#I was so tired I couldn’t concentrate
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lesbianstarlightglimmer · 5 months ago
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I cannot win today
#meows#went to my PD today and it was an hour earlier#than the others have been and I get there on time#with some time early bc the directions didn’t say#where to go for the presentation#and there’s no one greeting people as they come in#to direct them at all. so I was going everywhere#after already parking too far out bc I thought I parked#correctly. finally find it and they start /30 min later/#I was so tired I couldn’t concentrate#then ig they didn’t plan anything for English#so me and the other English teachers from my school#drove to our school and worked together for a couple of#hours. I go to my classroom intent on dropping#my laptop off and getting lunch to go#I walk in and realize the couch that had been left aaaalll summer#was gone. apparently the lady before me promised it to the#suspension room. but again it had been here all summer#no note no nothing. like I went out and bought a rug#and pillows and for the first time since accepting#this job felt a little better. like I could finally have#alternative seating. just to have it ripped from beneath me#so that pissed me off so I left bc I didn’t technically hafta stay#ate lunch almost at 1:30 pm and knew the shower guy#was likely still over and I didn’t want to be around#all the noise so I went to the smaller closer mall to me#and went to their small hot topic and found some#blind boxes for Halloween I had been eyeing#only to get the only two I didn’t want#Chili’s got my dinner wrong and was out of Dr Pepper. what a great day
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ghosts-and-blue-sweaters · 4 months ago
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I feel absolutely exhausted and I haven’t even. done anything today.
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luv-lies · 5 months ago
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imagine husband!nanami who can’t say no to you when you say “please?” with the most heart melting, unfathomably precious, pleading look ever.
“only because i love you so much.” he sighed. because he only loved you.
his hand patted the back of your thigh, before gently kneading the skin as you stood between his legs applying the pink clay mask to his face. “you almost done?” he asked, his gaze following your eyes deeply. if you hadn’t known any better, you’d think he was trying to fluster you on purpose. but really, he just adored you so much. how pretty he thought you were, and all his.
nanami truly thought you were the perfect one for him. not once had he ever thought he could meet someone as lovely as you. yet here you are, filling the hole he once had in his heart. you never needed to beg him for anything, he was always the one who begged you to let him take care of you.
“almost done, ken.” you murmured, your tongue subconsciously poking past your lips in concentration. a low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his hands moving to hold the plush of your hips. “i love you, sweetheart.”
oh. . . how much he loved the pink tint that grew on your cheeks when the words lovingly roll off his tongue, oozing out like warm honey.
you averted your gaze shyly, a habit nanami both adored and disfavored, until his thumb ran across your bottom lip to coax you into looking at him again. “i love you.” nanami repeated, a faint smile adorning his tired features. you could never get enough of him. just like how he couldn’t get enough of you.
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© 2024 LUV-LIES do not plagiarize, steal, translate or repost my works on any platforms!
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onlyswan · 1 year ago
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summary: in which jungkook can’t sleep, and he can’t stop kissing you either.
> fluff, suggestive / word count: 2.6k
> content/warnings: alexa play seven by jungkook! mentions of s^x, lots and lots of cutie kisses :( they’re in that afterglow <3 oc’s chest is his pillow :(
> in which masterlist!
note: hi hi. here’s ur slice of pure self indulgent fluff 🍰 i just had to write abt this jk :P there’s a reference to in which you always get what you want and jungkook is dying to kiss you 🥹 reblogs & feedback are vv appreciated. i’d love to hear ur thoughts so feel free to scream or laugh or cry <3
a fleeting white light passes through your closed eyelids, nearly blinding, as you hear the familiar shutter of your boyfriend’s polaroid camera.
“jungkook,” you whimper weakly due to the sudden disturbance, burying your face on the soft pillows while pushing the camera away.
“shit, shit- sorry, baby-” he winces, guilty of disrupting your journey to slumber, as he scrambles to fix his mistake. “forgot to turn off the flash.”
he places the polaroid face down on the space behind him to give it the time to develop the photo he had taken. much to your relief, the bedroom falls silent once more except for the quiet humming and breathing of the airconditioner. you return to properly laying your head on the pillow, taking a small gasp of oxygen, and jungkook smiles because of how adorable you are for still refusing to open your eyes.
“can i take more pictures?”
“did you turn it off?” you whisper as you stretch your legs to find a more comfortable position, unwittingly pulling down the comforter and exposing your nakedness to the cool air. this gives rise to goosebumps on your skin, causing you to shiver, but your boyfriend is quick to your rescue. he catches the hem before it could slide past your skimpy shorts.
“i did.”
a chaste kiss is planted on your shoulder before it is returned underneath the warmth of soft layers of cotton and fabric.
you sigh, melting back into relaxation. “okay.”
he re-anchors his elbow into the mattress, resting his head on his palm to admire the majestic view of you. jungkook likes this a lot, he lives for it— lying on the bed face-to-face with his sated lover, spending the rest of the night feeling like his heart is not a big enough vessel to hold all the love he has for you. the lights he is yet to turn off have splashed the dark room with a red glow that engulfs your figure as well, escalating his heartbeat, so hypnotic and tantalizing, he finds himself breathing heavier and heavier behind the viewfinder, or maybe he has stopped breathing at all. the shutter briefly fills the silence.
this is… the arch of your back is burned in his mind and he swears he still tastes you on his tongue, but seeing you like this feels so different.
he was consumed by his pleasure and yours just half an hour ago, admittedly almost blinded by his own sweat dripping from his forehead because he simply couldn’t stop wanting more of you, giving himself to you. you weren’t exactly innocent either, with your provocative touches and coquettish smiles, whispering lewd words that was gasoline to the lust flaring up inside of him. he revels in seeing that you’re just as desperate for it as he is, if not more, purely from the way you beseech him with your eyes mirroring stained glass windows. he knows you love it when he fucks you so good it brings you to tears, welcoming the delightful intensity of his nature, and that you were also trying to tire him out so he’d finally feel sleepy, but holy shit, looking at you right now, he wants nothing more but to hold you with utmost gentleness.
wildly concentrated with his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth, he brushes away the hair that fell on your face before capturing another exquisite memory to be burned into film.
jungkook is greedy when it comes to you.
a disgruntled whine slips from your mouth when the pillow underneath your head is replaced by his thick arm, which is then rudely cut off by his lips crashing on yours.
clearly, you’ve grown too comfortable in this relationship.
“i love you.” he drunkenly mutters, instantly going for another kiss and barely finishing his another- “i love you.” before he’s kissing you again.
“babe-” you chuckle then gasp, holding on to his wrist as his tattooed hand loosely wraps around your neck.
“i love you. i love you, i love y- i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you.” he repeats himself over and over, the volume of his voice gradually getting quieter as he runs out of breath, until his tongue becomes tied. grounded by the feeling of your steady pulse beneath his thumb, he silences himself by tenderly kissing you, soft lips molding with yours for a wordless declaration of devotion this time around.
pure static— there are no thoughts running in your head. your limbs feel numb but tingly. you feel like you’re floating- no, you’re falling. the bed has turned into an abyss and you’re falling endlessly and jungkook holding you close is the only thing that makes sense. you might have to consider this true heaven, nothingness with your everything, when the whole world is lights-out and quiet that it feels like time has been suspended, and the only way to keep track of it is through each pump of your heart.
at last, your eyelids slowly flutter open as he pulls away, and he greets you with that boyish grin. “pretty.”
his hand on your neck moves to stroke your face lovingly, eyes glimmering with various emotions as they wander your features.
“____ is so, so pretty.”
“hm, really?” you hum sleepily, leaning closer to his touch. “thanks to you.”
“me?” his doe eyes widen in confusion.
“you know, for the afterglow. i feel nice.” you giggle brightly at your own half-joke, positively out of your goddamn mind as you hide your warm face on his shoulder.
“ahhh- ah!”
enlightenment then dawns on your boyfriend.
his giggles blend in with yours for a harmony that strikes the same joy as the sound of wind chimes on a windy day.
jungkook tries not to appear too cocky about the compliment, but consequences be damned, he would die satisfying his lover.
“oh yeah, baby? do you now?” there’s a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face when you take a peek at him, which then morphs into a grin when your eyes meet. “i feel nice, too.”
“nice?” your voice comes out delicate, droopy eyes asking him for confirmation.
“nice.”
he feels a tug at his heartstrings.
“you know what? fucking great… i could never have enough of you.”
it becomes silent for a while. his tattooed hand slides under the comforter, letting his fingers skim across the side of your waist, feather-light touches on your bare skin before he’s pulling you closer to his body.
“i… i don’t doubt that feelings like this can only grow as time goes on but… it’s still amazing that when i think about it, even until now, all the time, i want to be with you.”
he involuntarily breathes out a shaky sigh, ears going red as they do when he’s expressing sincerity from the deepest parts of his soul.
“really, how do you do this…? what is this magic? why- why do i like you so much? i mean, i know why! of course! but, wow!” he squeezes his eyes shut to express his disbelief, clicking his head to the side. “it’s possible for it to be this much? do you get what i’m saying? i just have thoughts like that— love is so fascinating.”
you barely process his words with your brain still in a haze of bliss, but it’s funny, hearing these questions from the same man who has the entire world madly obsessed with him.
oh, this actually sounds familiar. he’s getting all sentimental and philosophical. again. and he’s not drunk. were you that good tonight?
“i won’t give away my secrets just like that. what if you use them on someone else?” you tease him, rubbing your tired eyes and shaking your head as you giggle.
you receive a dirty look from him, clearly offended and uninterested in the thought of putting in the hard effort to impress someone that isn’t you.
“aish, stop talking! i don’t like hearing you talk in that way.”
“then what else am i supposed to do? you’re the one who woke me up.” you retort in annoyance.
but you honestly don’t think there’s any secret to tell. jungkook is in love with you. plain and simple.
“you’re right, i’m sorry. go back to sleep if you want to.”
he dips down to plant gentle pecks on your shoulder, going down on a trail to your neck, and you unconsciously tilt your head to his convenience because he’s bringing the butterflies in your stomach back to life. it feels good, everything he does always feels good.
“you’re seriously not done?” you mumble against his lips, unfaltering with the kisses as if he would run out of them any minute now.
he stubbornly answers with a “no!” as his lips ghost over your cheek.
if only bam was here, jungkook would eventually leave you alone to rest. he would pester him with his late-night burst of affection instead while talking shit about you to your child because you dodged his kiss in your sleep.
“babe, you’re supposed to sleep. you have work later.”
“no, i don’t want to sleep. i… i want to kiss you- baby.” he protests as he continues to pepper your face with kisses, giving your body a particularly tight squeeze when he searches for your lips again.
you blink at him in confusion when he suddenly sends you a look of irritation, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glaring.
