#losing everyone for your ego

[edgymegatronus]

Megatron is lonely.

He hasn’t ‘felt’ loneliness in a long time. But he was born into a community of miners, then a hive of gladiators. Mechs who knew each other intimately. Mechs who relied on one another to live.

He used to have Orion, Impactor, Terminus.. whatever mech was at his side hacking away at energon in the depths that day. A social bubble aware they were all struggling together.

Once the revolution begun it became painfully clear that he had to separate himself to be a leader. This happened naturally, but it made it no less painful. Soundwave was an ally, but not a friend. Starscream a friend of no one but his own ambition.

I like to think he missed the companionship for a while. Alone in his quarters, obsessing over charts and maps. In the bridge during the day bellowing commands at mechs whose names were only as important as their ability to hold a gun.

After a hard battle, a loss maybe, pacing alone through halls or around his room. His rage already taken out on who or whatever stood too close. The spark-deep need for sociality would inevitably ebb away as the war pushed onwards alongside other vital emotions.

And all he is left with is his hands.

[samgiddings]

[kil9]

taemin fans dont want him to meet and fall in love with them like in the wattpad fics. they want gory criminal-based manga, homoerotic hannibal style, multiple volumes

[adelina-shifts]

I Might Have Found the Real Reason We Struggle to Shift After Years of Research — and How to Finally Do It

(credits to Kvoyox on reddit for writing and researching and @alliecat2099 for bringing this to my attention)

First of all, I’m not going to talk about methods, programming your mind, and all of that stuff. What I want to explain is something that I’ve been asking myself since the day I discovered shifting—and probably you did too. What is the reason for why most of us cannot “willingly” shift even though we try so hard? And what is the key that can set us free? And I might have found the answer. Of course you don’t have to believe me; you can decide for yourself if you want to trust my research or not. But I personally believe that this is the answer that can set anyone free.

This is a long text, but I promise it'll be worth your time.

Chapter 1: The Hidden Enemy.

Many people believe that our subconscious is the enemy. And while we argue with it, trying to make sense of our “incapability” to shift, there is something else lurking in the shadows. It deprives us of our powers. It makes us wear a mask, seeing only the illusions of life while reality is much different than we perceive it. And that’s the problem: perception.

And on top of everything, this hidden enemy seems to have such immense power that it can actively block us from shifting. And everyone trying to argue that there is nothing that can stop us from shifting, then I have to ask you… why doesn’t everyone shift on command then?

Yes, we shift all the time. Literally billions of times per second, and I’m not exaggerating. But why doesn’t it work when we WANT to shift? Shifting is completely natural, and we already do it. But when we want to do it, it doesn’t work?

The answer is simple. The enemy I’m talking about is our ego. The ego naturally resists change. It wants control. It clings to identity and safety. It fears losing “this” reality. It wants to protect the self. And shifting threatens everything it thinks you are.

It cannot stop us from shifting, but it can block us from experiencing shifting. Because the ego’s job is to make sense of reality. It directly correlates with our perception, all our senses. But what we have to realize is that our perception is a lie. It’s all just an illusion; there is no cause in anything. Reality is fluid; it changes all the time, but our ego gives us the illusion of a strict, solid reality. It imprisons us in a world we don’t want to be in, but what we don’t understand is… that we ourselves, therefore, don’t want to shift. I’ll explain this later on.

Chapter 2: Reasons.

Let me give you some more examples of why I think that our ego is the sole reason why we don’t shift when we want to.

1. In the so-called “Void State,” we are just pure consciousness. This implies that we don’t have a vessel (body) and therefore no ego controlling our perception. Therefore, we can simply shift without any boundaries.

2. In a deep meditative state, the chances of shifting seem to increase a lot. This is because we are more disconnected from our perception (ego) of our current reality.

3. Based on people’s experiences, many people shifted when they were younger. Some of you might not even remember it happening, but it probably did. The reason for that is that children are controlled by their subconscious mind (theta state). As they grow older, the ego begins to develop and take control of the body, making it “harder” to willingly shift.

4. The law of assumption (programming yourself to be a shifter) works 100% because when you do it, your ego begins to accept the idea of you being in completely different realities. You begin to identify yourself as such a person. And when that is the case, the ego cannot stop you anymore because it “believes” in it.

5. It becomes easier to shift in lucid dreams and the astral realm because your ego is not as strong and present as it is when you are awake. Still, it exists there, and that’s why it is not guaranteed to shift through these (you still have ego goals). In the astral realm, however, you can achieve states of higher consciousness where you can free yourself from the ego, allowing you to effortlessly shift.

6. People who shift for the first time often see great results first, but then, as they try again and again, progress seems to come to a halt. Your ego identity begins to change from “Hey, maybe I can do that” to “It doesn’t work; I can’t do it.”

7. Some people manage to shift, return to this reality, and realize that they can’t do it anymore and struggle again. They returned to their ego-self, stopping them from shifting again.

8. Some people grow up in a spiritual, open environment. The ego, therefore, is more used to such ideas and experiences, allowing them to shift easier.

Chapter 3: Understanding Ego

I’m going to give you the reason now that explains why you don’t shift.

Because you are not conscious. You are ego. Let me explain.

Currently, your ENTIRE identity is your ego. You have a name, a personality, a job, thoughts, emotions, etc., etc., etc. You go through your day believing that you ARE your egoic mind. It became your identity, your everything. Every thought it thinks, every emotion it creates, you believe that it is all you. You are so connected to this illusion that you aren’t even conscious. In fact, for almost the entire day, you are unconscious. Because you think all the time. And that is the reason why you don’t shift. Because you are not conscious, you are not aware.

Isn’t it true that you think all day long? You’re always in your mind, thinking about the past and the future, thinking about random scenarios that don’t even make sense. Even when you’re trying to shift, you are still in your mind, mindlessly repeating affirmations, asking yourself over and over again if it is working or not. Every time you judge or label something, you are in your mind. In those situations, you ARE your mind, but this is not how it is supposed to be. You are supposed to be consciousness, not your egoic mind.

I tell you right now: if you manage to disconnect from your egoic mind, stop identifying with it, and identify with the true source (consciousness) again, you’ll be able to instantly shift wherever you want to go. This is not a theory but a fact.

When your ego doesn’t want to leave this reality because it doesn’t like change, this automatically translates then into YOU not wanting to shift. Because you are still identified with your egoic mind. It doesn’t matter how badly you want it deep down; your ego, and therefore yourself, is stopping you from achieving it. If you manage to become identified with consciousness again, it will work.

I want you to truly grasp how much you identify with your ego. Every thought you think, every emotion you allow to be created, every time you judge or label something, every single time you do something like this, you are in your egoic mind. The voice, and the images in your mind… You have to realize that all these things are not you; they are products of the egoic mind. But they seem as if you created them, which is not true. Even when you consciously create a thought, you are not the thinker! You are still the awareness behind it.

This is not how it is supposed to be. You have to understand that your mind is a TOOL. But right now, it is nothing like that. It enslaves you; you have no control over it. Excessive thinking is not normal! You are supposed to be able to think when you want to think. Normal is a silent mind, not a constantly chattering mind. You cannot stop thinking, you cannot control your mind, because it took control over you. It uses you. And then you begin to identify with it; slowly, as you grow older, it becomes your entire identity, and you begin to lose touch with who you really are: consciousness, the silent watcher. As long as you cannot control your mind and just stop thinking when you want to, then the mind is using you. You are not the thinker; you are the awareness behind it.

Chapter 4: The Now—How to Escape Your Egoic Mind.

The only way to escape your ego is to become present in the Now. Now implies no thoughts, no mind activity in general. In the Now, you are fully present of what is happening around you; you are not stuck in your mind; you are actually experiencing with your full awareness what is going on. In that moment, there are no limitations, no blockages, no fears, nothing. All there is, is peace. Nothing matters; all you do is be, that’s it. And when this happens, there is no ego, no gatekeeper stopping you from shifting. The ego cannot exist in a state of presence; it cannot sustain itself when you’re truly present. I see so many people talking about fears, blockages, etc. but all of them wouldn't matter if you weren't identified with your ego and be present.

The problem is that your identification with your egoic mind is so strong that it stops you entirely from shifting. But every single day, there are certain situations where the portal to your DR is wide open, and that is when you are fully immersed in the Now.

I want to give you some exercises that you can do from now on. I’ve learned them from Eckhart Tolle. The goal is to take energy away from your egoic mind and into your consciousness. This way, you'll begin to realize that you aren't your mind and you'll gain more and more power.

Make sure not to be in your mind all day long. For example, when you’re doing certain tasks like cleaning or brushing your teeth, etc., try to fully immerse yourself in the situation. Don’t think; be aware of what is happening and how it feels. Be the awareness being aware. Don’t think about the past or future; draw full attention to what you’re doing, even if it is something as simple as going downstairs and feeling the steps and the weight of your body. In addition, focus on inner body sensations to keep yourself in the present moment. Those sensations are subtle vibrations you can feel for example in your hands and feet (and your entire body).

When you have excessive thought streams, detach from them by watching from afar. Don’t identify with them, don’t judge them, and don’t suppress them. That's because when you do judge, you're just giving energy to your egoic mind. Be the silent watcher, simply observing those thoughts. You will realize that you are not those thoughts; they just come in. What you really are is the consciousness being aware of them. Don’t even identify yourself with the thoughts you consciously think. What you’re doing is using your mind as a tool, creating a thought. But you are not the mind, not the thoughts. You as consciousness decided to use your mind as a tool to create a thought. In addition, try not to think as much as you can. Once you become aware of your thoughts, they’ll eventually subside anyway. Become silent in your mind, and within that silence a portal to your desired reality will open. Because silence is the key. The noise the mind creates blocks you from shifting. When you manage to become completely silent, no judgement, no overthinking, and a clear intention to shift or go to the void, it'll happen.

3. When trying to shift, set an intention beforehand. You can lie down or sit; it doesn’t really matter. Become relaxed by taking a few deep breaths. Now, there are a few things you can do. First, if you are really good at visualization, make sure to fully immerse yourself in the picture you see and make it feel as real as possible. Make it happen right now. Don’t perceive it as a picture; BE in that picture in the Now. Secondly, you don’t need to visualize. You can also immerse yourself in the FEELING of being in your DR right now. Just the feeling, not using any of your 5 senses. It's like you're lying in your bed with earplugs and closed eyes, you just know you're there. Thirdly, you can go to the void state, which is by far the best way to shift. I want to do another post about how to enter the void state in the near future, which is, in my opinion, the best and easiest way to shift. And, in fact, entering it isn’t even that hard once you understand how to actually go there.

I highly, highly, highly recommend reading the book “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle. You can find it for free on the internet in case you don’t want to pay. It’ll change the way you see the world and shifting entirely.

Now, there are two paths you can take; both of them will eventually lead you to your desired reality.

Take away enough energy from your egoic mind, disconnect from your ego, and become identified with consciousness. You can achieve this by doing the first two exercises above. In addition to those, I recommend accepting the Now as it is. It doesn’t matter what situation you’re in; it doesn’t matter how hard life feels. Life is always perfect and beautiful, but your ego stops you from experiencing that. Every time you get mad about your life situations, you’re automatically feeding your egoic mind energy it can use to get even stronger. Either accept the situation or do something about it now. When trying to shift, don’t overthink it. Clear your mind completely; don’t ask yourself if it works. All you’re doing is giving energy to your egoic mind. And then, it won’t work. I highly advise you to just set an intention and become silent. Don’t let your ego take control by thinking, wanting to be there, etc. Take control by being silent and simply observing. Let it happen, let the universe change your reality. Moreover, I recommend meditation, as it is a super useful tool to train your attention, making it easier to detach from your ego. Later on, it’ll help you a lot in reaching the void state.

2. Manifest changes within your egoic mind. Once the mind is on board with the idea that you can simply shift wherever you want to go, it won’t stop you anymore. I made another post about this if you want to check it out. In this reality, the ego controls your perception. It shows you whatever it believes in. If you truly believe deep down that you can shift, your ego will too. Then, even if you’re still identified with your egoic mind, it won’t stop you anymore because it also believes in it.

Again, this is just my perspective on this topic. You don’t have to believe me, but if you go deeper and really ask yourself, “Why do I not shift?” eventually you might just get to the same conclusion as me. It is very simple. You are consciousness but the problem is that you identify yourself with the egoic mind. If you want to shift, either convince your ego or dissolve it by taking energy away from it. Again, if you want a more in-depth explanation, I recommend reading Eckhart Tolles book. Thank you for reading this far, and I wish you the best. 

[mystiika]

misc tag drop

[ebodebo]

hey, so…bull rider!simon?? MDNI

more bull rider simon

“You come to wish me luck?” Simon purred in your ear as his hands gripped the back of your thighs and his body pressed onto yours, stabilizing you against the wall of a rundown dive bar’s back room.

“You’ve gotta be as dull as an ox if you think I’m here for any other interest than self, Beef-head,” you hiss as his fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, etching closer to slide your panties off.

“Beef-head, huh?” He murmurs against your neck as your hands fumble with his buckle, unclasping it before sliding the zipper to his pants down.

“Seems fittin,’” you prompt, as your panties slide to dangle around your ankles. He slips his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion. You slip your hand between the two of you to gently tug on his painfully erect cock.

You lean closer into him, lips barely grazing his temple. His sizzling breath fanning across your cheeks as you stroke him. “I bet this one gets taken care of when you’re tourin.’ Huh?” You tighten your grip around him; he releases an anguished groan, fingers digging deeper into your thighs.

“Ah—fuck,” he whizzes as one of his hands releases your thigh and instead braces against the back wall.

“Ya—I bet you find a pretty girl who's just jumpin’ at the chance to touch ya in every city,” your fingers move quicker on their volition, “you don't even have to try.”

If Simon didn't know you, he'd assume you were doing what everyone else does: stroke his ego, but he knew you.

You were majorily fucking with him.

“Fuck—don’t tell me you're—ah—jealous, babydoll,” Simon murmurs, his tone is dripping in arrogance. You let out a dry laugh, tugging his cock slightly harder, making him groan.

“Come on, Beef-bead. You know I don't have to do a damn thing before your comin’ up to me beggin’ for a taste,” you drag lips down his temple to his busted lip. “Beggin’ for a feel of me.”

He quickly moves his hand braced onto the wall onto your face, pulling your lips roughly onto his. He tasted of blood and Nicorette, which did nothing to tamper your reclusions.

Your teeth scrape against each other as the kiss becomes more fervent with each passing moment. The air is now dense and burning with desire.

His hand moves from your cheek to his erect cock still in your hand, cheekily pulling your fingers off to push himself inside your soaked cunt.

“Shit,” you wheezed, fingers digging into his shoulders. His hands wander, gripping your waist impossibly closer, back pressed tut with the cracked walls behind you.

“You’re right—fuck—been waiting to come back,” he pants as he increases his pace. “Just to get a God-damn look at ya,” he spits.

It’s almost pathetic. Almost.

“Suppose this ain’t half bad,” he brashly says. You find a slight smirk pulling at your lips at his quip, though your humorous expression quickly dissipates almost as fast as it came when he plows into you.

You lean your head into his neck, nipping at the flesh, then quickly soothing it with a swipe of your tongue. “Damn firecracker, you are,” he groans into your hair.

When you feel his impending orgasm nearing, you swing your legs down, easing his cock out of you. Slight regret passed through you at losing contact, but you would finish yourself later.

Simon hisses, gripping his cock, attempting to regain any ounce of stimulation, but to his dismay, it had passed.

“If I know one thing about you, champ, I know you don't like it easy,” you pant out. “So I’ll be damned if I let you think for a moment you got it easy with me,” your eyes lock to his.

You’re surprised to find his face paler and eyes smokier. Though they weren’t filled with anguish, it was more admiration.

“I didn’t get to finish last time, so you don’t get to finish this time round,’” you say, pulling your jeans back on and buckling your belt.

“Suggest you find one of your buckle bunnies to help ya out—with that,” you gesture to his now half-erect cock splayed out.

You reach into your back pocket, grasping a five-dollar bill, pushing it into his chest because you could at least give him enough to cover an ice pack.

He grips the money, an irritated smirk playing on his lips. As you leave, you approach the door, dipping your head to avoid catching attention.

You hear Simon murmur a faint, ‘Firecracker, my ass, that's a whole damn bomb.’

You smile because, well, karma is karma.

a/n: come on yk thanksgiving brings out all the freakies hence this!

[l4ndoflove]

Hey I love your fics!!💕💕 I was wondering if you could do an oscar piastri smau where like they've been friends and they start soft launching each other or something? Idk literally do whatever you want cause ik it'll be good!🫶

you're literally the sweetest 💕 and i LOVED writing this

launch me hard and soft

feat. oscar piastri

lyrics preview being the most shipped couple online before you even started dating makes soft launching a little harder

maddie I'M SO SORRY it took me ages to write this, but i wanted it to be perfect, and it's finally here!!! i also added a little plot twist in the end, so... enjoy <3 🙃

with @.saraecheagaray

youruser

❤️ 93K 💬 6,009

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and others

youruser he was a little upsetti so i made him some spaghetti

comments

oscarpiastri don't write something like that ever again please

youruser but i was practicing my italian 🤌

duolingo more like italiaNO 🙄

youruser mamma mia

user1 i suggest running while you still can

user2 HELP THE EVIL GREEN BIRD GOT TO HER TOO

hattiepiastri it was nice knowing you babe

❤️ by youruser

user3 r.i.p. yn 🕊

user4 you will not be forgotten 😔🙏

user5 addio

see translation goodbye

❤️ by duolingo

user6 osc really said 🫤 > 🍝 > 😁

user7 and the polite cat saga carries on

user8 the allegations remain unbeaten

user9 IS THAT BLUSH I SEE ON MY MAN'S CHEEKS???

user10 i think they're just naturally pink

user11 riiiiight

lando @.youruser no spaghetti for me?

youruser you got your p2, be happy with it

user12 DAMN

user13 MIC DROP

user14 not her bullying lando on main 😭

user15 she's not wrong though

user16 lolll she really silenced him

user17 lando losing pasta to oscar now 💀

user18 i swear like cut my boy some slack

mclaren thank you for cheering him up 😉

youruser 😒

user19 LMAO THE SHADE

user20 she's so real for that

user21 we know what you did @.mclaren

user22 acting like it's not their fault i see

user23 mclaren: messes up the strategy

also mclaren: tHaNk YoU fOr ChEeRiNg HiM uP

user24 this post is so aesthetically pleasing for some reason

user25 tell me you were on a date without telling me you were on a date:

oscarpiastri

❤️ 337K 💬 2,955

liked by youruser, mclaren, lando and others

oscarpiastri got a double podium and a pretty decent lunch. grazie mille imola 👋

comments

youruser *pretty lunch

user26 UH UH UH WE SAW THAT

user27 🤨🤨🤨

user28 lover girl eraaa

user29 let's not immediately jump to conclusions shall we

user30 why would she delete it though???

user31 can you not read into every little thing jeez

youruser wdym "decent" 🥺

youruser i feel personally attacked

youruser you said you liked it

youruser liar 💔

youruser alexa play "traitor" by olivia rodrigo

lando dramatic much?

youruser i don't remember asking for your opinion

user32 GAGGED

user33 yn: 2 lando: 0

user34 i think she won a few more than 2

user35 THE WAY SHE STRAIGHT UP HUMBLED HIM I'M CRYING

user36 so is lando's ego

user37 💀

user38 girlboss 💪🎀

user39 not him calling out yn's cooking skills

youruser that's because he doesn't have taste, my cooking skills are on fire 🔥🔥🔥

oscarpiastri i remember something else being on fire

youruser and whose fault was that 😐

oscarpiastri you were the one who left the stove on

youruser AND WHOSE FAULT WAS THAT

user40 they're so domestic

user41 this is exactly how i imagine a happily married couple arguing

user42 the real question is why did they forget to turn it off

user43 i have a few ideas...

