#// this is... a dangerous game to play with me

[mishappeningss]

MORE THAN A DRIVER

CHAPTER FOUR

more about driver!yn

formula one + female!driver!reader smau + irl

Drive to Survive -- Episode 2 🏎 Featuring: YN LN

YN starts her new journey in Formula 1 with Mercedes. But not everyone believes she belongs. Facing doubt, she stays focused — and proves she’s more than just a headline.

warnings: covers the topic of misogyny, foul language

The screen is black. You can hear the crackle of an old camcorder. Then — a blurry footage: a 10 year old YN in a dust-covered helmet, wobbling on a dirt bike that’s clearly too big for her.

YN’s voice cuts through, “They told my dad it was a waste of time. Said girls weren’t built for this.”

“He handed me the helmet anyway.”

Cuts to a grainy clip of her taking a corner too fast, sliding through the gravel, getting up, helmet cracked, grinning.

A fast paced series of flashes — YN at 12 racing Moto3 in the rain, visibly the only girl on the grid. Another clip of her finishing 6th after starting at 18th.

Her teenage years in MotoGP2 — footage of interviews with doubting tones, “Do you think you’re strong enough for this?” “Will the boys take you seriously?”

It cuts to YN sitting in the interview room, expression calm, “I don’t know if they took me seriously. But they took the losses seriously when I started winning.”

Cut to the present, YN walks into the Mercedes factory, black fleece zipped all the way up, no makeup, hair pulled back. The simulator room is cold and mechanical, humming with quiet.

Toto Wolff stands by the engineer’s desk, arms crossed.

“We knew she was talented. But talent is just a ticket. The question was: how does she use it when no one’s cheering yet?”

Inside the sim, YN’s focused. She pushes hard — the whine of the engine in the sim climbs in pitch. She exits a fake Turn 8 too wide.

“That’s P10. Two tenths off Sector 2.”

No emotion, YN says, “Again, please.”

“The hardest part wasn’t the car. It was the silence. No one said it directly, but I could feel it. The ‘why her?’”

“The ‘how long until she cracks?’”

Media Bay

Press swarms around YN. She sits between George Russell and Lewis Hamilton. A journalist smiles too sweetly.

“YN, how do you respond to critics who say Mercedes only signed you for… visibility?”

Staring at him, YN replies, “They’ll have visibility when I pass them on the track.”

Tension. A few in the room chuckle. Lewis gives her a proud glance.

Lewis Hamilton: DTS Interview

“I’ve that look before. The one where you’re tired of proving yourself but you have to anyway.”

It cuts to Red Bull’s hospitality area. Two mid-level strategists sip their espresso, watching YN’s lap data.

“She’s aggressive, almost reckless.”

“Toto’s playing the long game. PR now, results maybe later.”

Their smugness is real. They laugh. The camera pans to YN walking past them down the paddock later, headphones in, jaw clenched.

“I heard every whisper. I learned not to respond with words, my response was my time sheets.”

Toto Wolff: DTS Interview

“We didn’t sign her to make a statement. We signed her because she’s dangerous — in the best way.”

FP1. The screen is sharp, the camera glued to her onboard point of view. She takes the tight chicane without lifting. Her hands are still, her eyes cold behind the visor.

On the radio, her engineer’s voice fills her ears, “You’re up on George. Two tenths. Purple sector 1.”

“Copy, still more in it.”

Cut to the Mercedes garage. Everyone’s watching.

“She’s not tentative. That’s rare for a rookie.”

Cue to her pulling in the garage. Helmet off. She’s glowing — but quiet.

George Russell watches her data flash onto the wall. His brow furrows, “She’s got bite, I won’t lie. She surprised me.”

YN LN: DTS Interview

“I didn’t walk into this paddock expecting open arms. But I also didn’t come to hold anyone’s hand. I came to take positions.”

It’s the end of the day in the Mercedes garage. The team is wrapping up. Lewis is sitting beside YN, quietly reviewing data.

“Hey, don’t let them shrink you. You already deserve this seat,” Lewis whispers to her. She nods. She doesn’t cry — but her eyes shine with something raw.

“You’ll get tired of me quoting you.”

Lewis smiles in return, “You quoting me right back at me means I did something right.”

It’s night. YN walks out of the paddock alone, still in her suit. A few rival engineers walk behind her, one muttering under his breath, “She’ll be gone by mid season.”

She hears that, she keeps walking.

YN LN: DTS Interview

“They said that in Moto3. Then Moto2, then MotoGP. I’m still here and I’m not leaving.

The screen closes with a text on the black screen:

YN LN makes her Formula One race debut in Melbourne. Not one betting company placed her in the top five.

She placed third.

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username the caption, the stare, this woman. we are witnessing HISTORY

username yall acting like she won the title? it’s js p3 lmao

username Did well, but the media obsession is over the top

username not here to be liked, not here to be polite, just here to be FAST

georgerussell63 Can’t lie, you made that your own track today. congrats 👏

f1 First of many 🏆 Welcome to the elite

here is chapter 4 for u !!! what do we think about those leaked information, real or not? 👀 i hope u guys enjoyed this, there’s so many more to come :) if u want to know more about driver!yn place a message on my inbox !!! if you’d like to be added to the taglist, leave a comment or dm me !

likes and reblogs are appreciated, love lots !! x

taglist: @omgsuperstarg @hymntostars @dollyvuu @halleest @smh-anon @scentedrosa @ceekokocee15 @melancholicandmessy @heavenbabyg @milkiane @jajouska @stqrgirlies-blog @imdyinghelpplease @iikissagirl @moonlight52moonlight @hollandxstanley  @sleutherclaw @deaddumblbumble @iamdedsthingz @scuderiapng @ninass-world @lagrandeourse @kodzuvk @reallifemermaidprincess @enfppuff @rosegoldorchid @cryinghotmess @hero-ically @anunstablefangirl @floraf1ln @beathreat @fromsaltandsea @i-need-to-be-put-down @usseraloo

[goldfades]

no thoughts—just munch joe

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ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | compilation of munch joe burrow thoughts... need i say more?

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut! oral (fem. receiving), praise, unedited, third person and no use of y/n, cumming in his pants... um 🙂‍↕️🤗

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | im ovulating. no comment. i hope yall enjoy this compilation of munch joe <3

it starts off as a joke.

just a throwaway comment joe said once on a mic’d up game day video when a media guy asks him what his pregame meal is:

“pregame meal?” he repeats with a smirk. “my girl.”

(followed by a shoulder shrug and a sly little “what?” when the guys around him start clowning.)

everyone loses it.

it becomes an inside joke on the team—guys are always side-eyeing him pregame like

“yo, joey—did you eat?”

and he’s always straight-faced: “yep. full plate. my girl special.”

but the thing is… it’s not a joke. not really. he’s deadass.

joe swears by it—swears his best games, the ones where he’s locked in, extra aggressive without breaking a sweat—they all have one thing in common: he got a taste of his girl that morning.

like this man has it down to a routine.

home games? he wakes her up early, rolls her over and eats her like it’s brunch service and he’s on shift.

road games? if she’s there with him, even better—he’s lifting her up onto the hotel sink or laying her across the bed, jersey pushed up, her legs over his shoulders while he mutters something about

“can’t play hungry.” or like, “this is the real carb load.”

even if he can’t finish (like they’re pressed for time or he doesn’t want to be late), he still makes it a point to at least get his “appetizer” in. just a couple minutes of her thighs shaking around his head and his hands gripping her tighter than he does a ball.

he’s so convinced it works that when he has a bad game, he’ll literally go back and say:

“i didn’t eat.”

and the guys know exactly what he means.

his girl is mortified every time he says it out loud—and he says it a LOT. interviews? podcasts? casually in the locker room?

if anyone asks about superstition or game prep, he’s like:

“oh yeah. i got a secret pregame routine. tastes better than anything on the team menu.”

so now it’s canon.

“my girl is my pregame meal.”

he says it proudly. smugly. and his girl hates it and loves it at the same time.

because it’s funny—but also he means it with his whole chest.

--

the first time joe had came from eating you out, it was rare—accidental, even. the first time, he didn’t even notice. joe was just locked in, deep in the zone, her thighs around his head and hands in his curls and her voice shaking in his echoing in his ears like—

“j–joe, i’m gonna—”

“good.”

“baby i—”

“i said good.”

and that was all it took. he came in his boxers. fully.

like he didn’t even process it until a few minutes later, when he finally sat up, pupils blown, chest heaving and he realized he was soaked.

she thought it was hot as hell—kept teasing him like,

“damn… didn’t even need me to touch you, huh?”

but joe was literally stunned. like his whole life changed that day. he was already obsessed with eating her out before—but now? now he had proof it was enough.

that he could get off just from her reactions, just from the way she tasted, just from her body trembling under his.

so it kept happening. more and more frequently.

especially when:

she’s pulling his hair while whispering filthy encouragement

she’s being bratty earlier and he’s “shutting her up”

she’s overstimmed and begging and he wants to watch her come undone again

she’s riding his face with both hands in his curls and he’s moaning into her

those are the dangerous combos. he’ll finish in sweats, in tight compression shorts, sometimes even while holding himself back from fully grinding into the bed ora pillow.

like he’ll try to keep it under control but it’s just too much sometimes.

and she knows, she always knows. like her favorite thing to say afterwards is:

“you came again, huh?”

“jesus, joey, you’re actually sick in the head.”

and he just wipes his mouth and shrugs like,

“told you i didn’t need anything else.”

“you’re the whole damn meal.”

(he’s not joking either.)

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ���

[mariasont]

the itch you don't scratch

hotch almost admits feelings; your father’s call interrupts.

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: age gap, dbf!hotch, father-child strained relationship, mutual pining, insect bites (squito), excessive porch creaking (@ me fr) prompt: here! wc: 0.9K

You’re curled into a patio chair, compact mirror teetering on your knee, retracing the faded freckle above your lip with careful little dots of brown eyeliner. It's a losing battle against the sun's callous affection, leaving you in an endless game of cosmetic hide-and-seek. It’s an absurd devotion, performed for an audience of nobody, but perhaps the moths orbiting the porchlight can appreciate your diligent dishonesty.

You don’t hear him until the boards creak, aged wood sighing to adjust to unexpected weight. His footsteps possess that careful quality of someone attempting stealth, though you suspect it's more consideration than genuine sneaking.

He must not be wearing shoes, you decide, though the image clashes with what you know of him. Hotch doesn't seem like the type to do barefoot, he does backup plans, double-knotted laces, contingencies stacked like cards in his pocket.

He possessed the kind of perpetual preparedness that would naturally extend to protecting himself from something as mundane as a splinter. And yet, here he is, barefoot or close to it, walking toward you anyway.

“You know there’s bug spray by the back door.”

The eyeliner drifts from your grasp, your fingers going lax as your attentions pulls sharply downward. He's not looking at your face anymore. He's looking at you.

Your knees, specifically, an entire topography of red, angry bites crowned with their own inflamed halos.

They weren't a problem until he said something, but now they itch with accusations. Your hands flutter over the mess, helpless, mortified, trying not to scratch.

“They always go for me,” you say, “I must have that sweet blood they keep talking about.”

He takes the chair opposite you — no fuss, just thud — forearms braced on his thighs.

“Could be,” he finally agrees. “Sweet blood would certainly explain some things.”

Your fingers trace idle, uselessly patterns around a particularly vindictive welt, each rotation failing spectacularly to distract from the dangerous territory your thoughts have wandered to.

Projecting, you chide yourself with severity, absolutely projecting. This is Aaron Hotchner, president, treasurer, and lifelong sole member of the Never Flirts Ever club. He probably doesn't mean anything by it, didn't even hear the teasing in his words.

But your chest still feels too warm, too full, like your heart's pressing its ear to a wall that doesn't exist, listening for something that might not be there.

Moths, after all, never stop circling just because the flame isn't real.

“I’ve learned not to scratch it. Makes it worse.”

“Right,” he replies. “Doesn't exactly kill the urge though, does it?”

You glance up on contact, quick and surgical, something you could pretend was incidental if caught.

You're looking for a crack, a twitch in his mouth, maybe a little smirk that would give him away. A flicker in his eyes, some trace of the man who might enjoy watching you squirm.

The wine at dinner must've fried a few circuits — his, yours, maybe both — but not dice. He's clean. Flatline. The expressionless face of a man who could beat a polygraph while dreaming.

And now he's giving you that look, the one that says, You're smart enough to figure this out, so go ahead. Figure it out.

Unlucky for you, you’ve played this game before, and the house always wins. Usually by making you doubt you ever even had a hand.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got decades of impulse control training ahead of me.”

“Impulse control is the only reason conversations like this can happen.” 

Pocket aces. He just laid it on that table and you're sitting here with, what? A pair of twos? Game over.

You frown at his half-lit face. The moon carves out the serious parts of him and leaves nothing behind.

“Oh, so we’re doing the gracious host thing now. You’re welcome for the opportunity to resist your baser instincts.”

You try to inject sarcasm, but it lands lopsided, arms tightening around your knees as if that would help settle the weird, restless energy crawling off your spine.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You say a lot of things that don’t mean what they sound like.”

Surprisingly, he laughs. “Yeah.”

The weathered planks beneath his chair groan as he leans back, the sound a low, splintered sigh that feels obscenely well-timed. His arms migrate from thick thighs to fold over an even thicker chest.

You look away like it's for his sake, but it's mostly self-preservation. A girl can only take so much.

His eyes find yours and hold, stretches long enough that you begin to imagine an alternate universe where the evening chorus of frogs doesn’t provide convenient cover, where the charged space between your chairs might collapse under the stress of words he keeps imprisoned behind closed molars.

You've spent months. Months of trying not to listen for this. Not to want it.

Because things don't turn out for you. Because you don't believe in mercy, divine or otherwise.

And how right you are to do so because just as his lips tilt toward something irreversible, your phone erupts in vibration, the two sounds colliding in supremely awkward counterpoint.

You blow out this annoyed breath, hair fluttering against your forehead, reaching for your pocket.

Father blazes across the screen with characteristic persistence.

You hit decline before the third ring, as if speed might save you from the fallout.

Across from you, Hotch's gaze drops long enough to clock the name. His mouth tightens, not unkindly, but with the efficiency of someone snapping back into professional mode. Safe distance restored.

You resent the architectural speed with which he reconstructs those familiar barriers, and more acutely, how effortlessly you've just handed him the blueprints for their reconstruction.

“That a conversation for another night?” he asks.

“He only calls when he wants something. Usually advice he won’t take.”

A subtle lift of his chin, gentle agreement. “I remember.”

A silence follows, stretching taut and decidedly intimate until you can feel the regret creeping in. Not for being here, not for the wanting him, but for the inevitable consequences that follow.

You're standing at a boundary that couldn't be any clearer if it were painted in blood.

“I should —” you start.

“Yeah. Bed,” he says quickly.

Then you both stand, chairs moving in an unplanned choreography that deposits you both in direct proximity, closer than intended, close enough to count the stitching along his collar if you possessed such reckless inclinations. Four measly inches stand sentinel between good sense and beautiful catastrophe.

Your stomach performs an uncomfortable contortion as his attention makes its torturous descent to your lips. Lips that are undoubtedly crackled from sun exposure despite your liberal applications of Vaseline. And yet, his eyes darken, irises deepening to a shade rich and complex as aged whiskey, pupils expanding until they're swallowing up all that impulse control he preaches about.

You let a breath, only to reclaim it. How badly you wish this was simpler. How badly you wish he could kiss you without the labyrinthine of complications that would follow. Just a kiss — ordinary and sweet and magnificently human.

But complexity has always served as your shared vernacular, the language in which you both achieve perfect fluency.

“I think about it,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Me too.”

And there it is — the itch, surfacing with the persistence of a bruise you can't stop prodding to test its tenderness. You would think by know you'd know better. You'd think experience would prevent you from gravitating toward a flame that will undoubtedly leave you beautifully scarred.

Yet here you stand, jaw locked, knuckles bone-white against the denim of your shorts, forcing down every feeling that claws for liberation.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally master restraint, but tonight your entire self-control is dedicated to simply not scratching.

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[bewitched-hours]

Good morning/evening.

Well its me again :] and I'm here for another request.

Basically, Mafioso x Bartender?Reader oneshot [You can make it into yandere if you want; No pressure].

Where Reader was once Mafi's best friend when they were young adult [During that time, They didn't know that He works and is a mafia himself.]

However, They had end their friendship after slowly realizing They're being friend to a dangerous criminal. After that, They live hidden with the fear of being mistaken as His accomplice and fear of geting revenge + beaten.

As for that, They faked their identities and hidden their true job under cover as a bartender since all the people come to the bar to drink [get drunk, remember nothing next morning = barely see the bartender's face well + They hidden their identities.]

But They didn't even expect to meet Him IN THAT FRICKING BAR THEY'RE WORKING-

[Extra note: Mafioso in Forsaken, not in Dream game.]