“you haven’t even said ‘i love you’ back yet.”
“oh, i haven’t?” you wince innocently. “sorry. i love you.”
but he should be the one apologizing to you, since it’s his fault that you still can’t think straight, or walk for that matter.
you pat around the mattress behind his back until you stumble upon the camera, and it’s jungkook’s turn to be your beloved muse. you scoot away until the lens manage to capture him down to his shirtless abdomen. you watch him in complete awe behind the viewfinder. he squints at you, raising his eyebrows flirtatiously, and he smirks when you chuckle in amusement.
“ah wait- take this! take this! you have to take a good one, got it? i worked so hard on them yesterday!” he eagerly voices out a special demand.
he shuffles to flex his arm infront of the camera, showing off his well-defined triceps and biceps while releasing rich, throaty grunts. totally unnecessary, but so achingly jungkook.
your boyfriend is outrageously, ridiculously sexy— he’s still wearing that stupid black headband he hastily put on in the middle of sex because he got pissed off at his hair and he needed it out of the way so he could ‘properly see his love’s beautiful body.’
you roll your eyes inside your head.
what a fucking tease.
nonetheless, you acquiesce.
the flash goes off.
and another polaroid is crafted into existence that you selfishly want to keep for your eyes only.
“baby, let me see.”
“it’s mine!” you scrunch your nose with a childlike charm, hiding the polaroid behind your back.
he chuckles, hopelessly endeared by you.
“yes, i’m yours.” he coos in response.
and your unguarded heart is once again swept away by the taste of his tongue. the camera becomes an abandoned item. your fingers daintily pushes off his headband in favor of freely tangling them with his silky hair, and it also ends up getting lost somewhere in the sheets as his sweet kisses lull you in a false sense of security… because out of nowhere, that same blazing light burns through your closed eyes for the second time tonight.
jungkook playfully waves the polaroid infront of your face, and his toothy grin is met by your unimpressed expression.
“this is mine!”
he has been waiting to jump into this type of opportunity, to orchestrate a romantic moment to be stolen in film— you can tell by the sparkles in his eyes. reminiscent of that one late night in a tiny photobooth where your younger and clueless selves were cramped in, this is what you and his hyungs often talk about, how much you share the same fondness for the fact that jungkook hasn’t changed at all.
“just how many pictures of you kissing me do you need?” you ask him lightheartedly.
he juts out his bottom lip sullenly, and a few beats pass before he forms an answer. “i always need more for when i miss you.”
you copy his frown. “then what about me when i’m missing you too?”
“hmmm… i want you to always remember me like this, baby.” he melodramatically declares as he picks up the one and only polaroid you’ve taken of him tonight. “can you see my abs too…? oh- it’s not showing yet.”
he looks back at you shyly with a laugh, and he places it back down to let it continue developing.
“i’ll look later. i can’t even keep my eyes open anymore. ‘m so tired.” you sadly sniffle to gain his pity, fluttering your damp eyelashes at him. “let’s go to sleep, please?”
jungkook doesn’t find it in himself to articulate a consolation or protest, not when you’re tugging him down to coax him into laying his head on your chest.
“heaven.” he moans, overcome by contentment.
he adjusts himself a bit to be more comfortable before dragging the comforter further upwards to provide warmth for the two of you, all the while refusing to remove his face nuzzled up against you.
“why are you always like this? can you even breathe?” you chuckle with your eyes closed.
“i love your boobs.” his honest reply comes out muffled, cute for some reason, along with his satisfied hums prompted by your nails lightly scratching his scalp.
“i know.”
he turns his head to the side to look up at you, and he carries on to speak with his cheek squished against you. “i really, really mean it.”
“yes, baby. i believe you.”
a minute of silence passes. the ecstasy still flooding your veins becomes a stepping stone in the pond towards your dreamland, where all is either fantastically perfect or horrifically fucked up.
but then you feel sloppy kisses being deliberately scattered in the middle of your chest, leading down to your stomach, and you get rudely knocked over into the cold, clear waters.
yes, plea- oh no, no, no, no.
“jungkook, baby, stop. i can’t go another round.” you whine pathetically, being driven closer to the urge to burst into tears.
“AH! o-ow- ouch- baby, wha- i swear, i wasn’t even planning on it!” he loudly exclaims in surprise when you harshly pull him away by his hair.
“still…” your voice cracks. “you know i’ll get turned on!”
his chuckles are infuriatingly raspy and of no help at all, ego inflating upon hearing your response and the frustration obviously laced with it.
“okay, okay! i’m sorry! i’ll behave now!”
thank god.
he assumes his previous position, the place that he deems to be the warmest and the coziest. as he wraps his arms around your waist, your fist relaxes into an open palm that cradles the back of his head.
“____?” he mumbles, finally feeling the tiredness seep into his sore muscles now that he’s lying motionless.
“hmm?”
“let’s eat dinner outside after work.”
“…meat?”
“and beer!” he adds, brimming with excitement, and he salivates as he can almost taste them in his mouth already. they are his favorite, after all.
“i’ll come pick you up then.” you drop a kiss on his forehead, and he sighs happily. “but go to sleep or else i’ll kick you out of the bedroom again.”
his sweet embrace becomes an iron grip.
cold and alone, he swears those were some of the worst three hours of his life.
he squeaks in defeat. “goodnight, baby.”
taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D
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nymphoniah · 3 months ago
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come undone | logan howlett
paring: old man!logan x younger!reader
AN: i can't stop thinking about old man!logan guys, i think its turning into a problem um... but here's a quick drabble about you being needy, and him being the gruffy old man he is, you decide to take matters into your own hands <3
content/tags: NSFW, minors DNI (18+ only), old man!logan, explicit age gap (reader is in their 20's), logan spoils his girl, thigh riding, daddy kink, swearing, pet names
you find logan resting in his office, seated on his leather arm chair. his white button up is messily undone, revealing his worn out beater underneath. his chest hair peeking through the shallow neckline of the shirt, leaving your mind to wonder about.
he catches your gaze and flashes you a smile, "c'mon doll, sit in your old man's lap", he coos, signaling you to come over with his middle and pointer finger.
and how could you ever say no to logan?
you couldn’t help but approach him. curling up in logan’s lap, you rest your head against his broad chest. your fingers gently rubbing against his ribbed tank top that fits snug against him. his body isn’t what it once was before, but he still remains defined and muscular, filling the tank top perfectly.
logan’s salt-and-pepper beard tickles your rose tinted cheeks as you litter his face in kisses. you can’t help but take in his beauty, every wrinkle, scar, age spot; for him being over 200, he absolutely aged like wine.
moving your fingers from his chest to the shell of his ears, you swiftly remove his prescription glasses from his face. you press your lips gently against the crow’s feet that defined his tired eyes, making him crack a tiny smile.
“you’re so handsome, logan.” you sigh, placing his glasses onto the side table placed on his right. you rest your head back on his chest, taking a deep sigh. the scent of his cologne floods your senses, bourbon and vanilla.
you shift around, straddling yourself onto his left thigh. your legs wrapped around him like a vice whilst your core pulses for attention against his tense quad.
“looks like someone’s needy,” he teases, placing his firm hands on your hips, gently guiding you back and forth against him. “cmon baby, take it out on me.” you gently rock your hips, keeping a slow and steady pace.
with his old age, he’s lost his stamina for sure, but he always has the energy for you. making sure that you get off, anytime and anywhere. you’re his princess, and he always makes sure to spoil his sweet little girl.
your hips rock in tandem against his thigh as he rhythmically bounces his leg to match your pace. you mewl in pleasure, tilting your head back as ecstasy fills your mind.
logan places gentle, sloppy kisses against your neck, making sure to pay close attention to your pulse point. he’s nipping at the soft skin of your neck, concentrating on one area enough to leave a maroon bruise the next day.
both of your movements become more erratic. as your pace quickens, his hands move to your chest, groping your breasts, thumbs nimbly working at your buds, rolling and gently tugging on them.
you hiss out in pleasure, teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure. “so close…” you whimper, biting your bottom lip tightly to alleviate the growing tension in your stomach.
“let it out darlin', i know you can do it for me,” he grunts into your neck, his hands finding their way back to your hips, pushing you harder down onto him.
absolutely soaking through your panties, you can feel the patch of wetness you left on his light washed denim jeans. you’re faltering on the edge, not wanting to let yourself go so soon.
“c'mon, i know you want this princess," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, nibbling at your earlobe.
"let go for your daddy,” he groans as he pushes your hips down, forcing you to grind harder against him. logan utters a string of sweet nothings in your ear, ending with a you can do it darlin', and you finally tick.
you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you, your pants becoming more and more exhausted. your hips thrust forward and hard around him one last time, and the knot in your stomach finally snaps.
“f-fuck logan, fuck!” you whine, your combined moans filling his office.
you gently pull away from him, pressing your forehead against his, your lust blown pupils meeting his stern gaze.
“yknow how to rile me up,” he says cheekily, gently molding your ass between his fingertips. “almost got me to come in my pants like a teenager,” logan snarkily adds.
“shut it old man,” you quipped, taking his glasses from the side table and placing them back on him so that they sit on the edge of his nose bridge. you press a quick kiss to his lips which soon formed into a smirk.
logan looks up at you through his glasses, hanging on the curve of his nose— a perfect sight you can never get enough of.
“now let me show you what this old man can do…”, he murmurs against your lips.
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darkmatilda · 27 days ago
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𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer had heard rumors that a few female students secretly had a crush on him, but he always dismissed it as a joke and never intended to engage in any kind of relationship with them. that is, until a certain bright and quiet one caught his attention.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: professor reid x student!female reader, spence's pov only, uni looks like a f1ucking hogwart just for the vibe, reader having some daddy issues and revealing some past experiences, father's death anniversary, trauma dumping actually but it's not a self-insert story i just really got into it lol, age gap, fingering, insane sexual tension during their convos, kinda socially awkward reader who's also an irony queen from time to time, talking, lots of talking blah blah
𝐚/𝐧: a special dedication to my beloved girlies who feel that if they ever crossed paths with spencer reid they’d be too stupid to talk to him. it's also a request i got from one of you <3 hope you'll enjoy it
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.9k
Dr. Reid didn’t notice her right away.
Alright, fine. Dr. Reid did notice her. His analytical mind placed great importance on everything happening around him. He observed the faces of his students, instantly committing their names to memory—he wanted to know who attended his lectures. A more accurate statement would be that, at first, he didn’t pay her any special attention.