user44 TELL ME WE'RE ALL THINKING THE SAME

user45 👉👌💦

hattiepiastri ew get lost

❤️ by youruser and oscarpiastri

user46 that first picture scratches my brain just right

user47 LANDOSCAR 🧡🧡🧡

user48 yn, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s boyfriend

user49 golden trio vibes

user50 now look me in the eyes and tell me that wasn’t a date

user51 i swear like she's all dressed up and has a full face of makeup

user52 oh that's not–

user53 so a woman can't even want to feel beautiful without everyone thinking she's doing it for a man?

user54 @.user51 good luck dealing with this now mate

user55 THAT'S MY WIFE RIGHT THERE

hattiepiastri mine first

❤️ by youruser

f1gossippofficial

❤️ 62.6K 💬 1,787

f1gossippofficial spotted! 👀 oscar piastri's best friend yn was seen walking around milan and getting comfortable with an unidentified man this evening. who is he?

comments

user56 "getting comfortable" while he has his tongue down her throat is actually wild

user57 i feel betrayed

user58 WHAT IS THIS

user59 @.youruser explain

user60 i need to wash my eyes with bleach

user61 never in my entire life have i wished a picture was photoshopped this bad

user62 nope i'm not dealing with this shit today 👍

user63 she looks so innocent for someone who backstabbed all of us

user64 wait why is everyone freaking out?

user65 because apparently she has a boyfriend!?

user64 and...?

user66 IT'S NOT OSCAR!?

user67 omfg it's not the end of the world

user68 she's a grown ass adult let her live

user69 @.user66 you don't know that

user70 he does kinda look like oscar

user71 delulu is the solulu 🙏

user72 i mean good for her right 😀🔫

user73 i have no idea who that guy is but he sure as hell knows how to kiss

youruser were you there?

user74 help she's so 😭

user75 rough day for us ynoscar shippers

youruser

❤️ 92.9K 💬 9,734

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and others

youruser boyfriend dump since you people find it strange i have one 🥴

comments

lando i'm with people

lando it's hard to believe someone would willingly choose to deal with you everyday

youruser wow that's a lot of words

youruser too bad i'm not reading them

user76 STOP I CAN HEAR THE AUDIO

user77 most gen z thing she could've done

user78 biggest beef of the year btw

❤️ by youruser and lando

user79 WAIT SO IT'S ACTUALLY TRUE???

user80 clearly

user81 why wouldn't it be?

user82 i think we were all hoping it wasn't

user83 speak for yourself 🤡

user84 "boyfriend" as in oscar right. RIGHT

user85 @.youruser we find it strange only if he's not a certain australian driver 🥰❤️

youruser i don't feel safe here

user86 @.user85 what about we just stop planning her love life and let her be with whoever the hell she wants?

user87 happy for you girl but what about oscarrr 😩

user88 yeah what about him

user89 i still don't get why you guys want them to be together this bad

user90 bro they're literally soulmates

user91 platonic soulmates maybe

user92 booo you're no fun 👎

user93 well at least now we know he's a gentleman 🤭🦋

user94 if you're talking about the third slide that's oscar’s head. you're welcome

user95 I KNOW MY BOY'S HAIR WHEN I SEE IT

hattiepiastri cuties

❤️ by youruser

mclaren

❤️ 401K 💬 12.8K

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, youruser and others

mclaren can't get them to focus when their girls are around 😂 @.lando @.oscarpiastri

comments

user96 their what now 😃

user97 I BEG YOU YOUR FINEST PARDON

user98 had to double check to see if i was hallucinating

user99 NO BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS A FAN ACCOUNT

user100 are we really sure this isn't just one big cover-up for their secret relationship?

user101 not that it ever was a secret tbh

user102 they're not called mctwinks for nothing

user103 they're so babygirl

user104 POOKIES 💞💞💞

user105 we got lando and magui hard launch and oscar's new girlfriend soft launch all in one post

user106 i honestly don't know how to feel about this

user107 damn someone took my bitches 💔

user108 i like to think that they were looking at each other in all of these

user109 lando's not a surprise but oscar???

user110 news flash: he can date people too!

lando shocking i know

user111 ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE

user112 no but can we talk about how smitten they both look ⁉️

user113 IKR

user114 blushing giggling twirling their hair (literally 💀)

user115 I SWEAR LIKE STAND UP

user116 what were they looking at in the second picture? wrong answers only 👇

user117 lando was biting his lip so it was definitely carlos

user118 god

user119 the 2025 f1 world champion aka franz hermann

user120 i have no idea but oscar's face is screaming "no. 1 party anthem" minute 2:29

lando.jpg

🎵 you, me and steve • garfunkel and oates [E]

❤️ 451K 💬 13.1K

liked by youruser, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell and others

lando.jpg thanks osc

comments

user121 LMAO

user122 THE SONG CHOICE I CAN'T

user123 please he's so unserious 😭

user124 i love him sm

user125 i never thought i'd see the day lando would end up third wheeling oscar and his gf

user126 it's not the first time he ends up behind him though

user127 jaw DROPPED

user128 wait that's so mean (do it again)

user129 you people are so cruel

user130 it was funny until it wasn't 🥲

user131 is he aware that he's been adopted

lando actually i'm their lovechild

user132 oh well

user133 whatever you say beautiful

user134 thx for the info ig???

user135 😀👍

user136 LANDO TELL US WHO SHE ISSS

user137 we NEED to know 🙏

user138 we'll give you anything you want

lando you got the championship lead?

youruser hey that's my line ☹️

user139 poor yn just wanted to be a hater

user140 HE BEAT HER TO IT LOLLL

user141 smiley lando 🥹🫶

user142 he's such a vibe

user143 pov: your boyfriend is ignoring you

user144 he looks so done

user145 passive-aggressive behavior at its finest 👌

oscarpiastri

❤️ 1.3M 💬 14.1K

liked by youruser, nicolepiastri, hattiepiastri and others

oscarpiastri got myself a pretty girl and a more decent lunch

comments

user146 just shoot me atp

user147 my heart can only take so much

user148 I'M CRYING THIS IS TOO SWEET

user149 when did he become so aesthetic lol

user150 a woman's touch can do wonders

❤️ by youruser

user151 oh???

user152 yn babe we can see your likes

user153 WAIT DOES THIS MEAN WHAT I THINK IT MEANS

user154 men in love with their gf >>>

user155 the vibes are immaculate

user156 it's giving best friends to lovers 👀

user157 i completely agree

user158 we all know who the best friend is

user159 omg those flowers are GORGEOUS

user160 may this kind of love hit me at 300 km/h

user161 THE MATCHING OUTFITS

user162 they cooked AND ate

user163 fashion icons fr

user164 did anyone else get the reference or is it just me!?!?!?

user165 YESSSSS I WAS WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO NOTICE IT

user166 thank god i'm not the only one

user167 what are y'all on about

user168 the "pretty decent lunch" post he made a while ago with that photo of yn eating spaghetti

user169 which by the way is the same pasta they were cooking in this 🤧💞

user170 some of you actually scare me

mclaren

❤️ 376K 💬 4,557

liked by youruser, lando, oscarpiastri and others

mclaren big days require big changes 🤍🍾

comments

user171 can somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on with mclaren recently

user172 WHAT IS THIS

user173 i'm confused

user174 what does this even mean 😭

user175 should we be worried?

user176 i surprisingly don't hate them

user177 gotta love the monaco air 🫡

user178 LET'S GO PAPAYA 🧡🤍🧡🤍🧡🤍

user179 oooh vintage i like it

user180 dare i say the most stylish drivers in the paddock 😮‍💨

user181 sir lewis hamilton would disagree

user182 this team never misses 🙌

user183 99% of these photos are just oscar

user184 cry about it

user185 the font on the back like wow

user186 guys they're getting married

user187 sooo when's the wedding

mclaren sooner than you think 😉

user188 PAUSE

user189 WTF

user190 LANDOSCAR HARD LAUNCH???

user100 TOLD YOU THE GIRLFRIENDS WERE JUST A COVER-UP HAHAHA

lando

❤️ 957K 💬 13.7K

liked by youruser, oscarpiastri, mclaren and others

lando gotta look good for mrs piastri

comments

user191 i thought i read that wrong

user191 TURNS OUT I DIDN'T

user192 is this pay gorn

user193 STOP

user194 @.user192 yes but gayer

user195 💀💀💀

user196 we went from 0 to 100 pretty fucking quickly

user197 the more i look at it the less it makes sense

user198 i don't know what's real anymore

user199 *confused screaming*

user200 i love how everyone's just crashing out

user201 he obviously meant MR piastri. his husband

lando i meant exactly what i wrote

user202 HE SAID WHAT HE SAID 🗣🗣🗣

user203 thanks mate appreciate your clarification 👍

user204 how is this even real

user205 well mrs piastri surely is one lucky woman

user206 if you ever need a mrs norris i'm free whenever 😚

user207 yeah me too

user208 count me in 🙋‍♀️

user209 dw ladies 🫷🙂‍↕️🫸 i got this

user210 THE SUITS LOOK INSANELY GOOD

youruser and oscarpiastri

❤️ 3.9M 💬 49.4K

liked by nicolepiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and others

youruser bestied so hard we got married

comments

hattiepiastri i hope he knows how lucky he is to have you

oscarpiastri i do (pun intended)

❤️ by youruser

youruser hilarious 🙄 (affectionate)

❤️ by oscarpiastri

user211 this type of relationship >>>

nicolepiastri treat her well osc because if you don't i'll adopt her and kick you out 🤗

love, mum

oscarpiastri thanks mom

youruser my number one supporter 🫶

oscarpiastri wasn’t that me?

youruser you're a close second baby

carlossainz55 congrats!

❤️ by oscarpiastri

user212 carcar 😭🫶

charles_leclerc congratulations 😘😘😘

❤️ by oscarpiastri

user213 do you guys think charles paid for the wedding?

user214 i mean it's his son we're talking about

user215 and he got married in monaco of all places so

user216 YES

user217 wait does this make yn his daughter in law???

user218 the leclerc family keeps growing

lando credits?

youruser thank you for the kind wishes you're such a 🍑😊

user219 the double meaning is diabolical

user220 she's too good at this

user221 i assume the beef is still ongoing

lando i will take the compliment and ignore the insult like the mature adult i am

user222 "i don't wanna mature, i'm happy where i am" lando norris 2019

lando it's 2025. i matured

youruser sure

lando.jpg credits?

youruser omg not again

lando.jpg talent needs recognition yn

lando.jpg unless you want me to start charging for my services

youruser @.oscarpiastri do something about your teammate please

oscarpiastri credits @.lando

youruser 😦

youruser do you want a divorce

user223 HWAT 🤠

user224 where exactly did the decision to slam dunk this information on us come from

user225 it's called hard launch for a reason

user226 well that escalated quickly

user227 MOST AESTHETIC COUPLE EVER

user228 no way my husband stole my wife

user229 i honestly don't know who's luckier

user230 HOW CAN SOMEONE BE SO CUTE AND HOT AT THE SAME TIME

user231 old money wedding i'm in love

user232 quick act surprised 😮

user233 who would've thought they'd end up together right!?

user234 totally unexpected

user235 this is their one day but they don't know we've been here since day one ❤️

youruser trust me we know <3

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[sincerelyneo]

life is a highway | n.jm

“i wanna ride it all night long”

💿now playing: life is a highway by rascal flatts

❯ summary: Being a nervous learner driver is hard enough, but throwing in your older brother’s hot, smug, patronising best friend to be your instructor? Yeah...definitely not making things easier.

❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: enemies to...fuck buddies? smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, arguing, hate sex, public sex, car sex, swearing, heavy petting, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, dirty talk, very tame degradation kink, literally them just arguing with each other for the entire 3k words.

an: this is very influenced by the british driving experience—hence the manual car propaganda.

Look, driving a manual is hard. There’s just too much stuff to remember all at once—gears, pedals, mirrors, observations. Honestly, you don’t understand why anyone who values their sanity would choose to drive a manual car. If it were up to you, you’d be driving around in an automatic. But it’s not up to you. Because your brother, Mark, is paying for your driving lessons.

And Mark, being the car-obsessed gearhead he is, insists that everyone should learn manual—“So you can drive any car, no limitations,” he preaches. Even when you dragged yourself through the front door on the Friday night of your third failed driving test, you thought maybe, just maybe, your stubborn older brother would show a little grace. Let you switch, take the easy route.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he did something worse.

He sent Jaemin.

Na Jaemin.

Mark’s old college roommate—who, according to your brother, is the best teacher in the world, a saint suited with endless patience and encouragement. But if those qualities exist, they’ve never made an appearance around you. Because, from the very first lesson (four torturous sessions ago), Jaemin’s been nothing but a snarky, patronising ass. 

You hate him. And he hates you—clearly.

Sure, you may have driven on the wrong side of the road once. And stalled on a hill. And very nearly veered the two of you into oncoming traffic. But those were all accidents—you’re a learner. It’s not your fault.

Honestly, it’s Mark’s fault. 

Because you’re already a nervous driver, and throwing in a hot, built guy who slouches into the passenger seat like he owns the car doesn’t exactly help. Not with his long legs spread wide, and that muscled arm draped casually along the window, long fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the doorframe.

It’s a distraction. He’s a distraction. A hot, smirking, condescending distraction with perfect teeth and zero empathy.

“The light is on green,” Jaemin says flatly.

You blink. “W-what?”

He doesn't even turn to look at you. Just gestures lazily toward the windscreen. “If you stopped checking me out, you’d see the traffic light has changed. That means go.”

Your jaw drops, and you finally peel your eyes off him, squinting at the green hue now glaring in your face. “I know, asshole.”

“Then go.”

You want to scream, but you don't. Instead, you slam the clutch, jam the car into first gear with more force than necessary, and the car jerks forward. You thank God, because you just narrowly avoidied stalling again, but Jaemin is never grateful. 

“You’re snapping the clutch up too fast,” he comments. “You have to find the bite, then add gas. Keep revving the engine like that and you’re gonna wreck the clutch.”

“I was not revving the engine,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. But of course, that doesn’t stop him.

“You were. Because you’re scared of stalling. But if you actually planned ahead and stopped rushing—”

“I won’t stall, yeah, yeah, I know.” You cut him off, gripping the wheel tighter. 

“Then apply it.”

You’re about to lose it. You hate the way he talks to you like you’re ten years younger than him—like you’re some clueless kid. It makes you want to punch him in that smug mouth of his. But that’d only prove his point that you’re immature and feed his ego. 

So, you grit your teeth, suck in a breath, and try to ignore the way your heart’s thudding against your ribcage and your palms go slick on the wheel. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. But he makes it impossible to concentrate.

“You can’t drive around in first gear, this is a thirty zone.”

“I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t—fuck—pull the car over!”

His voice slices through the air and your stomach flips violently. You yank the wheel toward the kerb, the tires bouncing as the car lurches to a halt. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaemin’s lip twitch (about to make some smartass comment about you mounting the pavement) but the fury in your expression makes him think twice.

The second the engine cuts, you explode.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, unbuckling your seatbelt and twisting in your seat to face him. “If you hate this so much, then don’t show up! Mark’s not forcing you to sit in this car with me, Jaemin. I could find someone else to help me.”

“Oh, totally. I’d love to make room for driving instructor number eleven,” he bites.

"Then do it," you sneer, slumping back into the driver’s seat with a shrug, arms folded tight across your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Seriously, Y/N, I’m trying to help you," he says. "But you don’t listen. You never listen—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you actually helped. All I’ve heard for the past four weeks is how shit I am at this.”

“Because you’re not even trying! You act like my help is beneath you. You refuse to take any criticism.”

“Beneath me?” You laugh, bitter and breathless. “I’ve failed my test three times, you absolute dick! I clearly am trying! I’m trying so fucking hard. And all you do is sit there and mock me, which just makes it worse.”

“You need tough love! This isn’t a joke—driving is serious. People's lives are on the line. Your life is on the line.”

That makes you swallow.

“If you’re talking about that time I almost hit that cyclist, that wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere!”

Jaemin scoffs, shakes his head and tongues the side of his cheek. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You’re so terrified of failing again, so you never give yourself a real chance to get it right. You can’t let go of your pride, so every little mistake makes you panic, and you do something stupid. And then you blame everyone else for it.”

Your jaw drops. Then a furious exhale leaves your lungs. “You are—unbelievable. You’re such a—”

“You’re not listening to me,” Jaemin growls, cutting you off. “Again. You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care. Fuck you—”

But before you can finish the very creative insult forming in your throat, his hand shoots out—fisting the front of your hoodie, yanking you toward him. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Brutal and angry and heated.

You freeze. For one heartbeat. Then another.

Your whole body goes still—except your lips, which betray you, parting instinctively for him. You sink into it before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it might steady the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. It doesn’t. 

Because he tastes like cinnamon and black coffee. So fucking predictable. So him. And, of course, unfairly good. Which just pisses you off more. He tastes good, and you like it. 

The kiss is harsh. Messy. Teeth knock, lips drag, because even now, the two of you are fighting for control. There’s no rhythm. No grace. Just lust and resentment colliding together in the ugliest way possible.

His hand grips your hoodie tighter, like he doesn’t trust you not to pull away. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him for kissing you. He didn’t expect you to gasp, to open your mouth and let him in. Let his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and so damn hungry.

You feel the press of his thumb against your sternum, the subtle tremble in his wrist, and it hits you—weeks of tension finally snapping loose.

It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s—what the hell are you thinking?

You pull away first, shaking his grip off your hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaemin blinks, looking just as stunned as you feel—pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I don’t know... you just—fuck, you drive me insane," he mutters. "I just wanted to shut you up."

“Oh, so your first thought was to kiss me?” you snap, swiping your sleeve across your mouth like you can erase the feel of him. A small part of you is glad it doesn’t. “That’s how you deal with people who annoy you? Because if so, you need a HR department!”

“No,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “You’re not just people. You’re—you’re impossible to be around.”

"Maybe you’re the one with the issue!” you hiss. “Plenty of people enjoy my company. You just don’t know how to be around me without being a smug, condescending prick!"

His expression twists "I’m trying to fucking help you," he says. "But, clearly, you don’t want help. You just want to fight, don’t you? You want to pick a fight because that’s all you know how to do."

“Because you infuriate me!” you shout. “You barge in here, all patronising and hot, acting like you know everything, acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’re better than me—”

You don’t get to finish.

He lunges across the console before either of you can think better of it, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Again. 

His seatbelt strains as he twists toward you. You meet him with equal force, kissing him back like you can knock some sense into him with your mouth.

He groans into it, deep and guttural, and then he’s hauling you closer, shoving his seatbelt over his head and dragging you half onto his lap. The centre console digs into your hip, but you don’t care. Your knees press against the door, your hand grips the headrest behind him. Every inch of the car feels too small for the way he’s kissing you. Too hot.

His hands are everywhere. One tangled in your hair, the other pressing flat against the small of your back like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You gasp when his mouth trails briefly to your jaw, your throat. “You’re such a jerk,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Shut up,” he mutters, before his lips crash into yours again.

And you do. You shut up (for once) letting him kiss you breathless while his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, calloused pads dragging over overheated skin. You shiver, nerves buzzing from the way your body is betraying you in all the worst ways. With the worst person,

“You're a nightmare,” he growls against your mouth. 

“So stop kissing me,” you bite back, fingers fisting his t-shirt.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Your back hits the glovebox as he shifts, pulling you fully into his lap. Your knees knock against the dash, thighs bracketing his hips, breath catching as you straddle him in the cramped passenger seat. Your head tips back, knuckles going white where they clutch his shoulders. 

“This is so stupid,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Say that again when you’re not grinding on me.”

You shove at his chest—but not hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”

His hands slide lower. Gripping. Pressing. Desperate. “Oh you’re going to.”

He rolls your hips against him, firm and rough, and you feel him—all of him. Hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The pressure sends a jolt through you, because if you’re really ‘going to’ fuck him, the size of him already has you intimidated.

You whimper despite yourself. It’s pathetic. Weak. And it turns him on so damn much. 

His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck—why can’t you make those sounds with me all the time,” he groans, voice hoarse, “instead of running that pretty little mouth?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just keep grinding down, breath catching with each pass over his straining cock. You’re soaked. Your jeans are too tight. Everything is too hot. Too much.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He huffs a laugh, then brushes your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear. Teeth grazing. “We’ve already established you’re going to,” he smirks. “But first—”

His hand slides between your bodies. 

