textbooks. The extra patrols you’ve been signing up for. The work you’ve been doing for your friends. The stupid report. The even more stupid computer.

Sylus listens collectedly, nodding his head and issuing the odd hum of understanding. He listens to all of it, and when you’re done, he pushes your hair back from your face with a sympathetic sigh. “Oh, sweetie.” A tendril is tucked behind your ear. “You should have said something.”

“I know.” Your gaze is still shy of his. “But how can I? I need to do this— be this— for everyone.”

His hands are on your cheeks again, drawing back your focus. “You’re just one person,” he says. “You— just you— and that’s all you need to be. You’re stubborn, and strong, but you’re not invincible. Even Linkon’s shiniest hunter is allowed to have limits. Everyone does.”

“Even you?” you snivel, setting him up for a quip.

Nothing. He smiles. Shrugs. “Even me.”

It’s hard to believe when he’s staring back at you, oh so solid, oh so perfect. Always a picture of strength: of fiery determination or calculated coolness. Everything in extremes; nothing by halves. Except… his hair is slightly dishevelled from where he’s been working away in the heat. There’s a damp patch on his shirt. He’s wearing your pink apron, and there’s mascara on his sleeves.

Then there’s the way he’s looking at you.

It shifts when you finally look back. He drops his hands from your face and pulls back a little. “You do a lot for your friends,” he continues with confidence, but he’s rubbing his neck, “and they care about you. You should afford them the chance to return the favour. It’s only fair.”

“You’re right.”

“…Good.”

Perhaps it’s the fact you’ve vaguely composed yourself— or the way you’re watching him like you’re seeing something new— but he straightens self-consciously, rolling his shirtsleeves back up as his eyes go sharp: assuming their usual severity.

“You’re too soft, kitten,” he scolds, reaching out to tousle your hair until you’re glaring daggers from behind a curtain of it. “How many times do I have to tell you? You put yourself first. Always. No-one else matters.”

There’s quiet for all of a second. He can’t help correcting: “Well, except me, of course.” The apron’s crooked, and he flattens it with a brush of his hands. “Any time spent with me qualifies as self-care. You really should know that by now, sweetie.”

Your mouth curls, but you haven’t quite got it in you to laugh— not yet. Stretching his neck with two sideways tips of his head, Sylus returns to his post at the oven, where the meal he’s cooking has almost certainly gone cold. You watch as the stove flickers back to life. The man is humming again, and though the food might yet be salvaged, whatever melody he’s attempting is long-past recognition, let alone saving.

You chuckle to yourself.

And you can’t see it, but Sylus is smiling, too.

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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animatedglittergraphics-n-more · 2 years ago

Text

requested by anon

snoopy cursor source

#my asks #anon #blue techcore #blue webcore #techcore #webcore #windows 98 display properties #ms paint #mod4win #malteser.exe #gamecore #snoopy cursors #archives #gifcities #f2u

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

Note

Heyyyy!!!! I have another request

So isagi or nagi (you can choose) want their girlfriend attention cause there studying for too many hours (they payed attention to them a hours ago) and they need 'break' really is just them wanting attention

Thanm you before hand!!!!!<3

“𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝟏𝟎𝟏”

a/n: anything for you princess 💓 includes both nagi seishiro & isagi yoichi!

“𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

you sit at your desk, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and a blinking cursor on your laptop screen. the air smells like coffee and highlighters, and the only sound is the clacking of your laptop keyboard. you’re in the zone, your mind a well-running academic machine.

then a voice breaks through your focus.

“hey," nagi drawls, leaning against your chair, controller still in hand. "you've been at it for hours. maybe take a little break?"

you barely glance at him. "i’m fine."

he sighs dramatically, plopping onto your bed with a loud thump. "c’mon, you always say that. but what if this time, your brain actually needs a break?" his voice dips into something persuasive, something teasing. "what if your boyfriend needs your attention?"

your fingers pause over the keyboard. "you’re just trying to get me away from my work."

he grins, unbothered. "nooo, i’m trying to make sure my incredibly smart, incredibly hardworking girlfriend doesn’t burn out." he stretches, tilting his head at you. "and, okay, maybe i do miss you a little. can’t a guy be needy?"

you sigh, rubbing your temples. he’s relentless. always hovering, always looking for ways to pull you away, under the guise of self-care, of course. but you also know him well enough to see through the act.