She struck him as quiet. And she was quiet. Silent and observant—that was the impression he had of her. When he formed that opinion, he wasn’t thinking about her yet. While reading, he didn’t wonder whether the book he had chosen would appeal to her, nor did he consider which aspects of it might draw her into the depths of discussion, making her usually tightly pressed lips come alive with unceasing words. Arriving at the university with a briefcase in hand, his coat tightly wrapped around him, he didn’t fixate on the ever-thickening layer of snow or brush its delicate flakes from his hair. His mind was entirely absorbed by thoughts of whether her clothing was suited to the weather and if she might be cold. Most importantly, when he formed that opinion, his gaze, upon entering the lecture hall, didn’t immediately begin searching for her face—unassuming and half-hidden among the others—before he’d even greeted the rest of the students.
Because when he formed that opinion, she was just a student, like all the others.
His lectures with her group were held twice a week, at a time when everything outside the window slowly began to gray, and they usually ended with a sense of relief for all the students, as another day of study came to a close. Reid always stayed a moment longer in the room, ready to answer any lingering questions or offer help with any issues. These questions often repeated. Sometimes, when he felt particularly tired, he didn’t have to exert much effort in his responses. That didn’t mean, of course, that he was ignorant. It was simply that his lips seemed to know the right words; he didn’t need to fully wake up or concentrate.
It was the same that late November afternoon. She approached slowly, almost shyly, to his desk, waiting for the moment when everyone else would finally disappear through the door. As if she were embarrassed that her question might reach unwanted ears. He lifted his gaze to her, immediately noticing her retreat and uncertainty, and smiled gently, encouragingly, to embolden her. And the question she asked had the effect of caffeine injected directly into his veins.
His brain immediately sprang into action, so absorbed and genuinely intrigued. Surprised, even. He answered her question, of course, but when he felt the penetrating, eager gaze of her eyes on him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything he said was inadequate and couldn’t satisfy her curiosity. He even became somewhat stressed and lost his train of thought. A slight hint of amusement stretched her lips, but, luckily for him, she ignored it, sparing him any embarrassment. They discussed a topic unusually connected to the lecture, and he hadn’t felt so intellectually engaged in a long time, though it lasted only a quarter of an hour. Afterward, she disappeared through the door like everyone else, thanking him for the answer before she left.
He didn’t hide the fact that his thoughts returned to that conversation. And when, after another lecture, she approached him again in that same characteristic manner, he hoped she would pick up where they left off. That they would continue their discussion exactly at that interrupted point. But her question was about something else, something equally fascinating, and at that moment, in that instant, he completely erased everything from his mind that had come before, fully absorbed in what they were now discussing.
Slowly, it all stopped being solely about criminology lectures and started touching on every possible tangent, from literature to more mundane matters, like current events at the university. But no matter what they were talking about, he approached it with the same level of engagement. He was pleased that it had become their little ritual.
Being, let’s not shy away from the word, a genius, meant that it was hard for him to find someone on the same intellectual level. And he didn’t say this with disdain for others, absolutely not. Spencer always enjoyed those little chats with others, truly cherished the time spent with his close ones. He just sometimes needed that kind of intellectual stimulation.
With the second week of December, something changed.
It was probably something about her general mood. Well, this month was often exceptionally depressing for a large portion of the population, but it didn’t seem like that was the issue. She had once mentioned to him that she really valued winter.
 “Really?” he asked then, resting one hand on the desk. Usually, their conversations followed the typical, unspoken arrangement of their bodies in relation to each other. He, more relaxed, often prone to gestures, and she, much less expressive. Her hip didn’t tilt to either side, she maintained a straight posture, and liked to hold something in her hands—like a notebook. When she had nothing, her fingers gently brushed the edge of the desk. Spencer couldn’t help but constantly lower his gaze to her hands and analyze their subtle movements. When he spoke, they remained still, frozen in focus. When she spoke, they would move in fluid, wave-like motions to the sides. He tried not to stare too much, as he was sure that if she caught him, she’d stop. But he liked those moments of uncontrolled naturalness in her. “What do you like about it so much?”
Her facial expressions were fascinating. Complex, like the world depicted in some novel. At the same time, difficult to decipher; sometimes, he had to guess what some small gestures meant. She blinked rarely, and when she did it more often than usual, it seemed to substitute for a shrug or uncertainty.
“I think it’s mostly how short the days are. When one of them turns out to be a failure, you don’t have to wait long until the new one begins.”
“When a day feels like a failure, you don’t have to write it off completely. Maybe sometimes it’s worth trying to fix it, at any moment you find yourself in.”
“That’s very wise advice, professor. But not for me,” she scoffed. “When something goes wrong, I’d rather start over right away than linger in that bad streak. Even when I make a mistake while taking notes, I...”
“You tear the page out and start writing on a clean one,” he blurted out the end of the sentence, his back straightening slightly when he realized he had said it out loud.
He had noticed how she did that, not once or twice. However, he was slightly embarrassed by the fact that he had admitted to staring at her during lectures. And he didn’t do it on purpose! Most of all, not obsessively. It just happened that the longer they knew each other, the more their private conversations continued, the more often his gaze drifted toward her. Sometimes, while analyzing a topic, he was so curious about what she thought, specifically what she thought, that he simply couldn’t stop himself… although usually, he still couldn’t read much from her face.
At his observation, her hand resting on the edge of the desk froze.
“Exactly,” she admitted, giving him a gentle smile. He looked at her more closely then, noticing the slight radiance on her face. That expression suited her. It wasn’t as if she always wore a completely serious or sad face. More often, though, she hid her emotions instead of eagerly presenting every little feeling she had. She cleared her throat, and Spencer immediately dropped his gaze. “I hope the sound of tearing paper doesn’t throw you off rhythm.”
“Of course not,” he reassured her quickly. “Don’t even worry about it. The only thing that throws me off rhythm is conversations.”
“That doesn’t happen often, though,” she replied. “I mean, others don’t talk to each other when you’re speaking. It’s completely different in other classes.”
This comment surprised him immensely; he frowned and asked what she meant by it.
"Maybe it's just my observation," she noted at the start. "Maybe it's about the way you speak—you’re... you're very engaged in the topic, and listening to you is so pleasant that others don't feel the need to make silly remarks or interrupt. Or maybe..." She suddenly stopped, a tension flickered across her face, as if she desperately wanted to pull back from what she was about to say.
"Or maybe...?" He couldn't stop himself, so curious to hear the end of the sentence. Then he noticed her discomfort, her gaze fixed on the desk, embarrassment washing over her. His curiosity wasn’t worth making her feel that way, and he quickly scolded himself. "It's fine, you don't have to continue..."
"Or maybe I just think that others are quieter because of how focused I am," she blurted out in one breath, pressing her lips together in embarrassment. Spencer felt an unidentified shift in the rhythm of his heart, beating against his chest. "On you. On the lecture, of course."
"On the lecture," he repeated, his voice strangely husky. He swallowed, trying to clear it, struggling to find the right words. "I'm... I'm really glad that you find everything I say so interesting."
"Of course I do," she replied carefully. "Criminology is my passion, and it's the field I want to explore as deeply as I can. And you're a huge authority to me. Like, I’m sure, to all the other students too," she added hastily.
As December progressed, their conversations became a bit less lively and shorter. Or maybe it was just some mistaken impression of his? Maybe he had grown to like them so much and looked forward to them so eagerly that no matter how long they lasted, it would never be enough for him? He felt strange with such a thought and immediately reprimanded himself. He shouldn't be placing so much importance on his meetings with his student. 
She shouldn’t occupy his thoughts as much as she did.
Brilliant, now he was starting to pin all the blame on her. 
Pathetic.
Looking back, that day was exceptionally bright. Snowflakes fell relentlessly from the sky, twirling in a dance-like motion and tracing delicate patterns in the air. A thick layer of snow on the windowsills cast a white glow across the room and seemed to shield the interior from the intrusion of any potential darkness.
Spencer had promised himself he wouldn’t look at her the moment he walked into the room. And yet, he did. Though she might have seemed like a loner, she had a small circle of friends—three, to be precise. A quiet girl, a guy, and, finally, another girl who was their complete opposite, always seeming to voice the thoughts of their entire group aloud.
Before his arrival, they seemed to be discussing something. She was only half-listening, her eyes fixed on the book she was reading. When she did respond, which was rare, her lips barely parted. Meanwhile, as she turned the pages, her hands gripped them so tightly it looked as if she might tear them apart.
He mentally noted the detail, curious about what kind of book could evoke such emotions in her. He desperately needed to know the title. Or maybe it wasn’t about the book at all? It didn’t matter. He had to find out anyway.
Reid couldn’t make out the writing on the cover—simple and black, like some kind of journal. Throughout the entire lecture, it lay closed right under her nose. Craning his neck and trying to identify it he probably looked like a total idiot. It was only after some time that he reminded himself, sobered by the thought that, based on what she had once told him—and assuming it had been a sincere admission—he was, in some way, an authority figure to these students. He ought to focus on passing on as much of his knowledge to them as possible in return. 
When the class finally came to an end, everyone began heading for the exit. She usually packed her things at a very slow pace, making sure to be the last one in the room, apart from him. She wasn’t doing anything wrong; she had the right to stay and talk to her professor, but she still approached it with some caution. Maybe she didn’t want to raise the curiosity of her friends? In any case, that day she didn’t slow down as she made her way to his desk. She followed the other figures toward the exit, arm in arm with a friend who was saying something to her. Spencer was surprised to notice that she didn’t turn toward him even once.
Before he could understand what she was doing, he called her name. Loudly.
She wasn’t the only one who turned around, but she was the only one who stayed. He tried hard to read the expression on her face. She seemed a little distracted, her gaze moving from the door to him, and he began to suspect that maybe she had simply forgotten about their brief conversations. He deeply hoped that was the case. Not that she had any problems, or that he had said something she didn’t like…
“Yeah?” she asked, tightly holding a thick book against her chest. He still hadn’t figured out which one, and it still intrigued him. “Do you want to talk about something, professor?”
Reid suddenly realized in panic that he hadn’t prepared any topic. He had called her over spontaneously, not even really knowing why. Usually, it was her who approached him with a question, and the conversation would flow on its own… but the weight of her gaze left him no time to think. 
"Well..." he began, nervously swallowing and feeling like a small, pathetic boy. "Actually, no... actually, I just wanted to know... if you had any questions. About the lecture, I mean."
He leaned one hand on the desk, hoping he didn’t look as deeply embarrassed as he felt. What the hell was happening to him?
"I don't have any," she replied. Spencer almost sighed in disappointment, barely managing to stop himself. She had been standing very close to the closed door, turning toward it as if making sure no one was behind it. Then, suddenly, she timidly stepped closer to him. "To be honest, I wasn't really focused today. I guess... it’s just not my day."