“—you’re going to get yourself off on my thigh like the filthy girl I know you are.”

You’re about to repeat those two words again, but he captures them with a kiss—swallowing them down with a simple swipe of his tongue before he looks down to where you’re rutting against him.

You’re not sure when your jeans became the enemy, but they are now—tight, rough, in the way. Every twist of your hips adds to the unbearable friction, your breath catching in your throat with every grind. You’re not supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not with him.

But Jaemin’s thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—God, his hands—know exactly where to go, how to hold you steady and drive you crazy in the same breath.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he grits, fingers digging into your waist. “Can’t follow a single instruction when you’re behind the wheel, but now? Suddenly you’re fucking little miss obedient.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both.

“You think you’re funny?” you hiss, but your voice cracks as his thigh flexes, and your hips jolt in response. “You think you’re winning right now?”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek—just shy of a kiss. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, condescension dripping from every syllable, “I know I am.”

“You’re soaking,” he adds, palm skating down your front before slipping inside your jeans, into your panties.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable, smug bastard I’ve ever met,” you pant against his mouth. “And I hate you.”

“Good,” he breathes, before surging forward again.

His mouth trails downward—jaw, neck, collarbone. Tongue licking over one of the few marks he just made. Your hips jerk when he bites, just a little too hard—and he groans  like he felt it in his own skin.

“Can’t believe you’re this wet for me and still have the nerve to talk back.”

“I can multitask,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist as he reaches for your jeans. He pauses, looking up so his eyes meet yours—and for a moment, the lust between you stutters.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, low and serious.

You hate how long you hesitate. Hate how breathless you sound when you whisper, “No.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then your jeans are open, and his fingers slide into your underwear—hot, teasing, and maddeningly slow. You cry out, head dropping to his shoulder, clutching at the back of his neck as two of his fingers start to circle your clit. 

“God, you’re shaking,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna cum like this? From barely anything? What happened to all that attitude?”

“Shut up,” you whimper, grinding shamelessly into his hand. “Just shut the hell up—”

“Not a chance.”

His fingers dip lower, circling the wet entrance of your pussy before he presses in deeper, and your whole body tenses, that coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Come on, sweetheart. Prove me right. I love it when you do.”

You hate him. You really do. But your body doesn’t care. It burns and trembles and demands more. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he curls his fingers just right—and then you’re falling apart, hips jerking, a strangled cry ripped from your throat before you can stop it.

Jaemin doesn’t stop until you’re trembling in his lap, wrecked and slick with sweat. When you finally lift your head to look up at him, he’s watching you intensely. Quiet for once. Hell, if you knew letting him finger you would shut him up, you’d have let him a long time ago.

Then, slowly, patronisingly slowly, he pulls his hand from your jeans, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

You slap his shoulder. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins around his fingers. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, still breathless. You glance down. His hands are still on your hips. “Let go of me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans in, lazily sucking another finger. “I already did.”

Your hand moves before you think—gripping his chin, nails digging into his jaw. Not a slap. Not a kiss. Just heat. Just challenge.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” you whisper. “Keep pushing, and I might actually lose control and kill you!”

That look flashes in his eyes again—that dangerous glint that says he likes it when you fight. But instead of rising to the bait, he just smirks.

“I am pushing,” he says. “But you’re the one currently dripping down my thigh. So tell me, sweetheart…” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Who’s really in control?”

You don’t answer. Just stare. Flushed. Still trembling, still aching. Then, leisurely, you lean in—close enough that his breath stalls.

“I am,” you bite, nipping his bottom lip as you yank his hoodie up over his shoulders. “And I’m going to prove it.”

He grins—wild and eager. “Then fucking show me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hoodie, dragging it off with enough force to make his smirk falter, only slightly. His eyes are black now—blown wide with want, with need—and for the second time ever in his life, Jaemin is silent.

He just watches.

And you take.

Your mouth slams into his, teeth biting at his lip before you drag your mouth down to his neck, sucking onto the skin to return your own mark. His hands fumble with your jeans again, this time yanking them down your thighs enough to slip your panties to the side. 

You help shove his sweatpants down past his ass—just far enough to free his cock. And then he’s wrapping a hand around himself, fisting his length with slow, deliberate strokes—taunting, as you watch with parted lips. 

He’s so big and thick and pretty, your brain starts pounding like it’s bitten off more than it can handle. You hesitate for a moment, but then you remember—this is about proving you still have control. You want this. You want to prove him wrong.

So, you slide back into his lap, straddling him fully, your bare skin meeting his with a gasp that rips through both of you. His hand slides between your thighs again, not to guide—just to tease. Just to feel how ready you are.

“Scared?” he mocks in a we whisper.

You glare, reaching down to line him up with your pussy. “Shut up.”

Then you sink down—slow, agonising—and you both break at the same time.

“Fuck—” he grits, head falling back, eyes rolling. “You feel—holy shit.”

You can barely breathe. He’s thick, hot, stretching you just past the edge of pain—grounding you in something that feels too good to be allowed. It’s not fair that a guy like him gets to be this good at fucking. But here he is. Fingers digging into your hips, guiding you into a rhythm that’s filthy, desperate, and anything but slow.

You ride him like it’s a fight. Like you want to ruin him. And he meets you stroke for stroke, jaw clenched, sweat collecting at his temple as your bodies slap together—fast, ruthless. No pretense. No sweetness.

Just want.

Just need.

Just hate.

“I hate how good you feel,” you choke out.

He bites down on your shoulder. “Say it again.”

You moan, louder this time, not caring about the volume or the fact that you’re fucking your instructor at the side of the road. Not caring that it’s Jaemin. 

“I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate you, I hate you so much—”

His hand snakes up to curl around your throat. It’s not tight but barely there. A light pressure, just enough, to make your head spin.

“Then cum on my cock,” he growls. “One more time. Hate me for it.”

And you do.

You shatter around him, body convulsing and twitching as your mouth falls open in a broken sob that catches against his lips. He follows a heartbeat later with a ruined, throaty moan, driving into you one last time as he spills inside you—deep, hot, messy.

And then it’s quiet.

You stay there, slumped against his chest  for a moment. His hand drifts up your spine, strangely gentle now, thumb brushing the back of your neck. But then, a moment later, it does hit you. 

You scramble off his lap, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, panties already ruined as his cum starts to leak out of you. You refuse to meet his eyes.

“I still hate you,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, casual as ever, tugging up his sweatpants with a smirk. “I’m giving you another lesson tomorrow. Same time.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting in a car with you again.”

“You’ll show,” he says,” Because you want to pass your test, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” he chuckles, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Now that I know you can follow instructions, if you listen to me—I'll make you cum again. You seemed to really enjoy yourself.”

You hate him.

[yieldtotemptation]

CRAZY ft. Chaewon

chaewon x male reader smut

9k words

Oh, it’s fucked up; the power dynamics are all over the place.

You were her manager, and now you’re technically her boss, and it’s all led to this weird feedback loop where Chaewon swears she doesn’t like being told what to do and you swear that you believe women should be treated with respect.

Never mind that it all goes out the window when you’ve drawn the curtains shut and you’re bending her over your desk and tugging out the butt plug you kindly requested she walk around with all day.

And so:

“If you think I’m some around-the-clock booty call that will show up whenever you get a boner, then—”

“Chaewon,” you interrupt.

Stare at the girl.

Catching her in the midst of removing her earrings, bracelets, really any loose items that could end up between the couch cushions or underneath a stack of files, only to be discovered by some poor cleaner in the early hours of the morning.

Perched up on your desk, heaven-sent and already stark-naked. Looking far too pretty for her own good, and just plain, flat-out, in-your-face fuckable.

Oh.

She’s already got your blood rushing.

“Really?”

Chaewon bites her lip. Holds it for a beat. Lets it go and sighs. Unable to help herself. “You’re such a little shit.”

You laugh right in her face. “Little is an interesting choice of words.”

"And you're so lucky I think you're cute."

A step forward, to put her in reach. To skate a hand up her thigh, rubbing out the tension coiled up in her muscles. Ending up on the curve of the most generous ass your palms have ever been graced with. Giving a gentle squeeze, massaging into the bare, vanilla expanse, hoping you’re already on the path to forgiveness.

It goes without saying, the two of you have run this same routine many times before.

(Yeah. You’ve fucked Chaewon a lot.)

“I can’t believe you just made me walk in front of the entire floor to get to your office. Everyone was staring.” Chaewon makes this loud, keening noise, pretty much guaranteeing that everyone’s listening now as well. “After that shit you pulled at the Christmas party.”

You lean close, kisses into her neck, apologies over her pulse. “Everyone was too drunk to notice what we were doing.”

Her eyes narrow. “You made me cum in the middle of the dancefloor.”

“And you’re welcome.” You’re laughing harder, right as she starts to do her whole Chaewon thing.

Saying one (usually insulting) thing with her mouth but screaming something else entirely with her body.

In this case, it’s in this subtle adjustment of her hips. A tilt, a lean, an angle so precise, giving you exclusive access to put your hands on where she’s most sensitive—which is pretty much everywhere. And really, you can’t be held at fault for whatever consequences follow because she makes it so easy.

It’s hard to imagine anyone else getting as crazy over the slightest touch. A shiver at the brush of your fingertips, trembling when your grip tightens, gets a little bit rough.

And when you fall into a rhythm, when it’s just the two of you and you’re curling your digits in her cunt and kissing all the right spots on her skin, and you’re making her feel like you’re everywhere all at once, it’s like she’s made of pure energy. Like she’s going to combust.

It does insane things for your ego.

It’s also so, unfathomably hot.

“God, I can’t believe I have to deal with such an ass—" But Chaewon never gets to finish that thought, because your fingers are getting lower, inching closer to that spot that grants you mercy every time; that makes her voice crack and her eyes lose all focus and has her forget any reason she has to ever be mad at you.

The moans that you tease out of her, each taking the shape of your name; the familiar, longing whimpers she makes when you do what no one else does and deny her.

It’s the same dangerous game every time.

Take her some place a little too public, with just enough risk to make her wet and ready and absolutely needy at the thought of getting caught. Get a hand in that bob of blonde, or black, or red; run your tongue over the hollow of her throat, or up the fine curve of her thigh, or trail down the ridges of her abs, just making her delirious.

And yeah, sure, most of the time it seems like you’re the one doing the leading, but look closer, past the pleas and the pouts and who’s on her knees at the feet of who; and realise that it’s mostly just you trying to keep up with her appetite.

“You don’t have to keep up the act,” you’re saying, “But you might want to try and keep your voice down.”

Chaewon’s rolling her eyes, petulant. She’s got the whole bratty thing nailed to a tee. “Your fault.”

Oh, she’s a vision, that’s for sure. God definitely took his time when making her, with all her grace and poise and her ludicrously bouncy tits and unreasonably slutty little waist. All just begging to be fucked askew. To put a smudge on her perfection. Be it the flushed cheeks, the glossed eyes, the already-on-its-way to being properly fucked-up hair—

The cocky smile and the gall to say, “You’re usually kissing me by now.”

You hardly have any complaints when she wraps your tie around her fist, yanks you forward, providing an unnecessary guide for your mouth to hers.

Like always, it’s messy.

There’s rarely any intention there; just kiss the smoking hot girl that’s right in front of you, let her breathe you in and flood your mouth with her tongue while your hands do their best to draw along her figure and map out each of her perfect lines and immaculate curves.

Seeking out where she’s hottest.  

There’s a cry muffled against your lips when your fingers get particularly adventurous, but it’s pure searing heat, all of it. All of her. Bottled up in the tiniest of packages, a Pandora’s box of sin, just waiting for you to come and let it out.

Chaewon’s knees spread wider, feet hooking around your back, making you strain against the wetness building between her thighs.

She gets in real close, letting her tongue slide along your jaw, your neck and finally your ear where she’s slurring the same variations of previous filthy and barely-lucid requests, “Get these clothes off before I tear them off.”

Your tie doesn’t stand a chance. Neither do any of the buttons on your shirt, your belt-buckle, your pants which land at your ankles and are kicked off to join an ever-growing pile on your couch.

“I need to feel you, like, right fucking now—”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “What happened to not being an around-the-clock booty call?”

“Just, shut up already.”

“Magic word first.”

“Please.”

But the problem, as always, is where the hell to start.

Chaewon, from head-to-toe, is a literal divine being—a goddess, personified.

A Greek epic made flesh, come down from the top of a mountain to fuck around with the mortals, leave them as dried husks to craft myths in her wake.

That’s what you’re dealing with here.

Perhaps it’s your destiny too. To climb that mountain, to conquer that peak. To mark, bruise, claim. Run your fingers over her; her tiny waist, her smooth, sweat-stained skin, her heart-wrenchingly soft ass.

All heat and need, right in the palm of your hand, begging for you to leave your own brand of worship and bring her down into the dirt with the rest of the living.

And despite the repetitions, the countless dark corners and quiet rooms that are forever stained with your cum and permeating with her scent; it still feels like a novelty every time.

So, it only makes sense to start with a personal favourite.

Her breasts.

“Always with my tits,” Chaewon snarks, but it’s more a statement of acceptance than any kind of protest.

She’s already leaning back onto your desk, her eyes closing as your fingers rise up her sides, and she’s sighing, nipples tightening at just the thought of your touch.

Begging for more pressure, for a pinch, a tug. Or just your teeth.

“It’s a classic for a reason,” you muse, and you dive right in, mouth around one of her hardened tips, glueing your tongue to the nub.

See, Chaewon’s tits are as unfairly incredible as the rest of her. Perfect wonders of gravity and genetics that fill up your hands and spill past your fingers; that bounce and jiggle and sway so nicely when you fuck her just right.

And when you taste, give a hard, gratuitous suck on one—there’s a choked-out cry, a stab of her nails into your shoulders, a kick of her heel into your back.

Really, not one for subtleties, your Chaewon.

Always quick to tell you exactly what she needs in every single moment; if not with her words then with the way she squirms and gasps and bites down on her lower lip until it’s a darker shade of red than the lipstick she walked in with.

And even then, each pleading request, each beg sloppily kissed into your shoulder, or your chest, or up and down your cock, amounts to the same thing: use me, use me now, use me good. Like a toy, a submissive little fuckdoll that’s just waiting to be picked up and played with until the batteries die.

That’s your Chaewon:

Preciously soft where it matters, razor sharp where it counts. Built to take it rough, but tragically doomed to be so fucking sensitive.

You flick your tongue; once, twice, over and over. Harder, rougher, grazing your molars against skin, and she’s curving into you, pushing her chest closer. Grinding herself into your waist, hips bucking. Searching for more friction. More heat.

Just the noises she makes. She’s generous with her moans, her breaths all chopped up and hitching with every tug of your teeth. It’s the worst cliché but yeah, her body is literally a fine instrument, musical; play the right notes and she’ll scream you a melody.

You idly wonder if she was like this before you met her.

The loving sigh of your name is all the answer you need.

Hands twist in your hair now, she’s getting impatient; anything to get you to give her what she craves. But you switch. From one perfect swell to another, giving it the same treatment, the same shameless licks and laps.

“More,” Chaewon tries, and then amends to a whimpering, “Please?”

Jesus Christ.

You take a finger, drag it along the valley of her wonderful chest, teasing down her stomach until it reaches the scorching heat between her legs.

Finding her wet, puffy. Feeling her pulse. Wanting to be made whole.

A groan bursting from her throat before she can even stop it—“Oh, fuck!”

“Chaewon,” you huff out, reproachingly, but it’s barely heard over the slick sounds of her cunt giving way. It’s heady, a rush you feel straight in your veins, just the idea that you could tear her apart with a single finger.

But that doesn’t mean you should just stop with one.

A second finger, your middle, eases in. It’s so downright pornographic, the way she opens up for you. How her pussy squeezes around you, how it soaks your digits, how it clenches and sears heat onto your skin. And how when you press in the pad of your thumb firmly against the swollen bud of her clit, just that achingly light touch of pressure, it sends her spiralling.

“Gah, you’re so fucking mean,” Chaewon rips through another moan, a filthy curse, and it’s really uncalled for. Because this is what she comes to you for.

Drops everything she’s doing, ditches anyone she’s with. She’d cross an entire ocean just to have you torture her with your lips, or your tongue. To have your fingers bringing her to her knees, or your cock just fucking her brainless.

Really, to her, every part of you is a little death, a stairway to an afterlife where it’s just the pure sensation of bliss and your cock, making her feel complete.

“And you’re terrible at keeping quiet,” you accuse, but you’re not doing anything to help her. Just making it all that much worse, ruining her so sweetly with a curl or a twist or a merciless press down. “No idea what I’m going to do with you. Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to punish me,” is Chaewon’s accusation, reaching the same conclusions you have. Reading your mind before you can even get a word out—grabbing the back of your neck, pulling you closer, hips rising up to meet the hand that will be her undoing. “How am I the naughty one when you’re the one that just loves to ruin me. Make me cum in front of everyone every chance you get. Fuck, if they couldn’t see it running down my thighs they definitely saw it on my face.”

And her eyes are shutting now, and she’s flashing back, feeling it all over again. The strobing lights, the unnecessarily loud bass. The throng of bodies pushed too close together and there’s Chaewon, in the tightest, shortest, sluttiest dress twirling around and fucking you with just the twerk of her ass from across the room.

Your own personal siren, luring you to your doom.

Or hers.

So, yeah, maybe you’re the villain for meeting her in the middle, grinding your body against hers, whispering plans of taking her to a closet, or a bathroom, or the fucking balcony and ruining that tragically flimsy strip of fabric and making her cum so hard she’ll never look at the sky the same way again.

And maybe you could still have some deniability if any one of those ideas came to fruition instead of what happened next. Because you just couldn’t stop yourself when she was already filling your mouth with her tongue, your hands with her tits, her ass, and it was all too easy to dip your fingers lower and under her dress and—

Do exactly the same thing you’re doing now.

“There were cameras there too,” Chaewon realises, “God, I can’t believe how stupid you make me.”

“I can’t be held responsible for any of your actions after fucking you senseless, sweetheart,” you chuckle against her neck, and lower to her shoulder.

“You absolutely can, this is all because of you,” she whines, and it’s petulant and bratty, and so goddamn cute. It’s unreal. “You just can’t help yourself. Can’t help trying to fuck me up every chance you get.”

“You let me.”

“Because you make it so fucking good,” and there’s the admission, the natural end point every time this same argument arises.

“Oh you poor, poor girl,” you murmur into the sweetness of her skin, sucking in the edges of her collarbone, leaving marks you know you’ll come back to, if not now then tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. “Too gorgeous for your own good. Just too pretty, too tempting. All mine.”

It’s obvious what you’re doing, feeding into Chaewon’s praise kink. She’s openly admitted it, she likes being told she looks good, loves the reward of your attention. Not just what you say, but the way you say it. The whisper into her skin when you tell her how hard she makes you. The grunt into her ear when you remind her that no one takes you as nice as she does. And the rough groan when you call her a whore, a beautiful, terrible little slut that’s going to rob you of all the cum you have.

But most of all, she loves the honest, direct command when you tell her that she’s yours.

And it’s so, so potent.

You don’t miss the smirk against your cheek, the kisses she’s started peppering across your forehead. Don’t miss how she’s drenching your fingers, filling up your palm with her juices, so delighted to have your hand fucking the hell out of her cunt and faster, filling her, filling the room with these desperate needy sounds.

She’s panting, whining into your ears these sweet little nothings that make you feel like you could fuck a hole straight through the nearest wall. And you can’t help it, you’re leaning into it, plunging your fingers in and out of her like you’re trying to set a new personal best. Quickest time to make Chaewon scream. To shatter her right there in the middle of your office, and get some unfortunate intern to clean up the mess she leaves behind.

Her lips clumsily dragging along your earlobe tells you all you need to know, “You’re going to make me cum again, you fuck, I hate how easy it is for you to—”

You slide a third finger in, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch.

A choking groan when you start to hit that spot that makes her tighten around you. That makes her legs shake, her knees bang against your hips and she just keeps getting wetter and wetter.

The beg in her body. Pleading, needing to be pushed over that edge. And so, you do.