Well, the rest is up to you. Stay safe and hope you have a great day :]

-Phalpelisk

Ooo, what a good little prompt I've been fed today~ And tbh, I can't even really find much about dream game aside from fan-stuff so I always just assume Forsaken with Mafioso... (Seriously, where do I even start-)

Reader gets She/They~

Do you regret it? Probably not.

Even getting indirectly involved with the Mafia would've been too dangerous for your tastes. You did what you had to do to make sure he wouldn't be looking for you.

You had faked your death, started over with a new identity, even dying your hair and wearing lenses along with a brand new closet. Though you always had a hat on that shrouded your face in shadows just to be sure.

Nowadays you were just a bartender taking care of the unfortunate and letting them air out their frustrations for the night while you collected tips for your sweet attitude. It was hard to act like that at times but you've never lived better!

But back when you were still younger... You sometimes catch yourself still thinking about your best friend. You felt bad leaving him behind but you didn't want to be seen as his accomplice or anything if push came to shove. You were too scared to let that happen.

Still, you couldn't help but wonder where he was now. Maybe he stuck to the Mafia business? Or maybe he could've changed? Was that possible?

As you thought on such manners in the quiet of the evening, you heard the bells of the door ring their gentle tune. It was him...

You hadn't expected to find him strolling by your workplace but tried to keep your composure. He didn't look too different from when you last saw him and you could always play off your anxiousness- if he noticed it- by pointing out the fact he was a mafia boss or just his looks... Was he known as a mafia boss even? Maybe it was time you invested yourself in the news more...

"Gonna need a Tom Collins..." He sighed, sitting down as you began mixing without a second thought.

Tom Collins... Gin, lemon juice, some simple syrup, a club soda and some ice with a little lemon wedge and cherry for garnish. It's actually one of your favourites...

As you shook your shaker with the ingredients, you couldn't help but notice his tone. "Long day, huh?" You somehow managed to keep a calm voice as you spoke up, straining your current mixture into his ice-filled glass and topped it with the soda and garnishes. "Nothing a little gin and lemon can't fix though, right?" You tried to keep it lighthearted, your sweet act going right past him as he began drinking.

"Just on the hunt for someone." He suddenly chuckled, catching you off-guard. Mafioso was always someone who could somehow see right through you and made you feel predictable. Though you blamed that on him having known you for practically an eternity.

Although, curiosity was practically your second nature. "Oh? Anyone special?" You asked casually, refilling his glass as you figured he might need a couple glasses before even getting tipsy... Well, at least you could probably get away with being casual considering your fake identity.

Except... He knew. "Just an old friend... Faked her own death." He looked up at you to note your slight slip-up in hesitation.

Even though you tried to play it off as simply wanting to see the time, keeping on your signature sweetness as though it was nothing as you continued. "She must be important then, to have someone look for her even so." You faked a chuckle, it all went right past him.

Your act was like glass to him. It frustrated him a little that he couldn't break through it and keep you to himself like he initially planned but he needed you to slip-up so he knew he was stalking the right you.

And you were basically giving him just that as he went on. "One way to put it. Not like I can blame her but she didn't do that good of a job covering her tracks." You couldn't see it but you could hear the smugness in his tone as you hesitated again to subconsciously think about your steps back then.

You felt your heart race as you knew you were caught but still attempted to shake it off in hopes he didn't catch on... Which he did...

"Is that so?" Seriously- How were you keeping such a casual tone despite being caught red-handed? "Any leads then?"

Your nervousness only grew when you heard him chuckle. It felt more menacing than anything. "Just your newfound sweetness... Your acting's better though." He sounded satisfied with himself, taking one last sip of his glass before handing you his card.

"You can run the tab on this and meet me outside. I'll be sure to speak to your boss so you won't have to worry." He got up and allowed you to see his smirk, making you sigh in defeat as your act dropped. At least the other patrons were all already tipsy or drunk enough to not intervene or report this...

You quickly run his card and let him type in the pin as you made your way around to the back where you could change to your usual outfit.

A knee-length dress that you simply had worn today because it made you feel cute, thigh highs to keep your legs warm and a pair of comfortable but fancy looking shoes to match the dress... What luck-

Getting outside, he had been waiting for you by an oddly casual looking car and approached as soon as your eyes met.

"Feel free to smoke a bit until I'm back." He simply said as he handed you a pack of cigarettes and a lighter before heading inside, leaving you no room to question him.

But with a huff, you did light yourself one and began smoking to calm your nerves. How did he even find you? Did he hire someone?

The thought made you shiver slightly but you went further ahead and decided to have a look at his car.

All black, even inside. Slightly tinted windows, a bunny- A BUNNY???

"Ya like him?" His sudden appearance made you practically jump as you dropped your cigarette. "His name's Gubby, you can hold him on the drive if you'd like." He didn't even really acknowledge the cigarette so you subtly stomped on it and quietly nodded before walking around to get in the passenger side.

Gubby practically bounced forward to meet you, sniffing your hands and squeaking happily as you pet him. It was pretty cute...

Almost makes you forget you're basically being kidnapped by your old best friend-

You must've been subconsciously smiling on the quiet ride as Gubby nudged himself against your fingers if you stopped petting him for even a second.

"Feels good not to act?" Mafioso snapped you out of your thoughts and you sheepishly nodded, realizing you've been letting down your guard already. Not like he didn't know.

"I just can't figure out how you managed to figure me out." You sighed, giving into Gubby's demands for affection again. "I got a new identity, dyed my hair and cut it- I even got contacts!" Your little pouts seemed to amuse the man you had known.

"I had a little help but it wasn't too hard to pick up a trail when looking through some old documents." Another shiver ran down your spine. Did the Mafia have access to government files or something? Sounds hard to believe...

Once you seemed to be close to your destination, Mafioso handed you a blindfold and looked at you expectantly. "I'm taking you to my hideout but I'm not having you remembering the way in or out in case anything happens." He sounded more serious and firm and honestly? You didn't have the energy to argue today so you just wrapped the blindfold around your eyes and used the little space below your eyes to just focus on Gubby instead. At least someone in this car can enjoy themself that way...

It was maybe half an hour to an hour of just hearing the engine of the car and the radio playing some songs from a CD Mafioso had on him. You kinda liked it even though it wasn't your usual cup of tea so you allowed yourself to hum along, much to his amusement.

"Glad you like it, [Reader]. It's really the only music I got available." You shrugged in response, trying to get used to your old name again.

It felt... Odd. You were so used to your new life but your old name was both comforting and eerie to hear... Especially out of an old friend's mouth...

But when the car finally stopped, you almost instinctively scooped up Gubby and held him in your arms as you waited for Mafioso to guide you again... Since you- ya know- STILL COULDN'T SEE-

Instead, he decided to lift you out of the car and carry you in a bridal carry as you practically clung onto Gubby to avoid him falling off. Not a single word fell from either of you though as you tried to listen around in confusion.

When the blindfold was finally off, you were greeted by the sight of Mafioso's goons... Who all seemed very curious about your appearance as you were finally let down to the ground and one of them took Gubby off your hands to let you move your arms again.

"This is [Reader], as you all know..." Did he talk about you? Wait- did they help Mafioso find you??? "They're staying with us indefinitely." waitwhat-

"Hold on- Indefinitely??" You questioned in shock, noticing the goons looking a little nervous as Mafioso sighed. "Yes, indefinitely. I put in a lot of work to find you and I'm not risking that again so we'll have your stuff brought here. You'll be taken care of so you won't have to worry." He sounded way too calm for your tastes but were you really in the mood to argue with a mafia boss? Nope.

With a groan, you began following the goons to your new room as they struck up conversation, asking about you and talking about themselves before letting it slip...

"Boss was pretty careful to make sure you didn't notice him following ya-" The goon was pretty quickly shut up by the others in a panic as you stared at them in confusion and slight anxiousness. "What does that mean?" You demanded to know, practically clawing at your own arms to not freak out right now.

"Ah- well-" Their mingled explanations were barely audible over each other so you stomped your foot once and the sound was luckily loud enough to get their attention back to you and allow you to speak.

And for once, you had a pretty mean glare on that managed to make them hesitant. You were able to drive a little fear into them and they were beginning to see how you and Mafioso fit together. "I'm not dealing with a headache today so I want one simple explanation, even if it's fake. I'm not driving myself to paranoia over not having a solid explanation for what you mean when you said he followed me." Your tone was firm and frustrated.

They all looked between each other nervously before one of them decided to step forward and satisfy your curiosity. "Well, we only found out you two had been friends recently. He told us you were someone dear to him and we were to help him find you at a set time each day. When he finally found you he had some of us visit you in disguises to find out what he wanted but because you put up an act he decided to go himself."

You stared at them for a while, trying to process their words until sighing and letting your shoulders slump. They took that as satisfaction and all sighed in relief. You could tell they were at least half-truthful but...

Were you really that important for Mafioso to hunt you down like that?

Who were you kidding, this is the most stubborn man you've ever known. It wasn't unrealistic to make yourself believe that Mafioso was just that stubborn to find you after your supposed slip-up in your plan years ago.

Still, you never wanted this! You've faked your death and created a new identity for yourself to get away from Mafia business! Not be dragged into it!

Sighing, you let the goons lead you to your room again and you were actually kinda surprised to find out it was decorated to your liking. It was mostly based on stuff you used to like back then but those things you still enjoy today so maybe Mafioso made a lucky guess in the new stuff. It would be more touching if you weren't basically the main character in a mafia romance novel.

No, you told yourself you wouldn't act like one. Never. That was way too cringe for your liking but at least you could finally lie down again.

You immediately noticed the comfort in the plush bed as you flopped down with the goons leaving behind a button and telling you to press it if you need help before disappearing. You didn't know what it would do but knowing Mafioso, it probably had a tracker or something in it. Whatever...

Back to the bed, it was comfortable enough to tempt you to fall asleep right then and there. It was the closest you've ever felt to sleeping on a cloud. But you couldn't let that distract you.

Especially not when you heard tiny scratches at your door and were almost excited to open it. You knew it was Gubby and you were more than happy to have him join you. He was in your lap on the bed in mere seconds with you happily scratching between his ears.

"Maybe this won't be so bad if you keep me company, right?" You said playfully, enjoying the little squeaks to comfort yourself for what felt like hours.

What have you been doing for that time? Daydreaming of course.

What about? Hey, you're the reader here, you think of it yourself lmao-

Nonetheless, you were a little embarrassed when you were brought back to reality by the door opening and Mafioso stepping through with a sigh and slight chuckle. "[Reader], I think you're starting to copy Gubby..." Was all he brought out for you to notice you and the bunny both had the same expression while looking at him. And you couldn't stifle your giggling for long as Gubby began jumping in front of you and squeaking in protest, his hind legs stomping against the plush bed in anger.

If only you knew the full extent of the lengths he went to to find you...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[dearmisshoney]

resolution: obscene ☑

synopsis. theo wishes to surprise you with a pixelated version of yourself in his favourite video game. catching him by surprise, all blushing and fumbling over his half-finished creation, you decide he needs a little hands-on guidance. a lap-bound lesson in accuracy was in order.

pairing. nerd! theodore nott x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, established relationship!au, nerd!theo, shy!theo, even loser!theo, respectful!theo, geek!theo, soft!theo, yearner!theo, sub!theo, selfless!theo, tit worshipping, dry-humping, slight size kink, teasing, edging (m receiving), slight praise, dirty talk, name-calling (amore, good boy, baby), no piv, theo cums in his pants, we love whiny men, theo loves you a lot

word count. 2.8k

a/n. cute nerdy boyfriend theo is a MUST. he babbles about a video game i don’t know much about, so that bit might be inaccurate. he also wears glasses because why not! ANYWAYS. let me know your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are appreciated.

“theo, what are you doing?”

your voice, so sweet and sultry, latched with mischievous intent, hit his half-covered ear and made him jump in his gaming chair as if lightning struck him. his headset shook atop of his head, trembling slightly against his glasses and pushing them down the bridge of his nose.

the lenses, now only half-way sheltering his blown-out eyes, allowed the blue light of the computer to shine against his greenish orbs.

but only for a moment, as his hand sprang up to his monitor and closed it instantly.

“n–nothing.”

“nothing? then were you staring at the black screen this whole time?”

you did not believe his obvious lie, squinting your eyes and pursing your lips at him in an attempt to convince him to tell you the truth. your nerd of a boyfriend loved playing video games, so you assumed that’s what he was doing right before you made your presence evident.

the suspicious part was his rush in shutting down his monitor, as well as the slight flush of his face and his fidgety pupils.

“y–yes.”

god, he was so cute, so obviously affected by your words and actions. theodore was avoiding your piercing eyes, even going as far as pushing his gaming chair away from you to stand his ground.

too bad his desk stopped his escape only after traversing a few inches.

“teddy, you know i don’t like liars.”

you were teasing him, feigning faux disappointment, as you closed in like a predator on its prey. you leaned forward and gripped the armrests with your hands, successfully caging a blushing and twitching theodore in his gaming chair.

“i–i know, amore…”

his voice was low and whispery, on the verge of giving up his strange scheme and giving in to your inquiries.

his adorable stutter, a clear sign of how weak he was for you, made you smirk for a moment; but you soon hid the smile, keeping that annoyed façade for the rest of the interrogation.

his eyes, previously glued to anything else but you, were enchanted by the close proximity and moved on their own, now staring at your gorgeous face.

that gorgeous face of yours he adores.

“then?” and you didn’t say anything else, only lowered your face closer to his as you arched your eyebrow.

waiting for theodore to reveal the truth.

theo swallowed hard. his adam’s apple bobbed, glasses slipping further down as he tried and failed to make himself small in the chair. you were too close; your breath ghosting against his cheek, your scent doing dangerous things to his poor brain.

he whimpered. whimpered.

“i–i wasn’t doing anything bad, promise.” he said, eyes flickering between your still puckered lips and the exposed skin of your throat.

“i was just–… just–” he scrunched his eyes shut like that might save him from you. “just playing monster hunter…”

you arched your brow more, cocking your head at him.

that wasn’t it.

“is that supposed to be the part that embarrasses you, teddy? you play that all the time.”

“no!” he burst, voice cracking slightly. “no, i mean— yes, i was playing that! but that’s not why i shut the screen… i just–" his hands came up, defensively, waving in front of him like he could shield himself from your teasing.

“it’s because i–i spent the last hour trying to make the character look like you.”

your silence nearly killed him.

“i mean– you’re just really pretty, and i thought it would be cool to, like,… have you there? in the game? fighting monsters with me?” he tucked his chin down, cheeks now a dangerous crimson, voice shrinking to a whisper. “she even has your hair. i… spent ages getting it right.”

you stared at him, then reached out one hand and tilted his chin up with your fingers. his glasses were now seated on the tip of his nose, letting you see those eyes full of adoration.

“you made a hunter version of me?” you asked, amused warmth curling into your tone.

he nodded frantically yet carefully, making sure not to kick away the hand you had on his jaw. you could see the way he was relaxing into your touch now that he registered the positive undertones in your voice.

“she’s got the dual blades. and— and she’s wearing the cool armor from the nargacuga alpha set because you’d look so badass in it. i gave her your eye shape and color and— i named her after you, too. i just– i didn’t want you to see because it’s still not finished.”

he went on and on about the customization he did on your character, enumerating names of weapons and armors you had no clue about. but the glimmer in his gaze and the passion on his lips told you enough about his work.

theodore nott loves you so much, and he has his… special ways of showing that.

“theo…” your smile cracked through that fake annoyed expression, your little play now abolished due to theo’s strong infatuation for you. 

he looked up at you like a kicked puppy, lips parted, pupils wide. “please don’t be mad. i just… i really, really like you. and i want to fight monsters with you.”

instead of replying to him, you only dipped your head lower and placed a small peck on his lips.

it was short, but so so sweet, your fruity lip balm making theo’s hands jump from their initial place and cup your face lovingly. he chased your lips, wishing to taste them again, but you turned away from his face.

only to plop down in his lap unannounced and make him let out a small whine. again.

“can you show her to me?”

theo made another noise, like a squeaky hinge, halfway between a gasp and a protest. his hand, now reaching behind your back to steady your body in his lap, made your chest press nicely against his.

it was all too much for his poor heart. it took him a few seconds to answer back.

“y–you wanna see her?”

you nodded, already reaching for the mouse before he could stop you. “well, yeah. you spent all that time making her look like me, didn’t you?” you turned back to look at him, voice dropping into a sultry tone.

“what, is she naked or something, baby?”