 His brows furrowed in brief concern.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you need me to explain something in more detail? It's... really no trouble for me, and I don’t want you to fall behind."
"Please don't worry about it, professor," she assured him. Her fingers tightened around the book she was holding, and the sigh that escaped her lips carried with it a small... smile? "Thank you for that, but I'll just take notes from someone and catch up on my own. I don't want to take up your time..."
 "It's really no trouble..."
 "...And by the way... I don't feel too well. My focus is nonexistent so it wouldn’t make much sense."
"Alright," he gave in, and for a moment, they both fell silent. Looking at her face, he tried to find any signs of illness, a developing cold, or maybe the flu. She did look a bit pale. She shifted from foot to foot, and he realized he had been staring at her and quickly shook his head. "Sorry for holding you up. You should go and try to rest. Have…have something warm to drink. It will do you good."
She wasn’t gazing longingly at the door, impatient with his words and eager to leave, as he had thought she would. In fact... she seemed to be looking at him with a hint of hesitation.
"It’s not that... I can’t focus at all," she began. "It’s just that more complicated topics can’t settle in my mind. Related to studying, mostly. But that doesn’t mean I want to shut myself off completely. Honestly, I think I could use a bit of conversation..." A sudden laugh escaped her lips. "Sorry, really. I didn’t mean to bother you with... nonsense. I should probably talk to a friend, not a professor, if I just wanted to chat..."
She flinched, as if about to turn and leave—almost run away. Spencer straightened abruptly, wanting to stop her.
“No, wait—don’t go. You can talk to me. What is it? Is something bothering you?”
Her gaze wandered aimlessly around the room for a moment before she finally shook her head.
"Nothing specific. Stress, the end of the semester, you know. Everyone’s only talking about that, and I just want to think about something else for a moment. Anything."
"I completely understand," Reid admitted. Leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, he studied her more intently. A flicker of doubt sparked within him—was it really just that? Something inside him tugged, eager to uncover everything weighing on her mind and causing such a somber mood. But he knew her well enough by now to realize that a direct question would only make her retreat.
He paused, considering what he would want to talk about if he needed to distract himself from a troubling thought.
"Does... does literature fall under those complicated topics you can’t quite settle in your mind?"
She dropped her head with a sudden laugh. A fleeting sense of satisfaction washed over him, as if he’d just achieved some long-term goal. Odd, but pleasant.
“No,” she replied. “Literature is actually a topic I could talk about even in the middle of the night, freshly woken from sleep. In theory, at least. In practice, I’d probably start mixing up names so much you wouldn’t even know which work I was referring to. I mean, they wouldn’t. The person who woke me up wouldn’t know—I didn’t mean you specifically…”
This time, it was him who started laughing as she, embarrassed, tried to untangle herself from her own words.
"I got the general message."
"Thank God. You know, I've been thinking lately that if I just kept my mouth shut every time I said something stupid, I’d save myself from a ton—no, an enormous amount of incredibly awkward social situations."
It amused him that she had pointed out a problem he himself often dealt with. He opened his mouth to say something, but almost immediately had to close it again. He nearly blurted out that he found all her moments of embarrassment genuinely endearing and didn’t want her to hold back from speaking around him just out of fear of self-embarrassment. 
Before he could even decide if it was the appropriate thing to say, she spoke again.
“So… why did you ask about literature?”
He was so lost in thought that for a brief moment, he almost forgot that he had even brought up the topic. It wasn’t until his gaze once again landed on the book she was holding that he snapped back to reality.
“I spent most of the lecture wondering what you were reading,” he admitted, still standing with his back to the desk, leaning on it with his hands, trying to hide their brief, slight tremor. Maybe he had said it too directly… or perhaps it was just his usual tendency to overanalyze every word he said to her. Quickly, he added, “Because I’m sure I’ve never seen that book before. I don’t recognize the cover at all, although I know there can be different editions. What’s the author’s name?”
She gave him the name with a strange expression. Spencer furrowed his brows, but she beat him to it, speaking before he could say anything.
“That’s right, it’s my father’s book.”
Honestly intrigued, he tilted his head to the side.
"I didn’t know he was a writer. And... to be completely honest, I’ve never heard of him..."
To his surprise, she laughed. Not shyly and genuinely as before, but with a bitterness that lingered in her voice.
"It’s not that he was a writer. He just really, really wanted to be one. But no publisher was really interested in what came out of his office. Which doesn’t surprise me much. Anyway, in the end, he gave up and printed that one copy just to have something to proudly put on the shelf."
He felt that they had stepped onto some unstable ground, one that required him to tread carefully. Or perhaps even retreat if it might cause her any pain. And it seemed that it did. However, Spencer felt too concerned to pull back. 
“Why are you reading his book, anyway?” he asked cautiously. Her face remained expressionless, and he wondered if she even caught the gist of his question. Most likely, she did—without a problem—but he felt an inner need to add something more, to keep the conversation flowing smoothly instead of making it feel like an interrogation. “Maybe… maybe it’s just my completely wrong assumption—correct me if I’m off—but you didn’t exactly look… like you were enjoying it much.”
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She forced herself to stay calm, forced herself to appear at ease. But it was too late—the enigmatic shield that had protected her from all sides had been cracked, and her expression turned transparent, everything behind it 
"He's gone. Two years ago, in December," she admitted, her voice lacking overt despair, though tinged with the unmistakable weight of layered pain. She seemed uncomfortable sharing it—not with him as a person, but with him as her professor. "A few days before Christmas. Last year... I don’t know why, maybe just to torture myself, I started reading it. And this year, the same thing. The month started, and somehow, subconsciously... I just woke up with the book in my hands at one point. That’s... for context. Forgive me if this doesn’t interest you at all. I probably said too much…”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t think that,” he assured her, instinctively taking a step forward, closer to her, though he couldn’t quite explain why. The conversation had drifted into an unexpected territory, but this was exactly what he had wanted—to know what had been weighing on her. “At least… at least now I understand what’s been making you feel the way you do lately. I won’t keep catching myself trying to guess what’s behind it anymore. And I won’t worry so much, now that I know.”
“Worry,” she repeated immediately after him, before the echo of his previous words had a chance to dissolve into the void. Her tone was the kind used to point out someone’s grammatical slip-ups—sharp, quick, decisive. As if she simply couldn’t help herself.
Spencer froze in place, just one step away from her. Now that he was finally this close, he could have taken a proper look at the cover of the book she was holding, but suddenly, it didn’t matter at all. His focus was entirely on her—her words, her face, and the quiet weight of the troubles she carried.
He didn’t know what he should do, his hands falling limply at his sides. He imagined what it would feel like to gently touch her cheek—he could do it, all it would take was moving his hand forward. That was all that separated them. Just that small distance and some ingrained barrier in his mind, shaking its head in disapproval and conjuring painfully vivid images of her pulling away before his fingers even grazed her skin, leaving him as quickly as she could.
“It’s not that… reading this book is such a complete torment,” she began with a sigh, relaxing her posture slightly as his shadow loomed just above her. She held the book out toward him, so close that she didn’t even have to extend her elbow. She had clearly changed the subject. “You can… check for yourself. It’s decently written. At times, good. It has some insightful points. Page 814, for example. Verse 6.”
Surprised not only by the request but also by her precise instructions, Reid took the book from her without hesitation. It was incredibly thick and heavy, with no interesting illustrations on the cover, only the author’s name written in fancy font. Though his reading speed was impressive, instead of absorbing the information on the following pages, he focused on reaching the one she had pointed out.
The mentioned quote was underlined with a black line, as if drawn with a ruler.
"It is impossible to prove your loyalty under favorable conditions. For it to happen, something must shake your world, the walls of your home must begin to crumble, and challenges must materialize outside. Only then, in that most difficult moment for both of you, can you finally prove to the other person that you will never leave them, and that your love will never reach their back."
"I love this quote," she said before he could formulate any thought. Surprisingly, there was no trace of irony in her voice. "Honestly. It's accurate and aligns with my personal worldview. But at the same time, it amuses me incredibly..." She scoffed bitterly. "...That it came from the pen of a guy who, after sixteen years of marriage, got another woman pregnant. Oopsie. A bit of hypocrisy, don't you think?"
Completely shaken by the confession, Spencer placed his hand on her shoulder. He didn't care that she had said it all in a tone dripping with sarcasm, not in the form of a broken lament. He still felt that he had to, felt that he needed to offer her some form of support, even if it was as weak as touching her hand.
She seemed to be in shock. Those earlier words had almost escaped from her lips on their own, and she kept them slightly parted, as if hoping they would return. And when they didn't, she must not have expected his reaction. Or maybe she was counting on a response just as sharp as her tone, a snicker or a biting retort. Not a touch, not a tender furrowing of his brow.
Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks flushed with a delicate redness.
 “Sorry, really. Can I... can I open the window? I think I need some fresh air…”
Instead of responding, he guided her toward the window, his hand resting on her back, hovering just at the edge of touch. She closed her eyes, feeling the winter chill against her face, and sighed. Spencer, though reluctantly, stepped back a couple of paces, giving her space. But he couldn't stop himself from studying her face. He hadn't noticed it before, too focused on her mind, but now he saw that her face, her presence, was just as beautiful.
Was it just a simple statement of fact, or a thought that had emerged from the unpredictable corners of his inner self?
They spent a moment, maybe even a few minutes, in silence. After that, she hesitantly turned to him over her shoulder.
"Oh no, don't you dare apologize again," he warned, extending his hand in a firm gesture.
"But I should," she said. "You're my professor, and I just came to you and started unloading about my life. It's not even just inappropriate anymore, it's simply pathetic."
"As long as I don't consider it inappropriate or pathetic, then it isn't. And you place too much importance on the fact that I'm your professor. Maybe... it would help you if you stopped seeing me only in that context, and started... seeing me as, say, a friend. And if that's too much, then at least as a genuinely interested conversational partner?"
The corners of her lips suddenly trembled.
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Well, I think we could argue about the definition if we wanted to."
“There’s no need for that,” she said, turning fully away from the window and leaning on the windowsill with her elbows. A few traces of a blush still lingered on her face, adding so much charm that Spencer’s thoughts began to wander in such a dangerous direction that he had to look away. “But… I need to know. Is that… what you really think of me? A conversation companion? A slash, a friend?”
“I’m not sure… if I understand,”
 One of her nails bent as she nervously tapped it on the windowsill.
 “I just want to know if you think of me as someone more than an annoying student who bothers you after every lecture.”
Reid was momentarily taken aback.
“You thought I thought of you like that?”
Unfazed, she blinked.