You see it coming before she does, spot the scrunch in her face, the flinch across her features, that perfect, hot little mouth widening and needing to be captured in a kiss because she’s always so fucking loud when she cums.

Muted, “fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!” and then, “why are you so good at this?”, and she’s rocking against your hand, pussy desperately swallowing your fingers, the filthy slaps of skin and skin and the squelching that echoes off the glass walls.

At last, the release.

Everything built up in the anticipation, in her no doubt rush to be back in front of you, to end up wrecking another piece of furniture or a room, and not give a flying fuck because there’s nothing else that matters but the high of her orgasm.

Only, it’s just the first one. And it’s not enough.

God, there really are fewer things in life you love more than making her cum.

So, it only makes sense to do it again.

Unfortunately, she’s faded away for a bit.

It’s your job to bring her back.

A kiss on her forehead to remind her to come up for air, to let the world come rushing back into the room. But Chaewon’s not quite there yet.

She pants, pats your wrist, drawls, “Please, just, give me a second. Just a little bit. Too intense.”

Unfortunately, you’ve already made up your mind.

You push off her, giving her the shortest of seconds to catch her breath, claw her way back to some semblance of sanity before you start to make your way down her body.

She deserves it, all of it. Kisses on every inch of hot, sweaty skin.

Revel in the aftershocks that make her tremble. Make her sigh when your lips drag down her chest, return a tongue to her nipple, feel it shiver on your tastebuds. Get lower and lower, let her legs give way, making your destination clear.

It’s impossible to miss all these tiny little reactions, these quivers and shakes. The gasps at the sticky trail your fingers are leaving behind.

She’s a mess already, all because of you, and you can’t get enough of the power in that.

Right until you’re on your knees.

“I think I like the look of this,” Chaewon lets out a breezy laugh, so pleased to rest her legs over your shoulders.

You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. And then get right in, drag a tongue from bottom to top.

Chaewon’s thighs clatter on either side of your head.

And now you return her laugh, “You seriously think you’re in charge right now?”

Her hands flail, and it’s so cute the way she tries to reach down, shuffle her cunt back onto your lips. Get her fingers in the back of your head, tugging at the strands. “Just,” she sighs, and sighs louder when you don’t immediately give in, “Let a girl fantasise, would you?”

“Only because you asked nicely.”

“Good,” and she pulls you back in, blessing you with the most pleasant of whines when she so kindly requests, “Now, pretty please, would you just fuck me with your mouth for, like, a second, okay?”

“Nice to see you still have your manners,” you say, already sucking a bruise into her skin. “We just might make a lady out of you yet.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Chaewon’s words barely leave her mouth before they trail off, lost somewhere between a laugh that turns into a moan that cuts right off into a gasp when your tongue slides through her slit.

You taste her. Really, taking your time. Savouring her flavour.

And she’s got so much for you, making a mess of your chin already, and you make a mental note to add your carpet to the long list of surfaces she’s left forever unsalvageable.

It’s a wonder, truly, how delicate she is, how little she can take without straight-up disintegrating. The fact that the slight press of your lips makes her breaths stall, a brief swipe of your tongue causes her thighs to tremble and when you suck just right she needs to work every muscle in her body to stop from screaming.

You’re not even trying that hard.

Just enjoying the taste of her pussy.

It’s a fragile balance; Chaewon’s cunt is a sweet science. Build her up quick, keep her just on the edge of too much. Leave her hanging, begging, just enough anguish so she doesn’t hurtle over into that oblivion she so desperately craves.

You swirl your tongue, pressing in, reintroducing yourself to each one of her nerve endings. Every fold and dip intensely familiar, like there’s the one that makes her thighs quiver and there’s the one that makes her toes curl, and oh, when you push your tongue in right here and use this exact amount of pressure—

“Holy fuck—your fucking tongue—”

Yeah, that spot might as well have your fucking name on it.

Her hands say everything she’s too choked up to get out. In your hair, pulling, clawing at your scalp, urging you to go on. Trying, so desperately hard, to fuck your face, whimpering in despair the entire time, eventually getting out, “Seriously, what the fuck. How the fuck can you just do this?”

“Just how good you taste, baby,” you speak into her cunt, even though you know she was never really expecting an answer. Just wanted some acknowledgment of the things you do to her.

But maybe she has a point—this skill you’ve built up for breaking Chaewon. Maybe it’s the way you’re so thorough, so precise. So greedy for her. Like you could never get enough. Just eat her out until your jaw gets tired, your tongue loses all strength, your body just gives out.

And even then.

You push your tongue inside, and it’s heaven, just pure heaven, to feel her clamp down around you. Her whole body thrumming against your mouth, her thighs tensing on either side of your face, her stomach tightening underneath the pressure of your palm.

You suck hard on her clit, and—

“Christ, you fucking—” she curses, failing to contribute anything else, besides a dying wail of your name.

“Shhh,” you hush into her folds, but it’s a fruitless endeavour. Chaewon has never once in her life been the quiet type.

“Oh, fuck off,” Chaewon says, breathing deeply, something of a laugh creeping out her throat. “You fucking love it. Love the idea of everyone knowing what a slut I am for you. Love having everyone see me and know immediately that you’ve had your mouth on me. That it’s your cum dripping out of my cunt.”

“Guilty,” you say, intending it to come out as an apology. But really, it’s just boasting at this point.

It’s all a test to you, a game. See how loud you can get Chaewon to be. How easy you can overcome her self-control, what little shreds of dignity she has intact. Try to put a thick, white stain on her flawless public image.

And you always win.

Every time she cums, you win.

So, you keep going.

Push the pace just a little, push her. Tongue laving, curling around her clit. Flicking and suckling until she’s just a puddle of needy noises and boneless limbs.

You look up at her, peer over her mound, see her chest rising and falling, her cheeks flushed and eyes hazed over with this utterly devastating look of pure want—so wet and messy and perfect. Like she’s drowning in it, even though you’re the one quickly running out of oxygen between her legs.

She’s so close, just needs that extra bit of effort. That little twirl of your tongue that turns her knees to jelly. And her pussy pulses against your lips, spine lifting off the desk, head banging against the wood.

She’s aching.

Sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing spectacularly at keeping her voice down, keeping herself from making sure everyone in the fucking building knows your name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she’s chanting, when your fingers get busy again, pressing in deep, curling just right. And then, “baby, baby, baby,” when you start to pump into her, really get into it, sucking down on her cunt and letting her ride out her pleasure on your chin.

It somehow gets even messier.

“Can’t,” interspersed with, “fuck”, and topped off with a row of accusations, “why do you do this—how can you—” and ended with the whines of “don’t—don’t—please don’t you dare—”

But then—you stop.

Chaewon makes her agonising protest heard. Eyes snapping to yours, absolutely murderous. Simply, “Why?”

Because you enjoying watching her squirm.

Because you love to torture her.

Because you haven’t got what you want yet.

It’s so easy for you—break the hold her legs have on you, keep her stuck to your desk with a hand on her diaphragm. You stand up, watch her whine, see how her abs flex. Helpless when you take hold of her hips and flip her tiny frame over until she’s face down on a stack of papers.

You could throw her over your shoulder and parade her around your office and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Probably thank you afterwards.

But instead you just make her wait. Hold still, pussy leaking all over your desk. Ass pointing up in the air.

Perfect, round, prepared.

Designed by some divine engineering to be caressed, squeezed, worshipped. To be spanked. You palm one cheek, seeing how the flesh bounces back with a jiggle, before letting it go with a smack. The sound rings out, sharp, stinging.

Instantly recalling memories of the last time you left it a much darker shade of pink. You’re inclined to do it again.

For now though, you just bend down. Give it a gentle kiss.

Chaewon does her best to turn back, glaring. Like she doesn’t get off on the size difference.

She can’t find the words, so you give them to her, “You know what I want.”

Blushing, flustered, frantic. “You want me to beg.”

You nod. Wait patiently. Lips to her ass again.

Her eyes close, she inhales deep. Huffs through her nose. You spy the way her back curves and goes taut. Her hands clenching into fists.

Give her time. She’s a pro at this game too. Knows exactly how to play it. Chaewon’s voice comes out clear, no longer a mess of half-formed cries, or barely-there whimpers, but something sharp and precise:

“I need you to fuck me. Now. Please, please, fuck me hard. I don’t care if we get caught. Just. My cunt, my ass—any hole you want, I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—I really, really need your fucking cock to stretch me out. Right now. I'm begging. Just like you wanted. Let me fucking cum.”

And then, to extend the torment just a little longer, “Haven’t I made you cum enough?”

“It doesn’t count unless I cum on your cock. Unless you fill me all the way up. Use me, own this ass. Make me walk outside with your cum inside me, dripping down my thighs, leaving a trail of you everywhere I go.”

“Such a needy little slut, aren’t you?” You grin, raising goosebumps with your words, Chaewon shuddering under the ghost of your lips. Knowing there’s nothing she wouldn’t say, nothing she wouldn’t do just to have you use her again.

She gives up. “Don’t call me that unless you’re going to treat me like one.”

Yeah, God himself couldn’t strike the grin off your face. “Well, if you’re going to ask me like that.”

“Anything to get you to finally stop teasing me, please. I don’t think I can handle it, just, just—”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Chaewon,” you say, and then you lick her, from her cunt to her ass with one long drag of your tongue.

Chaewon gasps. Cums again.

It’s just the thought of it that wrecks her. The thought of your cock pushing into that puckered hole, the thought of your fingers gripping into her hips and your thumbs pressing in bruises.

And you can see Chaewon’s shoulders bunch up, her ass tilting and pointing higher up towards you. The realisation of what’s to come setting in—you’re going to take Chaewon’s ass once again, make good on a promise you brokered when you first bought her that silver toy and pushed it into the tightest little hole she had.

You spit on her asshole. The saliva glistens against her skin.

Chaewon’s whispering, talking to you, herself. Just doing what she can to brace through it all without completely falling apart again. “Fuck, I can’t believe it. Can’t believe you’re going to do this again. That I’m going to let you.”

Your tongue returns, sloppily tracing the crevice between her cheeks, sliding up and down. It teases this moan out of her, loud and mangled and guttural, but still so melodic to your ears. Makes her cunt throb against your chin, gush even more.

Yeah, you can feel it in her thighs, flexing and pushing back, urging her ass further onto your tongue. Not that you need the encouragement. Because you’re loving it, feasting on her taste, her flavour. Her scent. Inhaling it in, all of her, all of that peach-shaped perfection.

You’re going to lose your mind.

So, you spread her open. Sure, the butt plug has done its work—done its best—loosening her up, but she’s still so maddeningly tight that you know it’s going to get dangerous, going to be such a fucking squeeze.

Your tongue dips low to scoop up all that sweet, sweet juice that’s been building up. Eagerly licking up her cum, spreading the mess across her ass cheeks, adding your own brushes to the masterpiece.

And it is, all of it, your magnum opus.

Her cheeks parting and glistening underneath the warm office lights.

Her hole clenching, and relaxing. A wink because it knows what you’re going to do to it.

You push your tongue in that tiny pucker, just for a second, and it fucks Chaewon up good.

One final lick, one final perfect groan from her lips.

“Please.”

Stand up, cock in hand, line it up with that incredible, dark little hole.

Bend over, get close, and slowly, “I’m going to pound this hot fucking ass. Ruin it. Own it.”

Chaewon’s panting, nodding with each word. It’s all she can do. Hardly in any state to protest or argue or do anything but beg for you to do the one thing that’ll make her feel whole again.

You add that extra bit of torment, “And when I cum, when I fill your ass. You’re going to thank me. Thank me for using you as my own personal cumdump. Understand?”

“Yes,” Chaewon breathes, barely, and there it is: “I’ll do anything you want, just, please—”

Oh, the fucking grind when you push your hips forward, and the endless groan it rips from Chaewon’s throat.

“Fucking hell,” you’re cursing, barely inside, but still.

You push, inch by inch, feeling that rigid ring of muscle open itself up to you. Feeling like it’ll never end, this burning, fucking hot sensation; that has her melting around you, like she was always meant to be.

And it’s your name on her tongue, cursed and chanted and praised as you get deeper and deeper, until the words just dissolve into mindless mewls and whimpers and—“Fuck—so fucking deep.”

She’s just so hot underneath you, stretched impossibly wide around your girth, holding you tight and burning you up. And when you’re finally in; when you’re buried completely in Chaewon’s ass, and your legs are shaking and her eyes are wide and starting to well up, she whispers. Hushed, reverent—

“So perfect.”

You can’t come up with anything better than that.

Nothing in this world is better than your cock impaled in her ass, her pussy gushing onto your desk, and your hands just gripping so nicely around her hips.

God, just the way she fits. Made for this. Made for you.

You press your lips to her back, like licking salt before downing a shot. A last show of kindness for her to carry with her through the coming storm, through all your grand plans and designs to properly wreck her perfect, petite body.

Chaewon knows the score, “You’re just going to do whatever you want to me now, aren’t you?”

“Exactly like you want,” you answer, and draw your hips back, torturously slow, almost slipping out entirely.

Giving Chaewon’s ass a moment’s relief, letting her have a beat to pant, to inhale hot air, to remember what it’s like to not be so completely full of you.

Her shoulders heave, her spine curves upwards, and this is what you’ve been waiting for.

Chaewon, the idol—your princess. All doe-eyes and runny make-up and fucked up little sighs. No one was ever supposed to see her like this. See her looking anything less than magazine-cover perfect, anything less than dolled up and posed in designer dresses and outfits so nicely for a music video, or an award show, or a stage.

No one should ever see the lines in her picturesque face all flushed and twisted in agony. Her perfect bob in shambles. Her eyes wide, pupils blown, in tears. Her mouth loose and open and hot. Her ass bright fucking red.

No one but you.

You snap your hips back in. As hard as you can.

And—“Fuck!”

Too sudden. Too hard, too fast. Yet not nearly enough.

One stroke after another. Slipping in and out, easier and easier as Chaewon bends to your tempo, the pace you’re setting. Slow, steady, firm strokes that add on top of each other, and Chaewon keeps getting louder and louder until it’s now not just a problem, it’s going to be a fucking scandal.

The celebrity, fucked like some common whore by an executive on a power-trip. So easy for anyone to overhear, anyone to realise what’s going on behind the glass walls and the dark curtains.

Fuck, you’re not even sure if you remembered to even lock the door.

But the thought alone, someone walking in, witnessing the terrible and beautiful and fucking obscene way you’re claiming her—it’s the purest high. Making her take it. Treating her like a possession. Like she loves to be. Seeing her body shake, her face scrunch, her eyes sobbing at just the effort to keep silent.

It’s no use.

She’s so loud.

So, so loud.

Chaewon pushes herself off the desk, posts two hands flat to brace herself. Lifting herself up to give a better angle, to get you in deeper, letting you just chase that sweet, sweet sound of your cock slapping into her ass.

It’s fantasy, filth, every repressed wet-dream come to life. This pain that twists into pleasure and rocks her body, pounding her into your desk. Knocking over your monitor, sending your keyboard clattering to the floor. Chaewon’s nails fuck up the wood, leaving white scrapes on the varnish.

“I hate how—how good you feel. Fuck, I hate it—hate how much I need it—fuck.”

You grunt, slam your hips into her, make your cock disappear into her. “Stop lying.”

“I’m not—”

“It’s just you and me here, Chae,” even though you’re not entirely sure that’s the case, “Be honest with yourself for once.”

“Fuck—fine!” Chaewon’s on the verge of collapse, still cum-drunk, brain all cock-addled and filled with incoherent thoughts that are all distinctly related to how good your cock feels when it’s stretching her ass to its limits. “I love it, okay? I love being used. Love how much of a whore you make me. Love being treated just like this.“

"That’s all you had to say.”

You move.

Pull back, roll your hips, dragging your cock out of her tightness. Then pushing forward, plunging right back in, making her feel every inch. Forcing a whine out of her throat.

Steady, patient fucking.

The kind she loves to hate.

“Wait—please—why are you going so slow, it’s—”

Another slow draw, another hard fuck.

“Edging me like this is so fucking rude, I can’t believe you’d—”

Cutting her off with another deep thrust. Dragging. Deliberate. Faster.

“Such an asshole, doing this to me, can’t believe I’m letting you—”

Harder still. Building. Picking up speed.

“Fuck me harder. Faster. Please, I promise—I promise—”

Each stroke, each thrust, each grind, making her beg with every breath. But leaving her too helpless to do anything about it.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you. Like I already have been. Like I always am for you. Aren’t I always such a good girl for you?“

And it’s starting to have an effect on you too, all this holding back, this enduring; this burning sensation inside you is reaching critical mass and it only makes sense to get it the fuck out of your system and into Chaewon’s ass while she just slurs—

"Please, fuck me, please, I don’t know how much more of this I can take—”

But she still takes it, anything you throw at her. Until you’re fucking her ass so hard that everything coming out of her mouth just becomes white noise. One long, garbled plea, a never-ending moan that sounds something like:

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me. This cock is gonna make me cum so much. Fucking me so good, it’s—”

You’re relentless.

Turning up the heat, giving it to her exactly how she’s begged. Fast. Hammering into her ass, harder, meaner.

Long, harsh thrusts that break her in two every time.

And you’re really putting her lungs to work, testing their capacity. Making her go high-pitched until she’s jumping octaves and showing no signs of coming back down.

Getting out of control, and it’s after one harsh curse directed right at your cock that your hand shoots for her mouth; slapping your palm over her lips and making her choke down the sound.

But the moans don’t stop, just vibrate against your skin, like you’ve given her license to let herself go. Immediately making all the prior obscene declarations of slutdom and whoring seem tame in comparison.

And it’s borderline impressive, the creativity with which she spurns all manners of filth and profanity, everything screamed into your hand, barely muffled. Not stopping, not slowing down at all, until her teeth are sinking into your palm with only her spit to soothe the pain.

It’s only fair that you have words for her too.

“Can’t even control yourself, Chae. Such a nasty cockslut. So fucking tight,” you growl, and it’s getting harder to hold on by the minute, your own vision starting to swim. “Unbelievable. So tight. So pretty. Just taking my cock like this. My little whore. Tell me, who’s going to want you after this?”

It’s your words that make Chaewon preen. Makes her ass spasm around your cock, her pussy melt. And she’s fighting, fighting for air, fighting to stay together, fighting to stay on her feet.

But she’s slipping.

“Mine.” You reach out, wrap your hand around her chest. It’s her tits, swinging underneath her, bouncing with every solid thrust, every rough push into her ass. It’s fucked that it’s taken you this long to get your hands back on them, dig into the lovely flesh, pinch and tug and fuck her up even more.

Holding her tiny frame against you, in your arms, an anchor for your worst desires.

Feeling how small she is. Feeling everything about her. The softness of her breasts, the insane tension in her stomach, the warmth of her thighs. Feeling the wetness of her cunt, the intense heat of her ass. You thought she was fragile once. Now you know better.

Now you know how ridiculous it is that not only does someone like her exist, but that she’s also so willing to let you fuck her like this.

Willing to let you split her apart with every stroke and even then she’s just so, so desperate for more. Like it’s the best feeling, the only feeling she’ll ever need again.

“God,” because it hurts, “Yes,” because it still feels so fucking good, and, “Keep going, please, fuck, keep going,” even though you don’t need any urging at all.

She’s drooling down your wrist, tears are streaking out the corners of her eyes—she’s broken, overwhelmed, overstimulated. Loving it entirely and there’s no way she’ll be able to get out of here in one piece.

Someone—everyone will know. It’ll play out exactly like she said it would, like you knew it would when you called her over.

Your office will never be the same.

“Can you hear that?” You taunt in her ear, all low and gravelly.

Chaewon’s eyes fly open, gaze hazy. Confused. There’s nothing but the sound of your hips slapping against her cheeks, your cock fucking filthy noises out of her ass.

You’re so happy to explain it to her. “Can’t hear anything, right? Nothing outside these walls. Do you wanna know why?”

A tiny little sigh escapes her when you peel your fingers off her lips, satisfied that she just might be able to hold back her screams for a minute. Drag your hand down, lower, glide it over her skin, pick up the sweat along the way, and end up at her cunt. A finger pressing down onto her clit. Rolling it.

“It’s because they’re listening.”