“n–no!” he squeaked fast, flushing deeper, like the word alone was too much. “it’s not– i wouldn’t– she’s just… she doesn’t look exactly right yet.”

you clicked open the monitor, using the button theo pressed previously. the screen came to life with a flickering light, some undistinguishable roars echoing from theo’s headset, but your attention was immediately captured by the figure standing confidently on the screen.

your hunter character.

she was decked in jet-black armor, twin blades sheathed at her hips. you turned her around using the mouse, but the controls were unknown to you, so the character didn’t do much else under your command.

theo’s hand — bigger than yours — covered your hand over the mouse and gently guided you to zoomed in on the face to see his work.

oh, he definitely did his best. her hair was identical to yours, somehow matching the cut you had. the face features were also no doubt shaped after your own, looking extremely beautiful under the dim light of the customization menu. 

but when you zoomed back out, something was a little off.

you leaned back into theo’s neck, letting your breath fan across his naked skin and making goosebumps raise all over. even such mere gestures made blood shoot to his cock, the tame bulge of his sweats swelling with need.

he was putty for you.

“she’s cute.” you said softly, scrolling to rotate the full-body model. “but you didn’t get the body right.”

theo tensed beneath you; you hit the nail on the head. “i–i tried to–…”

“my chest is definitely not that size. and my thighs are– well, they don’t look like that.”

“i messed it up! the sliders were really confusing–” theo gasped, ashamed of his incomplete creation, afraid he might have insulted you.

“you want to get it right?”

you turned to look at him, expression amused, but voice soft. he nodded instantly, like he was being thankful for your merciful offer.

“i want her to look just like you. perfect. i mean– you’re already perfect.”

you grinned, slow and sly, and took his free hand in yours.

“then let me help you.” you guided his trembling hand up, gently placing it along the curve of your boob. theo’s breath stuttered audibly, thighs stiffening below you.

“you need to feel the dimensions, make sure it’s accurate.”

theodore let out a broken, needy little sound that he tried very hard — and failed — to conceal.

“i… i want it to be perfect.” he repeated again, his thumb twitching slightly near your nipple, eager to press down on it through your shirt, yet also too embarrassed to be selfish with your body. “for you.”

“yes, baby, do it for me.”

theo whimpered as you pushed your chest firmer into his palm, his long fingers twitching over the swell of your breast. he squeezed gently, like he always does; so careful, so attentive to your reaction and pleasure.

his cheeks were on fire, lips parted as though even the act of breathing was too much.

"you're s–so soft…" he murmured like he wasn’t even aware the words had slipped out, fully entranced by your tits. "so much softer than the affordances in the game…"

you giggled against his ear, grinding just a little in his lap to fuel his movements. his hips bucked up involuntarily, the outline of his cock thick and aching under the thin fabric of his sweatpants. you rolled your hips again — slow and steady — your clothed pussy brushing along the hard bulge pressing against you.

theo let out another broken moan, low and desperate.

“you can press harder, baby.” you whispered into his ear, your lips grazing the blushing shell. “don’t you wanna get the sliders just right?”

a throaty sound escaped him — somewhere between a moan and a plea. his other hand moved away from the mouse and came up, hesitant and trembling, cupping your other breast like he was holding something fragile.

his fingers flexed. squeezed.

his hips jerked again, so needy and uncontrolled.

“god, i–i love them.” he confessed suddenly, breath hot and broken. “i think about them all the time, i can’t help it.”

you rocked your hips again, smirking into his flushed neck, loving the messy state theodore was in.

“i know you do, teddy. i can feel how much you love my tits.”

and oh, he really couldn’t take it. his mouth dropped open, breath hitching with every rut of your hips and every sinful press of his fingers. his cock throbbed under you, painfully hard and barely constrained in his sweats.

you nipped at his ear. “want to feel them better, baby?”

his answer was a strangled whine and a harsh squeeze of your breasts. theodore was so eager to feel your bare boobs beneath the pad of his fingers.

your fingers curled around the hem of your — his — shirt, slow and teasing. theo’s eyes were glued to your chest like it contained the secrets of the universe. he even readjusted his glasses, pushing them to their initial place with a flick of his middle finger.

and when you lifted your shirt over your head, baring yourself completely for him, he made a sound so high and broken it barely qualified as human.

“oh–” he gasped, glasses fogging slightly as he instinctively leaned forward. his hands hovered, unsure, trembling with restraint.

you were his girlfriend, yes, but you were also the most beautiful woman he had laid eyes on.

he couldn’t just put his hands on–

“you can touch, theo.” your voice was a murmur, low and encouraging, as you guided his palms up. “i want you to.”

that’s all it took.

the moment his hands met your bare skin, theo melted.

his fingers spread wide, cupping both of your breasts with a kind of quiet admiration, his thumbs brushing lightly over your hardening nipples. he shuddered, mouth falling open, like he could feel every heartbeat through his palms.

“you’re… you’re perfect.” he whispered. his thumbs moved in slow circles, respectful and delicate, and when he dared to squeeze a little harder — when he felt the way your nipples stiffened completely under his touch… he groaned.

“i c-can’t believe you’re mine — fuck, i think i’m gonna cum.”

your laugh was soft, breathless. “not yet, baby. i need you to focus. don’t you wanna make her really accurate?”

theo whimpered and nodded, swallowing hard as he leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the swell of your breast.

“i’ll get everything right, amore.” he promised into your skin, looking up at you from beneath his glasses, flashing you the prettiest puppy eyes. “every… every single detail…”

when his tongue darted out, wetting your nipple, you moaned softly. and theo responded like you’d just awarded him with divine blessings: both hands massaged your tits more eagerly now, careful but undeniably hungry, and his lips latched onto your nipples with newfound confidence.

“just like that, teddy.” you murmured, threading your fingers through his messy curls. “that’s how you learn…”

his glasses slipped a little more as he suckled and kneaded, completely overwhelmed and absolutely dedicated to your chest.

he was a goner.

and you kept grinding — slow and teasing — against the thick bulge in theo’s lap, feeling how stiff he was beneath his sweats. how every careful thrust of your hips made his hands twitch on your tits, made his lips stutter against your skin.

his mouth was wet and hot and needy, worshipping every inch of your chest like he’d been dreaming of this moment for years — he was always like that. and you loved it.

you loved your sweet, nerdy teddy with his shaky hands and a soaked spot darkening the front of his grey sweatpants.

“a–amore.” he whined, words muffled against your breast, his voice vibrating against your sternum. “please, i c–can’t–”

“shhh.” you cooed, stroking your fingers down his flushed neck. “you’re doing so well, baby. don’t stop.”

you rolled your hips again, harder this time, your clothed pussy dragging firm and slow over his cock. theo’s whole body jolted — he even bit down on your nipple by accident, making you gasp in pleasure — and then he whimpered, low and so so desperate.

“feels so good.” he choked out, blinking rapidly behind foggy lenses. “i–i love it when you use me like this.”

“you love letting me ride you like this, teddy?” you asked, brushing your lips against his jaw, feeling the way his hips trembled under yours. “love letting me hump your cock until you can’t take it anymore?”

he nodded helplessly, his curls damp against his forehead, glasses slipping lower with each rock of your hips. “yes, yes, please. i–i wanna be your good boy, even like this, i–”

you pressed your body closer, your tits soft against his cheeks, lips brushing his ear as you grind down harder.

“you’re gonna cum for me like this, baby. just from my pussy rubbing on your cock. gonna soak your pants for me, right?”

“oh fuck.” theo gasped, hips jutting up into you uncontrollably. his head dropped back against the chair, headphones crashing down onto the floor. his mouth was parted in a perfect circle as his fingers clenched at your ribcage. “i–i’m gonna–”

“do it, teddy.” you whispered against his ear. “cum for me.”

and theo did — with a broken, strangled moan, back arching slightly, body going limp beneath you. you felt the heat of his release immediately, the sudden dampness rushing through his sweats as he came hard in his pants, his thighs trembling and his fingers clawing helplessly at your torso.

his glasses slipped clean off his nose, caught only by the swell of your cleavage.

“oh my god.” he breathed, flushed and panting and wrecked. “i–i came in my pants. i’m–”

you kissed his cheek, sweet and warm. “i know, baby. it was so hot.”

he melted, burying his face in your chest again, still gently stroking your tits like they were the only things keeping him grounded.

“i’ll… i’ll clean it up.” he whispered bashfully, voice muffled against your skin. “just– gimme a minute. i think i died.”

you laughed softly, threading your fingers through his curls, carefully placing his glasses on top of his head. “you did perfect, teddy.”

he just nodded, breathless and dazed. and completely in love.

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove, @minidemont

[logysworld]

reader having a bad game and paige comforting her after please

thrown off

paige bueckers x f!reader | 2.6k words

summary: as anon requests, reader has a bad game and paige makes her feel less shit. however I did go off the rails a bit and made this quite long HAHA MB,

—> also it’s like established relationship between reader and paige

warnings: none rly this is fluffy, chris being a lil bitchy, kinda unrealistic coach talk

the game starts good, even great. in warm-up, your shots are landing with a smooth confidence. rhythm tight, wrists flicked, nothing but net when you shoot the ball. you’re feeling good. there’s the sound of balls hitting the court, shoes stepping, laughter and pre-game talk. everything feels light.

nai bumps shoulders with you during drills, zaza throws a pass mid-joke and you drain it with ease. chris even nods at you with a smirk when you hit back-to-back threes pregame. the vibes are unmatched to say the least.

paige walks up behind you and flicks her ponytail so it swipes you. you stop dribbling the ball in your hands and tilt your head back, relieving the tickling sensation that she planted on your neck.

she looms over you with her height.

“that face is gonna scare the fans.” she jokes.

you smile and turn to face her properly.

“im just focused. they love me anyway.” you say, winking and passing the ball through your legs as you do.

her lips curl into a smile as she watches you, then she drops her voice lower to speak. “you’re glowing today. like actually. bet you’ll glow on the court too.”

she says it so casually and you just blink, an electric buzzing hums in your chest and your cheeks start to feel warm.

“you all nervous on me now?”

you glance down at your jersey and smile,

“shut up.”

before she can reply, arike jogs past and shouts.

“hey! less flirting, more layups.”

you both roll your eyes at the same time, but paige nudges your arm as she walks past, hand brushing yours.

“aight, let’s light it up.”

you nod and take in a breath. you’re feeling amazing, and you don’t wanna let anybody down.

first quarter you’re moving just as well as you were in pregame. touches are clean, passes on target, shots smooth. your name is a frequent echo on the speakers.

paige finds you on a cross-court pass and you swish it quick. the team shouts from the sideline, myisha slaps your back with hype. you’re in it, present and connected.

paige walks by you, “told you, glowing babyy!!”

you laugh, blushing.

the sky are playing physical, like they always do. but it’s fine, you’re matching it, so is the rest of the team. you’ve taken harder hits.

until the second quarter.

you’re cutting down the wing, chasing a loose ball when a sky player - always playing like she needs to prove something - steps right into your path.

but she doesn’t just try to box out,

she takes each of your sides in her hands and shoves you down, fucking hard.

you’re forced sideways and hit the hardwood with a loud crack of skin and sneakers. your forearms burn from the fall, scratched raw against the court. the whistle does blow this time, but it’s too late. the damage is done, a foul isn’t called, just dead ball.

you push yourself up straight with gritted teeth, chest puffed. the crowd is roaring, arike already storming towards the ref.

your voice is venom, “you can’t be serious. most obvious foul I’ve seen all season, ref.” you spit.

the voices of your teammates blend, frustration heavy in the air.

“nah that’s not defense, that’s just dirty.”

“you wanna call that any slower, ref?”

“she had both hands on her!”

you can’t hear what paige says to the player but it’s controlled, dangerous, and the player drops her head down after paige walks away. then, she turns and comes straight to you, reaching you just before you could say anything else.

“hey, just breathe.” she says, hands resting on your shoulders, with a slight force that draws you to step away and turn your back to the player.

“she just fucking shoved me.”

“I know.” her eyes flick past you. “I saw, can’t do nothing about it now. you don’t have to.”

“but-“

she steps closer now, one hand coming to your lower back, grounding you. “I got you. let it go.”

it makes your chest twist, you breathe out through your nostrils with a puff. she says it not cold, not dismissing, but because she knows it’s not worth it. you want to lose it, so does she.

but then she’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, and the whole arena seems to fade out. just her hand on your back, her eyes on you. so you let it go.

but something is cracked now. you walk back into the game, but your head isn’t in it anymore. you’re thinking about the shove, the stings on your arms, the fact that player got away with knocking you down - and everyone saw it. your vision starts to blur with anger.

and now the rest of the game?

it just seems to slip right through your hands.

you try to reset, you really do.

but in the last minutes of this quarter, you’re spiraling. you pass up an open shot, and your next one rims out, hard. you curse under your breath. you get called for a reach - a lazy foul. you shake your head and look up because you never do that. you feel the cameras zoom on you, tracking every reaction. every mistake feels amplified.

chris calls timeout.

his eyes are on you instantly. “you, what’s gotten into you? get your head out of your ass.” the team keeps their head down, but paige tried to catch your gaze. you had your head down too, avoiding it all.

at halftime, the locker room is tense. your jersey sticks to you in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. chris is pacing.

“we’re letting them push us around. what happened to being tough? girls, come on.”

his eyes land on you, you’re not looking but you feel it. “we started strong and now, what? we’re falling apart. some of you need to focus up.”

you feel it like a knife and chew on your cheeks, jaw pointed at the ground.

when it’s time for third quarter, you tell yourself you’re ready, time to redeem yourself.

but the rhythm never comes.

you fumble a pass, miss a layup you could hit with eyes closed. on defense, you get caught on a screen that paige switches for you. she doesn’t say anything, but you can feel it. the I got it that you were supposed to have.

chris calls you for sub early into the quarter.

“off.” he said it plain, not even angry, just done. you jog to the bench and sit, face burning. there’s a wrap on your forearm from the fall earlier and you scratch at it. you see the camera lights blinking across the court, some faced directly at you. you clench your jaw and clasp your knuckles together. fuck.

you’re avoiding everyone. nai tried to make eye contact when she sat next to you on the bench but you weren’t interested.

nai kicked your leg lightly, but you didn’t respond.

paige looked over at you more than five times, you could feel each glance, and each one just made you feel heavier.

still, no one says anything, because they know that right now you won’t listen.

it’s the last quarter. you started this game with a spark, 16 points with the team in total. you had admiring eyes on you from the whole stadium, and now they feel judgmental.

you curl into yourself further, fingers tugging at the hem of your jersey, one knee bouncing. you’ve never felt further from the court than you do right now, despite it being nearly beneath your feet.

in the locker room, the silence is louder than the crowd. shoes squeak against tile, tape is ripped, there’s no music. no jokes.

you sit at your locker, shoes already off and placed next to you on the bench. your hoodie is half on. you don’t move or speak.

chris stands infront with his arms folded tight.

“we all saw what that was. a loss that shouldn’t have happened.” he starts. “we had a flawless start, but I guess ego and attitude were the only players on the court today.”

you feel the words hit you before he even looks at you. he doesn’t call you out by name, but he doesn’t have to. you can feel other eyes on you, and you pray you start shrinking into a speck of dust.

you block out the rest of his talk, your pulse growls in your ears and you swear you can feel the blood flowing through each vein. the ache in your chest is so loud you’re afraid someone might hear it.

when the team filters out you stay back for a bit, slower to pack up your things and ashamed to walk out the door incase anyone sees the tears that have built in your eyes.

you catch movement in your peripheral, a familiar blonde ponytail walking past. you think she’ll keep walking, but she doesn’t.

she stops beside you and crouches down, placing a hand to your side, her fingers toying with the fabric of your shorts.

she’s fragile when she speaks. “baby, you okay?”

your shoulders relax at the name, but the tension in your muscles is stuck.

“hi. no. I feel like shit.”

she takes your hands in hers and pulls you to stand with her.

“why don’t you go shower? ill come back and wait for you.” she coos, a volume only you can hear.

“okay,” you tilt your head. “where are you going?”

she bites down on her lip.

“im gonna talk to chris.”

“what? no, paige don’t-“

“shower, ill be done by the time you are.”

she squeezes your hands and walks off. you contemplate following her, but the idea of seeing chris makes you cringe internally and the predicted embarrassment holds you back.

defeated again, you grab your stuff and walk to the showers.

paige walks straight up to chris who is standing outside one of the common rooms, reviewing something on his clip board.

“you got a minute, coach?”

he glances up, surprised. “what is it?”

she crosses her arms. “you need to back off her.”

“excuse you?”

“she gave us 16 points, got knocked to the floor and played through it. you humiliated her, actin’ like she didn’t do shit.”

he straightens. “paige, she lost composure. we needed control-“

she scoffs “nah, you needed someone to blame.” she takes a step closer.

“she’s not soft, you know that. but you made her feel like shit for slipping after she carried us in the first. she was the last person to blame today.”

he opens his mouth but paige cuts him off again.

“say whatever you want behind closed doors, but don’t humiliate her in front of the team like that again. that’s not coaching, that’s ego.”

he pauses - clearly shocked.

she shakes her head once. “tighten up.”

with that she turns and walks off, for her, this conversation is over.

you’ve changed into sweats now, bag slung over your shoulder, you still feel like shit. when you walk out of the change rooms paige is already waiting there, her jaw slightly clenched.

you stop in front of her. “what’d he say?”