“You tell me.”
"He didn’t know how to put it into words without it sounding inappropriate. In the end, he decided to stop worrying about propriety and just be honest.
"Not once, since you started coming to see me, have I thought you were irritating. But more than once, I’ve thought that you’re truly fascinating, and I even... I even found myself eagerly awaiting what you’d want to talk about next."
Her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened to him. The old, familiar impenetrability returned to her expression—her eyes slightly narrowed, her lips... perhaps on the verge of an uncertain smile?
He never got the chance to find out. Immediately after his words, someone interrupted them, completely shattering the atmosphere inside.
"Are there any more classes here?" asked the man responsible for cleaning, peeking inside. "I thought they were over..."
"Because they are," Reid quickly replied, only now noticing that, indeed, darkness had fallen outside. Their classes had taken place in the afternoon, and the conversation had stretched so long that early winter evening had already begun. "We were just... just leaving."
"Well then, I guess goodbye," she said once they were outside. "It really got late, and I need to rewrite my notes..."
For some reason, he felt incredibly disappointed.
*
The last lecture before the Christmas break took place in a dreamy atmosphere. Everyone's spirit was already outside the classroom, far from criminology-related topics, surrounded by family and loved ones.
As usual, he couldn't stop glancing in her direction. He was incredibly pleased that nothing had changed since their memorable conversation, and their routine of chatting after every class remained untouched. Or perhaps something had changed? Their mutual ease with one another had grown, as had the range of topics they navigated. His impatience for their conversations had grown as well...
That day, he waited for her to approach his desk with her characteristic, slow, perfectly controlled step. He watched, almost hypnotized, as she did, adjusting her bag on her shoulder before standing up from her seat. But when she was right in front of him, one of her friends, the loud one, suddenly grabbed her hand.
"Don't tell me you're planning to bother him again," she scoffed. "We were supposed to go out and eat together before I head home, remember?"
"Oh," her friend hesitated, casting an apologetic glance at Spencer. They were too close for him not to overhear their conversation. He felt a selfish frustration rising within him. "Actually, sorry, I forgot. But...Can you give me a minute?"
Her friend rolled her eyes but nodded, and after a moment, they were left alone in the room.
"You're not staying to chat, or has my deduction skills gotten worse?"
"Unfortunately. I mean, unfortunately, I'm not staying. For long. I just wanted to... wish you a Merry Christmas."
Sometimes, when he talked to her, he forgot there was a world outside of their conversation, and that such a thing as months existed, and one of them was December. Christmas, right.
"Merry Christmas, to you too. I hope... I hope you'll have a really nice time."
He didn't know what else to add. Everything he said could lead to a long discussion, and outside the door, her friend was probably waiting for her to join her. So he stayed silent, a little awkwardly. She gave him an equally awkward smile. Awkward, but sincere.
Her feet shuffled in place, as if they wanted to stay in the room, not leave.
She waved goodbye once more to break the tension and disappeared through the door.
Spencer let out a heavy sigh. Maybe he should've said something. Suddenly, so many possible topics came to his mind. For example, the holiday party, the ball, organized by her department. Was she planning to go? What about Christmas itself? Was she going to spend it with her family? How was she feeling? How had her day gone? Did she enjoy the lecture? They were short questions, ones she'd probably answer just as briefly. He could have asked any of them.
But it was too late. They won't see each other until the beginning of the new semester.
He overanalyzed the interaction for a few more hours, later that evening, on his way to the university library. The corridors were almost empty; the students had either left or were attending the Christmas ball that had just begun. It might have sounded a bit serious and pompous, but such an event was indeed organized every year by a different department. It shouldn’t be confused with a student party, as formal attire was required, and the music was usually classical or instrumental versions of traditional carols. It was a way to thank the students, faculty, and university management for completing another semester.
He overanalyzed the interaction for a few more hours, later that evening, on his way to the university library. The corridors were almost empty; the students had either left or were attending the Christmas ball that had just begun. It might have sounded a bit serious and pompous, but such an event was indeed organized every year by a different department. It shouldn’t be confused with a student party, as formal attire was required, and the music was usually classical or instrumental versions of traditional carols. It was a way to thank the students, faculty, and university management for completing another semester.
Initially, Reid had planned to stop by briefly, but after feeling strange for a few hours and sensing a migraine coming on, he decided to skip it. He definitely preferred to spend the evening among the shelves and books. He rarely admitted it to others, but the reason he chose this particular university was not the salary offered, but the richness of their library’s resources.
He had hoped that spending time there would help distract him from a certain student, who had progressively been occupying his thoughts more and more. In fact, she already had a room in his mind. A room. A damn palace with seven bedrooms, each dedicated to a different day of the week. What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see her almost immediately after stepping into the library. Fast asleep in one of the corners, her face resting on a small table with four seats around it, only one of which was occupied—hers.
Reid couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of it.
Before he had a chance to think about it, before the thought even crossed his mind that perhaps she didn’t want anyone disturbing her in the middle of her late-night solo study session, he moved closer, carefully stepping so as not to wake her. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he could probably jump up and down, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Both of her ears were plugged with headphones, effectively shutting her off from the sounds of the outside world.
Despite this fact, he carefully sat down on the edge of the table to her left, so close that her limp hand, resting on it, ended up parallel and very close to his leg. First, he glanced at the textbooks spread out before her, then at the thick book by her father, the one she still read every day. Finally, his gaze fell on her—on that face, deeply asleep. Unable to resist, he lifted his trembling hand and gently tucked the strands of hair that had fallen onto her face behind her ear.
The moment his fingers brushed her skin, she jolted awake with a startled flinch. Spencer blushed, realizing only then what he had done. To avoid embarrassing himself, he quickly cleared his throat and spoke up.
“Sorry to wake you. But this probably isn’t the most comfortable place to nap.”
She straightened up, blinking in confusion.
“Did I fall asleep…?” Her gaze locked on him, and she shook her head, now fully awake. “Oh, I definitely fell asleep. I didn’t even notice you coming up.”
“Maybe I was sneaking around too much. Anyway, what were you working on before you passed out? Studying, reading?”
Still rubbing her tired face, she looked at her things.
“I guess a bit of both. I had some catch-up work I wanted to do. Then I decided I had enough, and my brain just couldn’t absorb any more new facts or information. So, I started reading.” She nodded toward the book.
Reid stared at her for a moment longer.
“You know… I’ve been thinking about it lately,” he began. It was a little hard for him to focus on speaking when she rested her chin on her hand, looking at him from beneath her lifted lashes. Her eyes were puffy, mascara slightly smudged under her eyelids, but she still looked… well, it was hard to put it into a single word. “About your dad’s book, I mean.” Actually, he'd mostly been thinking about her, but that topic had popped into his mind for a moment. “And that quote you read to me once. It seemed pretty good, and I’m surprised no publisher wanted to release it. What’s it actually about?”
He felt confused by the sudden amusement that appeared on her face.
“What’s going on?” He furrowed his brows.
She shook her head, trying to suppress her laughter.
“Just so you know, I’m not laughing at you,” she quickly reassured him. “It’s just when I imagined your reaction… okay, just listen. My dad’s novel is about a young student, a poor one, who, in a moment of desperation, decides to murder a woman from whom he borrowed money. And then for the next thousand pages, he alternates between hating himself and trying to justify his actions in his own eyes.”
Spencer was silent, his brows lowering more and more.
“Sorry… I really don’t want to accuse your dad of plagiarism, but this sounds like…”
“Crime and Punishment, I know. And it is plagiarism. Well, he preferred to call it inspiration, and, to be fair, not everything is the same. The story takes place in New York instead of Petersburg, the main character’s name is different, but everything else… it’s the same, only longer. Every chapter stretched to its limits, with reflections on every possible subject. It’s almost twice the length of the original.”
Not knowing how exactly to respond, he did what felt most natural. He laughed, and she followed with a quick chuckle.
“Sorry, this is so absurd. Why... why did he actually do it?”
“I ask myself that question every day, believe me. He was kind of a Dostoyevsky wannabe. On his desk, he kept a photo of me and a collector’s edition of The Brothers Karamazov. He even... he even tried to force me to study Russian philology instead of criminology, but, well… you can see how that turned out. And if this sounds absurd to you, guess what the main character’s name is?”
“You mentioned it’s different. But I have no idea, probably something more in line with American standards…”
“Oh, very much. Rodney Rozzleknock. Now I bet you’re not surprised nobody wanted to publish it?”
For a moment, they sat in silence, he alternately shook his head in disbelief and hid his face in his hands. This was probably the most absurdly funny thing he had heard in a long time, and if it weren’t for the actual version of the book they were talking about being right in front of him, he wouldn’t believe it existed.
"So that's why you know so much about Russian literature," he said. They had once had a brief conversation on the topic, and he had actually been impressed.
"It wasn’t knowledge I willingly acquired. And by the way, what are you doing here, Professor?"
He shrugged. She hadn’t used that title for him in a while, but hadn’t yet started using his first name either, and he wasn’t sure how to suggest it.
"I was planning to drop by the ball for a bit, but I decided I’d rather spend some time among books. Speaking of which, the ball. Didn’t you want to go?"
He assumed that she might be similar to him in that regard and didn’t really care for events like that. But, to his surprise, a certain, not so obvious expression crossed her face.
"Actually, I would have gone if I had gotten an invitation."
"I don’t understand," he furrowed his brows. "You don’t need an invitation. Your department organized it, you were all invited just by the fact of it.”
Her lips parted in shock, and a short Oh escaped.
"In that case... I guess it doesn't matter anymore. It's too late. My friend won't be there, the rest of my friends have probably already gone, and I won’t be able to find them in the crowd, and..." She sighed, a bit embarrassed. "And I guess I'm just kind of too shy to show up there alone."
Reid watched her in silence for a moment. A foolish thought crossed his mind. Foolish, but... was it really? He had no idea how she might interpret it, whether she’d even want to, or what she’d think of him.
“I’d be happy to... go with you,” he blurted out, nervously swallowing the lump in his throat as soon as the words left his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on her, searching for her reaction.
And she... burst into laughter, probably assuming he was joking.
“Wait... seriously?” she asked, straightening her shoulders, her tone suddenly more incredulous. “But... how do you even imagine that? It’s already started, I’m completely unprepared, and it’s formal attire only…”
"I’ll need to change too. But it won’t take long, and the ball goes on late. We’ll only be a little late," he reasoned logically, realizing he was actively trying to convince her. He hated these kinds of events, but this was a chance to spend time together... Besides, he was doing it for her. Why should she miss out on something she clearly wanted to attend just because of a misunderstanding and a bit of shyness?