The cry that’s torn from her throat, louder, she’s going to wear out her vocal cords at this rate, ruin that angelic singing voice, but fuck it’s the most satisfying sound.  

You lean into it, toy with her tits, trace your finger around her cunt. Slide your tongue along her throat and kiss into that sweet spot under her ear.

“They’re all wondering why you’re screaming so much. Why you’re so desperate to keep it down. What’s got you so fucking crazy?”

Chaewon’s eyes are wild, she’s torn, but she’s so fucked out of coherence that her mouth and her tongue have lost all ability to do anything but plead, agree, repeat your name.

“Actually, they probably already know. Now they just want to hear what you sound like when you really cum hard. What it’s like to be used. To be fucked by me.”

Your fingers are dipping lower, pushing into her cunt, instantly drenching them in her wetness. And she’s biting down on her cheek so hard, adding onto the litany of bruises and marks you’ve already left on her. It’s all getting to be too much—for you, for her—her whole body tightening around you, cunt spasming around your digits, ass choking your cock and—

“Tell them, Chaewon. Let them hear. Tell them what it’s like to have my cock in your ass.”

Chaewon tries her best. “It feels so—”

“Louder.”

Barely can string a proper sentence together, can’t find the oxygen for it, “Feels so good.”

You’re not helping at all, not giving her a chance of a respite. Fucking the wind out of her, leaving her completely out of breath, a complete catastrophe of need and want and tiny, desperate sounds. But you insist, again, “Louder.”

“I—I—I can’t—I can’t—”

Her wrists give way, she falls into the desk. You’re quick to grab a fistful of hair, snatch it in your fingers before she can collapse face-first into the wood. Wrenching her head back, holding her up so you can keep pounding into her. “Try harder.”

“Please,” she cries, but it’s only making your strokes harsher, more punishing. Everything she needs. Setting every part of her on fire. The pace, the pressure, the force. Leaving her so flushed, and she knows you’re not going to stop until you get what you want, so—"Your gorgeous fucking cock is tearing me in two.”

“More.”

“It’s so fucking good, opening my ass—stretching me out—fucking me until I can’t even think straight. I don’t—I don’t know—I don’t think I can take it—Jesus fucking Christ—it’s too much.”

“You’re so good for me, Chaewon, you’re being such a good girl,” you tell her, cooing into her neck. Convincing her of your own brand of love, whispering praises that she just soaks in, basking in every word—“No one could take me like this. No other ass could ever compare. You’re just too good. I could fuck you like this forever. I don’t care who sees. Who watches. I want everyone to know how perfect your ass is for me.”

“Yes,” Chaewon breathes, like she’s testing out what little remains of her voice. Makes a decision. Thows it all away, uses every last bit of strength to shout out, “Fuck it—everyone should know how much I love your cock in me. Fuck—how much I crave it—”

And it’s starting to hit you out of nowhere—this mind-numbing sensation that’s rattling through your bones. Fire in your veins, fireworks setting off down your spine. And you’re sliding into her ass, again and again, can’t stop, just going, every second bringing you closer to the end, and Chaewon deserves nothing more than a hand tightening around her throat and a hard fucking slap on her cheeks so—

“Everyone should know how hard you’re making me fucking cum!”

Her ass suffocates your cock.

Takes you forward with her, forcing you to fall into her and squash her against the desk. Pulling you in the deepest you’ve been yet, just completely impaled into her thoroughly-fucked ass, until you’re spilling into the depths of her.

“God, fuck, I can feel it—”

And Chaewon’s shaking beneath you too. Trapped under your weight; her body would be shivering, cumming until she’s tumbled off the furniture and onto the carpet, but there’s nowhere to go with you keeping her in place. Using her ass to milk out every last drop from your cock, making her feel it right in her guts, shooting inside her and filling her tight hole right to the brim.

Fuck.

It’s all coming out of her too.

Down her thighs, mixing with the wetness gushing out of her cunt, sliding down her legs. It’s all sweat, cum, juices, these running rivulets that rush all the way down to her feet, pooling on the floor.

No time to think about the mess your making, no time to think about what happens after. Just trying to survive it. The intense visual of Chaewon cumming helplessly, endlessly beneath you. The dozens of tiny shifts in her body; the crane of her neck, the tightening of her jaw, the tight little squeezes of her ass around your cock, and the curl in her swollen lips—

That smile.

It’s everything: absolute debauchery, pornographic, and it makes you want to rip your heart right out of your chest and give it to her.

You hold her through it, kiss her down off that ledge, whisper quiet things from a tender place deep inside you that you had no idea still existed.

And yeah, maybe it’s a little concerning how sweet Chaewon gets right as you’ve broken her. Kissing into your wrist, nuzzling into your forearm with her nose. A whisper, barely heard as she goes weak beneath you, submitting completely when she sighs against your skin, “You really fuck me up good, you know?”

She keeps herself wrapped around you, no immediate ideas of ever leaving, ever existing in a world where your cock isn’t completely seated in her ass, where your cum isn’t painting the walls of her insides. Just so wrecked by all of it. By all of you.

So you keep kissing into her back, soothe her down. Kiss up her spine, kiss that spot between her shoulder blades, kiss her more, kiss her everywhere, until your mouth is a mess and her skin is a canvas of your lips.

Keep your hands busy, too busy. At her sides, and lower still, massaging into the tender bruises across her ass cheeks, as if you weren’t the one that put them there in the first place. But now it’s your job to fix them. To nurse them away. Make it right again.

Chaewon makes this slow, languid movement, a shift underneath you that has your softening cock slip out of her, has her rolling onto her back. Looks up at you; this beautiful, drowsy haze pulled over her teary eyes, and it all should be so played out by now, should be something your used to, but really, Chaewon’s truly stunning.

Gorgeous, all the time, but when she’s like this—used, ruined, destroyed, in a pool of her own cum—she’s on a different plane of existence.

She smirks, because she can read your mind, and sighs, “I’m going to miss this when you get fired.”

You’re cracking up, wiping the sweat across your brow with the back of your hand. “And what have I done for that to happen?”

“Um, try, railing the talent in the middle of the company office, maybe?”

“I think you did a pretty good job at keeping it down.”

Chaewon enunciates slowly. Like she's talking to a child. “I literally screamed at the top of my lungs that you were making me cum. The security guard on the ground floor heard it.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, but you’re already lifting her leg before you can think better of it. Lips meeting her ankle, her calf, once again well on your way to making Chaewon’s pretty little head let go of every thought that isn’t what you’re doing to her at this very moment. “Probably.”

And it’s when you get to her knee, and lower, further down, where she’s let herself get so wet and shiny and messy, and now that she’s quivering again, there’s no going back.

Your teeth graze along the inside of her thigh, your lips drag achingly slow, stopping short of where she needs you to be. “But no one on this floor did.”

Chaewon blinks. Stares at you, adorably annoyed. Happily frustrated that you’re back to torturing her.

“Told everyone to go home after you arrived. So, we’re in the clear. No one here but us.”

A myriad of emotions flash across Chaewon’s painfully pretty features. Relief, amusement, disbelief. Awe.

But also—disappointment.

Because here’s the real rub, the truth of the matter. The thing she’d only admit to in some darkened room; or scream into your hand, or a pillow, or, in this case, a stack of overdue paperwork.

Chaewon lives for this shit, as much as you do.

The thrill, the rush of almost getting caught, the addiction to having an audience.

Yeah, it’d probably make her cum buckets if someone was to witness the exact moment you actually break her.

And you can already see the gears turning in her head, thinking of the next time you’ll push her past her boundaries, raise the stakes, maybe forget to evacuate a floor before nailing her to the closest hard surface.

Find out just how much of a good girl she really is for you.

But for now she just smiles up at you. Lets the thought churn inside her. Simmering, then boiling, and then getting exponentially hotter, wetter; moans tumbling out of her lips until all that’s left is for her to accept that—

“Oh, you’re the worst.”

You quite readily accept your punishment for your crimes on her body; the individual counts against her cunt and her lips and her ass. Serve out your term between her legs, starting it off with a lick that passes the entirety of her pussy.

Bringing the two of you right back to the beginning, where her hands are threading into your hair and you’re putting your mouth to good use and making her go from hushed to panting to whining, and again she’s close to shattering into a million tiny pieces because fuck.

She really, really does make it so easy.

Easy to keep going, even when you're mentally and physically spent; even when she's lost all fight in her, can't even summon the strength to beg a little more, to plead for you to make it hurt better.

Easy to fuck—to make love to her.

To fall for her.

You don’t think you could ever stop, you don’t think she’d ever let you. No, even when the moment shifts, and you’re switching up gears, and you have her spread out over the comfort of your couch instead of your rigid office desk, she still is, and will always be, yours to play with.

And it's Chaewon’s eyes going soft, her arms wrapping around your neck, and she’s holding you tight, holding you like a lifeline.

Her voice is simply gone, no more declarations, but she’s already said all she needs to. Let you in on this quiet need inside her. This gentle craving. For something like this.

For someone like you.

You kiss her.

It’s different.

Take your time—you’re too drained to rush.

Just sink back into Chaewon, fall into her light kisses against your cheek, whispers of what you swear sound like three dangerous words, but you’re too tired to make them out.

Just embrace her, embrace the girl that could have anything, be anything she wants to be, but for some reason has chosen to be yours. Let your fingers run over her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and lower.

Lose yourself in her, in this unholy silence that’s gradually being cut into by her gasps and her moans, and—

You pause.

Shush Chaewon.

Hear the low hum of a vacuum right outside your door.

“Ah. Shit. Cleaners.”

A scant thought crosses your mind.

"You think they heard?"

Chaewon smiles. Shrugs.

Somehow finds one last sliver of energy to adjust herself beneath you.

"Maybe," she's whispering. Reaching out to touch you. Rolling her hips. Making you throb. "Probably."

And now she's grinning, and you can feel it in your chest. That thrill that never really went away, the chase you can't quite escape from.

It's against your better judgment, but you're already surfacing these ideas, the things you could do to her; how creative you could really get in your office—just hoisting her up on her feet and pressing her against the walls and fucking her into the glass until she's leaving an imprint.

Chaewon reads it on your face.

Knows that all she has to do is ask:

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

[jeondesu]

ೀ⋆ 📚 THE PERFECT PAIR !

── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. college au, fluff, angst (kinda but not rlly), minor profanity, jisung is the cutiest pie ever oml 𝔀ords. 2.3k

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — omg, i just realized i haven’t posted an actual written fic on here in FOREVER that’s crazy, we need to change that. but n e way, this is actually for @sta4, i’m so sorry this took a gazillion years (pls forgive me) and i rlly hope you liked it <3

“Be honest… do you think she noticed?” Jisung looked visibly in distress, his face drained of all color as if he’d just witnessed a paranormal sighting in his own dorm.

“Dude she definitely saw it, you blew it. Big time.” Jeongin states matter-of-factly, as if it were the end all be all.

Jisung slumped backwards, sinking into the mattress, dark brunette strands tumbled haphazardly over the pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. He’d been overthinking and analyzing every little detail for hours since that fleeting encounter you had with him in class this morning. He didn’t want to believe a word his friend was telling him, still latching onto a sliver of hope that you hadn’t took a peek at his laptop screen before he slammed it shut the second you walked up to him.

He grimaced at the thought of you taking note of his Goku wallpaper, everything happened so fast, he wasn’t given much time to react— though he’s almost 99% positive you hadn’t caught sight of it.

You approached him with a confident stride, your head held high, even adding a little wave which he barely registered as being directed towards him. He thought he was hallucinating from being so sleep deprived, staying up all night playing video games might’ve finally took a toll on him— but as he blinks again to snap out of his ‘dream’, you’re still standing right there.

Jisung was more than confused why you of all people would want to talk to him, praying by some miracle you couldn’t detect how much of a nervous wreck he was on the inside, forcing a stiff smile as he tried his best to play it off like he totally wasn’t losing his mind.

The strong scent of your perfume lingered in the air, making it even more of a struggle for him to breathe, let alone speak, but he couldn’t shake off the embarrassment. If you knew how much of a weeb he truly was, he’d probably never show his face around you or on campus ever again.

“Okay, maybe there’s a possibility she may have seen it, but only for a split second! Otherwise, I think I played it cool.” He recants, brushing off his friend’s lack of verbal support, “I was in the middle of an intense game of Tetris and she asked for my notes!”

Jeongin shrugs, “Okay, so..? That doesn’t suddenly make her interested in you.”

“Yeah it does, because she asked me specifically out of everyone else so that’s gotta mean something, right?” He reaffirms, the hopeful tone in his voice laced with sheer desperation.

Jeongin shifts slightly, leaning further into the comfort of his gaming chair, not even bothering to pause his game of League of Legends to entertain his friend’s delusions. He didn’t mean to crush Jisung’s ego with his cynicism but he had to be realistic.

“You sound like those giddy high school girls who just interacted with their crush for the first time.”

Well, he wasn’t lying, he surely did feel like one. Ever since you spoke to him earlier all he could think about was you— nothing else occupied his mind. He couldn’t concentrate on a single thing, couldn’t retain any of the information he read as he studied, or even play League which was his favorite game of all time. He was deeply, utterly infatuated and his thoughts were scattered all over the place.

Jisung sinks his teeth into his lower lip, swallowing an unnecessarily thick lump that’s been sitting in the back of his throat, “Look, all I’m saying is I don’t think I totally blew it. She even winked back at me when she left! She’s into me, I can feel it.”

Jeongin chuckles at his friend’s sudden newfound confidence but still remains unconvinced.

“We’ll see about that tomorrow when she ignores you and forgets that you even existed.”

+

The next day in class, Jisung is doing everything he can to try and maintain a nonchalant demeanor but it wasn’t working— at all. He’d completely thrown his ‘cool’ act out the window the minute he accidentally locked eyes with you, not even noticing how he’s been anxiously bouncing his leg underneath the desk.

He could’ve sworn you were an otherworldly being, he didn’t even feel adequate enough to be sitting in the same room as you.

You had sat a couple rows ahead of him, he preferred to always sit in the back along with Jeongin. He couldn’t help but stare, you were simply nothing short of perfect— lost in a trance as he watched you absentmindedly twirl the pencil you had borrowed from him along with his notes from the day before.

You had jotted down a few things in your spiral notebook, but it seemed as though you weren’t paying much attention to the lecture, copying most of your friend’s notes who sat beside you, every so often you’d be giggling at something she whispered to you— having been shushed by the professor more than once already.

Class went on as usual— it dragged on slower than it normally did, but maybe that was because Jisung kept zoning in and out. He didn’t take very many notes since he already knew most of the material like the back of his hand, but he still pretended to anyway, scribbling nonsense in the margins just to keep his hands busy, not even realizing that he’s wrote your name several times with hearts surrounding it, flipping the page immediately before Jeongin could notice what he’d been mindlessly up to.

Once class was officially over, everyone scrambled out of their seats to rush out of there as quickly as possible. Jeongin had one more class left that took place in ten minutes, bidding his goodbyes before he dashed out the classroom. Jisung slung his bag over his shoulder, getting ready to leave— until you appeared from seemingly out of nowhere, the sweet scent of your perfume infiltrating his senses once again.

Holding your notebooks flat against your chest, your delicate, freshly manicured hand tapped his arm lightly— just enough to get his attention. As if you didn’t already have it given to you on a silver platter.

He froze in place, still recovering from the shock of the events that unfolded from yesterday.

“Hey Jisung, I was wondering if-”

“Yes.” He blurts without hesitation before you could even finish your sentence, instantly regretting everything— oh how he wants to bash his head against the wall repeatedly at this very moment..

You could see the desperation seeping through his pores, but you don’t point it out. It was honestly kind of cute to you and you found it endearing how timid he’d act around you, a stark contrast from most of the frat boys you’d often interact with.

He attempts to save himself by quickly rephrasing his words, only to come off as more socially inept than he already is. “S-sorry.. it’s been a long day for me. Uh, what did you need..?”

You giggled softly, “I was wondering if you could help me with statistics? Unfortunately I’m not doing very well and can’t afford to flunk this semester, so I was hoping you could tutor me?” Your eyes beamed at him as if they held a million galaxies in them.

“Y-yeah, sure. I can help!” He awkwardly responds, adjusting his thick framed glasses by pushing them up with his index and middle finger.

A smile spreads across your face upon hearing that, “oh, awesome!” You weren’t expecting him to readily agree on the spot, but it worked out in your favor perfectly. “So, what days are you free?”

24/7. Every hour. Every minute. Every second. He would simply rearrange his whole life for you.

“Usually I’m free on Tuesdays or Thursdays, sometimes Wednesdays but it depends,” he answers, trying to sound as if he’s been asked this a million times before. “But.. if none of those days don’t work for you, I can work something else out.”

That was a total lie. There was nothing he needed to work out.

“Oh and weekends are kinda iffy for me,” he added.

Yet another lie. He was quite literally always free.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays works out perfectly for me, actually!” You take up his offer right away, “how does tomorrow after school at my place sound?”

You spoke so casually, completely unfazed, as if you weren’t actively flipping his entire world upside down. He simply nodded. Somehow managing not to freak out instead of dropping to his knees in front of you like some lovesick puppy.

“Cool! Wanna exchange numbers?” You calmly suggest while pulling out your phone from the back pocket of your jeans.

Jisung nervously gulped, his throat going dry yet again as he slowly feels himself about to have a mental breakdown.

You wanted his phone number?

Now he’ll really get the last laugh when he rubs it in Jeongin’s face that he’s got one of the prettiest and most popular girls at school’s number. You switch phones and he adds his contact information into yours to which you do the same for him.

Once you gave it back, his heart nearly leaps out of his chest when he sees the contact name you set in his phone: ‘y/n <3’

+

“C’mon y/n, we only have four more problems left.” Jisung is doing all he can to try and motivate you, pointing his finger at the next problem he urged you to solve but you groaned in response.

You invited him over to your dorm while your other roommate would be gone for a couple of hours, opting to study in your room rather than the common area. Your room was on the smaller scale, but still had a warm and cozy atmosphere to it. Movie posters and fairy lights lined the walls of your side, along with dozens of little random trinkets you’ve collected over the years as decoration, and succulent plants sat on the window sill. The vanilla candle you burned added a nice touch, it was calming, tranquil— exactly how Jisung imagined it to be.

“I can’t do this anymore..” you draw out a heavy sigh, looking at the equation as it were in a third language. Math has always been your Achilles heel, it was your least favorite subject and you barely passed by the skin of your teeth each time.

“My brain’s going to explode if I continue this for another minute,” you couldn’t even force yourself to power through, you were beyond over it. Yes, you were being a little overdramatic, but you got the point across— you needed a well deserved break.

His hand accidentally brushed up against yours to grab a colored pencil, “okay, if you really need a break then let’s take one and I’m sorry if I’m overwhelming you in any way. I’ll finish the problem for you and we can stop for a while.” He writes the rest of the equation down on the worksheet and turns to you to hand the colored pencil back, hoping that you don’t notice his flushed exterior.

You lean your arm against the desk, resting the side of your face inside your palm, “can’t believe this is my life now.. studying for my stupid stats exams instead of having fun with my friends.”

Jisung couldn’t help but take some pride in himself for that, sure you may be just using him as a personal tutor but at least he’s getting to spend one on one time with you.

“So you chose studying with me over hanging out with your friends?”

He still couldn’t believe he was even here, he almost had a heart attack when you texted him first that same day you asked to exchange numbers. He would spend minutes contemplating over every little word, every punctuation, and if he wasn’t sure how to respond, he’d simply send you some weird meme that he found while scrolling on Reddit. His phone used to be drier than a desert, but now he’s checking it every 5 seconds in case he gets a new message from you.

“Yeah, I mean I could always see them another time but I refuse to retake this class again over the summer,” you shrugged, “plus you seem pretty cool, I like hanging out with you.”

Was he hearing things correctly? Did one of the most popular girls on campus just say that she likes hanging out with him? He truly felt like he was dreaming— yeah, he had to be dreaming.

“I didn’t think you hung out with guys like me..”

Your brows furrowed, glancing over at him as if he’d just said the most absurd news you’ve ever heard. “And what makes you think that?”

“Uh- I dunno.” He stammered, his eyes darting across the room, looking everywhere but at you.