“doesn’t matter.”

you frown at her. “why did you do that?”

she cups your face with one hand. “cause. you deserved better, you fought for us. i saw it.”

your throat thickens. “it wasn’t enough.”

she looks at you with kind eyes, puppy-like. “no. it was.”

then quieter. “come home with me.”

you nod, but don’t move just yet. you aren’t ready. paige’s hand trails down your arm, fingertips grazing yours.

when you don’t pull away, she links her pinky finger with your own. then, her whole hand.

you don’t say anything as she walks you out toward the exit, but you look down to hide the blush that creeps onto your cheeks. her hand never leaves yours, thumb brushing lightly back and forth.

when you get in her car, you slouch in the passengers seat. she closes her own door and reaches to link your hands again, just loosely connected resting on the center console.

she squeezes your hand every few minutes but doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t make you either.

at her apartment, you’re quiet when you walk inside. your limbs feel achey and eyes swollen from holding back tears. you still don’t talk, and paige hasn’t pressed.

you drop your duffel near the door and she takes it without a word, settling it neatly on the rack close by.

by the time you’ve dropped yourself onto the couch, she’s already tossed you her grey uconn hoodie - the one with the loose neck and somehow always smells like her despite you adopting it. you put it on without thinking.

she disappears into the kitchen for a second and you click the tv on. when she comes back, she’s brought you a cold glass of water, your favorite protein bar, and a small bowl of grapes she washed but doesn’t mention.

she takes the remote from your hands, lowers the volume, and turns on some random background show just to fill the silence. she knows silence makes you spiral, but talking right now might be too much for you.

she drops onto the couch beside you, legs splayed out, back resting against the corner. then, she opens her arms. you tuck yourself into her, back to her chest and she wraps herself snug around you.

then she speaks. “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna, baby.”

you lean further into her, eyes welling up again. words just come out.

“I felt the pressure, from everyone. from the cameras, chris. and I couldn’t get out of my own head.”

she doesn’t say anything, just lets you talk and rubs the sleeves of your hoodie.

“and then when chris came at me infront of everyone… yeah I wasn’t playing my best, but I was trying. i don’t know… it broke me.”

you stop, finally breathing again.

paige hums behind you. “I know. I saw it.”

you tilt your head to look up at her. “that’s it?”

her expression softens, and she moves so that she’s facing you. “what else is there to say? you were busting your ass. you gave us sixteen. a few bad plays don’t erase what you did.”

you look away, ashamed. “felt like it did.”

she shifts again, a hand sliding to the back of your neck. “baby, don’t.”

“you’re allowed to have off nights. you’re allowed to get pissed and slip up. but I saw you, I saw everything you gave.”

you blink at her, eyes stinging.

she leans forward and presses a kiss to your head.

“you’re not the reason we lost. you’re not sensitive, you’re just real. everything that happened today was valid.”

you hide your face in her neck, breathing out hard.

“you always know what to say.”

she smirks. “yeah, haven’t you heard about my rizz?”

you both cringe at that, but laugh, tired and relaxing.

“just shut up.”

she takes your jaw in her hand. “whatever you want, baby.”

she kisses you. it’s not dramatic or sharp, it just feels so safe. her lips are soft and warm, anchoring you, a contrast to anything and everything else that happened today. she leans further into the kiss, but the hand on your neck loosens up - she’s not asking for more, just offering.

you return the pressure, deepening the kiss slightly. you want her to know you feel all of it. you pull her in, hand scrunched in the fabric of her shirt.

when you pull away, she smiles at you and starts to pepper your face in small kisses. you giggle, caged in her arms, melting into her touch. once she’s done, she squishes your face in both her hands, teeth on full display in a satisfied grin.

she squeezes your face tighter and plants a small kiss to your nose. “I love you, baby.”

“iii ruhv oou too.”

[swiftjay23]

Can i request you something? Jungwon but in Squid game au, he is VIP, and gets obsessed with the reader??

Hii! Of course, your request is absolutely awesome and I would love to draft this (mainly cus Im obsessed with Jungwon-) and I hope you like it! Play 'Seoul City' by Jennie while you read. Headphones in. Volume up. Lights dimmed. Let the strings sink in. Let the control crawl over your skin. Cus idk- it always vibes with me like the type of feeling when someone is falling in love with the one who's obsessed with them. It's toxic. Not healthy. Not love. But you still like them.

"Only listen to my general, oh-oh He says my attitude out of control Tell me what to do, Mr. General"

Idk these lyrics give 'yes sir, yes' energy. And it matches this fic saur well.

Title: Skin and Surveillance

Pairing: Yang Jungwon (ENHYPEN) × Female!Reader AU: Squid Game | VIP Jungwon | Dark Romance Content Warnings: [18+ ONLY / MINORS DNI] Obsession, Power imbalance, Manipulation & coercion, Dubious consent, Voyeurism, Restraints (rope, silk ties), Psychological control, Gaslighting, Possessive behavior, Degradation + praise, Toxic dynamics, Graphic smut, Blood mentions (Squid Game violence), Death of side characters, Dom!Jungwon, Reader is a Squid Game contestant Genre: Dark Romance, Smut, Psychological Thriller, Suspense, Dystopian Kink AU

The air in the VIP lounge was thick, velvet-slick and scented with cigar smoke, sweat, and sin. Gold fixtures glinted off champagne glasses. Between gilded animal masks and twisted smiles, the powerful sat like gods watching their bloodied circus unfold below.

And he, Yang Jungwon, sat among them. Younger than the rest, quieter, sharper. His mask rested on the table, untouched. He never wore it unless he had to.

He didn’t need to hide. Not when the world bent to his will.

His wine glass remained full. His fingers tapped against the table in a rhythm none of them understood. Because his eyes, obsessed, locked, calculating, were on a single monitor.

You. Player 305. Limping. Bloodied. Exhausted. Still breathing.

Still defiant. You dared look into the surveillance camera. Not with fear. With something darker. Something stronger.

Like you knew someone was watching. You were wrong.

Someone was choosing. “That one,” Jungwon said.

His voice was calm, barely audible above the thrum of laughter from the others. But his tone sliced through the noise. “Sir, the auction doesn’t open until—” “I said,” he repeated, not turning his head, “Tag her.”

The assistant’s hand hovered. Hesitated. Then a red stamp appeared next to your name. VIP INTERESTED. PRIORITY CLASSIFICATION. STATUS: CLAIMED.

“Really, darling?” murmured the Serpent, swirling absinthe. “You can’t just keep her like a pet.” Jungwon turned to her. Slowly. “I wasn’t asking.” His voice was ice under silk. Final.

You were supposed to return to the dorms. But the guards didn’t lead you there. Instead, you’re shoved, limping, bloodied, confused, into a golden lift that rises higher than you knew the facility even went.

When the doors open, the air shifts. Colder. Scented. And behind the velvet curtains and glass, they wait.

The VIPs. The bloodsuckers who think pain is some sort of entertainment. Where money is a playground and they are the only ones that can play.

A throne-like lounge. Gold-gilded masks shimmer under soft lights. A long table of rare liquors and untouched fruit. One by one, they turn toward you.

The Serpent rises first. “Well, well. This is the one?” Her eyes trail over your body. “She’s barely breathing.”

The Bull snorts. “She’s nothing. Seen ten like her. Bet she screams real nice, though.”

You stumble back, there’s nowhere to go. Then the Fox speaks. Jungwon.

From the corner, he stands. Still. Silent. No mask tonight. Just his face. Unbothered. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“Touch her, and I will burn this place to the ground.” The room quiets.

He walks toward you. Calm, but heavy-footed, like a predator indulging in control. You hated how stuck up he was. But you also loved it. And you hated yourself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper. “Neither should you,” he says, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “But here we are.”

The Peacock hums behind you.

“Are we really letting the child call dibs now?” “It’s not dibs,” Jungwon says, low and sharp. “It’s ownership.”

His fingers wrap around your wrist, softly. Too softly. It’s the kind of grip that makes you freeze.

“You shouldn’t be a player anymore,” he murmurs. “You should be a prize.” And the worst part? You don’t hate the idea. You hate how much you don’t hate it.

You’re back in the games.

No goodbye. No warning. Jungwon just lets the guards drag you away. “She has one more round,” he said coldly to the Serpent. “Let’s see how well she plays… knowing who’s watching.”

You’re thrown into the maze. Hide and Seek. The hallways are darker this time. The “Seekers” are worse.

This isn’t a game. It’s a hunt. And somewhere in the shadows, a blade slices through your side. You gasp, clutching your sides, breath heavy. You collapse. Blood pooling. Breath shallow. The announcement blares overhead, "Player 305. Eliminated. Player 099. Pass."

And somewhere far above, Jungwon watches, eyes darkening at every movement O99 makes. “She’s bleeding,” the Bull scoffs. “Disqualified.” “Dead,” the Hound corrects. “They always bleed out before sunrise.”

“She’s not dead,” Jungwon mutters, staring at the screen. “She’s mine.” He presses a button on the console beside him.

“Command: Rescue her. Now.” They argue. Protocols. Rankings. Fairness. Jungwon doesn’t care.

“Pull her out,” he growls. “Or I start slicing throats until I find someone who will.” The host. The frontman he calls himself. Is silent. His gray mask void of any movement. He silently presses a button.

You wake in silk sheets. IV in your arm. Your stomach wrapped. You’re somewhere between a palace and a prison. Jungwon sits by your bed. Still in his suit. Still with blood on his cuff.

“Why…” Your voice is hoarse. “Why would you do this?”

“Because you’re not a player,” he says softly, brushing hair from your face. “You’re a possession. And I don’t let what’s mine bleed in public.” The room he brings you to next is all glass.

You don’t notice the one-way mirror until after he’s stripped you bare and tied you down.

Silk ropes. Black, with red threading. A perfect contrast to your bruises.

He stands behind you, hand trailing up your spine, admiring the view.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs into your ear. “Every VIP. Every pig in gold. They want to know what makes you mine.”

You shiver.

“Let me show them.”

Your ankle’s wrapped. Your stitches are still fresh. But Jungwon doesn’t let you rest. Not really.

He brings you to a room laced in velvet, mirrors, and low light. The walls hum. There's a tension to the silence, like someone watching from behind the glass. Because someone is.

“Why are we here?” “Because you’re still a question to them,” he says, pulling the silk from the tray. “And I want to give them an answer.”

You flinch as he approaches.

“You’re hurt” “I won’t touch your wounds,” he whispers, lips at your temple. “But I will touch everything else.”

He ties your wrists first. Not rough. Not cruel. Just tight enough to remind you who holds the rope.

Each loop is deliberate. Black silk with threads of red.

He binds you over the plush velvet chair. Knees on the seat. Arms behind your back. Face angled perfectly toward the one-way mirror.

“They’re watching.” “Jungwon” “Let them.”

His hands trail your waist, slow as smoke. His lips find the skin behind your ear.

“Let them watch you fall apart for me.” The first touch is reverent. Fingers between your thighs, trailing through the mess of nerves already coiled tight. He doesn’t even undress completely. Still in that fitted suit. Still calm. While you shiver.

“You’re dripping, baby,” he says, voice sweet like venom. “Is it because you know they’re there? Or because I am?”

He rubs slow, then faster, working rhythm into you like a song only he knows. Your knees threaten to give out, but he grabs your waist, forcing you up, forcing you to face the mirror.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs, tongue tasting the skin of your spine. “They need to see who you belong to.”

You cry out.

He fucks you with precision. No chaos. No cruelty. Just pure dominance wrapped in silk and sound.

He whispers filth in your ear. Calls you his prize, his secret, his only.

You can feel them watching. You imagine the Peacock scoffing. The Bull twitching with jealousy. The Serpent leaning in closer.

But none of them have you. Only he does.

“Say it,” he growls, hips grinding against the base of your spine. “Say who owns you.” “You” your voice cracks. “You do, Jungwon. I’m yours.”

He doesn’t stop until your legs tremble, your voice hoarse from begging. And only then does he untie you. Only then does he hold you.

You don’t remember falling asleep. But you wake up in warmth. Not peace, warmth. The kind that burns low beneath the skin. The kind that makes you sweat. You’re wrapped in silk. In his jacket. In his arms. His heart beats steady against your back, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if you’ve stopped existing outside of this room.

There is no outside world. Just velvet, glass, breath. And him.

“You dream loud,” Jungwon murmurs against your shoulder, voice a slow ache. “Do you always beg like that in your sleep?” Your body tenses.

“Don’t.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’ll hurt yourself.” You pull away slightly. “This isn’t real.”

“It’s the only thing that is.”

His hand slips between your legs again before you can protest. No urgency this time, just slow, almost tender. Like he’s tracing possession into your skin. You gasp and reach for his wrist, but he catches your hand, pins it above your head.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers. “I told you, I’d take care of you.” Your thighs quiver as his fingers work you open again. He watches, fascinated. “Still so wet. Are you that desperate to be ruined?”

“No,” you say, but it’s a lie, and he knows it. “You want to hate me,” he says against your throat. “But your body wants me more.”

He presses two fingers inside, curling them deliberately. Your back arches. “There she is,” he murmurs. You sob quietly into his jacket, heat building unbearably between your thighs. Every breath makes you feel owned. Consumed. And you hate how good it feels.

“I want them to watch again,” he growls into your skin. “I want them to see how I can make you unravel with just my fingers.” You shudder.

“They’ll never touch you. Never fuck you. Never own you. Only I get to do that. Understand?” You nod frantically, eyes wild.

“Say it,” he demands, curling his fingers deep. “Say it.” “You do,” you gasp. “You own me, Jungwon.”

“Louder.” “You own me!”

He pushes you to the edge, then stops. Your cry breaks in your throat.

“I want you to remember,” he says, mouth at your ear. “I choose when you come. I choose everything.” You almost break. But then his mouth crashes down, claiming yours in a kiss that isn’t sweet, isn’t kind, it’s punishment. And you melt into it, because hate and heat live too close together in your chest now.

Later, when you wake again, your wrists are unbound.

There’s food at the edge of the bed. Stew. Soft rice. Honey water.

A note.

“Heal. You’re still mine.”

But the cameras never turn off. You learn that quickly.

You bathe behind a screen, but the lights flicker, and you know someone is watching. You sleep with a blanket, but never feel alone.

And at night, Jungwon returns. Sometimes he touches you.

Sometimes he doesn’t. But always, he watches. One night, you wake up screaming. Memories of blood, of the maze, of Hyun Ju’s dying breath choking you alive.

You’re trembling. Cold. Alone. Until he’s there.

Jungwon. No words. No cruelty. Just arms around you. Breathing. Silent. And for the first time, you don’t resist.

You let yourself cry. And he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t touch. He just holds you.

Because even monsters know how to cradle the things they break. The days begin to blur. Time doesn’t pass in this place, it curdles.

You don’t know what hour it is, or what round the other players are dying in. You only know the click of surveillance. The weight of velvet. The hum of speakers piping soft classical music through the walls as if this were a hotel suite and not a cell in gold trim.

Jungwon keeps you dressed in silk. But your wrist bears a mark.

Not a bracelet. A collar.

A thin silver band with a black sapphire set into its center. There’s no clasp. No lock. You didn’t feel him put it on. But it doesn’t come off.

It glows faintly when he enters the room. “You belong to me,” he says one night, wrapping your ankle in fresh gauze. “Every inch. Every thought. Every sound you make.”

You sit still.

Because somewhere inside you, the fire that once wanted to escape… wants to be chosen instead.

The next time he touches you, it’s different.

Slower. Crueler. The camera is on again, but you’re not scared of it anymore. He has you pinned over the chaise lounge, naked except for the collar. Knees spread. Arms bound in red velvet ties behind your back.

The room is dim. One-way mirror glowing.

“Look at yourself,” he whispers, gripping your jaw and turning your head to the reflection. “You’re not a player anymore. You’re not a person. You’re mine. My possession. My little display case of pleasure.”

He presses his hips flush to yours, his clothed body hard against your bare skin. And you don’t cry this time. You moan.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. Your breath catches. “My hands—”

“You’ll figure it out.” And you do.

You grind helplessly against the silk throw. Fingers twitch. Knees tremble. He watches, like a scientist watching a masterpiece unfold.

“You like being watched now, don’t you?” he says. “I hate it,” you whisper. “I hate you.”

He smiles. “Then come for me.” And you do. You cry out so hard your vision whites. He doesn’t even touch you. Not yet.

When you collapse, shaking and spent, he finally presses his mouth to the bruises blooming along your neck.

“I think we should show the others now,” he whispers. “Let them see who you belong to.”