"Yeah... but I’ll still have to deal with everything else. I look—"
Before she could finish, he leaned in and gently wiped the smudged mascara from under her eye with his thumb.
"You look perfect. Just right for the ball. So?"
Her eyes widened at the gesture, and a sharp exhale escaped her lips.
“Okay. Okay. I think... I think we can do this... Why not? Just give me fifteen minutes. Thirty. Thirty minutes...”
As she spoke, she hastily gathered all her belongings into her bag, glanced at him for a brief moment, then disappeared in a rush, not even looking back over her shoulder.
Spencer, on the other hand, felt as though he had been glued to the table he was perched on. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest.
Did he just... ask the girl he liked to a ball?
And she said yes?
He still couldn’t quite believe it, even when, exactly thirty minutes later—almost as though she’d measured the time with a stopwatch—they met again at the entrance to the gymnasium, now transformed for the occasion.
The floor had been covered in polished wooden panels, and the walls were draped with light-colored fabrics, adorned with strings of glowing garlands shaped like snowflakes. In the corner of the room, a small stage, decorated with sprigs of evergreen, hosted a modest orchestra of students and members of the college choir, playing gentle holiday tunes live.
The scene was beautiful, almost magical, but Spencer only took it in once as they entered. For the rest of the evening, his attention was solely on her—because, once again, he couldn’t find the words to describe what he was seeing.
And that didn’t happen very often.
"Do you think... do you think any of the other professors might disapprove of you being here with me?" she asked hesitantly as they made their way along the edge of the gym, skirting the buffet and staying far from the crowd dancing in the center.
For a moment, Spencer didn’t process her question. He was too focused on the way her lips moved as she spoke, too focused on her. Shaking himself out of it, he replayed her words in his mind.
"I… uh… no, I don’t think so," he replied, stumbling over his words. "Why would they? We’re both adults."
She still didn’t look convinced. Her brow furrowed, her gaze darting between the dance floor and him. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, keeping them connected in the growing crowd, though she kept adjusting her grip as if unsure about the contact.
When Spencer tried to pull away, thinking she might be uncomfortable, she surprised him by grabbing his arm again, more firmly this time. Her insistence sent a strange, electrifying warmth through him.
He sighed softly, acutely aware of how close they were now—so close that their hips nearly brushed with every step. "Besides," he added, trying to sound reassuring, "this is a ball. Everyone’s here to have fun. No one’s going to pay any attention to us."
She nodded, as if trying to convince herself of the same thing, though her gaze drifted once more to the couples twirling around the dance floor. He felt a pang of apprehension, hoping she didn’t want to join them. That would be a disaster—he’d only manage to humiliate himself in front of her.
"I’m not much of a dancer," he blurted out quickly. "Okay, that’s an understatement. I’m a terrible dancer. You’d… you’d really rather not see me try, trust me."
For a moment, she stayed silent, her expression unreadable. Then, a small smile tugged at her lips.
"I, on the other hand, am a pretty good dancer," she admitted, attempting to sound modest. But after a beat, she rolled her eyes at herself and added with a wry laugh, "Okay, fine—I’m very good. My dad was a Dostoyevsky fanatic, but my mom? She was obsessed with dance. She practically dragged me to lessons for years. She thought it was a terrible shame not to know how to dance—especially for a man. No offense, of course."
Spencer ducked his head with a soft laugh.
"None taken. Listen, I believe you're a fantastic teacher... but I also believe I'm a lost cause. I might accidentally step on your feet..."
"You should pray that I don't step on your feet," she retorted with a laugh, extending her foot and tapping the heel of her shoe for emphasis. "But I think you should at least give it a try. After all, it’s a ball."
Spencer looked at her for a moment, caught between amusement and mild dread, before finally shrugging with a resigned grin. 
Earlier in life, he hadn’t had many opportunities to dance, so he was relieved that the piece being played by the school orchestra turned out to be incredibly slow. He could only cautiously mimic her movements, trying not to hurt her. However, focus came with difficulty as his nostrils were constantly filled with the sweet, distracting scent of her perfume and her body itself.
“You’re doing great,” she whispered softly, briefly lifting her gaze to him. He stared at her face for a moment, so close to his, cursing in his mind when she lowered her gaze again…
All evening, he had to fight with himself to avoid doing anything foolish.
But when, at midnight, they found themselves in his office, it became incredibly difficult.
Especially when she was slightly leaning against his desk, just in front of him, and the blush of dance-induced fatigue covered most of her neck. He wanted to touch that particular spot on her skin, expecting the blood to be pulsing there very quickly.
Her breath seemed quickened too, and every sound that escaped her lips drew him closer and closer to her. To the point where he thought he might lose his mind.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said, hoping that if he focused on the words, on speaking them, it might somehow sober him from this state. “I really... didn’t expect to have such a great time at the ball.”
Speaking wasn’t helping; the way her gaze wandered over him certainly wasn’t helping. The way the dress fit her body... none of it was helping.
"I'm glad," she said softly, the redness now covering not just her neck but most of her cheeks as well. She took a deep breath, as if calming herself. "You know, I felt a little guilty because I had the impression that you went there just for me."
"Well, I considered going alone... earlier," he confessed. "But in the end, I changed my mind, and I'm glad I did, because otherwise, I wouldn't have run into you, and I wouldn't remember any of this so clearly. Thank you," he repeated, and before he knew it, he was standing even closer to her, closer than propriety would dictate. Unable to fight it any longer, he reached for her hip, hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. She sharply inhaled, seeming embarrassed by her own reaction. He started to pull back, but then she lightly perched herself on the edge of the desk... and his hand slid down her body, gently grazing her knee. “"Really, I would like to thank you..."
His throat went dry, a nervous sweat rose on his neck. He felt her knee, then her thigh under his finger, his whole hand under the fabric of her dress, heading higher and higher…but suddenly stopped, when her trembling hands began to untie his tie.
"Probably... probably you're uncomfortable," she explained, swallowing. She looked at the collar of his shirt, at the place where his hands were, but couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. "It's a bit... stuffy in here."
He could feel the moisture on his fingers even though his fingers didn’t even get inside. He hesitated right there, glancing uncertainly at her face. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, exhales escaping her lips with a quiet hiss.
"Are you okay?" he asked, making sure. He didn't like the fact that her eyes were closed; he couldn't read many emotions from her face, and he needed to be certain that this was what she wanted. Her face didn't even twitch at his question. "I won't do anything more if you don't answer me."
She swallowed, their faces were inches apart, and he could see and hear it.
"What... what would you like me to answer?"
"Just that you want this," he whispered.
"I want this...Spencer."
It was probably the first time she addressed him by his name, but the state he was in didn’t allow him to trust his memory too much. He hadn’t expected himself to ever think like that. In any case, it acted like a catalyst for him. Barely had the last syllable left her lips, his finger sank into her. 
One, and soon after, another.
His name escaped her lips again, but this time, halfway through, it turned into a sweet, pleading moan. For a while, no sound other than their restless breaths could be heard in the office. Her moan tore through the surroundings, pierced the air, and lodged itself there forever. Just as it became lodged in his ears, tickling them from within. He wanted to hear it again...He quickly found the rhythm that most often caused it.
She spread her legs wider which allowed him to get closer, to gain better access. At first, both of her hands were gripping the edge of the desk, her knuckles almost white. With each of his movements, stronger and gradually faster, they began to loosen slowly, until they finally released completely. Surprised, she sighed, not knowing where to place them, and threw them around his neck.
“Is… is this how you’re thanking me for today?’ she asked, her voice high, he could barely understand her through the chaotic breaths. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice she had opened her eyes. 
Her beautiful eyes. So pleading, begging him not to stop.
"Are you taking this as a form of thanks?"
She nodded, and at the same moment, she closed her eyes again, tilting her head back. Spencer groaned at the sight of her exposed neck, the blush covering it. He leaned to taste her warm skin, pressing his lips against it, then sighed directly into her, as a shiver ran through her entire body.
He had a feeling that if one more sound escaped her lips, he would simply lose his mind. Barely managed to speak again, his voice completely out of place with the words he intended to say, so high, almost crying.
"That's... that's not enough to thank you, don't you think?"
taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @kakamixoxo @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony @heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @aristeia29 @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @nightfullofparadox
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i2sunric · 4 months ago
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𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄 (p.js)
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PAIRING: jay x reader (f)
SUMMARY: on a late movie night, jay can’t resist the sight of you being curled up on his lap and obviously, gets a bulge. how better could you help him, if not by dry humping him?
WARNINGS: just a drabble. dry humping, making out, dirty talking, pet names (baby, good girl, love)
TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @destinyhoon @jakeflvrz @emisloves
it was late night, both of you not tired enough to fall asleep and decided to watch a movie— but jay couldn’t even concentrate when your head was in his lap, so close to his crotch.
any time you moved, a quiet hum left his lips, but you didn’t really pay attention to it… not until you felt something too solid under your head.
frowning, you raised your head and looked down, gasping “jay?” you questioned and lord, if his name rolling down your tongue didn’t almost make him cum.
“m’sorry, love.” he murmured, caressing your arm “i just can’t help it.”
fact was, the previous night you had already gone at it and your hole was still sore, and he could read it from your expression.
“i know,” he tugged a strand of hair behind your ear “let me do this instead.”
he knew you would offer to give him a blow, and despite how much he loved it, he wanted you to cum as well. jay wanted to bring you pleasure, not only being the one receiving it.
jay helped you sit on his lap, your legs on the sides of his thighs. you settled with your hands on his shoulders and looked at him ever so innocently.
“fuck,” he murmured and latched your lips with his in a quick make out session, his tongue licking your bottom lip to seek entrance.
you parted them and jay rewarded you with a groan, caressing your tongue with his, his hands moving around your body.
he groped your breasts, your waist, your thighs. not a place was left untouched.
his lips then moved down your jaw, prepping smell kisses all around your skin, igniting a fire in you.
your hips unconsciously jerked as he kisses a particularly sensitive spot and he grunted. he took hold of your waist and gently guided you to rock your hips on his.
the pace was slow, but you could feel him whole under you, restrained by the fabric of his sweatpants.
you let out a small sigh, your eyes closing as your core brushed against his bulge, making you feel stars.
“mh… love.” jay kissed your neck once more before looking up at you “you’re always so good for me, so you obedient.”
he cursed under his breath when your hips moved faster, fuelled by his dirty words “you’re such a good girl, mh? aren’t you my good girl?”
you nodded your head, your nails digging in his shoulders as you rocked on him, desperate to bring him to his long awaited release.