Curse him for being so damn awkward… and curse you for being the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on.

You couldn’t help but giggle, “I actually think you’re really cute,” you confess, choosing a less subtle approach about expressing your feelings, “you’re nice and super smart too, which most guys aren’t.”

The two of you stayed in silence for what seemed like an eternity before he grew the ability to choke up a response, his ears burning the deepest shade of crimson, “Well.. thank you.”

“I mean it.” You solemnly replied, “Also, I think your Goku wallpaper is really cool.”

So you did notice it after all. But you didn’t care, you took interest in him because he was authentically himself, you liked him exactly for who he is— he’s never pretended to be something that he’s not.

Before you even gave him the opportunity to speak, you decide to lay it all out on the table. Harboring no regrets. “I like you a lot, Jisung.”

He paused, still trying to process everything that’s been thrown at him in a matter of seconds, but he could no longer deny the way he felt. The corners of his lips curled upward, his gummy smile making an eventual appearance, knowing exactly where this leads after he says those final words.

“I really like you too, y/n.”

it’s literally 3 am and i am SO SLEEPY, but i had to finish this for you guys <33 pls lmk if you liked this, likes/comments/reblogs are much appreciated tysm !! ( *ﾉ ▽ﾉ) ✧･ﾟ

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[nadvs]

the power play (part seven)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

“When’s that part supposed to be done again?” the voice buzzes from your laptop.

You glance up at Rafe when he steps into the study room, locking eyes as he shuts the door behind him.

“By Wednesday night,” you answer, looking at your screen again. The other students in your group project stare back at you, three guys who haven’t even tried to pull their weight.

“And we have to do the peer evaluation, too,” you add. “She expects us to be transparent about how everyone contributed. And I’m planning to be totally honest.”

Rafe settles in his seat, diagonal to you at the corner of the desk like always. A smile pulls at his lips. He hates when that serious, disappointed tone of voice is directed at him, but watching you give that attitude to another guy is something else entirely.

He places his laptop on the desk and crosses his arms as he watches you in amusement.

“Is that review thing online?” one of the guys asks. You tap your foot against the floor in frustration. You’ve mentioned where to find it at least five times.

“I have an appointment now,” you say, “but everything you need to know is in the rubric. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You exit the call, looking over at Rafe with wordless exhaustion. He doesn’t need you to tell him; that was about the group project you were venting to him about last week.

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip. It was hot to see you assert yourself like that. And he knows you’re just doing your job as his tutor, respecting the time you set aside for him, but it still makes his ego grow a little that you ended the call so quickly after he arrived.

And now he’s convinced you can’t do a single thing without it sending him into a mental spiral.

“Someone’s mad,” he murmurs.

“They’re killing me,” you say with a defeated chuckle. “I don’t know how many times I’ve had to repeat myself about things they can figure out on their own. Why do I have to hold grown men’s hands?”

“Damn,” he jokes, looking down and nodding, feigning offense.

“Well, I signed up to hold yours,” you laugh. “And you kind of hold mine with all the free therapy, so win-win.”

Rafe smirks. He’s not sure if he’s helped you nearly as much as you’ve helped him, if his version of therapy even comes close to how you’ve talked him down.

You need a physical reset after that frustrating call, a way to release the tension sitting in your body. You arch your back as you extend your arms above your head, stretching your muscles with a deep exhale.

Rafe’s mouth goes dry watching you dip your head back, your arms pulled high.

His thoughts are self-willed, running off with no warning, compelling him to imagine putting his lips along the column of your exposed neck, kissing you open-mouthed, cradling your head, hearing your sighs.

And because you have a special talent for driving him crazy, your shirt falls over your shoulder when you lower your arms. And you don’t fix it.

His eyebrows inch upward, left in stunned silence, fantasizing about planting his lips down your neck, over your collarbone, along your shoulder. Over and over again.

“Okay, I’m in tutor mode now,” you say, pulling his laptop towards you and opening it, oblivious to what you do to him. “Midterm on Monday. How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? Like infatuation and lust are burning through him. Like he might lose whatever sanity he has left.

He clears his throat.

“Where is it again?”

“Should be in the same lecture hall the class is in,” you say, dragging your fingers over the trackpad. “But we can check the message board to be sure.”

You feel his stare on you, then look up to see humor twinkling in his eyes.

The realization hits you. He’s messing with you, acting like the guys you were just on a call with.

“Notice how I don’t get annoyed when you do it?” you chuckle. “I told you that you were my favorite student.”

Rafe’s smile slightly fades as you turn your attention back to his laptop.

He doesn’t like the reminder of the birthday party, of the bitterness that made itself a home in his chest that night when you made it clear what he is to you. Just the guy you tutor. Just a friend.

And he swallows his pain down, because he’s not going to unleash his silent grudges on you. Not anymore.

════════

There’s only four games left of the tournament. A loss means the season is over. And Rafe can’t lose.

He’s in the middle of a scoring drill, preparing for a nerve-wracking match against the visiting team. The rolling of skates cutting over ice, the smacks of sticks hitting pucks, the din from the filling stands, all fill his ears.

As always, not giving this his all is not an option. No matter how much the dread of his shoulder acting up again hangs over him.

Hockey gives him an outlet, a purpose. When he sets out to block a shot or hit the puck into the net, when he throws himself into a game with nothing but aggression guiding him, the fervor that courses through him is unlike anything else.

He can’t lose that.

You settle into your seat at the side of the rink, many rows up, chatting with Lyla. Your eyes have been almost exclusively on Rafe since you came in and you can’t believe you used to attend games without paying him any mind before.

Then again, you didn’t know who he really was. You didn’t know that under the hard exterior was such a complex man that would unexpectedly start turning anything and everything in your world inside out.

“There’s no way,” Lyla mumbles to you, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Look.”

She points forward and you lean closer to her to see a couple of girls a few rows ahead looking at a phone. They’re on the college’s athletic department’s website, on the men’s ice hockey team roster page.

Rafe’s headshot and name is at the center of the screen as they whisper and giggle.

“There are eyes on your man,” she laughs. “Watch out.”

The jealousy that swirls through you is hot and unwelcome. You don’t bother trying to hide it. It’s what his real girlfriend would do anyway.

You meet Lyla’s eyes, flashing her an exasperated frown.

“I guess it comes with the territory?” you say, tense.

“Oh, my God, they’re trying to find him on Instagram,” she chuckles, then looks at you again. “You obviously have nothing to worry about. He only has eyes for you. Everyone can see it.”

The same frustrating, overwhelming discomfort you felt the night of the last game fills your senses.

You meant it when you told Rafe that you need to take some time for yourself, to not date until Beck is no longer on your mind.

But you can’t deny that since then, it’s like Rafe is claiming the space in your heart that Beck once owned. Except Rafe is taking it over with a thousand times more force.

While you thought Beck was what you needed – friendly and level-headed and calm – you’ve seen him for who he really is after putting distance between you.

Whether he meant to do it or not, he strung you along. With a clearer head, you can see his flaws. And you’re pretty sure he’s a people pleaser.

And it kind of feels manipulative. You don’t doubt he’s a mostly genuine person; it’s just that he chooses the comfort of being liked over the discomfort of honesty. You used to love it about him, seeing it as kindness, letting it cloud your vision, letting it lull you into infatuation.

Rafe gives you an entirely new thrill. He’s not concerned with people liking him. He says what he thinks, and even though he can be harsh, you appreciate being around a man like that. He may be moody, with little control over his temper, but at least he’s direct.

And it’s because of that that you know you can’t take Lyla’s words that everyone can see it to heart. What everyone’s seeing is fake.

He’s playing it up, pretending to like you because that’s what you agreed to do. If someone like him felt something real, they’d cut the bullshit and tell you.

You think of the fleeting moments you’ve had with Rafe, the soft, gentle vulnerability and the heart-racing affection brimming with what you wish was chemistry.

Maybe he feels something, too. But probably not. Your mind is heavy with fog after years of pining for someone and being sure they felt the same, only for it to crash and burn in heartbreak.

This is why you’re trusting your instinct to stay away from romance for the time being.

The familiar pain of a confusing crush pinches in your heart. You can’t believe you’re back here, back to sitting in the stands, a spectator to your heart’s choices, dwelling over a man you can’t take your eyes off of.

You didn’t break the cycle.

You just started a new one.

════════

At the end of the second period, you head to the bathroom with Lyla. You’re washing your hands in the middle of the long row of sinks and instinctually glance up when someone appears next to you.

Tension crushes your chest when you realize it’s Emma. You make brief eye contact, then abruptly end it. You step away to dry your hands when, to your surprise, she speaks as she walks by.

“Do you not have any of your own shirts?” she murmurs.

You have to take a second to absorb her words as she storms out.

You look at your reflection, Rafe’s jersey draped over your body. You wish she wouldn’t have caught you off guard, so you could at least laugh off her dig.

Even though you’re annoyed, you’re not offended. Because if you lost Rafe after having him for real, you’d be bitter, too.

You leave the crowded bathroom and wait in the hall for Lyla, deep in thought.

You agreed to this whole thing to make two people jealous. Beck stares at you like you’ve broken his heart. Emma’s pissed that her ex has a new girlfriend. You’ve achieved your goal. You can end this now.

For your own good, you think it’s finally time to do just that.

════════

Rafe is coming down from a high. It was a tight game, but they took the win. Three games left and they could be the champions.

He’s down to his boxers in the locker room when he checks his phone before heading to the shower. A smile perks on his lips when he sees you texted him.

Congratulations! You were amazing. I won’t be able to come out to celebrate because I’m drowning in school work :( Try to have fun without me (even though you can’t)

You’re kidding, but you’re right. He can’t imagine having nearly as good of a time if you’re not there.

He slams his locker shut, donning a scowl.

════════

The next night, you step into the humid house, your arm linked with Lyla’s, the memories of the last time you were in a frat house fresh in your mind.

Rafe had you propped up on the counter, his steely blue eyes fixed on you, his large hands on your thighs. It was weeks ago at this point, but the thrill it gave you still lives in your mind. So does the sight of him shirtless the morning after.

Rafe’s eyes land on you as you pace into the living room through the pockets of crowds. He texted you about this party, offering to pick you up, and you told him you’d meet him here. He’s been practically staring at the front door since.

He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s constantly holding his breath and he can’t breathe easy until he sees the girl who possesses his every thought.

You’re saying something to Lyla, your smile bright and your eyes dazzling and God, of course you’re wearing a dress that shows more of your body than he’s ever seen before.

If he didn’t know how sweet you are, he’d think you were purposely torturing him. And he knows other guys are looking at you. It makes his blood boil.

“I just shouldn’t talk when she’s around,” Isaac murmurs.

“Huh?” Rafe looks to his friend, who’s standing beside him, taking another drag of his beer.

“Huh?” Isaac mocks with a grin. “I was in the middle of saying something.”

Rafe can’t even pretend to be annoyed. Not when you’re in the same room.

“My bad,” he says, looking forward again. When you find his eyes, you flash him that smile that both breaks and mends his heart, pressing through the crowds to close the distance.

Rafe’s palm is flat against your back when he hugs you, stroking his thumb between your shoulder blades, your skin warm and soft. His body buzzes from the relief of reuniting, even though it’s only been two days since he saw you at the library.

“I have to thank you,” Lyla says to Rafe, half-shouting over the noisy chatter and music. “She never came to this many parties before she dated you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rafe replies, his eyes on you even though his words are directed to your best friend.

“Funny,” Isaac says to you. “He used to go to everything, but he wouldn't come out last night because you weren’t there.”

Your brows knit, pleasantly surprised, hesitatingly touched as you look up at Rafe.

“Really?” you say.

Rafe needs to play it off. He’d thoughtlessly admitted it to Isaac yesterday after leaving the locker room, saying you weren’t coming out anyway, so why would he?

“Can’t have fun without you,” he replies, repeating your text back to you. You’re unsure if he’s just saying that as your fake boyfriend, or if he really feels that way.

“That’s cold,” Isaac mutters in his usual joking way. “I’m right here.”

Lyla laughs, then squeezes your forearm.

“I saw some girls from my film class,” she tells you. “Do you want to go say hi with me or stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” you reply.

“Thought so,” she says with a knowing grin. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s the deal with your friend?” Isaac asks the moment Lyla scurries away.

“The deal?” you say.

“What’s her type?” he asks. “If I ask her out, would I get laughed at?”

“Ohhh,” you say with a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to get a date?”

“I’ll owe you big, okay?” he replies, putting his hand to his heart. “For that and for my essay. What do you think of it, by the way?

“I’m halfway through,” you reply, having taken a look at it that morning between your classes. “I think you need more annotations, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow night with my notes.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Isaac says. “Be honest. Who’s the better writer? Me or Rafe?”

“Rafe,” you reply immediately, gazing up at him. He’s pretty sure that the sound of you saying his name is better than anything he’s ever heard.

“Well… obviously you’re going to pick your boyfriend,” Isaac mumbles, then gazes past your shoulder. “So? Do I stand a chance?”

You follow his eyeline to see he’s staring at Lyla. You can imagine her liking Isaac.

“You might,” you say, then turn back around. “She likes when guys are direct, but don’t be presumptuous.”

“Whatever that means,” Isaac says, then looks at Rafe. “Is she always using big words?”

You chuckle, “Be yourself. And don’t be too forward. Be a gentleman.”

Right now, Rafe would be wondering what your type is, what you like guys to do. But he knows. It’s Beck, who’s different from him in every way.

“So, don’t be yourself,” Rafe chides.

Isaac flashes him a humored, but sarcastic smile, flipping his friend off before downing his drink.

“See you guys,” he says, stepping past you.

You let out an amused exhale, resting into the first private moment you’re having with Rafe tonight.

“Hi,” you say, taking his strong features in as he towers over you.

“Hey.” His eyes drift over your face. The bass of the music filling the thick air is no match to how loud his heart is thumping in his ears. “I know you can hold your own, but you don’t have to help him.”

“Back up,” you say, your smile widening. “Hold my own? Did you just give me a compliment?”

“That call I walked in on was intense,” he says with a half-chuckle. “It’s obvious you don’t take any shit.”

It’s meaningful praise, not only because it’s coming from him, someone who’s usually so aloof, but also because of how many times people have mistakenly seen your kindness as a sign that you let others get away with mistreating you.

And it’s unexpected. You never imagined feeling like Rafe sees a part of you that so many don’t.

Your crush on him was supposed to stay noncommittal. Meaningless. Shallow.

The squeezing sensation in your heart is telling you that might not be a possibility, because seeing this kind, tender side of him is proof that maybe he could be the type of boyfriend you’d want.

“I would’ve told Isaac no if I couldn’t do it,” you reply, “but I’m happy to do a favor if I can manage it.”

He still looks worried. A warm, comforting sense of endearment zips through you. You weren’t lying to Lyla when you’d told her that you liked Rafe’s protectiveness.

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” you add, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

Silence sinks between you, your gazes locked, your smiles slowly fading as tension replaces every remaining sense of amusement.

Rafe breaks the stare. He looks down, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. He can’t have these types of moments with you. He’s fighting everything in him not to kiss you.

“You want a drink?” he asks, looking towards the dining room. “If you can pace yourself.”

You glance at the beer bottle he’s holding.

“Is that all they have?” you ask.

“I grabbed the first thing I saw,” he replies.

“I never tried that kind before.”

Rafe doesn’t think. He just holds it out, perching the neck of the bottle towards you.

Your fingers brush over his as you accept the offer, taking the cold bottle and lifting the smooth cusp against your mouth, your knees weak as you think about how he just had his lips right where yours are.

You take a small sip, promptly cringe at the sourness, and hand it back to him with a look of disgust. He laughs that sweet, innocent, boyish laugh you’ve only heard a few times before.

“No?” he murmurs, his smile bright.

“You really enjoy drinking that?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.

“Awful,” you mumble.

You shuffle in place, remembering what you’ve been eager to tell him.

“Oh, I have two things to tell you,” you say. “First, these girls sitting in front of me yesterday were looking at you on the school website. You know how they say a determined girl investigates better than the FBI? Just a warning, they’ll find you. If they haven’t already.”

Rafe smirks, unable to believe he ever found your rambling anything but entertaining. And cute as hell.

He should probably be taking your words to heart and thinking about dating for real, going out with girls who actually like him, but it’s unimaginable when he’s certain that he couldn’t find the feeling he gets when he looks at you in anyone else’s eyes.

“And you got jealous and lost your shit?” he quips.

“Yeah, they had to kick me out,” you play along. “How has your shoulder been, by the way?”

The sudden question is an intrusion, an assault on the happiness he’s been feeling since you walked in. He’s still getting used to it, to how you prod, to how you try to saunter past the wall he has up as if you don’t even see it.

You gaze up at him as he looks away, raking back his hair and offering a tense, “Good. I’ve just… been in my head about it. It’s messing with my game.”

A crease forms between your brows as you gaze at him in confusion, hoping he’ll say more. But he doesn’t.

“Are you worried you’ll hurt it again?” you ask.

You step just an inch closer, craning your head to look up at him, wishing he’d just lean down instead of being so unnecessarily impenetrable. He’s quiet and cold, drawn into himself like he was the day you met him.

“Yeah,” he says. “One wrong move and…”

Rafe’s convinced you’re about to judge him, to look at him like he’s a wuss. But the confusion on your face fades and is replaced with sympathy.

“That makes sense,” you say. “You want to give it your all like you always do. I bet playing it safe just feels wrong.”

He’s in awe. How do you take the tiny pieces he gives you and still get him? You’ve teased him for being perceptive, for reading people so easily, but it’s nothing compared to you.

“Yeah, I – I don’t know how to just half-ass it,” he says with a sarcastic chuckle. “I’ve never done it that way.”

You study him, curiosity stirring in you, along with a certainty that there’s nothing but beauty behind the front he puts up.

“You said you were better after you started playing in high school, right?” you press. “It must mean a lot to you.”

He scratches the back of his neck. It’s a tell. You know he does it when he’s nervous.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Hockey did so much for me and it – it makes me me, you know? I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Bad word,” you remind him with a soft smile. “It’s not stupid. Tell me more.”

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to go back there, to when he was a kid, needing a place to let everything festering in him out. Not here, with other people around. Not now, when he’s unsure if you feel something, too.

“What was the other thing?” he says.

“What?”

“You said you had two things to tell me.”

You flatten your lips. It hurts how he’ll begrudgingly give you some vulnerability when you’re insistent, but most of the time, remind you that he keeps you at a distance.

“The other thing,” you eventually say with a nod, willing yourself to go back to how you used to be when Rafe’s mood drops didn’t affect you as much. “Your ex made a little dig at me.”

His face hardens, wearing that look you know well by now. The one that silently, impatiently tells you to explain.

“Something about how I’m always wearing your jersey,” you say. “Like I don’t have any shirts of my own.”

“When?”

“Yesterday at the game,” you chuckle. “She left before I could even react. But she obviously noticed me wearing it before. That girl is jealous. And very, very mad.”

He wants to ask if you’re okay, but he can tell by the amused smile on your face that you are. It takes a lot to shake you. Still, he hates that his ex tried to embarrass you. That you were in that position because of him.

“Is this the point where we call it?” you ask.

“What?”

“Do you want to still keep this up?” you clarify, motioning between you.

This is how his last breakup happened. In the throws of a party. Unexpectedly. But even though this one isn’t real, it hurts a thousand times more than the last one.

“You’re… done?” Rafe asks, embarrassed at how thin his voice sounds.

“I don’t want to care about what Beck thinks anymore,” you say. You swallow down that Rafe’s the reason why. “And we got what we wanted, right?”

You both agreed to an easy-out clause. He owes you to follow through on that. If you want to cut and run, you should be able to.

The thought of not getting to touch you, to hold you, even though it is just to make another person in the room jealous, makes his blood run cold.

But you deserve to get what you want.

“Yeah, we did,” he says. “Good luck getting over me.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “We don’t have to announce it or anything. We just have no reason to lay it on thick anymore. Friends?”

You hold out your hand, and he gently squeezes it, shaking on it just like you did when you started all this.

“Friends.”