The End

Masterlist

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⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands,⟡ @yuriloveshee, ⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @add-this-to-that, ⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie, ⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk ⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful, ⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @queenvash, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish, ⟡ @enbplvr, ⟡ @6abriellaa, ⟡ @fateismoonstruck, ⟡ @trashlord-007, ⟡ @artemesiareads, ⟡ @d0einheadlights, ⟡ @miuuuw, ⟡ @butwhyareyoureyessosad, ⟡ @rainofcrime, ⟡ @darkblueblueberr, ⟡ @zone444girls, ⟡ @bombombakudanmeow, ⟡ @en-cityy, ⟡ @koya2000, ⟡ @tttbearblog, ⟡ @yb763, ⟡ @freakseung2001 ⟡ @nics-fxy, ⟡ @irers, ⟡ @seungsoftly, ⟡ @iyaiyaohhh, ⟡ @xnatqq,

✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧

⟡ @rosepetals09, ⟡ @cherry-blossomfrag, ⟡ @mari-marimar, ⟡ @paradieseoul, ⟡ @microwavedstrawberries3, ⟡ @thatonerandomblondechick, ⟡ @heebambilee, ⟡ @simjaeyunsdoll, ⟡ @sinceresilverstrawberry, ⟡ @heeseungslefttoee, ⟡ @shayinthesims, ⟡ @larichard, ⟡ @noinspirationkisstoday, ⟡ @frenziedseerdesolation, ⟡ @wtfisgoingright, ⟡ @heekijakey, ⟡ @luvwonsito, ⟡ @cheetosthabratt, ⟡ @en-ner-jay, ⟡ @shouldergangsterrj, ⟡ @brennanmeijalover00,⟡ @wondash, ⟡ @kimuranishi, ⟡ @thep3rfectgirl25, ⟡ @doraemon02, ⟡ @rotttenhalo, ⟡ @oldeubois-blog, ⟡ @putrescentpoet, ⟡ @jinnibug, ⟡ @vayuzzz, ⟡ @kimmyaaaa, ⟡ @ppcarolina9, ⟡ @giagotthezoomies,

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[formulafanfics13]

Maneater model Wolff reader x max!!! 🤩🙏

She doesn’t chase, she gets chased. She’s hard to get and Max is willing to play the game. As he is the only one who can handle her. A bit of 🔥 but mostly plot please.

The Girl Who Never Chased - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: Max Verstappen sets his sights on the one girl no one’s ever had — Toto Wolff’s daughter, a sharp-tongued, high-fashion, untouchable force of nature in the paddock. What begins as a dangerous flirtation turns into something neither of them expected: something real. Power, defiance, and longing collide as their secret spirals into full-blown chaos, with the entire paddock watching.

Warnings: Power dynamics, sexual content, emotionally intense scenes, public-private identity conflict, taboo relationship (rival team, daughter of team principal), possessiveness, public exposure, and mild violence (verbal and physical confrontation).

The first time Max saw her, she was leaning against the Mercedes garage wall in white leather boots and sunglasses that cost more than his championship bonus. Not watching anything. Just existing. Calm. Sharp. Like the kind of woman who had never chased a thing in her life.

He didn't know her name at first. But he knew who she was. Everyone did.

The daughter of Toto Wolff. Vienna-born, Milan-made, New York-dominated. Runway darling. Tabloid menace. Vogue’s favorite storm cloud and the paddock’s most unsolvable equation. She was chaos in silk, and no one, not one person, had ever been able to say they had her.

Plenty had tried. Drivers. Team principals. Billionaire sons. They all left the same way. Wrecked.

Max didn't care. She was too pretty not to want. Too proud not to touch. And maybe, just maybe, too much for anyone but him.

He could handle her. He was sure of it.

So when he passed her in the paddock for the first time, she didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He did. Slight. A glance. Just enough for her to feel.

And she did feel it. She smirked behind her sunglasses and said nothing.

It was Monaco. Of course it was Monaco.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Max looked up from his drink. Charles was leaning against the railing, sunglasses pushed onto his head, jaw clenched.

“What?”

“You know what.”

Max grinned. “Just looking.”

Charles scoffed. “So was everyone else.”

He glanced back across the party. She was there, perched on a velvet couch, drink untouched, legs crossed, a Balenciaga trench draped over her shoulders like she didn’t feel the Mediterranean heat. Lewis was talking to her. Christian Horner was watching from across the room like he was calculating how badly Toto would kill him if he even breathed near her.

“She’s not your type,” Charles said.

Max didn’t look away. “She’s exactly my type.”

“She’ll eat you alive.”

Max finished his drink. “Then I hope she’s hungry.”

*

“You shouldn’t be here.” That was the first thing she said to him.

Not hi. Not your racecraft’s improved. Not what a brave little move in Turn 1, Max. Just a flat statement. No inflection. No fear.

He found her alone on the second floor of the Red Bull motorhome, one leg hooked over the arm of a couch, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t in the lion’s den.

He smirked. “Should I leave?”

She looked at him. Really looked. No sunglasses now. Just bare, brutal eyes. “If I wanted you to leave,” she said, “you’d already be gone.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve been wondering what you’d say to me.”

She raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because no one else dares.”

“I’m not impressed by trophies.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need you to be.”

Silence.

Then she stood. Slowly. Like smoke. And walked past him with the same swing in her step that had made the front row of Milan lose their breath last season.

“Good,” she said, brushing his shoulder. “Then this might be fun.”

Toto knew. Of course he knew.

He saw the shift. The way Max’s eyes followed her now. The way her smile turned sharper when Red Bull walked by. The subtle touch of fingers in the paddock tunnel. A whisper exchanged in Imola. A private glance at a driver’s briefing.

Toto didn’t say anything. Not at first. Until Spain.

Max was on pole. She was at Mercedes hospitality in head-to-toe Alaïa and a smug look that said I know he wants me and I don’t care who sees it.

Toto pulled her aside after qualifying. Private. Quiet. “Max Verstappen?”

She didn’t blink. “What about him?”

“He’s not-”

“Good enough?”

Toto paused. “Safe.”

She smiled. “Neither am I.”

By the time they finally touched, really touched, it was Austria. His room. Post-race. Hot skin. Open windows. Her shirt still on, panties still off, his hand fisted in her hair while she rode him like he was nothing.

“You think you can handle me?” she asked, breathless, nails digging into his chest.

Max looked up at her like a man drowning in gold. “I want to try.”

She kissed him like a punishment. Bit his lip. Laughed when he moaned. “You’re already mine.”

He came with her name on his tongue and her fingers on his throat.

Outside the room, the paddock was whispering. Drivers talked.

Pierre raised his eyebrows and said “seriously?” when Max walked in late to the simulator.

Yuki told everyone he heard moaning two floors down.

Christian said nothing. But he smiled when Max overtook two cars in the first lap at Silverstone.

Toto saw the bruises on her neck. Didn’t comment. But when she walked into the Mercedes garage in Bottega heels and Max’s hoodie, he did say one thing under his breath.

“God help us all.”

Toto didn’t speak to her on Sunday. Not after the race. Not after the podium. Not even after Max kissed her cheek in full view of two FIA delegates and a sky camera with a direct line to her father’s garage.

It wasn’t a proper kiss. Just a soft, smug brush of his lips to her skin. Subtle. Lethal.

But Toto saw it. And worse, the world saw it.

So when she stepped into the Mercedes motorhome wearing Max’s black hoodie over a white Prada miniskirt, her bare legs still glowing under fluorescent lights, Toto didn’t say hello.

He just looked up from his laptop, jaw tight. “You and Verstappen need to end whatever this is.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Define this.”

“Don’t be clever.”

She smiled slowly. “You raised me clever.”

“I raised you not to fuck Red Bull’s golden boy on race weekends.”

She leaned against the wall, unbothered. “What about off race weekends?”

Toto stood. “You are my daughter,” he said, voice low, accent sharp. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “It means the press already sees me as a problem, the paddock is terrified of me, and half your grid has tried and failed to sleep with me because I never make the first move.” She stepped closer. “Except with Max. Because Max made it interesting.”

Toto’s eye twitched.

“You are playing with fire.”

“Maybe I want to get burned.”

Max found her in the hospitality suite after the race, one leg tucked beneath her, hair up, phone in one hand, iced coffee in the other. She didn’t look up until he kicked her foot lightly.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Dad's fuming.”

He smirked. “So nothing new.”

She rolled her eyes. “He thinks I’m going to get you killed.”

Max crouched beside her chair. “He’s not wrong.”

“About the killing?”

“No.” He looked up at her. “About you being dangerous.”

She smiled. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because I’ve never wanted something more.”

Her throat tightened. For once, she didn’t have a clever answer.

That night in Hungary, they skipped the hotel party.

She pulled him by the hand down back corridors. Into the parking garage. Into the back of his rental car.

“You’re still sweaty,” she whispered, climbing into his lap.

“So are you.”

She kissed him like it was the last time. Fingers dragging down his chest, nails biting into his arms as she sank down onto him with a gasp. His hands slid under her blazer, gripping her hips like he couldn’t hold her tight enough.

“Slow down,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“I want to remember this.”

She stilled. Looked into his eyes. “Max,” she whispered. “This was supposed to be fun.”

“It is fun.”

“Not when you start looking at me like that.”

He pulled her closer. “Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

“You are.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m nobody’s.”

He kissed her hard. “You’re lying.”

They were caught in Zandvoort.

Not officially. Not in bed.

But they arrived to the paddock together. Laughing. She was wearing his jacket again. He touched her waist as they walked. Too familiar. Too easy.

The press noticed. The WAG accounts lost their minds. Toto texted her four times that night. She ignored them all. Christian Horner tried not to smirk during the team principals’ meeting. And Fred Vasseur, watching from Ferrari hospitality with an espresso and a knowing smile, muttered to Charles, “She always did like the fast ones.”

When the FIA released a new set of press photos before Monza, one showed her. Not posed. Not pre-approved.

Just a blurry image of Max leaning down to whisper something in her ear near the Red Bull garage. Her lips parted. His hand on her lower back. The caption read:

“The Paddock’s Newest Power Couple?”

Toto didn’t speak to her for four days.

It all cracked in Singapore.

Some junior driver, one of the fresh-faced kids trying to prove himself, made a comment in front of the wrong people. Said something about Max’s girl being easy once you got past the fronting. Loud enough for someone to hear. Loud enough for Max to find out.

And Max lost it. He didn’t say much. Just walked into the back of the Red Bull motorhome, grabbed the guy by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.

“You ever speak about her again,” he said, calm as ice, “and I will make sure your career ends before it starts.”

The kid apologized.

Max didn’t care. He told Christian he’d do it again.

She found him later that night. “You can’t fight everyone,” she said.

“I’ll fight anyone who disrespects you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know. But I want to protect you anyway.”

She looked at him. Really looked. Because it wasn’t a game anymore. Not a chase. Not a power trip.

It was real. And she wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“I’ve never been someone’s,” she whispered.

Max stepped closer. “Then be mine.”

[mikuhriii]

TURNING TABLES

𝜗ৎ⋆. m. kaiser x fem!reader

⚠︎ nsfw (mdni!) / explicit content / unprotected sex / breeding / p in v sex / swearing / spanking / hair pulling / overstimulation / implied!masturbation

=͟͞ ♡ based on this request

𖹭 navigation 𖹭 masterlist 𖹭 taglist

kaiser is exceptional—in both his soccer career and online presence—he’s the talk of the media. not to mention, his godlike visage—an innate asset—that makes women swoon over him. despite his obvious arrogance and superiority complex, everybody adores him, worshipping him like he was some kind of god.

a prodigy, eminent; the epitome of perfection as everyone calls him.

what does michael kaiser even lacks?

ah yes; self-control.

it all happened after he got home from a rough training session. you—being bold enough—teased him erotically, leading him on with the warmth of your lips pressing on his—teasingly—relaxing his tense muscles satisfyingly. and just when he finally gave in, you stopped with a victorious grin on your lips, leaving him hanging.

ah. so this is the game you wanted to play.

kaiser, with his wounded ego, felt spiteful. he’d purposely let his guard down, only for you to make a fool of him. no one dares make a fool of him; his pride wouldn't allow it.

what a bitch.

he fucking loves you, but alas, michael kaiser is never the type to let anything slide so easily; your actions were no exception.

he became ruthless, uncontrolled—an unrestrained ferocious beast. he will make sure to put you back on your place; he will turn the tables—and you’ll be the one begging.

and that's why you found yourself beneath him. your ass embarrassingly arched, your bodies clashed, bathed in sweat from the indecent deed you both were currently performing—bare, breathless, and a blabbering mess.

“mich—micha…micha!—” you hiccuped, digging your nails into his flannel sheets. “—can’t—s’toomuch hah—” it was overwhelming; you could barely breath and speak properly from the relentless pace of his hips—a brutal, desperate combination.

kaiser leaned close, breathing on your ear, making you shudder; he chuckled at your reaction. “aww, look at you, schatz. so pretty for me. where’s that victorious face earlier, hm?” he cooed, ridiculing your fucked out state. “look at me. c’mon baby, fucking look at me..” he commanded with a tap on your face—waking up your lackadaisical condition.

with a pained hum, you obliged, locking your eyes with his blue ones. he groaned at the sight: tear-stained cheeks, quivering lips, and fuck, your contorted face—an epitome of sin. “fuuucking look at you, liebling. such a perfect mess f’me…”

god, how he loved the mess he’d made. he imprinted this in his mind: how your face contorted with pain and pleasure whenever he snaps his hips harder, deeper—reaching the depths of your womanhood, how your velvety walls flutter and spasmed around his thick, angry cock, and your voice, god, the way you let out those sinful sounds, it taints the air satisfyingly.

huffing, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you close to him. the abrupt stretch on your scalp stung so much you yelped and hissed in pain. you weren't sure why, but just the thought of him pulling your hair, made your cunt pool and clench. “ah micha…mich—ha—”

“ohh shit, you're squeezing me like you want me cumming inside you, schatz—hah—you want that, hm?”

his remarks made your walls clench harder. unknowingly, you nodded, desperately, as if your life depended on it. seeing this, kaiser chuckled—low and dangerous. the impure spectacle beneath him fueled his ego. just the thought about how crazy, and messy he had made you, fueled his malice to do more—to ruin you more, until you knew your place. “‘m gonna fill you up, and you'll thank me for it, meine kleine schlampe…” he murmured, his voice rough, tainted with malice.

gasping with each relentless thrust, you gripped the sheets from the overwhelming sensation. everything was lewd: the sound of your skin colliding with his; the cacophonious moans, whines, and groans—a confession of pleasure you two shared; the lewd, glutinous squelch of soppy sexes, hell, it screamed…obscene.

“m' cumming, m’cumming—hah—ah...”

then it hit you—like a tidal wave—you gushed onto his cock, succumbing to euphoria. kaiser followed, thrusting his hips forward with a lewd ‘plap’—deep enough to spurt his warm, viscous essence inside you. his hand gripped your hips so tight, his knuckles turned white. “oh—hah—scheiße..”

both of you stayed like that for a whole minute, gasping for air as if finishing a whole marathon before your body took its toll—limply falling onto the plush mattress—a shuddering, breathless mess. and kaiser couldn't be more cocky, eyeing your exhausted frame.

he groaned, spanking the flesh of your butt cheeks as he pulled his shaft out of your leaking hole—cum dripping as he do so. leaning his head back, he bit his lip from the euphoric sensation as he jack his length off—groaning, murmuring wantonly—causing a lewd, squelching noise from his glutinous hand. and with a harsh snap of his hips, he plunged back in—deep—making your toes curl.

“agh—michaaa…n-no more pl—hah, hah—” you convulsed, eyes pricking with fresh tears, your face distorting from discomfort—a clear sign of overstimulation. yet your moans of pleas fell on deaf ears when he started to thrust into you—deliberately, deep enough for his tip to kiss your womb.

plastering an intoxicated smile, kaiser leaned close, resting his chin on your shuddering shoulders. the warmth of his body radiates delectably onto yours, sending shivers throughout your veins, god, you almost salivate from the sensation. “aww no, nu-uh. this is what you get for—hah—for being a brat; making a fool of me, teasing me like you—fuc—had the right to do so…” he gritted, pushing your head further down, cheeks flat against the mattress.

you were blabbering incoherently, mouth drooling from the overwhelming euphoric sensation. it was too much, yet it felt too good; your brain felt mushy, thoughts and sanity swirling away into flurry.

he halted, before whispering, “fucking take all of it, you hear me?—you’re gonna take all of me like the little cum dump you are for me, until you learn to know your place, hm?”

kaiser's words were vulgar, filthy, indecent, yet why did your pussy fluttered after hearing those?

why did you blatantly nod, as if it were a reflex.

you don't know anymore; you don't care anymore. he was fucking you to oblivion that you couldn't think and speak properly.

fuck. what a bad move you’d made.

“agh!...f-fuck!” you shrieked, fisting the wrinkled sheets like it was your lifeline. his pace became animalistic, inhumane; fresh, warm tears started rolling down your cheeks from the excruciating pain of his tip kissing your cervix.

the abrupt change of pace made your walls clench harder onto his shaft, earning a guttural groan from him. ���oh god, you’re made for this, aren't you, schatz?” kaiser sighed a confession of pleasure, his face distorting with ecstasy, biting the flesh of his lip as he eagerly thrust into the tightness of your velvety walls.