“m’ your good girl,” you mumbled quietly “want to make you cum, jay, please.”
lord. you were just so perfect for him.
jay smacked your ass and groped it, making you hump him faster “just like that, baby.”
one of his hands moved to the back of your neck as he pulled you in for another hot kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, slightly nibbling. not strong as to draw blood but enough to let you feel the pressure.
soft hums escaped your lips, all dying down his throat, he drank them all.
his hand found its way under your shirt, flicking your nipples, thankful that you had decided to go bra-less.
“you make me feel so good,” jay murmured on your lips “just you, on my lap is enough to drive me insane.”
you moaned in reply “jay,” you breathed out “baby, i’m so close.”
he smirked and held your hips down, slightly tilting you forward so your clit was directly rubbing against his clothed cock.
you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling your juices damp your panties as well as his sweats, showing a small patch.
“you’re close, baby.” jay fanned against your face “gonna cum for me, mh? make a mess all over your panties?”
he added to your rubs, deep bucks of his hips, wanting to send you both to your orgasms.
“you’ll cum all over them,” jay kissed you “and then you’ll give them to me, yeah? i’m gonna nut in them when you’re away.”
just the image of him jacking off with your panties was enough to cloud your mind, making you grasp his shoulders and frenetically move your hips.
“yes, love.” he groaned, his hold on your waist bruising “make us cum.”
at jay’s words, the knot that had formed in the pit of your stomach snapped, your orgasm washing through you, making you squirm and moan out.
at the same time, jay released in his pants with a groan, grasping your hips so tight, both to keep you steady and steady his mind.
“fuck,” he breathed out, leaning in to kiss you deeply, waiting for you to come down from your high.
a faint music came from the tv, the ending credits on the screen, signalling that the movie had finished.
you pulled away to catch your breath, your eyelids heavy, suddenly feeling tiredness.
jay chuckled at such a sight, caressing your cheek “i’ll get us cleaned up and cuddle, how does that sound?”
you leaned him to kiss him again; so happy to have him as your life companion, to take care of you “perfect.”
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dollerines · 1 year ago
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How I entered the void so easily after 1 year of trying
So after 1 year and half of trying to enter I finally did it and I am so mad because it REALLY IS SOOOOO EASY and tbh if in this post you are looking for any sort of validation or info you smart ass already know then please REMEMBER THIS : entering the void is extremely easy. You just have to do it in a way that resonates with you.
Personally for me since I had adhd I couldn’t just stay still and affirm for 1 or even a few for 10 mins. Not just because I was lazy but because just repeating “I am in the void” for so long gets me tired and makes me think of the void more and you actually don’t want to think too deeep about it. I couldn’t wake 3 hours prior and then affirm or even have the patience to do the psych k, yes I was extremely lazy back then and unpresistent but one thing that helped me even backed then was THE ALPHA STATE MEDITATION !
You just have to find what works for you, find a method technique whatever you want to do that doesn’t seem like a chore. So In a post back then I found on @gorgeouslypink acc talking about doing the alpha sate meditation and I tried it back then and I felt really relaxed and it was a good feeling but like I said back then I was realllly lazy so after a few mins I stopped. Then many months later passed and I was still looking for anything and everything on the void. Then just like two days ago I came across another post which was pretty simple and the technique I used was called the DISTRACTED TECHNIQUE.
All there was to do was the usual you get into a comfortable position and then she said to use the alpha state meditation and used the one gorgeouslypink recommended. So I used it and then what she tell you to do is to just think of anything else just get distracted basically and this WAS SO GOOD 4 ME because back then I had adhd so it made it harder to concentrate on just affirming and so yeah I just thought of random things and then at some point where I was completely distracted I felt my body like lift up 😭 if that makes sense I just can’t clearly describe it. It felt really like a shift and I was like ‘panicking’ in a way but I wasn’t actually panicking I just kinda became aware what was going and then I got scared a little but I just relaxed shortly after. Also my fan that was making like a loud noises was coming in an out and then I only hear it in one ear and then I didn’t hear anything and I just stayed there wondering if I reached the void and i actually was!!! I didn’t feel my body it felt like I had no body at all and it was pitch black just like how I imagined the void to be. For a few minutes I just stayed there feeling the most surreal peace I have ever felt. I needed that peace fr 💀.
So then I affirmed for my desires all I said was “I have all my desired results from my subliminal playlist.” Then just to be extra sure I just said “I have everything I want.”
At that point I got really excited and then I wiggled my toes to get out because I was too dam happy I needed to see all my shit the moment I wake up and then I slowly started getting out and when I tell you I cried for like a good dam minute when I woke up and saw how DIFFERENT. My room looked. I literally screamed onto my pillow. I was so dam scare and yet excited to see how I looked.
WHAT I MANIFESTED :
Desired body and face
Having silky straight tailbone length hair cuz mines was originally curly
And everything in my sub playlist
My desired boyfriend and guys I made him be like Gojo Satoru ( because we are all delusional over him 🤪) and let me tell you he is so tall, handsome, sexy and a literal god. He is so silly too 🩷
Moving countries I now live in ny
Never actually meeting my ex and all the people in my old school forget me and have actually never even met me. Like if u asked them about me they have never heard or known me before
Extremely rich rich like hella bands
Got rid of my anxiety and mental health issue
Plus +++
NEVER EVER GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS.
Even if the circumstances seem to be eating you alive don’t mind that too much. Even if all seems hopeless don’t give up because you already know nothing can decide or be unless you give it power to be. So stop being goofy and take responsibility and DONT STRESS!! You don’t see God stressing do you. All he has to do is blink and whatever he wants to happen, happens. Plus a lot of confidence came from non dualism that I owe a huge thanks to @trynafindbarbiee she really said it like it is !!
YOU GOT THIS ML 🩷🩷🩷🩷
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puppym3 · 6 months ago
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୨⎯ "temptation" ⎯୧
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⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ bangchan x fem!reader
a result of the poll win! (cockwarming w chan)
summary: after waking up and realizing your boyfriend isn't next to you, you find him still working in his office. after asking him to join you in bed and his many refusals, you try convince him to join you.
wc: 2.7k
warnings: MDNI! 18+, established relationship, pet names (princess, baby, good girl, love), piv, unprotected sex, cockwarming (obvi), teasing, creampie, soft dom chan, chan is a workaholic, reader is needy, aftercare; (lmk if i missed any)
a/n: the poll was super close!! so i'm gonna post another poll that should be on my page now if you want to vote for the next one! i hope i didn't disappoint with this one;;; hope you enjoy reading!
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
I felt the faint glow of the moonlight spread across my face from the cracks in the curtain. I stirred, my fingers brushing against the cool silk sheets where my boyfriend should be. The coldness of his absence was an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand—2:00 AM.
I sat up, the chill of the night air sending shivers down my spine. Wrapping myself in the blanket, I slipped out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cold floor. I lazily threw on one of Chan’s shirts and slithered out of the bedroom.
As I moved through the hallway, I knew exactly where I was going to find him at this hour. My gaze fell on the closed door of his office. The faintest sliver of light seeped out from underneath it. I sighed, approaching the door and gently pushing it open.
The room was dimly lit, the glow of his screen casting a pale light over his face. Chan was hunched over his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen. Papers and notebooks were scattered around him, and a half-empty cup of coffee sitting right next to his laptop.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him work. His brows were furrowed in concentration, a small crease forming on his forehead. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of worry.
“Babe?” I called softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't look up, too engrossed in whatever he was working on. I padded over to him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders from behind, resting my cheek against his head.
“Hmm?” he responded, still not taking his eyes off the screen.
“It's 2 AM,” I murmured, nuzzling his hair. “Why are you still working?”
“I have a lot of work,” he sighed, not sounding very convincing.
“But you can finish it in the morning, right?” I pressed, my voice tired.
“I just want to get it done,” he mumbled, fingers tapping against the keyboard.
“Chan, come on,” I pleaded, “You need to rest.”
“I can’t,” he groaned, leaning back against me. “I need to get this done.”
I sighed, feeling his warmth seep through my shirt.
"Come on, babe," I whispered, my voice filled with a mix of annoyance and playfulness. "I'm cold and I need your warmth to sleep."
He didn't respond, still lost in his work. I let out a small huff, a hint of irritation creeping into my voice.
"Baby, please," I pleaded, "I miss you and I can't sleep without you."
When he still didn’t budge, I decided to change tactics. Giving up on trying to pull him away, I slid onto his lap, straddling him. I pressed myself close, trying to make it impossible for him to ignore me.
His breath hitched at the sudden contact, and his hands faltered. I smirked to myself, knowing that I had gotten his attention.
"What are you doing, love?" he breathed, finally looking at me.
Chan's eyes dropped to my legs, and his gaze lingered on the expanse of skin visible beneath the hem of his shirt. I could sense his attention, his focus snapping back to me like a rubber band. His fingers tightened around my waist, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as he realized I was only wearing his shirt. The fabric was thin, and I knew he could feel the heat of my skin through it.
"Wha- Why are you wearing that?" he asked, his voice sounding strained
"I'm cold," I replied, my tone light and teasing. "And I thought it would be cozy to wear your shirt."
I leaned in close, brushing my lips against his ear. "Besides," I whispered, "It makes me feel a little bit closer to you."
I could feel the tension in his body as he struggled to maintain his focus on the screen. His hands slowly slid up my sides, tracing the contours of my body under his shirt. My heart raced as I leaned in closer, my breath hot against his neck.
"Chan," I whispered, my voice low and sultry. His fingers brushed against the bare skin of my stomach, sending shivers down my spine.
He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally looking up at me. His eyes were dark and intense, filled with a mix of desire and reluctance.
"I can’t stop," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I have so much work to do."
"I know," I replied, my voice trembling slightly.
But I was too far gone, so needy for him, feeling his half-hard bulge pressing against me. I shifted slightly on his lap, rubbing against him slowly and deliberately.
Chan’s breathing grew uneven, and his gaze flickered between the screen and me, struggling to maintain his composure. The more I rubbed, the more his resolve weakened. He tried to focus on his work, but his concentration faltered with every brush of my body against his.
"You’re going to kill me," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he shifted slightly against me. His fingers trembled on the keyboard, his attention divided between the screen and the intense need pulsing through him.
I could feel the heat radiating from him, the hard press of his bulge making his struggle clear. His eyes were dark with desire, and I knew I had him where I wanted. I rubbed against him with increasing insistence.
"Channie," I whispered, my voice laced with desperation.
I continued to grind against him, feeling his erection grow beneath me. His fingers dug into my hips, and I could sense the heat building between us. I let out a soft moan, my body aching for more.
His breath was warm against my skin as he leaned in, his lips brushing my neck. "God, baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse. The sensation sent a jolt of desire through me, and I whimpered, feeling my need grow stronger.