“you don’t actually care about me resting," you say, turning in your chair to look at him fully. "you just want me to pay attention to you."

his eyes gleam. "you say that like it’s a crime."

you shake your head, exasperated but… amused. he looks so smug, sprawled across your bed, watching you like you’re the final boss he’s determined to beat. and, really, what’s a short break going to hurt?

with a sigh, you close your laptop. nagi’s face immediately lights up.

“there we go!" he grabs your hand, pulling you onto the bed beside him. "welcome back to real life, babe. we missed you."

you roll your eyes, but when he loops an arm around your waist and presses a quick, satisfied kiss to your temple, you think, maybe, just maybe, a little attention isn’t the worst thing.

“𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞”

you're sitting at your desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across the page as you annotate yet another chapter. your planner is color-coded, your notes immaculate, everything in its rightful place. the world beyond your studies is irrelevant.

well, almost.

because there’s isagi.

your boyfriend, a soccer star and a golden retriever in human form, currently flopped across your floor like he’s been defeated in battle.

"i’m dying," he groans, dramatically draping an arm over his face. "i ran, like, a thousand miles at practice today. my legs are jello. my coach is a monster."

you hum, unimpressed, as you flip to the next page of your textbook. "sounds like you should be resting, then."

"i am resting," he says, rolling onto his stomach, chin propped up by his hands as he stares at you. "but it’d be better if my girlfriend cared about my suffering."

"i do care," you reply without looking up. "i just have an exam in two days, and you being clingy isn’t going to change that."

"clingy?" he gasps, placing a hand over his heart like you've wounded him. "that’s crazy. i’m just a guy who wants five minutes of attention from the love of his life. is that a crime?"

you finally glance at him. he’s pouting, eyes big and pleading, the way he gets when he wants something. the worst part? you know exactly what he’s doing, and it still works.

"i just sat down," you say, though your resolve is weakening.

"you sat down nearly three hours ago, and you’ll be sitting all night if i don’t intervene." he pushes himself up and stretches, wincing dramatically. "look, babe, i’m a broken man. i need help."

you raise a brow. "help with what?"

he grins. "massage my leg."

you snort. "absolutely not."

“pleaseee," he whines, inching toward you. "i’ll never walk again if you don’t."

you shake your head, but before you can protest further, he suddenly collapses into your lap, stretching across you with an exaggerated groan.

“ah," he sighs, dramatically. "i see the light. this is the end for me."

“you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met," you deadpan, but your fingers are already brushing through his hair, his favorite kind of attention.

his smirk is instant. "oh? then why are you petting me like i’m your favorite?"

you freeze, but he just tilts his head, pressing closer.

“don’t worry," he murmurs. "i won’t tell anyone that the academic weapon has a soft spot for her dumb soccer boyfriend."

you roll your eyes, but you don’t push him away. your textbook is still open, your highlighters untouched, but somehow, you think, maybe, this is the kind of break you don’t mind taking.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi #isagi x reader #yoichi isagi #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #nagi seishiro #seishiro nagi #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #seishiro nagi x reader #nagi #isagi #distracting you 101

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p1astr81 · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! I saw you were open for requests and I was wondering if you would be willing to do one for Oscar Piastri? Something along the lines of Oscar finds driver!reader in the McLaren Garage going over race footage late at night and he comforts her because she’s under pressure as the first Female driver? Sorry if it’s a little wordy 😂 and thank you if you write it!

an: I hope this is what you were looking for🙈

warnings: use of y/n, underlying themes of misogyny

Oscar forgot his phone at the track, two hours after he had already returned to his hotel.

Fine, whatever, he’d get it in the morning.

Except he needed it to set his alarms.

So, showered and ready for bed, he drove back to the track and snuck into the paddock. He took the back entrance to the garage, pausing when he saw a faint glow in the space on your side of the garage.

Strange, the lights and computers were usually shut off at night. Perhaps someone forgot one?

Or, perhaps not, because a voice cut through the still silence. “Where is he getting four tenths?” It was undeniably your voice that was filled with frustration.