“oh micha…mich—”

“shh…thaaat’s right, atta girl—hah—this pretty little cunt of yours…all f’me to use, hm?”

you nod and nod.

desperately, brazenly.

michael. michael. michael

you chanted his name like a mantra; your voice hoarse, body shutting down lackadaisically. to be blunt, you were barely conscious. but it seemed like kaiser was far from done with you.

oh, how he’d turned the tables.

at least you learned your lesson—to know your place. because not even a million years would he get tired of doing this with you…again and again.

a/n: this waaaasss long ig? i'm not sure this turned out exactly as requested(⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•⁠). thank you for requesting, anon, i super loveee the idea; i enjoyed writing this hihi (i was literally giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair while writing this) i hope you liked it. anyway, likes and reblogs are much appreciated. also, don't forget to hit that follow for more updates! thanks a bunch.

tags: @maoxieyvx @scovaha @ysvanielle @f1zzyecola @whoareyouuuo @lylisimps @kiyomik0

click here to join the permanent taglist

© 2025 mikuhriii | all rights reserved.

[animehideout]

JJK MEN WHEN YOU TEASE THEM UNDER THE TABLE DURING DINNER WITH FRIENDS

PART II

Part I here.

Characters: Megumi / Sukuna / Geto / Gojo

-------------------------------------------------

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

He jumped slightly when your hand landed on his thigh, eyes flicking toward you in pure disbelief.

He leaned towards you and said calmly: "Are you insane?"

He pulled his chair subtly closer to the table so no one could see.

"I swear to god Y/N if you keep doing this—" he sighs.

He didn't move your hand though, or told you to stop, he just complained while secretly enjoying you touching him.

He stays calm.

"Keep doing that and see where it will get you Y/N"

RYOMEN SUKUNA

He raised an eyebrow mid-convo when he felt your hand slide up his thigh.

He glared at you with a dirty smirk.

" You've got some nerve touching me like that you little brat, enjoying this too much huh?"

You removed your hand from his thigh but he yanked it back, forcing it to land a bit higher.

"Oh you don't know what you have just started so don't you dare to stop"

"And eat well you'll need the energy for later"

GETO SUGURU

He paused mid-laugh when your fingers pressed into his thigh under the table.

His eyes lazily sliding to yours with his smug little smile.

"That's bold of you, love"

He relaxed even more into his seat.

Spreading his legs slightly, clearly enjoying the attention.

‎"Don’t start something you can’t finish later or should I be the one to finish it" he would whisper leaving goosebumps all over your body.

GOJO SATORU

He almost chocked on his drink when you put your hand on his inner thigh.

He smirked clearly enjoying it.

"What? teasing me in public now Y/N?"

He threw his head back as he let out a soft laugh.

"You're playing a dangerous game baby, is that what you want?"

He casually placed his hand on your inner thigh, tracing slow circles with his thumb as his hand went up, returning the favor.

"Game on, sweetheart"

[khloberry]

❝ If payback is a bitch and revenge is sweet. Then you’re the sweetest bitch he’ll ever meet… ❞

Best Served Sweet

Rafe Cameron x bitchy!reader | 18+ smut

Saw @zyafics mrga campaign & wanted to join!

Two can play that game.

If he wanted to play, you could play too.

And better.

You can feel him watching you from across the room, his piercing blue eyes burning a hole into you as you dance on some cute guy at the party. It’s his friend’s party, but you're here dancing with someone who isn’t him. He finds that very disrespectful. Normally, you wouldn’t be doing something so brazen like this, but right now, there’s nothing more you want than to make Rafe mad. To give your on again, off again boyfriend a taste of his own medicine. From the look on his face right now, you’re giving him the perfect dose.

It was one week ago when you and Rafe got into a fight that led to another breakup. You were always breaking up, then making up, and repeating that same toxic cycle. You knew you should’ve left Rafe for good a long time ago, but something always kept you there. Love? Good dick? Stupidity? Probably all three. One thing was always clear, though. Rafe was no Prince Charming, and there was no question that you knew you could do better.

The other day, you heard that he hooked up with some girl at Topper’s pool party. Some slut that he fucked right in his friend’s bathroom. How tacky. It wasn’t even a week after you broke up and he was already banging somebody else. You guessed it was payback for breaking up with him and not going right back. At first, you felt hurt, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of ever knowing it. No, your days of crying over Rafe Cameron and going back to him were over. If he wanted to hurt you, you would hurt him right back. Right where you knew it would hurt him the most.

His ego.

Everyone in Kildare knew you were Rafe’s girl. That meant you weren’t supposed to be seen with anyone else. You were his. Like he owned you. Like you were some kind of property. You hated it. Rafe could do whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted, but you were expected to be his good girl and stay with him no matter what. Fuck that. He could get a damn dog if he wanted unwavering loyalty.

You were done.

Back at the party, the little denim skirt you’re wearing is riding up your thighs as you grind against the cute guy. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips and you bite your lip, enjoying the show that you’re putting on. There isn’t anything innocent about the way you’re dry fucking him in the middle of the room for everyone to see. Rafe is standing with his friends watching your every move.

“Damn, Rafe, look at your girl,” you hear one of them say.

He’s pissed and his anger is growing more as he watches your ass move on someone who isn’t him. He can’t believe that you’re doing this. How fucking dare you. When he sees the guy drop his hands lower and move along your thighs, he shoots you a death glare that almost makes you think twice about what you’re doing.

Almost.

You grind against him harder.

Rafe pushes off the wall and walks in your direction, moving closer and closer until you feel his hand close around your arm, roughly yanking you away.

“What the fuck? Get off me, Rafe.”

“Let’s go,” he says calmly.

It was too calm.

And he isn’t giving you the same death glare that he was just a moment ago. His expression has changed to something that’s almost a smile. Rafe Cameron suddenly smiling at you when you know he’s livid…

That’s dangerous.

You wanted to make him mad, but now you’re wondering if maybe you pushed too far. You don’t think that he would actually hurt you, but Rafe can be unpredictable when he gets angry. Although it’s never been you, you’ve witnessed others experience his wrath.

You try to free yourself, but he only tightens his grip on your arm and leads you into one of the bedrooms. The sound of the door slamming and the lock clicking makes you flinch. You’re more nervous than you want to admit. But you can’t let him know that.

“I have nothing to say to you, Rafe.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

“We’re done.”

More silence.

“Do you hear me? I said we’re fucking done! Over.”

He smiles. “I hear you.” He walks over and stands behind you, his hand pushing your hair aside as his fingertips brush against your neck. “But hear me when I tell you that will never fucking happen.”

He lowers his head and presses a kiss on your neck, his hands sliding down your waist before settling on your ass. You hate how his touch instantly makes you hot. Hate how your pussy instantly gets wet.

“You embarrassed me tonight,” he says, still kissing your neck. “Coming here and letting some dude feel you up in front of all my friends. In front of me… acting like a fucking whore.”

You scoff and abruptly pull yourself away from his grasp. “Says the whore who fucks randoms in bathrooms.”

“She wasn’t random,” he says in a way that’s meant to get under your skin.

It does.

“Oh? So you’ve fucked her before then?”

“No,” he smirks. “But I could’ve. She’s been wanting me.”

Asshole.

You let out a sound of disgust. “She can have you.”

“I don’t want her.”

“And I don’t want you.”

Without another word, Rafe lifts you up and places you on the nearby dresser. You know you shouldn’t let him, but it seems that your voice has forgotten how to speak now. His hand eases between your legs, tracing over the curve of your thigh before slowly moving up to your panties. You’re dripping, just like he thought.

“That’s a lie,” he says smugly. His hand slides under the wet fabric and strokes your pussy. “Look at how wet I make her.”

The pleasure hits you instantly and you hold back a moan as he swiftly slips a finger, then another, inside you. Part of you wants to scream for him to stop, but the other part wants him to be so deep inside you that you’re screaming don’t stop. You wish it didn’t feel as good as it does. Wish you could push him away, leave, and never go back to him like you promised yourself. But to your dismay, you close your eyes and let his fingers fuck you until you don’t even have a coherent thought.

You hate it.

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

And yet, it’s happening.

“Rafe, please I—”

He puts a finger to your lips, silencing you. The same finger that’s now slick with your wetness and traces it over your bottom lip.

“You taste how good I make you feel?”

You nod as you softly suck his finger, tasting yourself, feeling your control slipping more. He’s about to have you so gone, and you want to curse yourself for giving in so easily.

“I’m sorry,” he says next. “I was mad at you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

And just like that, those words flip a switch in you. They're the same words that you’ve heard so many times before. Every time he did something wrong and wanted your forgiveness. Every time you foolishly forgave him. Every time he promised he would never do it again, only to keep doing it.

“Your days of crying over Rafe Cameron and going back to him were over…”

You’re quiet for a moment before you say, “I forgive you, Rafe.” You lean in and whisper. “Go lay down.”

Rafe quickly strips down and does as he's told while you stand at the edge of the bed, looking at how ready he is for you. Slowly, you remove your skirt and panties and crawl up to him.

You press a kiss just below his navel, feeling his muscles jump beneath you. “Did you miss me?”

“You…” Rafe sucks in a breath. “You know I did.” It’s getting harder for him to speak now as you press soft, teasing kisses along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“How much?” You wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly as you look into his eyes.

“So much, baby.”

He wants you so bad that you can feel it in every breath he takes. His dick is so hard, it’s begging for your mouth. You run your tongue up his length with a long, slow lick. He shudders. You smile. You love Rafe like this. So vulnerable. So desperate for you. You slowly take him into your mouth and quickly remind him of one of the reasons why he loves you.

“Fuck…” he groans and the sound is music to your ears.

You know you have him right on the edge. From the way his breaths turn to low, needy moans to the way his hand tightens in your hair as you take him deeper. Your mouth feels so good to him that if you asked him for the moon and the stars right now, he would try to get them for you. With each lick and the deeper you take him to the back of your throat, you can feel him losing a little more control.

You have him right where you want him.

Time to ruin him now.

You straddle him and guide his hands to your hips, watching him watch you as you take him in inch by inch. The feeling is just as good as it’s always been. Your pussy hugs him tight as you start to ride him so good that his head falls back against the pillow.

“Feel good, baby?”

You know it does, but you want to hear him say it.

“So fucking good,” he groans, barely holding it together as you wreck him.

Big Bad Rafe all fucked out.

There’s truly nothing better than having him completely in your control. You can tell he’s getting close, and you start moving faster and harder, every one of your movements working to give Rafe the best fuck of his life. To ruin him for anyone else. To make your pussy the one he can still feel in his dreams.

As you ride him to completion, you feel that familiar feeling inside you growing more intense, building higher and higher until you can’t hold back anymore. You tremble as your orgasm rocks your body, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. He’s almost there.

A little faster.

A little harder.

A little more.

“Fuck, baby, I’m about to…” He doesn’t even get the rest of his words out as you clench around him tightly and a rough groan rips from his throat.

There’s a satisfied smile on your face as you watch him fall apart under you. You keep riding until his warm cum is filling you up, spilling deep inside you. You take a moment to gather your breath before you slowly ease up from him.

Without a word, you quickly put your clothes back on and walk to the door.

Rafe is visibly confused. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” you smile sweetly. “I hope you enjoyed that because you’ll never get it again.”

You leave without even bothering to close the door behind you.

You actually are done with Rafe Cameron.

Give him the best sex of his life and then leave his ass? Sure did.

Nothing felt sweeter.

[demilypyro]

Tierlist idea:

Best licensed music used in the Borderlands series.

Judged by the general quality of the song, how well it works in terms of presenting the scene and game as a whole, and vibes.

Ooh great question. Rather than a tierlist I opted for a list so I can elaborate on my favorites a bit cause context matters here. I'm including trailers because some of the music choices in the trailers are really good. I couldn't pick just 5 so have a top 6.

6: Fantastic Voyage by Coolio - Claptastic Voyage DLC trailer. A total no-brainer but just a great vibe and a really catchy song.

5: Everybody Have Fun Tonight by Wang Chung - Borderlands 2 GOTY trailer. Just a really good trailer that really sells BL2 as a "party" game about hanging out with your friends, and a perfect song choice.

4: Come with Me Now by KONGOS - Pre-Sequel "Last Hope" trailer. The best trailer in the franchise in my humble opinion. It gives the vibe of a goofy adventure, while also selling the fact you're playing as a more gung-ho and morally flexible group of characters in this one.

3: Busy Earnin' by Jungle - Tales from the Borderlands episode 1 intro. A really strong start for one of the best stories in the franchise. Excellent choice for a first song, as all the characters are at this point motivated solely by money. It really sells their foolish optimism and disregard for anything else as they arrive on this dangerous-as-hell planet.

2: Retrograde by James Blake - Tales from the Borderlands episode 5 intro. From the first intro to the last one, this one again really sells the vibe as the cast escapes the destruction of Helios station. The iconic landmark from Borderlands 2 and Pre-Sequel meeting its demise gets an appropriately somber song as the song drives home the consequences of the characters' actions. This one really stuck with me.

1: Short Change Hero by The Heavy - Borderlands 2 intro. Just iconic. What a great choice. The perfect slow-paced tonesetter for BL2, framing Pandora as a dangerous, lawless place. Borderlands 2 is a much zanier game than the first, but just from this intro you could tell there was something here that was really worth paying attention to. Like the Tales ep 5 intro, this franchise really hits when it knows to slow down and take things seriously for a bit. This was the sequence that made The Heavy "the Borderlands band."

[bratzkoo]

keep your enemies close | yjh

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: spy! jeonghan x spy! reader (afab) Genre: angst, fluff, smut, e2l Rating: NC-17 Word count: 3.4k~ Warnings/note: filthy hate sex, i am so sorry. also, enemies to lovers and spy! jeonghan... jeonghan himself should be a warning. is this what you call pwp, because it might me. lemme know if you want part 2??? LISTEN TO BEDROOM WARFARE by ONEOKROCK if you want to know the vibe. summary: Jeonghan finds you on a mission in Vienna trying to get the same thing as him. He hates you, you hate him, but then somehow you end up in his bed or anywhere else he can bend you over, apparently.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @escoupseu , @yanabaaaaaaarysheva , @spnyin , @sousydive , @gyuguys , @gyubakeries , @kwonhs96

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

Y/N moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her black dress tailored to blend in with the high society she was infiltrating. The identity of "Eva Park, art curator" fit her like a second skin, perfectly pressed, professionally distant.

She was examining a haunting piece, a war-torn cityscape rendered in blood reds and smoky greys, when she felt it. The undeniable sensation of being watched. Slowly, she turned.

There he was.

Standing across the room in an immaculate black suit, Yoon Jeonghan raised his glass in a mock toast. His lips curved into a smirk that was both irritating and unfairly attractive. Her heart gave a traitorous thud.

Of course he's here. And of course he's... She shut the thought down before it finished. The enemy didn't get to be beautiful.

Predator met predator. Her gaze narrowed. His smirk deepened. And somewhere beneath her skin, something dangerous and uninvited sparked to life.

He approached like a man who knew the room would part for him. She didn't turn her head as he came to stand beside her, both of them now facing a new painting—an 18th century battle scene, brutal and glorious.

"The brushwork is exquisite," he said, voice smooth and laced with something sharper. "Though I’ve always found battle scenes a touch... predictable."

"Have you?" Y/N replied without looking at him. Her tone was sweet, but her words were blades. "I find them fascinating. The moment before the decisive strike, when both sides think they have the advantage."

"Ah, but the truly skilled warrior knows the battle is won before it even begins." His English was precise, softly accented. Calculated.

"Wouldn't you agree, Miss...?"

"Park. Eva Park." She extended her hand like a challenge.

"Han Yoon. Cultural attaché." His grip was firm, his palm warm. He held on just long enough to make it feel like a test. "I deal in... acquisitions."

She didn’t flinch. "How interesting. I imagine you're quite good at taking things that don’t belong to you."

He chuckled. "Only when they’re worth the trouble. And you, Miss Park—what brings you to Vienna?"

"The same thing that brings every collector here. The thrill of the hunt."

They drifted through the gallery like a pair of dancers locked in a duel. Jeonghan’s every step was measured, his charm weaponized. Y/N matched him move for move.

"You have excellent taste," he said, pausing at a painting of an elaborate chess match. "Do you play?"

"I prefer games where I can see my opponent’s face when they realize they’ve lost."

His smile flickered wider. He stepped closer under the pretense of admiring the painting, his shoulder brushing hers. Her skin burned where they touched.

"Confidence is admirable," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. "But premature celebration has ruined many a promising player."

An elderly collector approached, forcing them to retreat into the personas of polite strangers. But beneath every comment about brushstrokes and auction houses, the subtext pulsed: I know who you are.

"The Korean collection is particularly strong this season," he offered casually.

"Yes, some impressive acquisitions. Especially pieces thought to be... permanently out of reach."

He looked at her. "The most valuable items often have extensive protections."

"Only makes the victory sweeter."