════════

The next night, you and Lyla and a couple of your mutual friends go out to dinner to unwind from studying. The off-campus restaurant is elegant, the entrance decorated beautifully. Lyla asks the hostess to take a photo of you all before you sit.

When you settle at the table, you look at the photo and post it to your story. You put your phone down, just to pick it up again a minute later, the impulse to see who’s looked at it too strong to ignore.

You got so used to doing it with Beck, eager to pick up on the breadcrumbs he’d leave for you. Now, you’re doing it to see if Rafe looked at it.

You tap to see who’s viewed the story and see two familiar icons. Beck’s. And Rafe’s.

It’s almost taunting to stare at, one man who led you on and another who helped you get back at him for it.

You can hardly stomach how desperately you crave indifference. How badly you wish Beck had never taken so many years from you. And for the first time, how deeply you regret putting on this ploy with Rafe.

Because all it led to was allowing another man into your heart and having to tell yourself not to let him steal it.

You lock your screen and put away your phone, determined to be present with your friends.

════════

As you finish up dinner, Lyla suggests going to a bar.

“It is a school night,” she says, mainly looking at you, “but we don’t have to stay out late. We could invite some boys if anyone feels inclined.”

“Do you have a boy in mind?” one of your friends asks her.

“Isaac’s cute,” she says, pointing to you. “He told me he asked you about me.”

“He better be following my advice to be a gentleman,” you reply.

“Do you want to invite Rafe?” she asks. The mention of his name makes your heart drop.

“No,” you say, sure you didn’t do a good job masking your sadness. “He has a midterm tomorrow.”

“Are you guys doing okay?” Lyla mumbles, surprised by how quickly you declined. This isn’t the time to drop the bomb that you’re technically broken up.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” she says, taking her last bite. “I really don’t want Beck to be right.”

You tense up.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“He told me not to say anything,” she explains, the way her face is twisted in confusion making it clear that she has no idea why her brother wanted to keep this from you. “He’s worried about you. He thinks Rafe isn’t the best guy and you jumped into this with him too fast and that you’ll get hurt. I told him you wouldn’t be with someone who treats you badly, but you know Beck.”

You’ve managed to stay composed up to this point. You’ve held yourself together, even in private.

But this might be the thing to finally break you. The cold, hard confirmation that Beck isn’t jealous, was never jealous. He was just concerned.

Because he’s a friend and nothing more. And you were delusional to think otherwise.

“He shouldn’t be worried,” you say, forcing a smile. “Anyways, you guys go without me. I’m pretty tired.”

════════

Rafe watches you walk to his car through the dark, rainy night air as he idles in front of the restaurant’s front doors. You’d texted him ten minutes ago, asking if he could give you a ride home.

You’d said goodbye to your friends and waited for Rafe behind the front doors, fighting the urge to cry.

You open the passenger door, the interior light fades on, and his stomach drops when he sees that the girl who’s always smiling has tears in her eyes.

You settle in the car, putting your seatbelt on, staring at the dashboard. Rafe stills.

He’s witnessed you disappointed, happy, sad, annoyed, but he’s never seen you like this. Like all the joy has been drained from you, not a single trace of optimism or humor or anything left.

“You okay?” he rasps. The car light fades off, blanketing both of you in darkness.

He stares at you, moonlight just barely pricking the edges of your profile, your eyes gleaming with tears.

“No,” you utter, your voice fragile over the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.

Rafe leans in just a little closer to get a better look at you, but you’re only gazing ahead, stuck in place. He wishes he didn’t have to ask. It’s like he’s losing you, like you don’t want to tell him what you’re thinking anymore.

“What happened?” he rasps.

You don’t know how to say it. He surely already knows that he has a bad reputation, but you care too much about him to repeat any gossip. There’s so much more to him that people don’t see and you don’t want him to not believe that.

“I need a moment,” you say. “Can we go?”

He grimaces, his brows furrowing, shaking his head slightly.

“We’re not rushing anywhere,” he says quietly. You haven’t heard his voice like this before. It’s soft. Soothing.

You can’t think of what to say.

This doesn’t feel fair to Rafe. You pick at him and expect him to open up to you, but now, you’re shutting him out.

He grew to love how you share what you’re thinking, rambling so he’s completely clear on what’s running through your mind. Now, he’s on the outside, behind a wall you never had up before.

It feels like rejection.

“Can we go?” you repeat. “Please?”

He scoffs in disbelief and hurt. And then, he switches gears and steps on the gas pedal.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your dorm. You haven’t said anything to each other the whole ride.

You’ve caught discreet glances at him. His jaw is tense, a grimace on his face. He’s mad. Of course he’s mad. He’s always mad.

You’ve been silent, sniffling and wiping away tears with your sleeve.

He’s losing his mind. You’re just sitting there, your breaths shaky, like you’re breaking right in front of him and he can’t do anything about it.

“I’ve never cried over him,” you finally snap the silence.

He’s caught off guard. The sympathy you’ve been needing is etched into his face, the scowl replaced with tenderness.

“Even when I felt the worst over it, I… managed to keep myself together. But tonight, Lyla told me that he doesn’t like me and it just made it all crash down on me. I wasted so much time.”

He puts the car in park. Kills the engine. Looks at you.

“What the hell did she say?” he says sharply, his anger directed at your best friend now.

You’ve been thinking about how to tell him without causing any collateral damage. You don’t want to hurt him or risk the dynamic between him and his teammate.

“You know that I never dated anyone before,” you tell him. “To jump into something so intense with you is unlike me. Beck thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s just worried I’ll get hurt. That’s all. It was never jealousy.”

Rafe scratches his jaw. He thinks back to how every time you’re in a room with Beck, his eyes are on you.

“I thought you said you saw it for yourself,” he says after a moment. “He’s into you.”

“He was just looking at me like a concerned friend,” you mumble, your throat feeling raw again. “You’ve fed my delusion enough.”

He sighs. It’s impossible. There’s no world where a guy gets to know you and doesn’t feel something.

There are too many possibilities. Beck could simply not be into you. Or he is and he hasn’t told his sister. Or he is and he has and she’s been sworn to secrecy. Or a thousand other things that you can’t know for sure.

It’s all a confusing disarray of what you know and what you don’t, so uncertain about where you stand with Beck that it’s forcing your heart into a knot.

“I need to talk to him and get everything out into the open,” you conclude. “I don’t care if it makes things weird. I can’t keep overthinking.”

When your eyes meet Rafe’s again, an uncontrollable shudder escapes your lips, a result of how hard you’ve been crying.

And he can’t stand it. He puts his palm on the back of your hand, the words sitting in his throat, awkward but necessary to say.

“He’s not good enough for you, you know that, right?” he murmurs.

“Rafe,” you laugh sadly, his words wringing your heart. “You’re just making me cry harder. Stop being nice. It’s unlike you.”

A smile pulls on the corner of his lips. There’s the glimpse of you that he’s been craving. It’s like the sun is finally rising after a long, cold night.

“What do you want, then?” he says.

“Tough love,” you joke. “Call me annoying or something.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head.

He can’t even do it as a joke. He’s told himself he feels too much his whole life. He’s not going to do it to you, too.

You sigh, looking down at his hand on yours. There’s nobody around to fool. He’s doing this because he wants to.

“I’m… so mad I still care,” you say. “I don’t even like him anymore, but I need to tell him that he was cruel to string me along. And then I’ll finally be done with it.”

You look out the window, seeing your reflection in the side mirror.

“And I need to be on my own and live my life without worrying what a guy thinks,” you continue. “I don’t think you see how much you’ve helped me through all this.”

Rafe is sure that he hates Beck. He fucked with you for years, stringing you along, making you question everything. You shouldn’t have to cry all because that idiot refuses to be upfront with you.

He wouldn’t treat you like that. But he’ll never get the chance to prove it. You’re blind to how fast his thoughts are racing, how hard his heart is pounding. To what he’d give to you if you felt what he does.

“You helped me, too,” he says. He wishes he was better at this, that he could say more, but there’s no way he can utter what he’s really thinking without opening up a wound that you can’t patch up.

That’s the last thing you both need right now. Especially after you told him you’re not looking to tie yourself to a relationship anytime soon.

“I’m glad,” you say. You shift your hand to unbuckle your seatbelt, leaving him to pull away. “Thank you for the ride. You should get back to studying now.”

“Who said I was studying?”

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” you quip with a small smile, meeting his eyes one last time before you push the door open and step out of the car.

════════

It’s Wednesday night and Rafe’s sitting in an unfamiliar locker room, two periods into a vicious game.

They’re down by two goals. He’s exhausted, his shoulder is aching, yet all he can think about is you, in your dorm room four hours away.

You’d texted him twice since the night he picked you up at the restaurant. The first was on Monday, a good luck message for his midterm. The next was last night, letting him know that you can’t make tonight’s away game due to the long distance and the fact that you have a huge paper due.

If they win this game, they’re in the semi-finals. The hunger he’s feeling for a victory is the one thing driving him right now.

He’d love it if you were in the stands, behind the penalty box again, holding your phone up against the screen, lightheartedly counting his indiscretions, giving him brightness in his otherwise bleak life.

Rafe stares down at the scuffed floor, chest rising and falling rapidly, the tension thick in the room as he holds his helmet in his hands. Coach enters the room, jumping right into his pep-talk.

“We’re missing scoring opportunities,” he eventually says, his voice booming through the room.

“That’s on me, Coach,” Beck pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Then step up,” Rafe mutters with vitriol, meeting his eyes. “Instead of being such a kiss-ass, try playing better.”

“Whoa,” Isaac mumbles beside him. “Chill, man.”

“I’ll do the coaching here, got it, Cameron?” Coach says sharply.

Rafe stares down at the floor again, rage flooding him. He’d swing at Beck right now if he could, if there was nothing on the line.

Not because of the game. Because of you.

════════

When the team is back in the locker room, all the stress that was previously cutting through the air has dissipated, replaced with pride. They managed to secure the win. They made it to the semi-finals.

Rafe gets to his locker and tries to take off his equipment. But the pain in his shoulder is so blinding, so hot, that he can’t ignore the agony.

It was a hard body check, minutes left in the game. The sharp stab he felt was undeniable.

He knows that this is it.

════════

“Thank you,” you say to the security guard who walked you over to the athlete’s dorm.

It’s nearing midnight and, as promised, Isaac texted you that they’re back on campus. He’d sent you a message that Rafe got injured near the end of the game.

You called him then, learning that Rafe could barely move his arm, that he was taken to urgent care, that he was muttering about being sure his season is over.

You texted Rafe right away, concern burning through you: Isaac told me what happened. Can I come by when you get home?

He replied: yes. And then hours later, the text came in a minute after Isaac’s.

Home. Don’t walk by yourself.

You’d planned to text Isaac to open the front door for you, but you’re lucky to sneak into the building as a resident leaves. You rush in, take the elevator, and scurry down the hallway.

Your heart is pounding when you knock on Rafe’s door.

“It’s open,” you hear grumbled from the other side.

Rafe is in the dark, a pinch of moonlight gleaming into the room through a crack in the blinds as the door shuts behind you.

He’s sitting up in his bed, resting against the headboard, and when you see the sling on the same arm that he’d injured before, your heart cracks down the middle.

You don’t bother turning on the light. You have a feeling he doesn’t want to be seen right now. You settle on the edge of his bed, the side of his thigh against your lower back.

Rafe stares at your profile in the dark, his breath evening out, the dread he’s been battling losing some of its power now that he’s with you.

When Isaac said he let you know what happened, Rafe was glad he hadn’t told him about your breakup. And he was relieved that Isaac shared the news, because Rafe’s not sure he would’ve been able to tell you himself.

“Hey,” you say. “How bad does it hurt?”

“You got security to walk you here, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply. The fact that he’s thinking about your safety right now is unbelievable. “What happened?”

“I tore my rotator cuff,” he says into the dark.

“Your season’s done?” you ask, although you know it is. That’s too serious of an injury to play with.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah.”

Your throat tightens. His fear came true and now he’s like this, in pain, miserable. And surely blaming himself.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice trembling.

His heart shifts when he catches the fragility in your tone.

“Don’t cry,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He can’t help but huff a quiet chuckle. Leave it to you to make him smile at a time like this.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“No.”

“I’m going to hug you because I need to do something,” you decide, giving into the impulse to get closer to him.

He shifts lower, resting his head on his pillow, and you turn to your side, leaning on his good shoulder, making sure to stay as far away from his injury as possible.

Your arm is draped over his torso, your cheek at his upper chest, feeling the faint thumps of his heart. The soft, rhythmic beating is what beckons the tears threatening to fall finally come out.

“How bad does it hurt?” you ask again, your voice thick with sadness.

He doesn’t see a reason to lie.

“Like hell,” he admits, the painkillers barely numbing the pain.

Rafe shuts his eyes, grimacing, angry at his body for betraying him.

Your arm around him brings him a sense of peace. And the fullness warming his heart doesn’t come from simply liking someone.

This is love.

But you’ve told him so many times that you need to be on your own. He can’t mess that up for you just because he wants you for himself.

He’s never been this worried about his selfishness. He’s never really liked himself and he’s always wanted to be a better man and being with you is the first time it feels achievable.

“Why’d you come here?” he asks, desperate for you to tell him you feel it, too. That he’s worth breaking your rules.

“Because I care about you,” you say with an offended laugh. “Should I leave?”

“No,” he says quickly.

“Then try being a little more welcoming,” you joke.

If you want to feel welcome here, in his room, in his bed, in his heart, in his life, he’ll make it happen.

And he’s always been the type to show, rather than tell.

He still feels a pinch up his neck, but he fights through the ache to sit up half an inch. He brushes his lips against your forehead to leave a chaste, featherlight kiss on your skin.

“How’s that?” he rasps, settling back on his pillow.

Your body numbs, the air heavy with pressure. It’s an avalanche coming down on you, the excitement of his touch, the confusion of his intentions, the fear of giving another person all the power to break your heart.

And it’s like you’re buried under your overwhelming emotions, barely able to move.

You don’t know what to say.

So, you nuzzle closer, squeeze him tighter, and close your eyes, hoping that whatever happens next doesn’t hurt you anymore than you’ve already been hurt.

next >

author’s note um so i think we’re at 50k words and all we have is a forehead kiss... next part will be the last and the slowburn will be OVER. i promise. don’t hate me <3

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[i-like-loserz]

bunny love

synopsis: hongjoong comes back to find you fast asleep

pairing: dom!hongjoong x reader

warnings: SMUT (18+), idol au, somnophilia (dub-con), tit play, cockwarming, sleepy time, daddy kink, emotionally unavailable!hongjoong, owner! hongjoong, pet!reader, bunny hybrid!reader, rough-handling, ooc hongjoong! :3

word count: 2k

note: happy new years! i find this guy really cute but also i want him to lose it and pin me down -- that's all ૮ . . ྀིა⁩

masterlist

Your face is exhaustedly smashed into the pillow, the plushness of your cheek squishing against your eye. Hongjoong watches as your back rises with soft breaths, your body completely surrendering to a deep sleep. 

Your tiny frilly sleep shorts stick to your body like second skin, stretching nicely over your ass as your right leg is hooked over another pillow.

Your cute little cottontail is pushed through a small hole in the fabric, fluffy as can be, begging for him to tug on it until you're whining out for him.

Lower, he can see the shape of your soft cunt under the pink shorts, clinging to every dip and mound, for his eyes only. 

Hongjoong decided at the last minute to fly you overseas, sparing no expense, merely because he missed you. He wanted to come home to his sweet bunny instead of his temporary call girls, craving the one thing that only you can give him.

Unconditional love.

A man like him shouldn’t be so easily swayed by his emotions, much less the most trivial of them all: Love. He never had time for them anyway, and even if he did it made things far too complicated for everyone involved.

But after another successful comeback working tirelessly as a the group's leader, you were plopped into his lap as a kind of “therapy pet” by a notoriously morally-dubious investor. Within a couple of weeks, he started to see the appeal of such emotions.

Or at least, the appeal of receiving them. 

At first, he resisted your affections, only asking for you when he wanted a warm cunt to bury himself in. Otherwise, you’d sit in your tiny room, doing pretty much anything to pass the time as he actively ignores your existence in the mansion. 

He assumed you’d be a temporary doll for him to play with before you’d attempt to escape, something to chase during his limited off-time, but he never anticipated just how easily you'd fall for him.

It annoyed him how pleasant you were, never complaining or whining, always staying out of sight until you were needed. It was like you were made for him.

No matter how much he’d taunt, tease, and ignore you, you’d only respond to him with unwavering devotion, seemingly unaffected as your eyes continued to regard him with pure adoration whenever he was near. 

Of course, at the end of the day, his ego didn’t mind the constant attention, so he decided to keep you around–at least, for a little bit– if only for the sake of sating his loneliness (though he'd never admit that). Hongjoong’s arm's length attitude started strong, but he was quickly humbled once he made the mistake of letting you in.

He refuses to admit it, but he has formed an attachment to you. He doesn’t understand why he’d want anyone around, much less a needy pet, but he finds himself craving your presence throughout the day, thinking of you as he works in the studio or is on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans.

After a few months, it was quickly decided that you go wherever he goes, serving as his little therapy bunny, ready to be everything he needs. All your energy was drained from the twelve-hour flight he had you on, only managing to get an hour of sleep the whole trip.

A breathy whine pushes through your throat as you shift on the bed, blinding grabbing at the blanket to pull it over your body. Hongjoong watches with an amused smile, having dragged it off of you just a few minutes early to get an eyeful of your body. He gently pushes you to lay on your back before pulling the duvet down once more.

He bites his lip when he sees how your nipples instantly start to pebble through your cropped shirt as his cool hands glide against your exposed stomach, absorbing your natural heat.

Your droopy bunny ears twitch in excitement from the bare stimulation of his touch, but you remain asleep. Your body is always so responsive for him, even when your mind is unconscious. 

Your tiny hands wrap over his wrist, instinctively pulling him closer as you’re slowly nudged awake. He ignores your grabby hands, brushing them off easily as he lifts your shirt, exposing your bare tits to the cool room. Your body arches ever so subtly at the feeling, an eager action that isn’t lost on Hongjoong.

He drifts the pads of his fingers up your skin, trailing goosebumps as he ascends, eyes focused on your perky mounds. He watches you let out a soft whimper as he circles a bud, unconsciously lifting into his touch as pleasure tingles up your spine.

He goes further, flicking and pinching at your sensitive nipples, drinking in every involuntary gasp and groan you let out. One particularly harsh pinch causes you to flinch and open your sleepy eyes.

Hongjoong watches you blink slowly, eyes bleary as they try to focus on what’s in front of them.

“Hm?” You hum drowsily, voice raspy from sleep. 

He splays his palm over your chest, softly squeezing you in his hand as he greets you.

“Hi, bunny. Miss me?” 

“Daddy…” 

He coos, eyes boring into yours as his hand absentmindedly gropes at your other tit. “That’s right princess. You have a good flight?”

“Mhm.”  You nod adorably slow, chest heaving with excited breaths.

His movements start to slow, his hand now petting short comforting strokes against your skin. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he takes in the dreamy look in your eyes, still fogged over from your nap.

His actions stop altogether as he considers your reclined form under him.

“You sleepy, baby?”

You shake your head adamantly, pushing yourself up to show your attentiveness. Your eyes suddenly brighten with energy. 

“N-no. I’m up.”

Your avid actions are met with a warm chuckle and a hand that shoves at your chest to push you back against the mattress.

“Relax bunny, we don’t gotta do anything tonight. I just finished a round of interviews with the boys and you had a long flight.”

A small disappointed pout pulls at your lips as you grip a pillow on your lap. Hongjoong raises an eyebrow, not one to accept bratty behavior, no matter how soft he’s become for you.

“Hey, none of that. Scoot over, honey, let me in.” 

You barely push yourself to the center of the bed, preferring to be right against his body when you sleep. 

You patiently lay on your side as you watch Hongjoong undress, pulling off a ridiculously expensive silk shirt before throwing it carelessly to the ground, happy to be out of the fancy fabric after a long day of charming interviewers. 

You squeeze your thighs together as you drink in his exposed torso: perfectly smooth and defined. You remember the nights you would trace each freckle, touch featherlight so as to not wake him up.