You were bent over the computer, comparing your qualifying lap with Oscar’s. Your hair was a mess, your hands having run through it and grasped it in your fists more times than you could attempt to count.

As he got closer, he could see your distressed state. He could see how tension seized your body, and paralyzed it to the outside eye. The darkening circles under your eyes. The exhaustion weighing on your body.

Too engrossed by whatever was displayed on the computer, you hadn’t noticed he was there until you felt his hand on your back. You jumped, fists readying for a fight until you realized it was only Oscar. He held his hands up in surrender. “Hey.” He spoke with a soft laugh. “Just me.”

It had only been seven short weekends—and 5 months that flew by like minutes—that the two of you have spent as teammates. But Oscar was a guy who was easy to get along with. Everything about him (apart from his initial intimidating demeanor) was a big welcome sign.

Every muscle in your body relaxed. “I thought you’d gone back to the hotel awhile ago?” You questioned, diverting the conversation before he can question you about your whereabouts.

“I came back for my phone.” He paused. “What are you still doing here?” He raised a brow.

You adverted your eyes, studying the data in front of you instead. You shrugged. “Trying to figure out where my pace has gone.” He could hear everything in your voice—the disappointment, anxiety, doubt.

Oscar frowned then reached across you to take the cursor in his hand. He closed the tabs.

“Hey-! I was looking at that!”

“It’s not going to help you any tomorrow. You’re better off reviewing it after the race.” He sighed.

You shook your head. “Oh, ha ha.” You laughed sarcastically. “I get it, you’re trying to throw me off to get an advantage.”

“No, im trying to help you.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“Y/n, just listen to me.” He huffed. “I get it. It’s a lot of pressure and you feel like you have to be incredible right away, but you’re going to destroy yourself thinking like that.”

Your laugh was void of humor. “How am I supposed to not think like that? I don’t have a 5 year contract like you.” You shook your head. “One year. That’s all I get.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I overheard Zak and Andrea talking. They see potential in you. They want to extend your contract.” Your demeanor shifted. Hope lightened your body.

But it was a lie. He didn’t intend to make a habit of it, and he was sure they would sign you again. He just wanted to give you some confidence. “So will you just come back to the hotel with me?” He was exhausted himself, desperate to get to sleep, but he wouldn’t leave until you did.

He saw the hesitation cross your features before you gave in, shutting the computer off. “Do you mind giving me a ride? I don’t-“

“Yeah.” He answered without a question about it.

You offered a small smile and muttered a, “Thanks.”

Oscar thought that was the end of it. Boy, was he wrong.

This time, he caught you still in the meeting room, two hours after the post-race debrief had ended. He stood in the doorway for a moment, observing you. Routinely, your eyelids fluttered closed before snapping back open.

Until they didn’t, and you let your eyelids close. Your head—previously held up by your hand—slid from its spot. The drop of it woke you up with a start.

“If you’re tired, you should probably head out.” He said, making himself known while stepping into the room. He closed the door behind him.

“Can’t. I have to figure out how to beat you.” You deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled, taking the seat next to you. You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes before rubbing the sleep from them. “That’s where your problem starts. Focus on winning, not beating me.”

You put your head in your hands. “Same thing.” You grumbled.

“Except it’s not-“

“I’m not in the mood for another one of your lectures.” You snapped.

Oscar sat in stunned silence. You’d never lost your temper. It was a strange sight to see. But he didn’t blame you for it. He could see the tension in your stiff shoulders and the frustration in your unkept hair. The pressure was still getting to you. He didn’t offer any more words. Just a hug.

You froze, unsure of what to do or say.

Until the comfort of his embrace broke down your carefully constructed walls built around your emotions. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your head in the curve of his neck.

He just held you, offering his warmth to comfort you. “I wish I was a man. It would be so much easier. Less eyes. Less questions. Less speculation.” You mumbled. “Less people telling me I can’t do it.”

His hand rubbed your back. And all the frustration, it just broke. You shoved his chest as soon as you felt the first tear slip and turned your face away from him. Still, he rubbed your back. “I- I think I got something in my eye.” You rushed out the excuse. Anything to not seem weak.