Y/N slipped away under the guise of a phone call, heels clicking against the marble floor as she entered the gallery’s lavish bathroom. She locked the stall, whispered into her comms: "Target confirmed. Proceeding."

When she emerged, she found him waiting.

"This is the ladies' room," she said, spine straightening.

"I’m aware." He locked the door behind him.

"We need to talk."

"I can’t imagine what we’d have to discuss."

"Cut the act. CIA? Or MI6? Doesn’t matter. Walk away from the Pandora Files."

She stepped forward, chin lifted. "Or what? You’ll stop me?"

Their bodies were inches apart now, the air between them electric. His eyes dipped to her lips.

"I think you’re not as immune to me as you pretend."

"You’re right," she whispered. "I’m not immune. But that doesn’t change anything."

His hand came up, brushing her cheek. Thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Doesn’t it?"

Their mouths hovered, breaths mingling. Just before contact, voices echoed in the hallway.

Y/N shoved him back. "Don’t touch me."

"You were going to let me kiss you."

She lied with practiced ease. "I was going to let you think you were winning. Stay away from me, Jeonghan."

His name, his real name, cut through the room like a thrown knife.

She exited first, face composed, but her hands shook as she texted her handler: Target identified. Proceeding as planned.

Jeonghan waited, watching the door she vanished through. Then he stepped to the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and cursed softly.

Back in the gallery, they avoided each other, orbiting in the same space like opposite charges. Every glance was a challenge. Every smile a threat.

Later, she stood in her hotel mirror, fingers grazing her lips where his thumb had been. She hated that she could still feel it.

Across the city, Jeonghan poured himself a scotch, eyes fixed on the glowing skyline. Eliminating her would be the smart move. But something told him she wasn’t going to be easy to forget. This isn’t over. -

The morning after the gallery, Vienna wore its beauty like a blade—clean light, cold air, and the steady hum of a city used to secrets. Y/N sat in the corner of Café Sperl, a steaming cup of coffee untouched in front of her. Dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, she blended perfectly with the tourists and students who frequented the historic coffeehouse.

She looked casual. Relaxed. But every muscle was alert. Her eyes skimmed the newspaper while her real attention stayed locked on the man three tables away—her target for the morning.

Then came the second interruption.

Yoon Jeonghan slid into the seat across from her with the ease of someone who believed the world would make room. He wore an immaculate navy coat over a dove-gray shirt, his expression infuriatingly calm.

"Good morning, Eva," he said like a man greeting a lover.

Y/N didn’t lower her paper. "Better before you arrived."

"Stalking’s a strong word. I prefer ‘professional interest.’"

"I prefer you gone."

"You're in my city. I should be asking what you're doing here."

She finally met his eyes, a flicker of frustration rising at how smug he looked this early in the morning. "Public space, Han. I’m allowed to sit wherever I want."

"So am I. Though I imagine you’re used to taking whatever you want, too."

"Only if it’s worth the effort," she said.

His smirk deepened. "Tell me then—am I worth the effort?"

Y/N’s mouth twitched, betraying the start of a smile she did not give him permission to earn. "You’ll never know."

They parted ways an hour later, but it was far from over.

By midday, the game resumed—this time in the streets. Both had tracked the same courier to the city center. Their mutual target was subtle, careful. But not careful enough.

Y/N watched from a narrow alley as Jeonghan made contact at a newspaper stand. The conversation was effortless, the handoff nearly invisible. She knew the move. Recognized the technique. Damn it.

She slipped into a bookstore, regrouping. In the reflection of the glass, she saw him look her way.

Twenty minutes later, she approached the courier again—this time at a tram stop, disguised as a lost tourist. Her hair pulled into a lazy bun, scarf trailing down her coat. Her laughter came easy as she asked directions, brushing his arm, leaning in.

From across the street, she could feel Jeonghan watching.

Her phone buzzed.

Jeonghan: Nice technique.

Y/N: You're not bad yourself. For an amateur.

That evening, the Korean Embassy shimmered with wealth and power. Diplomats mingled beneath chandeliers, flutes of champagne balanced like grenades.

Y/N moved through the crowd in a red dress designed to distract. Her press credentials hung around her neck, a perfect cover.

And yet, she felt it before she saw him.

Jeonghan appeared at her side, tuxedoed and dangerous. "Ms. Park," he said smoothly. "Enjoying the exhibition?"

"It’s illuminating." She accepted a glass of champagne, fingers brushing his. "Though I find some pieces more authentic than others."

"Discerning eyes are rare. Would you care to see something... exclusive?"

She knew the trap. But the mission required access. And, if she was honest, so did something deeper. "Lead the way."

The tango demonstration began with applause. The ambassador introduced the dance as one of passion and precision.

Jeonghan offered his hand. "Shall we?"

Y/N hesitated. "I lead."

He smiled like a man who already knew the ending. "We'll see."

They moved together like fire and gasoline. His grip on her waist was possessive, controlled. Her steps defiant. Their bodies fit too well. Their proximity, too familiar.

"You're tense," he murmured against her ear.

"You're arrogant."

"You're still dancing with me."

She hated how true it was. Hated that the moment his hand pressed lower on her back, her body forgot who he was. Forgot who she was.

The guests applauded at the finish. She didn’t remember the last steps. Only his eyes. Only the way her breath came faster.

She needed air.

She slipped away, ducking into the coatroom. The coolness of the dark, quiet space steadied her.

Until he followed.

"Quite the performance," he said, closing the door behind him.

"You trying to grope me in front of fifty diplomats? Classy."

"You didn’t stop me."

She turned, jaw clenched. "You think this is a game?"

"I think you want to lose."

He was closer now. The smell of his cologne, the heat of his body—it was too much.

"My body doesn’t make my decisions."

"Then tell it to stop responding."

She grabbed his tie and yanked him down.

"I hate you."

"Good. Keep hating me."

Then their mouths collided. It wasn’t romantic. It was war. A brutal, breathless tangle of teeth and hands and heat. He pushed her back against the coats. She pulled him tighter.

When footsteps approached, they broke apart. She straightened her dress. He adjusted his tie.

They returned to the party as if nothing had happened. Their masks flawless.

But the air between them had changed. Every look across the room was heavier. Every smile, calculated.

She interviewed the ambassador. He toasted trade deals. And the whole time, they tracked each other like snipers.

That night, alone in her hotel room, Y/N stared at her reflection. Her lips were raw. Her hands trembled.

In his apartment, Jeonghan sat in silence, tie undone, glass half full. His body remembered hers.

Y/N's report: Target remains engaged. Proceeding as planned.Jeonghan's report: International agent identified. Situation under control.

This is getting out of hand. -

The warehouse stank of dust, oil, and something metallic underneath. Shadows clung to the steel beams, thick and suffocating. But none of that mattered. Not when her back was pressed to Jeonghan’s side, his hand settled low on her waist, a possessive gesture that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with strategy.

"Stay close," he murmured, breath tickling the shell of her ear.

She stiffened. "Don’t get any ideas."

His hand tightened slightly, thumb tracing a slow circle on her hipbone through the silk of her dress. "Just like how you’re not leaning into me right now?"

She immediately straightened, cursing internally. Every nerve in her body buzzed with the need to push him away, and the even more dangerous need to press closer.

"Focus on the mission," she said.

He didn’t respond. But his smirk said enough.

The weapons dealer’s men were already on alert. The handoff was scheduled in ten minutes. Their covers, husband and wife clients from Singapore, required constant physical closeness. Kisses on the cheek. Lingering touches. She’d barely made it through the first brush of his fingers against the back of her neck earlier without shivering.

They entered the main floor together, every step calculated. Jeonghan’s hand on the small of her back, her fingers curled loosely around his wrist. To anyone watching, they were a high-class couple shopping for black market munitions. But beneath the polished exterior, everything inside her screamed.

The mission itself was uneventful, clean. Almost too clean. He handled the conversation and she watched the guards. They moved together like they’d done this for years, like they'd trained together. Her glances were his signals. His touch meant stop, go, watch.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

By the time they exited the back door with the USB drive in her clutch and the exchange complete, her pulse was thundering, not from fear. From something much worse.

Adrenaline. Proximity. And the fact that Jeonghan was grinning like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to her.

The safe house was tucked in an anonymous building on the edge of Vienna’s 9th District; concrete, beige, and entirely forgettable.

Inside, it was a single-room apartment with a bed, a kitchen counter, and one grimy window. Functional. Quiet. Secure.

Y/N slammed the door behind them and immediately crossed to the far wall. "That was too smooth."

Jeonghan unbuttoned his coat. "Should I apologize for being good at my job?"

"You were enjoying it."

He leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, shirt open at the collar. "You weren’t?"

She paced, chest tight, her limbs buzzing with energy that had nowhere to go. "Don’t start."

"I’m not starting. Just stating facts. You looked like you were having fun."

"Fun isn’t the word I’d use."

"No? What would you call it?"

She stopped pacing. Turned.

"The fact that we functioned like a well-oiled machine out there doesn’t change the reality. We’re enemies. You’re a threat to my entire op."

"And yet here you are, in a safe house with me, not pulling a weapon." He stepped closer. “Interesting.”

"You think I won’t?"

"I think if you were going to, you’d have done it already." He was closer now, voice lower. "Tell me, does your pulse always do that when you’re angry?"

She realized he could see her throat, see the way it moved when she swallowed. Her body betrayed her in every possible way.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," she said.

"So are you." He stepped even closer. "I think you’ve been wondering what it’d be like since the gallery."

She didn’t answer.

"You want to hate me. You want to stay in control." His hand brushed her wrist, and she jerked away like she’d been burned. "But you can’t stop imagining it, can you?"

"Fuck you."

He smiled. "Is that an invitation?" The question hangs in the air between them. Her chest is heaving, his pupils are dilated. They're standing so close she can see the pulse hammering in his throat.

She moved first.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, slamming him into the nearest wall hard enough to rattle the frame. His mouth crashed into hers like a storm,violent, breathless, devastating. Their teeth knocked, their lips bruised, their hands everywhere at once.

"I hate you," she growled, ripping open the last buttons of his shirt.

"I know," he said, pulling her closer by the hips. "I hate you too."

There was nothing soft about it. No romance. No warmth. Just the raw, burning need to consume and dominate and forget everything else.

He spun them around, slamming her against the wall now, thigh sliding between her legs. She gasped as she ground down on him.

"This doesn’t mean anything," she panted.

"Nothing at all," he murmured, fingers already at her underwear, dragging the lace aside with practiced ease. "Just getting it out of our systems."

The first stroke of his fingers made her head fall back with a choked moan. She was already soaked, already throbbing, and it made her furious.

"Bedroom," she managed.

He lifted her easily, legs locking around his waist as he carried her across the room. They didn’t make it cleanly. They crashed into the wall, into the edge of the mattress, but neither cared. They fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. Clothes are torn off rather than removed, buttons scattering across the floor. When she finally gets her hands on his bare skin, muscles flexing under her touch, she digs her nails in hard enough to leave marks.

"Fuck," he hisses, but his hips buck forward at the sensation. "You're going to be the death of me."

"That's the plan."

She tries to flip him onto his back, to take control, but he's stronger and keeps her pinned beneath him. His mouth is everywhere - her throat, her collarbone, her breasts - marking her as his while she writhes beneath him.

"Let me up," she demands, but her voice is breathless.

"No." He captures her wrists, holding them above her head with one hand while the other traces down her body. "You're mine right now."

"I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's."

"We'll see about that." His fingers find her center, and she cries out despite herself. "Look how wet you are for me. For someone you hate."

She wants to deny it, but she can't form words when he's touching her like that, when he's looking at her like she's something he wants to devour. All she can do is move against his hand, chasing the pleasure he's giving her.

When she's close, trembling on the edge, he stops. She makes a sound of frustration that's almost a growl.

"Say please," he commands, and she can see the satisfaction in his eyes at having her so desperate.

"Go to hell."

"Say it, or I stop completely."

She stares up at him, at the man she's supposed to destroy, and realizes she's never wanted anything more than she wants him to touch her again. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please make me come, you bastard."

He grinned and gave her everything.

When he finally enters her, they both freeze at the sensation. She's tight and hot around him, and he has to fight not to lose control immediately.

"Move," she demands, her nails raking down his back. "Don't you dare be gentle with me."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He sets a punishing pace, and she meets him thrust for thrust, their bodies slapping together in the small room. It's rough and desperate and exactly what they both need.

"You feel so good," he groans against her throat. "So perfect. I hate how perfect you feel."

She can't respond because he's hitting that spot inside her that makes her see stars. All she can do is hold on as he drives into her, over and over, like he's trying to brand himself into her memory.

When she comes, it's with his name on her lips, her back arching off the bed as pleasure crashes through her. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep as he spills inside her with a curse that might be her name.

They collapse together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. For a moment, there's only the sound of their ragged breathing and the thundering of their hearts.

Then she rolled away.

"This was a mistake," she said, staring at the ceiling.

"The biggest mistake I’ve ever made," he agreed.

Beat.

"Same time tomorrow?"

She threw a pillow at his face.

The light was different in the morning. Soft. Golden. Unforgiving.

Y/N sat up slowly, the sheet tangled around her waist. Jeonghan was still asleep beside her, one arm draped over the edge of the mattress. His face was peaceful. Human.

It made her stomach twist.

She slipped from the bed, quietly dressing. One shoe. Two. Shirt buttoned. Hair tied. She was almost to the door when,

"Running away?"

His voice was hoarse with sleep, and something else she couldn’t name.

She turned. "This was a mistake."

"So you said."

"It can’t happen again."

He sat up, the sheet falling low. God help her, she looked. Again.

"Because we’re enemies?"

"Because I can’t want you."

He stood, completely unbothered by his nakedness. "But you do."

She flinched. Just slightly.

"It was just sex," she said.

"Did it help?"

"What?"

"Get it out of your system."

She looked at him, at the marks on his chest, at the way her body still hummed with the memory of his touch.

"No," she whispered. "It made it worse."

He closed the space between them, his hand lifting to cup her cheek. She leaned into it, just for a second, then pulled away.

"This changes nothing."

"It changes everything."

"I’m still completing my mission."

"So am I."

"May the best agent win."

She opened the door. Paused.

"See you around, Jeonghan."

"Count on it."

Y/N’s report: Target compromised. Proceeding with caution.Jeonghan’s report: Operative contact unavoidable. Situation escalating.

One time was a mistake, but once won’t be enough.

[letsnowtalk]

You always show up

Nika mühl x Fem!Reader

⸻

You waited until the crowd had cleared out.

The noise of Gampel had faded to a hum by the time you stepped back inside. You liked it like this—empty bleachers, dim lights, the echo of your own footsteps. There was something sacred about the silence after a storm.

And tonight’s storm had a name. Nika Mühl.

Twenty assists. A handful of steals. And the kind of fire only she could bring—snarling on defense, smirking on fast breaks, screaming after every big bucket. You swore you’d never seen someone play with that much heart.

She hadn’t noticed you earlier, not really. Maybe a quick glance while she jogged to the bench. But your seat behind the scorer’s table wasn’t exactly subtle. You weren’t just another fan. You never were.

You leaned against the wall and waited, arms folded, backpack slung over one shoulder. She always stayed late after games. Sometimes it was shots. Sometimes stretching. Sometimes just pacing while everyone else left, trying to let the adrenaline come down.

This time, it was pacing.

You heard her sneakers first, squeaking against the hardwood. Then the thump of a basketball echoing as she crossed half court, dribbling absently. Hair damp with sweat, jersey loose, expression focused like the game hadn’t ended.

“Stalking me again?” she asked without looking up.

You smirked. “Only if you count showing up after your best game of the season.”

She turned, eyes catching yours—mischievous and sharp. “You always show up when I go off. Coincidence?”

“Maybe I’m your good luck charm.”

Nika walked closer, spinning the ball on her fingers, a cocky little grin pulling at her lips. “Or maybe you just like watching me lose my mind out there.”

“I do like it,” you said, voice softer now. “Not just the game. The way you fight. The way you don’t back down. It’s impossible not to watch.”

Her smirk faded slightly. Something flickered in her eyes—something real. Vulnerable, even. But she covered it like she always did, pushing the ball into your hands and stepping back.

“Show me what you’ve got, then.”

You blinked. “What?”

“One-on-one,” she challenged. “If you’re gonna talk like that, you better back it up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want to play me right now?”

“Scared?”

You scoffed and dropped your bag. “You wish.”

⸻

She let you score the first point. You knew it. And when you made a jumper over her, she even clapped, laughing like she couldn’t believe it.

But then she turned it on.

Quick feet. Fast hands. All instincts and control. She didn’t even need to trash talk—her body said it all. Loose and locked in. Playful but dangerous.

You got the ball back after a missed shot and turned toward the top of the key—but before you could dribble, her arms wrapped around you from behind, and she whispered against your ear, “Game’s over.”

You froze.

Her breath was warm. Her hands didn’t move. Just held you there. Close.