The shirt is followed by his dark slacks and shoes, joining the discarded fabric in a pile for someone else to clean up tomorrow.  

He pushes the ungodly amount of pillows you were sleeping with on the floor before slipping in, shivering as his body acclimates to the residual heat you left on his side. He shifts around the bed before propping himself onto his right side, facing his body toward yours. 

“Turn around.” Hongjoong calmly murmurs regarding your closeness, eyes half-lidded either from exhaustion or desire. You flip over obediently, staring at the gray wall in anticipation as you wait for his next instruction.  

He doesn’t speak as reaches over you, letting out a relaxed sigh as he wraps his arms around your waist. As Hongjoong pulls you closer to nestle his hips against yours, you can feel the warmth of his hard cock insistently push against your ass through your shorts. You let out a soft moean, arching your back to press yourself more firmly against him. 

His face rests above your shoulder as he holds you, lips brushing gently at the edge of your fluffy ear. 

“Daddy just wants a hug, sweetheart. You think you could give me one?” You melt as he addresses you with a soft voice. You wrap your arms over his, giving him an affectionate squeeze. 

“Of course-” Your sentence stutters to a stop as he suddenly starts to tug at your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband before pulling them down your thighs.

You try to turn toward him, confused by his sudden actions, but his hold keeps you still and defenseless against his hands.

“Wait, wh-”

He promptly muffles your confusion with a hand over your lips as he pushes at the fabric until it’s around your knees, effectively binding your legs together. His hand drops from your face as he reaches down to pull himself out of his boxers, already hard and throbbing for your cunt.

“Dadd-”

“Just a little taste, bunny.”

He rubs the tip of his cock through your sopping folds, effectively coating himself in your slick as lewd sounds hungrily escape between your bodies.

You feel him experimentally push the head in before backing out, teasing your hungry cunt as you try to suck him back in.

“Mm, look at this greedy pussy, all wet, just begging for my cock.” 

“Please, daddy, I can take it!”

He pushes in slowly, softly shushing your whimpers as you struggle to stretch around him, your legs still forcefully bound together, making you tighter than ever. 

“F-fuck.”

He lets out a groan as he bottoms out, forehead pushing against your shoulder as he struggles to hold his hips back from fucking into you.

Just a taste, he reminded himself. He can go a night without a fucking you into the mattress. 

Your body feels restless as his cock deliciously throbs inside you, prodding right against your cervix. You’re ravenous for his usual mouthwatering thrusts, anticipating a hard fuck that’ll put you to your sleep. But it never comes.

You let out a pathetic whine when he continues to remain completely still behind you, refusing to rut into you like he usually does. You try to squirm against his arms in an attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, hips wiggling in pure desperation for any type of relief.

A short drag of his cock inside your cunt causes you to squeeze around him, instant shivers running up your spine. Before you can get too far, Hongjoong tightens his hold on your body, tsking lowly as you try to resist him.

“I already told you, bunny, we aren’t doing anything tonight.” He positions his body so he can effectively mold himself along your back. “You’re just gonna keep me warm tonight, okay?”

You secretly wear a pout as you solemnly nod, unhappily listening as his breaths begin to calm down and steady behind you.

A handful of minutes go by and he falls asleep, unbothered by your frustrated form as he relaxes against you, contently stuffed in your warmth.

Unfortunately, his calm silence doesn’t help you one bit. You’re so frustrated that you can probably cum from simply clenching around him. 

Your sensitive clit pulses as you lean back into his touch still worked up from the tit massage he gave you earlier.

Couldn’t he have gotten you off before sleeping? 

You hold a breath as you experimentally tighten around him, waiting for a scolding voice or movement to stop you, but nothing happens.

You close your eyes as you clench again, finally relaxed enough to take in how full you feel. Your cunt flutters in excitement as you mold around his thickness, each squeeze pushing you toward the edge. 

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong feels everything. He has to hold back a groan as wakes up to you pulsing around him, slick smearing over his lower stomach. 

You gasp as he suddenly thrusts harshly against your cervix, still thinking he was asleep behind you.  

His fingers painfully dig into your skin as he growls, “Stop fucking around.” He holds himself deep inside of you, ignoring your whimpers at the pressure. “Go to sleep, or I’m leaving.” You give up, eyes wet from losing your orgasm.

You squeeze your eyes shut to force yourself to sleep, desperately trying to block out the sensation of being filled. 

[thelostconsultant]

Lando Norris x reader

summary: You and Lando got married before the beginning of the season, but no one knows you’re together. You make a bet at the wedding, and Lando truly believes he can get through the season with everyone believing he’s single.

about the fc: The one in the red hoodie is just a random girl from pinterest, because I love that hoodie. Don't see too much into this, I'm not having that conversation again.

“What?” you ask, although it comes out more like a bark than a well formulated question.

Lando has been watching you with that stupid grin of his for long minutes now, and you can’t hide your annoyance any longer. You love him, you really do, but God, isn’t he annoying sometimes? As you wait for his response, he holds up a finger and opens a video on his phone for you.

It’s him at the last race weekend, standing on the stage with Oscar. Nothing new. But then he talks about being single, and after this part he quickly moves over to the comments. Everyone is either offering to date him or feels sorry for him, there is no in between. But you can’t feel sorry for him. 

“You’re still gonna lose,” you tell him with a laugh.

With a thoughtful hum, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you against his chest. “You read the comments. I’m the people’s princess, they feel so sorry for me. No one suspects a thing. I’m safe,” he says with a confident smile.

Over half a year ago, on the day of your secret wedding at a remote part of the world, the two of you made a bet. You said he wouldn’t be able to keep this secret, that there was no way he could last this season without people finding out he was not only in a relationship, but married too. He begged to differ, saying he was pretty good at keeping secrets.

Now, after all those months, you sometimes have your weak moments when you are sure you would lose, although this is something you are under no circumstances about to tell him. His ego is already big enough when it comes to the bet, the last thing you want is things getting worse in this sense.

If he wins, he will get the right to decide when and how to announce your marriage. And if it’s up to him, it will be a hard launch, like a wrecking ball crashing into a building to tear down the walls. He wants chaos, he wants everyone to know how much he loves you. It’s flattering, really, but can he not?

Because Lando wants a big, flashy event with all of his friends from on and off the grid, and he wants alcohol to flow like water while the music blasts loudly around you. It would only come to an abrupt stop the moment he grabs the mic and announces how much he loves his wife, only to cause the guests to murmur loudly as they try to figure out if he’s just drunk or dead serious.

If you win, it will mean people found out about you, so your prize would be something other than how you make this relationship public. But what could you ask for? So, in the end, you told him you would get to make a wish one day when you figured out what you wanted, and he couldn’t say no when you asked.

As of now, people don’t know about you at all. You are just a nameless McLaren employee to them who sometimes shows up on photos with the rest of the team. To make sure you can stay in the background, he even asks one or two girls during the time you are still in the dating phase to pose as his girlfriends for a while. It only comes with a few photos and posts, sometimes appearances in the paddock. Nothing serious, really.

While you can wear your wedding band all the time, Lando doesn’t have the freedom to do the same. Sure, he has it, safely locked away with the rest of your jewelry until the day your marriage becomes public. Now he only has a necklace with a pendant you chose, your initials engraved into it with small letters so it won’t be too obvious on photos.

“I’ve been thinking,” you suddenly say, moving your head a little so you can look him in the eye. When he lets out a questioning hum and flashes a smile at you, you reach out to play with his pendant. “Why don’t we raise the stakes in our little bet?”

Lando kisses your cheek, then he says, “You hate it that I’m winning.”

Rolling your eyes, you let out a sigh. “No, I just had an idea for a little experiment. What if you wore your wedding band on the next race weekend?” you ask with an innocent look on your face.

It's mean, you know that, because this will surely draw attention to him. Wearing his ring could only result in losing the game. But you have to do something, you want to win. Well, you just don’t want your dear husband to win, but that’s almost the same. 

“That would be too obvious,” he replies with a shake of his head.

“Buy a few more and say you’re copying Lewis,” you offer with a cheeky grin. 

He shakes his head with a laugh, then takes a deep breath. “And what do I get if they don’t notice?” 

You have thought a lot about this, because you know it has to be something big, something he really wants. And there is only one thing that came to your mind. “You get two kids,” you tell him casually. 

But Lando isn’t stupid, he knows this is the moment to negotiate. “Hmm… You know I want a big family. Three and I’ll do it.”

He will lose anyway, so why would you say no? “All right, three. But if I win, we’ll only have one,” you remind him.

He nods before leaning down to kiss you. “I’ll win, so you can start picking names,” he says with a confident grin.

You: Sorry, babe, you officially lost the bet. <link>

A few seconds later your phone rings, and you answer Lando’s call with a satisfied smile on your face. You just want to rub it in his face, you want him to know he lost the bet. To be honest, ever since you’ve seen this post, you’ve been thinking about what to ask for, and a soft launch of your relationship sounds quite nice. 

“I didn’t lose,” he says right away. 

“You saw the post, someone spotted the ring.”

To your surprise, Lando starts to laugh, a carefree sound that makes it clear he’s sure he’s winning this. “Do you want me to remind you that you’re not here with me right now? And that video of us was recorded during the summer break in Greece. The bet was about me wearing the ring this weekend. So no, sweetheart, you definitely did not win this one,” he explains, and you can imagine that smug smirk on his face. 

“Still, the original bet–”

He tuts to interrupt you. “No, no, you changed the rules with the ring. I won. No one noticed it this weekend.”

“Let’s call it a tie,” you try, although you know he has you in a corner now. 

“I want to talk about the prize,” he begins, waiting until he hears you hum to let him go on. “We agreed that if I win, we’ll have three kids, if you win, we’ll only have one. If it’s a tie, then fine, let’s settle with two.”

You remain silent for a while as you think about this. He’s right, it would be only fair to reach a compromise, and in this case it involves the number of your future children. If it’s a tie, then two is the logical conclusion, there is no reason to argue with him. So, you take a deep breath that you let out slowly until you gather your thoughts. “All right, fine. And what about us? I mean, our relationship. Do we keep it a secret, or…?”

“What do you want? If you’d rather not be in the spotlight, we can deny everything if there’ll be a bigger buzz about that tweet,” he says kindly, his patience with you painfully obvious. 

But you don’t want to hide, you want things to be out in the open now. “I’d say let’s do a soft launch with mysterious posts for a while. But if you have a different idea, I’m open to it,” you assure him. 

Lando lets out a thoughtful hum. “We have a short break now, soooooo… Okay, we do the soft launch, but you come to the next race with me, as yourself, not disguised as a McLaren team member, and we’ll wear our rings and everything.”

“That’s pretty much a hard launch.”

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line. “You get almost two weeks of soft launch, what more do you want? Come on, I need you by my side,” he begs you sweetly. 

You agree. There’s no way you can say no to him.

liked by oscarpiastri, martingarrix and 522,145 others

landonorris: My wife, the queen of the house 😍🥰❤️

tagged: yourusername

view all comments

yourusername: LANDO!

⤷ landonorris: Yes, love?

⤷ yourusername: You said you’ll give me two weeks. That’s it, you’re sleeping on the couch when you get home.

oscarpiastri: What did I miss? Last time we talked, you were chronically single.

⤷ landonorris: I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve been happily married for over half a year.

⤷ user1: WHAT?!

user2: Lando being married was not on my bingo card.

maxverstappen1: My wedding invitation must have been lost in the mail.

⤷ landonorris: Sorry, it was just the two of us.

user3: I’m so happy, you deserve all the love!!!

user4: We have a new WAG, woo-hoo! But please yourusername don’t make him sleep on the couch 😭

⤷ yourusername: I’ll reconsider that decision.

[sloaneispunk]

“friend or foe” pt.2

soft!frontman (hwang in-ho) x you

when frontman joined the games, he thought it was solely to see gihun fail, but his intentions shifted when a certain player number 455 caught his attention…

⟢ ──── ●▲■ ──── ⟢

the next day, you ate breakfast with in-ho and the team. they discussed different strategies and games in which they might have to play.

naturally, in-ho had given his milk to you even after much protests. he explained how it would help you get stronger and ready for the games.

“where’s my milk?” jung-bae sulked as everyone laughed.

you stayed beside in-ho the entire time. since after the second game, you had grown very fond of him. and luckily for you, so did he.

he felt protective of you, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. even more so in a place like this. when you were caught up with thanos’ team, trying to save yourself after bumping into nam-gyu

in-ho made sure to step up, teaching thanos and his friends a lesson for laying a hand on you, or even threatening you.

he would have went feral if you hadn’t stopped him by pulling him away into a corner, helping him cool off.

“it’s okay, i’m okay.” you told him as you tried to get him to tear his eyes away from glaring at thanos.

“did they hurt you?” he simply asked, ignoring everything else you had just said.

‘no’. you shook your head.

after that, he made sure he always had you within feet from him.

⟢ ──── ●▲■ ──── ⟢

when it was time for the third game, in-ho held your hand as everyone walked towards the game room.

“i hope it’s something we can play in teams.” he said to you, making you smile.

“why? so you can team up with me?” you teased.

“of course.”

when you reached the game room, a large carousel sat in the center of the room. around it were different colored doors with numbers on them, 1-50.

“what is this?” in-ho wondered out loud as a voice came through the speakers.

‘the game is mingle. the carousel will move when the music plays…once it stops, a number will be called out. the number is the number of people you will need to have in your group before you enter a room of your choice.’

“shit.” you cursed under your breath.

it was going to be a bloodbath.

of course, in-ho already knew this. he might have been acting scared, but deep down, he was. how was he to garuntee your safety in a game like this.

if he didn’t come up with anything quickly, he could mess up the game, or worse, lose you.

⟢ ──── ●▲■ ──── ⟢

‘start’

ring-a ring-a ring-a ring-a ring-a ring-a ring-a

as the giant carousel began to rotate, in-ho’s grip on your hand became tighter.

‘10’

“we need 5!” gi-hun yelled over the chaos that insued.

“we’re 5! let’s go! green door!” player 120 said as both teams ran for the door.

inside, in-ho made sure you were okay first before he checked on the rest.

“you should be thanking me!” a woman suddenly declared, throwing her hand up in the air. “without me, you all would have died!”

“geez! the ego on this woman.” jung-bae scoffed.

then, she whipped her head around, finger flying to your face as she stopped inches away, almost hitting you.

“can i help you?” you asked.

“you… you’re here for a purpose.” she said.

in-ho pulled you aside, stepping in front as he glared at the woman.

“you talk to her again and i’ll make sure you’re locked outside.”

the woman could only gulp.

just in time, the door unlocked, saving the lady’s ass as well as yours.

⟢ ──── ●▲■ ──── ⟢

“fuckin’ crazy sharman lady.” in-ho muttered to himself as he got back up onto the platform.

you giggled. it was funny how he was affected by everything else but the deadly game he was in the midst of.

‘4’

shit. someone was going to be left behind.

“gi-hun! take her, i’ll find others!” in-ho instructed as gi-hun nodded, grabbing your arm and dashing into a room.

“young-il!” you screamed as you were being dragged away from him.

he was so selfless, he only cared about saving you and his ‘friends’.

“he’ll be okay.” dae-ho told you as he stood beside you, peeping through the hole in the door.

the next few minutes were excruciating. you couldn’t find in-ho in the running, desperate crowd.

little did you know, in-ho was in a room on his own, locking it before anyone could enter.

he catched his breath as a guard came up to the doorhole, aiming his gun at him.

“stand down.” in-ho ordered, making the guard turn away, walking off.

when the doors unlocked, you sprinted out.

“there!” gi-hun called out, pointing to in-ho who was running towards you.

you practically flung yourself onto him, taking him aback as he laughed.

“oh my god, i was so worried.” you told him as you pulled away.

“you can’t rid of me that easy.”

“ah! we thought you couldn’t find enough people in time!” jung-bae chipped in.

“i’m a very likeable man, i do well in these games.” he joked.

⟢ ──── ●▲■ ──── ⟢

when it came down to the final round, a thick air of tension filled the atmosphere.

the last number was announced, ‘2’. you knew exactly what they were doing. around 150 people left, 50 rooms, you were going to have to fight for the rooms.

the team had split up, in-ho naturally sticking eith you as you both ran for the nearest room.

just as you were about to enter, you felt a strong push, knocking you to the ground onto your back as the man took your place, shutting the door as the timer hit 0.

“y/n!” in-ho shouted as tears started to fill your eyes.

“young-il… don’t let me die.” you cried.

oh, he was angry. angry wasn’t even actually able to cover it. he was fuming.

he picked up the man by the collar, punching and kicking him as he yelled in frustration.

as the guards approached you, you heard his voice.

“standdown! now!” he said, “that is an order.”

just like that, the gun held up towards your temple was gone. the guard walked over to the room, using a set of keys to open it before standing behind you.

in-ho however did not step out. he simply grabbed the man who was already fighting for his dear life, locking him in a headlock.

“w-what?” you asked, backing away from in-ho as his eyes pooled with anger.

“take her upstairs.” he said to the guard as he nodded, lifting you up and dragging you away.

the last thing you heard was the loud crack of the man’s neck echoing through your ears.

(i am going insane)

[artfulstar]

Woah woah woah. Twitter is shutting down in Brasil? I'm thankful for your mental health but what?

Yep.

TLDR: Elon fired everyone in the Brazilian offices of twitter but legally Twitter can't continue existing in Brazil WITHOUT a legal representative. So now our Federal Supreme Court subpoened him to apoint a new representative or the website is getting shut down in the country

The long version with the context about the fight:

It all started when the supreme court started to shut down in the country profiles of brazilian people who had commited crimes using the website (an example is Monark, a dude who literally used his profile to say we should give n*zis and racists unlimited freedom of speech [he fled to the US to escape prison btw]).

Elon caught wind of this and decided to threaten our constitution and said that he would get the profiles back on because he wouldn't accept a government restricting "freedom of speech" on his platform. The supreme court issued a statement that if he did that, he would face a fee everyday for every account reactivated. It was money so he didn't do that (or maybe turns out he couldn't do it anyway and he was just lying for his lil fanboys).

This was all back at the start of the year but suddenly almost two weeks ago it was reported he fired every single employee in the offices of brazil, including the legal representative.

Then tonight, around two hours ago the official profile of STF replied and tagged elon with the doc of the subpoena because since they didn't have a legal representative, they couldn't do it in the proper way. The subpoena says that Elon has 24 hours to appoint a new guy for the job or the social is getting shut down in brazilian territory.

So we have 3 options for whats gonna happen in the next 24 hours:

Alexandre de Moraes (The guy who Elon started a one-sided beef with) backs down and doesnt shut down the website (highly unlikely)

Elon backs down and appoints a new guy so he doesnt lose the 4th biggest public of his site

Twitter gets shut down until Elon's manchild's ego gives in

thats all <3

Edit:

This was Elon's reply to the tweet. YES he is pathetic like that

Edit 2: it's currently 17:38 brasilia time of 30/08 and Twitter is bound to get disconnected soon, the order has been given by Moraes. People who use a VPN to access Twitter will get fined 50k reais (almost 9k dollars).

Yesterday a note was posted lying about Brazil being a dictatorship and saying that one of the people being censored is a 16yr old girl. The truth is that it's a grown ass man that use his daughters account to promote attacks on delegates, ministers, judges and other politicians. They also call orders to ban n*zi accounts "illegal orders" (WHICH ARE VERY LEGAL UNDER THE CONSTITUTION OF BRAZIL). They also say "we don't want every other country to have the freedom of speech laws the US has" meanwhile they've been trying to impose them in a sovereign state.

I would say what I want to say to Elon but unfortunately my mother taught me to keep those kinds of thoughts inside. Just know they're three letters <3

edit 3: twitter was officially unavailable on brazilian territory by the time it struck midnight of the 31st

Edit 4:

Translation: 🚨 NOW: Elon Musk is looking for executives to represent Twitter/X in Brazil, to negotiate the platform's RETURN in the country, reports Correio Braziliense.

he's going to do what cellbit said kkkmk he purposely let them suspend it, then after a few days he'll come out and be the savior of the brazilian people and say he only did it for us

Don't let elon fool you. He doesn't care and is probably only doing it because his investors are threatening him with money