He chuckled. A sound that wasn’t meant to be cruel but you interpreted as. You stood, distancing yourself. “You don’t have to lie, it’s okay to cry.”

“I’m not crying.” You defended too quickly.

He called your name in that kind voice of his. The one that felt like a warm hug on a cold winter’s day. The one you couldn’t not turn around for.

You took in his gaze, understanding with an undercurrent of pity. “I’m just so frustrated.” You confessed in whispers. “I know I’m good, but the results aren’t showing it.”

He stepped closer, his hand finding your arm. “They are.” He reassured. “You’re just stuck up here.” He tapped your head with a small smile. “And thinking too much about what other people think.” He added.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You hated to admit he was right, but you nodded.

He initiated the hug this time and you reciprocated, resting your head on his shoulder.

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 blurb #f1 fluff #f1 x you #op81 #f1 angst #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri blurb

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ateezscupid · 4 months ago

Text

─── FEB FILTH FEST: Church - BONDAGE ♡

SUMMARY / You've always wanted to try bondage, but didn't know how to go about it. So, you went online and found a professional to help you.

warnings ✩ SMUT, DOM/SUB dynamics, soft dom!seonghwa, service top!hwa, sub!reader, seonghwa is literally just some stranger you hired so basically an escort or whatever, just more professional!, unprotected sex, bondage, oral (f), fingering (f)

word count ✩ 4,26k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @bbdeongi @dawn-iscozy @xh01bri @mallielovssyou @clxssy1997 @soreberry @nopension @kitten4sannie @faeriehwas @lustfxq @ashistrashhhhhh @hwallazia @aurorasjoongie

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST / FEB FILTH FEST

"Nope," you mutter to yourself as you scroll through the forum, "definitely not that one." You've been on this site for hours, trying to find someone who could help you with your curiosity without making you feel like a complete novice. The images and descriptions you've seen so far have been overwhelming, and you can't shake the feeling that you're about to stumble into a pit of weirdos and creeps.

"Absolutely not." You click away from the page, feeling a mix of frustration and relief. It's hard to believe that such a simple search for a bondage instructor has led you down a rabbit hole of questionable ads and eerie profiles. But you're not giving up just yet. There has to be someone out there who can introduce you to this world without making it feel like you're signing your soul away to a dark cult.

You hesitantly click on a link titled "Experienced Bondage Educator." The profile seems professional, with no explicit content in sight. You read through the details, which outline safety measures and a no-nonsense approach to BDSM education.

"Hm." You lean closer to the screen, studying the profile. "He seems okay." The profile is simple, yet alluring—no naked photos or lewd comments, just a promise of guidance from someone who knows their knots. You click the button to send a private message, your heart racing.

But instead, you got a pop-up. It was just a list of prices. Weekly, Monthly…you only wanted lessons whenever you could get them, honestly. But this was just a practice round.

"SINGLE LESSONS: $50 (+$40 for Sexual Favors.)"

Very pricey, you think, your cursor hovering over the "Send Message" button. But what's a little extra cash for peace of mind, right? You click, and a new chat window pops up. "Hello," you type, trying to sound casual. "I'm interested in learning about bondage. Would you be willing to give me some private lessons?"

You sat in front of your screen nervously waiting for a response, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum at a military parade. The cursor blinked at you, seemingly mocking your indecision. Finally, the chat box lit up with a new message. "Hello," he wrote, his screen name a simple "MasterK." His tone was surprisingly friendly, a stark contrast to the seriousness of the topic at hand.

MasterK asked for your name and a brief explanation of your experience. You told him you were a complete novice, eager to learn but cautious about the scene's reputation. He assured you that safety was his number one priority and that he enjoyed teaching those who were curious but had no desire to dive into the deep end. His words put you slightly at ease, though the price tag still nagged at the back of your mind.

Did you even want any sexual favors? You were clean yourself, but what about him? You tap your nails on your laptop's keyboard, contemplating your next move. Maybe you could just ignore that part of the price list? After all, you weren't looking for that. Just education.

But, from the pictures he posted with his body, face just barely visible, he looked attractive. It was mostly his hands that you were attracted to. Strong, yet gentle, the way they held the ropes in the pictures. The way they looped and curved around the model's wrists, not tightly, but with a firmness that suggested experience and confidence.