“You always show up for me,” she murmured, voice low and serious now. “Every game. Every time I need someone… you’re just there. I don’t think you know how much that means.”

Your heartbeat picked up. You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline or her. Probably both.

“You never ask for anything back,” she continued. “But I see you. I feel you. And I think—” She hesitated. “I think I want something to change.”

You turned in her arms slowly, face inches from hers now. “Change how?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like she was trying to memorize every line of your face.

Then she leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t wild. Just honest. Like the first time she ever passed you the ball and trusted you’d take the shot.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “I don’t want to play it cool anymore. I want people to know.”

Your breath hitched. “You mean—”

“I mean I want to walk off the court and kiss you in front of the whole damn student section one day,” she said, grinning now. “I want to win, and the first person I run to is you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. But we can start slow. You and me. Post-practice shootarounds. Long bus rides. Late night texts. Sneaking into the gym when we both can’t sleep.”

You nodded, smile widening. “Sounds like the perfect game plan.”

Nika took your hand, fingers lacing through yours with no hesitation. “Then let’s run it.”

And when you walked off the court together, she didn’t let go.

———

Have no motivation to write😞

[t4kalcvr]

HUNTER’S RUIN — 𝖩𝖨𝖭𝖴 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠

WORD COUNT. 3,100 GENRE. dark romance, enemies to lovers, erotica, && drama. CONTENT CONTAINS. demon reader, hunter jinu, combat, body worship(?), explicit content, slight power play, && blood. REQUESTED BY. @theshadowsden

٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩*

he saw you first through the fog of the alley. not clearly. just the shape of you, wrapped in smoke and red light, like the streetlamps themselves bowed toward your body. jinu didn’t blink. he couldn’t. his hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, breath steady, but his heart already faltering, betraying him. he’d felt demon presence before—felt the sickness coil in the air like rot—but with you? it was warmth. perfume. the static hum of something ancient, beautiful, and unspeakably wrong.

you didn’t run. you stepped closer.

your heels clicked against wet pavement, slow and deliberate, as if every step you took was choreographed to the rhythm of his restraint unraveling. he should’ve drawn the blade then. he should’ve pinned you to the wall, sliced into your flesh, and ended it. ended you. but his fingers wouldn’t move. and when you tilted your head, the soft curve of your mouth twitching into a smile, he knew why.

“you’re late,” you whispered, voice low and velvet-lined, curling around the shadows like smoke. “i waited. got dressed and everything.” you moved one step closer. his eyes dropped—just for a second—to the way your coat fell open, revealing skin, silk, temptation. you smelled like danger and sin. like something made to be touched but never survived.

jinu inhaled sharply. his grip tightened.

“are you not going to kill me, hunter?” your voice was soft, mocking. a sweet thing dipped in poison. “or do you want to see what makes me a demon first?”

he stepped forward, blade half-drawn, eyes hard. “you think this is a game?”

you laughed. god, that laugh. it echoed off the brick walls and slid down his spine like warm breath. “no,” you said, brushing past him, dragging your fingers along his shoulder, “i think it’s a dance.”

he turned quickly, too quickly, because you were gone. not completely—he could feel you still. in the air. on his skin. in the aching tension between his thighs. your voice lingered, soft, almost gentle, disembodied and cruel.

“catch me next time, hunter.”

and then nothing.

he stood alone under the streetlamp, blade still in hand, heart pounding out of rhythm. breath heavy, throat dry, body burning from something he couldn’t name.

he wasn’t afraid of demons.

but you weren’t fear.

you were fascination.

and that terrified him.

٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩*

it happened again—this time, on the rooftop of a half-crumbling building, high above the city where neon lit the smoke like fire. the wind tugged at his coat. his blade was already drawn, the edge of it glinting blue beneath the moon. this time, he wasn’t hesitating. this time, he wasn’t going to let your voice slip into his head like a dream.

but when you appeared—smiling, bare-armed, lips parted like you’d just finished laughing—it all came back. the heat. the ache. the sick sense that he was chasing something he didn’t want to destroy, but devour.

you struck first. a blur of movement, the glint of claws, the slam of your palm against his chest that sent him skidding back into a rusted pipe with a grunt. he caught himself quickly, brought the blade up, and slashed toward your side. you bent backward, unnaturally smooth, your chest arching just beneath the arc of steel. too close. your breath kissed his throat.

“getting better,” you murmured, voice thick with delight.

he didn’t respond. he just lunged.

your bodies crashed, slammed into the ground in a mess of limbs and scraping steel. he managed to slice the edge of your thigh, and your hiss of pain twisted something in him—guilt, maybe, or satisfaction, or something darker. but then you retaliated, flipping him onto his back with a grip on his collar and your knee between his legs, pressing down hard enough to bruise. his blade was caught between your wrists, shaking slightly as you held it just above your throat, both of you straining for dominance.

he looked up at you.

your hair fell into your face, eyes glowing faintly, lips parted, chest heaving. blood dripped slowly down your leg, staining the rooftop black. and still, you smiled. your mouth so close to his he could feel the warmth of your exhale. like a kiss waiting to happen. or a warning.

“what are you going to do, jinu?” you asked, your voice lower now, less playful, more… curious. “cut me open? watch me bleed?” your hips shifted slightly, not enough to be obscene—but enough to make him falter. you felt it. the hesitation. the hunger. and your grin widened. “or are you going to admit it?”

“admit what?” he breathed, voice strained.

“that you want me.” your lips barely grazed his. “that you dream of me.”

he growled, flipping you suddenly, pinning you down hard, blade now pressed into your collarbone, his knee between your thighs. you gasped softly—not from fear. not even from pain. from interest. intrigue.

“you’re just a job,” he snapped, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him.

your eyes glinted. “then why are your hands shaking?”

and they were. just a little. enough to make the blade tremble where it rested against your skin.

the wind howled between the broken bricks. the city pulsed beneath them like a heart trying to break free. his chest rose and fell violently above yours, his face so close you could count every breath, every flicker of doubt behind his eyes.

then slowly, slowly, your hand reached up. you touched the edge of the blade. not to push it away—but to drag it gently down your chest, letting it slice your skin just enough to show him red.

“i bleed like you do,” you whispered, voice like silk soaked in danger. “but i bet i taste better.”

he jerked back before he could find out. before he did something irreversible.

you didn’t chase him. not this time.

you just watched him vanish into the night, the taste of him still hot in your mouth.

and jinu?

he didn’t sleep for days.

because every time he closed his eyes, it was your body beneath his.

your blood.

your voice.

your smile.

and the shameful, maddening truth:

he wanted to see you again.

٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩*

he didn’t know why he returned to that same place. three nights later. same hour. same rooftop, where blood had stained the concrete and the wind still carried your laughter like perfume. he told himself it was instinct. the hunter’s path. tracking patterns. but deep down—he knew.

it was addiction.

he leaned against the ledge, half-expecting to be alone this time. to be free of the spell you cast. he had convinced himself that maybe you’d gotten bored. maybe you’d moved on to another city, another poor fool to tease. and yet when he felt the air shift behind him—heavy, warm, electric—he didn’t flinch. he just closed his eyes.

“you missed me,” you said softly. right behind him. so close your breath stirred the collar of his jacket.

he turned.

you were there, of course. leaning against the wall like you hadn’t bled on this very rooftop. like you hadn’t pinned him to the ground and made him forget why he ever wanted you dead. moonlight painted your face, soft and wicked, your lips slightly parted like you were about to say something that might ruin him.

“no,” he lied.

you smiled like you could taste the falsehood on your tongue. “then why do you look at me like that?”

“like what?”

you took a slow step toward him. then another. until your boots nearly brushed his. your hand lifted—to his surprise—and hovered near his jaw, not touching, but threatening to. “like you want to carve me open… and kiss me while i bleed.”

he sucked in a breath, sharp and involuntary.

you tilted your head. “tell me, hunter. what do you dream about? do you see me crawling into your bed? or do you imagine what i’d sound like—if you finally let me get my hands on you?”

his hand shot out suddenly, grabbing your wrist. hard. not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you. enough to pretend he was in control. your eyes sparkled, unbothered. amused.

“don’t push me,” he warned, voice low and strained.

“push you?” you laughed, soft and slow. “i think i already have.”

his grip didn’t loosen. your bodies were pressed too close now. the city stretched around you like a blur of lights, but all he could see was your face. and all you could feel was his pulse, hammering through the skin of his palm. he hated how warm you were. how human you felt. it made it harder to remember the truth.

you were not a woman.

you were a demon.

you were a target.

and still—

still, his eyes dropped to your lips.

your smile faded, just barely. your free hand reached up, brushed his chest. fingers slow, curious, trailing over the curve of his sternum, over the heartbeat he tried so hard to suppress.

“you don’t have to fight it,” you murmured, voice thick with something between seduction and sympathy. “i can feel it. you want me.”

“i’m not like the others you’ve twisted,” he said, his voice trembling with conviction he no longer believed.

“no,” you whispered, finally placing your hand against his chest. “you’re worse. you want me, and you hate yourself for it.”

the silence swelled.

then—without thinking—he shoved you backward, pinning you to the wall. his forearm pressed to your collarbone, his face inches from yours. your breath caught. your body didn’t fight. instead, you tilted your chin, exposing your throat like an offering.

“go ahead,” you whispered. “kill me.”

he stared. at your lips. your throat. the way your chest rose against his arm. the hunger in your eyes that mirrored his own.

he didn’t move.

he couldn’t.

and you smiled again. the cruelest, most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.

“that’s what i thought.”

you left without another word, disappearing into the night like smoke.

but his hands were still shaking.

and later—when he was alone—he’d lift his fingers to his lips and imagine what your skin would taste like if he ever dared to touch it.

٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩*

the warehouse was empty, except for the echo of wind slithering through broken windows and the sound of his boots—heavy, deliberate—against concrete. jinu had tracked your energy here like a heat signature, like a pull carved into his bones. it was different tonight. thicker. darker. his body felt heavier under it. the blade in his hand buzzed with anticipation, or maybe dread. maybe both.

then the air shifted.

and you stepped out of the shadows.

not disguised. not human. not this time.

your skin was a dulled violet, as if the night itself had painted you. black patterns curled around your limbs like runes, like thorns wrapping silk. your eyes glowed molten gold, hot and unreadable, and your claws glinted with the reflection of moonlight streaming through shattered glass. but it was the dress—gods, that dress—that made him forget how to breathe. black, shredded at the hips, open at the stomach, tight across your breasts, straps barely hanging onto your shoulders. it looked like it had been sewn from sin itself.

you looked like something he should run from.

you looked like something he had already dreamed of a hundred times over.

“no more games,” you said. your voice was deeper in this form, layered, like a second voice coiled beneath it. “you came to kill me, didn’t you?”

jinu raised his blade.

and charged.

you met him halfway.

claws clashing against metal, sparks flying with every blow, his strikes wild and calculated, yours fluid and feral. you moved like smoke, like lust and chaos and instinct all at once, spinning beneath his arm, dragging your claws across his chest, shredding fabric and slicing skin. he grunted, caught you by the waist, slammed you into a pillar—only for you to flip him, pinning him against the wall with your knee between his legs, his blade knocked away and clattering uselessly to the floor.

your breath was ragged. your chest heaved. golden eyes bore into his with a hunger so intense it hurt. and jinu—gods, jinu didn’t move. didn’t breathe. your claws were curled around his neck. but you weren’t squeezing. not yet.

you leaned in, lips close, voice molten.

“what now, hunter?”

he stared at your mouth.

your fangs.

your tongue, flicking against the edge of a word that never came.

you tilted your head, waiting.

but jinu didn’t answer.

he reacted.

his hands shot up—not to your wrists, not to push you off—but to your waist. he gripped you like he was drowning, like he needed to anchor himself or fall apart entirely. and then he kissed you.

deep. raw. desperate.

your lips collided like a war had ended and begun in the same breath. his mouth was hot and frantic against yours, fingers digging into your hips, dragging you closer until there was no space, no sanity left. your claws retracted just enough to thread through his hair, your body pressing against him, chest to chest, heartbeat to something older and darker than a heartbeat.

he kissed you like he’d never get the chance again.

you kissed him like you’d always known he would.

his tongue slid against yours, hungry, searching, tasting something he had no right to crave. and still—he moaned into your mouth. soft, almost broken. his hips lifted slightly, pressing into you in a way that made you smirk against his lips.

your hand slid beneath his jacket, claws teasing the skin you’d torn open minutes ago. his body shuddered. he wanted you. more than breath. more than vengeance. more than salvation.

he pulled away only for a second, his forehead resting against yours, his voice wrecked and trembling.

“i can’t kill you.”

your hands curled tighter into his jacket.

“i know,” you kissed him again, slower this time. not frantic like before. not like a clash. but like a confession. his lips moved over yours with reverence, as if he finally understood what he was kissing—something he shouldn’t touch, something sacred in its sin. your body, still humming from the fight, softened in his hands. the heat that had once been chaos now melted into something molten, heavy, intimate.

his fingers slid up your sides, tracing the dark patterns that pulsed like veins along your demon skin. he followed them like a map, like they were trying to lead him somewhere. and maybe they were. your breath hitched as he reached your ribs, his thumbs brushing beneath the curve of your breasts—never rushing, just feeling. learning.

you pulled his jacket off slowly, not tearing this time. not in a hurry. you wanted to see him. all of him. every part of the hunter who kissed you like he’d been starved. his shirt was stained with blood—some his, some yours—but when you lifted it over his head and tossed it aside, you could still smell the heat of his skin. the bruises. the battle. the desire he tried so hard to bury.

his mouth found your throat.

he kissed just below your jaw, where your pulse throbbed like a second heart.

you let your head fall back. let him taste you.

“you’re still shaking,” you whispered.

his hands gripped your waist, grounding himself.

“you’re not,” he breathed.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glowing like firelight, hands trailing down his chest, across every ridge of muscle. you took your time. your claws dulled into soft fingertips as you dragged them down to the edge of your dress. he watched—entranced—as you slowly, sinfully peeled the fabric aside, letting it fall from your shoulders, letting it slide down your hips like a whispered secret.

you stood before him, bare, painted in shadow and moonlight, those black markings curling over your thighs, across your stomach, around your breasts like vines desperate to hold you together.

he reached out—hesitant at first—then placed a trembling hand on your waist.

“you’re…” his voice cracked.

but he didn’t finish.

he just looked at you like you were some beautiful, cursed relic.

and then you kissed him again.

you guided him down to the floor, pressing him back against the cold concrete. straddling him slowly, deliberately, so he could feel every curve, every shiver. your hips sank into his lap, and he groaned—low and broken—as his hands flew to your thighs. he gripped you like he was afraid you’d vanish again. like this was a dream.

you rocked against him once—just once—and his breath stuttered hard.

your lips brushed his ear.

“feel what you do to me,” you whispered.

“feel what i’ve done to you.”

you rolled your hips again, slower. teasing. and he bucked beneath you, trying not to fall apart too fast. he wanted to last. to remember. his mouth found your chest—kissing across the markings there, tracing your nipple with his tongue, worshipping you with the quiet desperation of a man who never believed he’d get this close to something so unholy. so divine.

you guided him inside you slowly. painfully slow.

he gasped.

you moaned.

you sat flush against his hips, head tilted back, thighs tight around him. you held him there, still for a moment, letting him feel every inch of how warm and wet you were. how tightly you wrapped around him.

“say it,” you whispered, voice trembling like fire.

“say you want this.”

he looked up at you—eyes wide, ruined, full of reverence.

“i want this.”

he swallowed.

“i want you.”

you rode him slowly, rhythm like a ritual, hips circling in slow, grinding pulses. he met every movement with quiet moans, fingers digging into your thighs, his eyes never leaving you. not even once. like he thought if he looked away, it would all vanish.

your claws raked down his chest, not deep enough to cut—just deep enough to remind him who you were. what you were. but he didn’t care. he wanted all of you. especially the dangerous parts.

and when he finally came—his breath catching in your mouth, his body tensing, his voice breaking on your name—it wasn’t a scream. it wasn’t violent.

it was worship.

you collapsed on top of him, your skin slick against his, your breath tangled, your heart still racing. and for the first time since the hunt began, neither of you moved. you just laid there. glowing. aching. wrapped in something neither of you could name.

his fingers curled around yours.

and in the silence that followed, he didn’t ask you to stay.

but he didn’t ask you to leave either.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES A REQUESTED FIC FROM MY TOP REQUESTER !! i do requests when i work lol SO NEOW I’LL GET STARTED ON TWIN SIN PART 4 LOL OR MIRA CAN’T KNOW PART 4, WE’LL SEEE !!!! i’m still obsessed with the person that recommended my account like UGHHH 😣🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 THE JOYYYY AND HONOR I FEEEL

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look here for your next read 📚 !!!!

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[ultfashionista]

.i feel like i’m losing my fucking mind. dear god. how are you people fucking living like this. it’s a robot. it doesn’t care about you. hey. hey. look me in the eyes. please.please i can’t keep doing this