"Are you clean? Like, sex wise?" you finally ask, biting your bottom lip as you await his response. The chat bubble flickers with activity for a few moments before MasterK's response appears.

"Yes, I practice safe and hygienic protocols. I understand your concerns, and I assure you that my services are strictly professional. However, if you are not comfortable with the additional fee for the full experience, I can tailor the lessons to focus solely on bondage technique without any sexual elements. It's all about what you're looking for and what makes you feel safe," he writes back, his words measured and reassuring.

You let out a sigh of relief. Maybe this isn't so bad after all. "I'm clean myself. I'll take the sex or whatever. I mean, I have the opportunity. Might as well," you reply, trying to sound casual. The chat bubble pulses with his response.

"Great," MasterK types. "Let's get you booked in. I usually hold my sessions in a private studio downtown. It's equipped with everything we'll need, and your safety is guaranteed."

"Cool. I mean, from the location on your site, you're right by me. How far is your studio? I might need to grab a cab," you reply, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. The anticipation was building, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of nervousness and excitement.

MasterK's response is swift and friendly. "It's about a 10-minute drive from your area. You can take a cab or use a ride-sharing service. The exact address will be shared with you once the appointment is confirmed. Also, remember to bring comfortable clothing, but I'll have some items available if you don't have anything suitable," he writes.

You nod to yourself, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation. The thought of being tied up by a stranger is both exhilarating and terrifying. But you've read enough articles about consent and safety in BDSM to know that this is a chance to explore your kink with a professional. You decide to take the leap and agree to the terms, confirming your appointment for the following weekend.

And finally, it was Saturday. You didn't know what he meant by comfortable clothing and you wanted to wear something that showed your curves, and you went with a black, two-piece outfit: a simple tee and biker shorts along with your oversized jacket on top.

You took a cab to the address MasterK provided, feeling the butterflies in your stomach multiply with every passing block. The studio was tucked away in a nondescript alley, the only hint of its existence a small, discreet sign that read "The Knotty Den." You pay the driver and step out, the cool evening air doing little to calm your racing thoughts.

Walking through the door, you're immediately struck by the clean, minimalist decor. The scent of freshly sanded wood and leather fills your nostrils, and you can't help but feel a little intimidated by the array of bondage equipment lining the walls. You're greeted by a softly-lit room with a large, padded table in the center, surrounded by an assortment of chairs, benches, and what you assume are various types of restraints.

MasterK emerges from a back room, dressed in black from head to toe. His eyes are piercing, yet gentle, as he approaches you with a firm handshake. "Welcome to my studio," he says, his voice a soothing tone. "I'm your instructor for the evening, MasterK. Or Seonghwa if that makes you more comfortable." He gestures to a chair, indicating you should sit.

You take a deep breath and settle into the chair, trying to calm your racing heart. He's not what you expected—his demeanor is more calming than intimidating, which helps ease some of your anxiety. You notice his hands again, now unadorned by the ropes from his profile pictures, but they still exude the same confidence.

"H-Hi," you stutter, taking in the sight of Seonghwa—MasterK—up close. He's taller than you anticipated, with a presence that fills the room despite the spaciousness of the studio. His smile is welcoming, his eyes a comforting shade of brown that seems to read your soul. You feel a strange sense of safety in his gaze.

"Let's get started," he says, his voice a smooth blend of authority and kindness. He guides you to the center of the room where the padded table awaits. The leather is cold against your skin as you sit on the edge, your knees tightly pressed together.

Seonghwa opens a chest at the side of the room, revealing an organized selection of ropes, cuffs, and other gear. He selects a set of soft, red ropes and begins explaining the basics of bondage, his hands moving with a mesmerizing fluidity. You listen intently, nodding along, trying to absorb every word like a sponge in a pool of water.

"You have a favorite color you want me to use?" Seonghwa asks, holding up the red ropes.

You blush slightly, feeling a little embarrassed. "No, I don't have a preference. Red is fine," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Okay. You should take your jacket off, too. It's better to learn without any unnecessary layers," Seonghwa says, his eyes never leaving yours as he holds out a hand to help you remove your oversized jacket. You hesitate for a moment, feeling a little more exposed than you're used to, but his gentle touch and the warmth of the room soon have you discarding it.

You were right for paying the extra fee for sexual favors because good lord, the thought of him without clothes on immediately plagued your mind.

He starts by showing you the ropes, explaining their different types and purposes. You can't help but feel a tingle of excitement as he runs the soft, red ropes through his fingers, demonstrating how to hold and manipulate them. His hands are strong yet gentle, and you find yourself imagining what it would be like to have them on your body.

"What position do you want to be in?" Seonghwa asks, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation or discomfort. You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts.

"I-I'm not sure. What do you recommend for beginners?"

"Mmm." he narrows his eyes. "Either doggystyle or missionary. Whichever you prefer."

You gulp, feeling a sudden rush of nerves. "Missionary," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. Seonghwa nods understandingly, laying out the ropes on the table. He explains that this position allows for the most control and safety for your first time, which you appreciate.

"And what sexual favors did you want? You asked if I'm clean, so clearly you want penetration. But, was there anything else?" His voice is calm and measured, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

You shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand. "I-I don't know. Just… whatever's normal, I guess." You feel a mix of excitement and fear, but you're also curious.

"Alright. Do you mind…removing your clothes? It'll make the process easier and quicker." Seonghwa's voice is steady, as if asking you to take your shoes off at the door, not disrobe in front of him.

Now you were kind of embarrassed. You were already soaked down there. But you nodded, taking off your tee and shorts, leaving your bra and panties on. He nodded in approval, and you laid down on the table. The coolness of the leather made your skin break out in goosebumps, but the warmth of your own excitement quickly overtook the sensation.

"If you want to move to a different surface at any time, let me know. I have more comfortable areas." Seonghwa says, as you lay there feeling the coldness of the table. You nod, trying to hide your nervousness as he approaches you. He's professional, but you can't help but feel a thrill of anticipation at what's to come.

He starts by placing a soft, padded cushion under your hips, ensuring that your comfort is a priority. Then he takes one of the red ropes and shows you how to hold it in a way that won't cause you any pain, but will still be effective in securing you in place. He explains that communication is key in bondage, and that you should always have a safe word ready. You nod, choosing the word "pumpkin"—random, but it feels right.

He took his time with you, showing you how to tie a basic wrist restraint. His hands were firm yet tender as he demonstrated the right amount of tension. You watched in amazement as the rope began to take shape around your wrist, creating a delicate but unmistakable bond. The feeling of being restrained, even in such a simple way, was already starting to stir something within you—a mix of vulnerability and excitement.

Within the blink of an eye, you were tied up, your wrists bound to your ankles and your legs spread wide flawlessly. The anticipation was unbearable. Seonghwa's eyes never left yours, searching for any sign of fear or discomfort. You nodded slightly, giving him the green light to proceed.

"So I'm…only bound in like, one area? It seems so…simple," you say, your voice betraying a hint of disappointment.

"Well, this is for beginners, love." Oh god, the pet name. There was definitely a visible pool of wetness in your underwear. "But if you want to be more…involved, I can add more complexity to your restraints," Seonghwa says with a smirk. He runs his hand lightly down your bare leg, sending shivers up your spine.

"T-This is fine," you stutter, feeling the ropes bite into your skin just enough to remind you of your vulnerability. Seonghwa nods, seemingly satisfied with your response. He walks beside the table now and leans down in front of a small side table, pulling the drawer open and grabbing a condom and bottle of lube.

Words couldn't even describe how badly you wanted him.

He sat them down and ran his hand up and down your leg again. "Are you ready?"

You nodded, your breath coming in shallow pants. You were more than ready.

"I'll perform regular oral on you, fingering, and then penetration. You can use your safeword whenever you feel it's too much and need a break." Seonghwa's voice is low and steady, his gaze intense as he looks down at you, sprawled out on the table. You nod, feeling the warmth spread through your body at the thought of his mouth on you.

He pulls you closer to the edge of the table and knelt down in front of you, pushing your underwear to the side to reveal your wetness. Your legs trembled as he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. His tongue was soft and explorative, tracing your slit with gentle strokes that made your hips buck involuntarily. You moaned softly, the feeling of his mouth on you sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

"Just relax," he murmured against your skin, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Let me take care of everything."

And so you did. As Seonghwa's mouth worked its magic, you felt your body melt into the table. He knew exactly how to coax the most pleasure from you, his tongue swirling around your clit in a rhythm that had you panting for more. You've had oral before, but this was different—it was like he was reading your mind, knowing exactly what you needed before you even knew it yourself.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you moaned louder as Seonghwa's tongue grew more insistent. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eye before plunging two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped, the sudden fullness surprising and overwhelming in the best way possible. He curled them in a come-hither motion, hitting that spot deep within that had you seeing stars.

"Oh my god-!" you leaned your head back, eyes rolling up as Seonghwa's skilled fingers worked in tandem with his mouth. The feeling was indescribable, and your body responded with eager jerks and twitches. Each stroke was deliberate, each suckle precise—it was as if he had a map of your pleasure points and was navigating them with expert ease.

You were glad that you could still close your legs, so you did. You squeezed your thighs around his head, trapping him in your wetness as he devoured you. His fingers continued to move in and out of you, hitting that spot that made your toes curl with every stroke. You could feel your orgasm building, a tight coil in your belly that grew tighter and tighter with every touch of his tongue.

"S-Seonghwa!" you whimper, your voice strained and breathy. You didn't know if you could take much more of this exquisite torture.

He pulls back slightly, smiling up at you. "Good girl," he murmurs before returning his attention to your sensitive clit. He increases his pace, and the pressure of his tongue and fingers builds until you're teetering on the edge of orgasm.

Not being able to move your arms felt like torture, but god, it so exciting at the same time. You've never been so vulnerable. His tongue danced around your clit, flicking and circling until you couldn't take it anymore. The orgasm that had been building explodes through you, your body arching off the table as your legs tighten around his head.

"I-I'm gonna cum," you manage to gasp out, your voice thick with desire.

Seonghwa's only response is a low, approving grumble, his fingers working faster and his mouth sucking harder. The pressure is unbearable, yet you crave more. Your eyes roll back in your head as the orgasm crashes over you, making your body convulse and your muscles tighten around his invading digits. The feeling is so intense, so all-consuming, that you scream out his name, the sound echoing through the quiet studio.

"F-Fuck! Fuck, Seonghwa!" you scream, your body trembling uncontrollably as you ride out the intense wave of pleasure. His fingers don't stop their relentless pace, even as your orgasm subsides, pushing you towards another peak with every stroke.

Seonghwa pulls away from your pussy with a wet pop, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watches you pant and squirm against the ropes. "You taste delicious," he murmurs, his thumb idly circling your clit.

"Ah," you were so sensitive, so overwhelmed with the aftershocks of your orgasm that you could barely speak. But you felt a strange sense of empowerment, like you'd just unlocked a secret chamber in your mind that had been waiting for you all along. "W-what's next?"

He didn't answer as he stood, undoing his belt with a smooth, almost ceremonial air. He was still fully dressed except for his unbuckled belt, and you found yourself eager to see the rest of him. He pulled out his cock, thick and hard, and you felt a thrill run through you. This was really happening.

He reached for the condom and ripped it open, rolling it down his length with a confidence that made your heart race. You couldn't help but stare as he lubed himself up, the sight of him preparing to enter you making your stomach flip. You've never been so exposed, so ready for someone.

He climbed onto the table and positioned himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance. "Ready?" he asked, his voice gruff with desire. You nodded, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. He pushed in slowly, giving you time to adjust to the unfamiliar feeling of being filled so completely.

The stretch was incredible, the way he filled you up, so much so that you felt like you couldn't take it anymore. But as he inched further in, you felt yourself relax, your body welcoming him in. "You're so tight," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours as he began to move.

"Definitely…the tightest…client I've had," he says with a smirk, pushing in a bit more. You feel a slight pain, but it's overshadowed by the exhilaration of the moment. "Just breathe," Seonghwa instructs, his voice a gentle command. You do as told, feeling his cock stretching you open, filling you up until you're sure you're going to burst.

As he starts to move, the pain fades away, replaced by a deep, intense pleasure that makes you moan with every thrust. The ropes dig into your skin, reminding you of your restraint, adding a new layer to the sensations coursing through your body. You can't help but tug at them, testing the limits of your bondage.

"S-Seo-Seonghwa!" You gasped as he pushed in deeper, the sound of your voice muffled by the leather of the table. He leaned over you, placing a hand on your hip to keep you in place as he began to move with a slow, steady rhythm. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making you squirm against the ropes. You could feel yourself getting wetter with every movement, your body desperate for more.

"D-Does this feel good?" he managed to ask, his voice thick with lust. Seonghwa's eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of concentration and pleasure as he watches your face contort with every thrust.

"Y-Yes," you moan, your voice a breathless whisper. The feeling of his cock inside you is like nothing you've ever experienced—intimate, yet overwhelmingly powerful. You can feel your walls clench around him, desperate to keep him there. He begins to pick up the pace, his movements growing more forceful, and you realize that you want it—you want him to take you, to claim you in this primal dance of dominance and submission.

You could see his expressions changing frequently, as if he was losing control of himself. He didn't know what it was. Maybe it was because he was good at his job or maybe it was because he actually enjoyed it. But you didn't care, you liked it, the way he looked at you as if he was the one who was the novice, learning every little noise that you make, every little twitch of your body, every gasp that escaped your lips.

"Tell me how it feels," he urges, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your entire being.

"S-So good," you pant, your voice barely audible. "It feels…amazing." The words come out in a rush as he starts to hit that perfect spot inside you, making you see stars with every deep, hard thrust.

Seonghwa's grip on your hip tightens, his pace increasing as he drives into you with a fervor that makes your breath catch in your throat. You can feel his muscles tensing, his movements growing more urgent as he chases his own climax.

His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned over you, lowering his head trying to focus on his climax. You could see him trying to hold it back, his body shaking with the effort. But the sight of him losing control was too much. You couldn't help but moan louder, your body responding to his need.

"C-Cum in me, please! P-Please, I need it," your thighs shut around his waist, squeezing him tightly as the ropes dug into your skin. The sensation was unbearable, a mix of pain and pleasure that had you on the edge of another orgasm.

Seonghwa's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking with yours. He nodded, his movements becoming more frantic as he pounded into you, his breaths coming in harsh pants. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with your desperate pleas for release.

"S-Shit-" he shudders. "Even with a condom on you feel-" He stops talking as he focuses on his task at hand, his strokes becoming more erratic as he tries to hold on. "You're gonna make me-"

You nod, a wicked smile playing on your lips as you tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. "Do it," you whisper, your voice husky with need. "Cum for me."

The words seem to be the final push he needs. With a roar, Seonghwa slams into you one last time, his cock pulsing as he reaches his peak. The sensation of him coming inside the condom sends you hurtling over the edge again, your own orgasm crashing over you in a wave of pleasure that leaves you trembling and breathless.

You both try catching your breaths, his body still connected with yours, your eyes locked in a silent conversation of satisfaction. He slowly pulls out, his cock still semi-hard, and carefully unbinds your limbs, massaging the areas where the ropes had dug into your skin. The cool air hits you, making you shiver, but the warmth of his hands is soothing.

"How was it?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or dissatisfaction. You smile, feeling a bit shy.

"Very…wow." You manage to get out, your voice still shaky from the intense orgasm. Your body feels like a puddle of goo, and your mind is racing with the aftermath of what just happened.

"Good. That's good to hear," he gulps, looking down for a moment. "I normally don't, uh, come that quickly. I last much longer than that…" Seonghwa trails off, seeming a little embarrassed by his loss of control. You laugh, the sound a little shaky.

"You…don't?" you ask, a playful smile playing on your lips. Despite the situation, you felt a strange sense of pride knowing that you had brought him to climax so quickly. "So I'm special?"

Seonghwa chuckles, his eyes meeting yours as he nods. "Very special," he says, his voice gentle. He helps you sit up, his hands lingering on your shoulders. You feel a strange sense of camaraderie with him, a bond formed through shared experience and trust.

"Uh, what's your number? I'd…like to do this again. And would also get to know you better." The question slipped out before you could think, but Seonghwa's smile grew wider.

"I'd like that," he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

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