He let out a low groan as he slipped his fingers underneath my panties, teasing me. I could feel the slickness between my legs, my arousal intensifying. "You're so wet already," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "You need this, don’t you?"
I nodded, biting my lip. "I need you," I whispered, my voice trembling.
He smiled, slipping his hand into my panties and rubbing slow circles around my clit. I moaned, my head falling back as his fingers slid into me. He continued to tease, sliding in and out at a torturous pace.
I rocked my hips, craving more friction, but he pulled away, his touch barely ghosting over my skin. "Chan, please," I whimpered, my voice shaking.
Leaning in close, his lips brushed my ear. "What is it, baby?"
"Please," I begged, my voice cracking. "I need you in me."
He smirked as my hand reached for the zipper on his pants. "And I need to work," he replied, his tone firm.
My hand paused on the zipper, his heated gaze locking with mine. "You’ll have to be a bit more patient, my love," he said, a teasing note in his voice.
"I’ll be a good girl," I promised, my voice quivering.
"Mmm... we’ll see about that," he murmured, his tone skeptical yet intrigued.
I continued to unzip his pants slowly, revealing his throbbing erection. The sight of him made me shiver with anticipation. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking gently.
He hissed in pleasure, his hands tightening around my waist. "Fuck," he murmured, his eyes locked on mine.
I kept up the slow, deliberate strokes, savoring his reactions. His breathing grew labored, and he bit his lip, struggling to maintain control. "Such a needy girl," he whispered, his voice strained.
Leaning in, I brushed my lips against his ear. "I’m your needy slut," I murmured, my voice dripping with lust.
He groaned as his hands slid up my thighs, pulling my panties down. "God, baby," he whispered, his breath hot against my neck.
He guided his cock to my entrance, rubbing the tip against me. My legs trembled as I slowly sank onto his length, feeling him stretch me open. "Oh fuck," I gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation.
He gripped my hips, pulling me down fully. I rocked my hips, grinding against him, and he groaned, his hands tightening on my waist.
I bit my lip, reveling in the fullness of him inside me. I rolled my hips, savoring the pleasure. His fingers dug into my skin, and the pressure on my clit sent waves of ecstasy through me.
"Alright, princess," he said, his voice rough. "Stay still for me. Let me finish this work so I can take care of you properly."
I whimpered, my body aching for release, but I stayed still, feeling completely stretched, waiting for him to finish.
He began typing away, his gaze fixed intently on the screen. I tried to control my breathing, the heat building between us making me dizzy. The sensation of his length throbbing inside me was almost too much to bear.
I bit my lip, feeling every slight movement sending ripples of pleasure through me. He glanced at me, a knowing look in his eyes.
"Don’t do that," he warned, his voice low and husky.
I felt myself instinctively clench around him again. "I’m trying," I breathed, my voice strained.
The pressure of him inside me was becoming almost too much. I closed my eyes, resting my head against his chest and trying to relax. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against my cheek. The rhythm was comforting, and I slowly began to regain my composure.
I took a deep breath, my body still aching with desire, but I focused on the feeling of his body against mine, his warmth seeping into me. Chan continued to work, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
I concentrated on his touch, the heat of his skin against mine. The feeling of him inside me was soothing, and I gradually started to relax. Chan’s pace at the keyboard increased as he worked through whatever he was writing.
I closed my eyes, the steady clacking of keys lulling me into a sleepy haze. I felt myself drifting off, the warmth of his body enveloping me. I nestled closer, my arms wrapped around him, losing track of time in a dreamlike state.
Suddenly, I felt a jolt of pleasure as he shifted slightly. I gasped, my eyes fluttering open, immediately aware of his throbbing cock inside me. I tightened involuntarily from the sudden surge of pleasure and let out a soft moan.
I bit my lip, struggling to keep my reaction in check. Chan paused, glancing down at me with a smirk. "I thought you were asleep," he murmured.
"I was," I whispered, my voice trembling with a trace of sleepiness.
"I guess I’ll have to take care of you now," he replied, his voice tinged with sweetness.
Chan closed his laptop, scooping me up from under my thighs and carrying me. His hard length still inside me, standing now, I felt fuller with him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.
He carried us to the bedroom, each step causing me to stifle whimpers on his shoulder. He laid me gently on the bed, hovering over me with his arms on either side of my head. I gazed up at him, my eyes wide with adoration.
"What are you looking at?" he asked, a small smile on his lips.
"I love you," I whispered, my voice hoarse with emotion.
"I love you too, princess," he replied, his eyes softening.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. The kiss started soft but soon turned heated, our need for each other spilling over.
I moaned as he rocked his hips, grinding against me. His cock was still buried deep inside me, filling me completely. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting more.
"You waited patiently for me?" he asked, pulling out completely, the tip lightly rubbing against my entrance.
"Yes," I breathed, my voice trembling.
"Good girl," he murmured, slowly pushing back into me. I gasped as he filled me, the sensation almost too much to bear. I gripped the sheets, my knuckles turning white from the intensity.
He began thrusting in and out, picking up the pace. I cried out, my body arching as waves of pleasure washed over me. His hands explored every inch of my body, touching me in ways only he could. I shivered under his touch, his fingers finding all the spots that made me moan.
My eyes fluttered shut as I lost myself in the pleasure. The feeling of him inside me, the way he moved, was overwhelming. I felt like I was floating on a cloud, my body aching with need.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his voice strained. "You’re so tight. I thought I stretched you well, hm?"
"Y-you did," I whimpered, my voice breaking under the intensity.
"So what’s going on, huh? Are you that needy for my cock?"
Heat surged to my cheeks, making me feel vulnerable under his gaze. I tried to come up with a response, but all that escaped was a breathy moan.
"I-I don't know," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Oh, so you just wanted me to fill you up, hm?"
"Yes," I breathed, my mind hazy with pleasure.
He thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside me that made me cry out. I gasped, clutching his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensation.
"Is this what you needed, princess?"
"Yes," I moaned, arching my back, my nails digging into his skin.
He groaned, burying his face in the crook of my neck. Picking up the pace, he drove into me with relentless abandon. The room was filled with the symphony of our moans and the sound of our bodies meeting in passionate rhythm.
The pressure inside me built up, the pleasure so intense I could barely breathe. He held me close, his arms wrapped around me as he moved inside me. The heat between us was palpable, our bodies intertwined as we approached our climax.
I moaned his name, feeling the wave of pleasure crest. My body tensed, the sensations coursing through me, and I cried out, my nails digging deeper into his shoulders.
He growled, his grip tightening around me. His thrusts grew more frantic, each movement pushing him closer to his own release.
"You feel so good," he rasped, his voice rough with desire.
I gasped, my body shuddering with aftershocks. The feeling of him inside me, the heat of his body against mine, was almost too overwhelming to endure.
He moaned deeply, his voice husky as he came inside me. His thrusts became more urgent, his body tensing as he rode out his climax. The sensation of him filling me completely sent me spiraling, causing my body to tremble uncontrollably.
Once we both caught our breath, he slowly withdrew, his face reflecting a hint of panic when he saw his cum dripping from me. He quickly looked around for something to clean up before it got on the bed.
Returning with a towel, he gently wiped me clean, the soft fabric sending shivers through my overstimulated body. He made sure every drop was taken care of, his touch tender and attentive.
"Baby, was that okay?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.
"I’m perfect," I murmured, smiling up at him with a sense of contentment.
"Thank you for being patient," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
The sleepiness from our intense moment began to catch up with me, my eyelids growing heavy.
"Channie, I’m tired," I mumbled, stifling a yawn.
He smiled warmly, shaking his head fondly. "I bet you are," he said, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me toward the bathroom.
"You always do this," I grumbled, a playful pout on my lips.
"Do what, princess?"
"Make me so sleepy after sex."
He chuckled softly, setting me down on the edge of the tub. "You wanted this, remember?"
"Yeah," I sighed, leaning against him as he started running my bath.
"Now, get in the bath and let me take care of you, hm?"
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
taglist!
@stanskzot8 , @loverbangchan
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sturnioz · 4 months ago
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fratboy!chris having an explicit polaroid photo of shy!reader without her face in it (just her ass in a thong or something) in his wallet and it falls out when he’s going to count money or something and she sees it and forgets that it’s her so she gets all pouty about it and he’s like “that’s literally fuckin you kid - in those pretty black panties that i bought you? from that night you were begging f’me to keep going until you couldn’t even speak? yeaaaaaaah - that’s you”
you're exhausted, your eyelids heavy from the frat party that just wrapped up, the sounds of laughter and thumping music still ringing in your ears.
as the last stragglers begin to drunkenly shuffle out the door, you find yourself slumping against chris' side, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, barely keeping your eyes open as you tiredly blink, watching him count his money.
his eyebrows furrow tightly, his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration — the rustling of cash filling the air, mingling with the sounds of frat brothers dragging their feet across creaky floorboards. some collect empty beer bottles and scattered plastic cups that litter the ground, while others grumble and moan about going to bed, opting to clean up the mess in the morning.
you bring your tired gaze back to chris' hands when you feel him shift. he reaches into his jeans, pulling out his wallet to shove the crumpled dollar bills inside, but suddenly, something slips out and flutters to the floor, catching your attention.
your head lifts off his shoulder, feeling a lot more awake now as you lean down to inspect the polaroid picture that has fallen. your heart sinks as you see the image — a picture of a woman's ass, clad in a black lacy thong.
the sight makes your stomach twist and a frown spreads across your face, instinctively creating a distance between you, shifting away from him.
chris' head turns at your sudden movement, his eyebrow raising as he bends to retrieve the polaroid. "why you givin' me that face?"
"why do you have something like that?" the words escape your lips before you can stop them, and you hate how hurt your voice sounds.
the sight of him holding a picture like that in his wallet twists something deep inside you. who is she? is she someone you know? someone you don't know? why is that in his wallet?
so many questions flood your mind, and you feel your throat tighten as chris suddenly snorts, giving you an incredulous look.
"that... that's literally fuckin' you, kid. are you dumb?" chris tells you, and you immediately recoil, shock washes over you, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "i bought you these fuckin' panties — made you wear 'em the other night when you were beggin' f'me, remember?"
heat rushes to your face as the realisation sinks in, a mix of embarrassment and shyness flooding through your system, causing you to turn away from him to stare at the ground, unable to meet his gaze.
"yeaaaaaah... you remember," his knuckles knock lightly against your warm cheek, a touch that intensifies your flustered state. "that's you."
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roturo · 6 months ago
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`· . ౨ৎ OTAKU HOT GIRL !
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౨ৎ summary: “I like a tall woman with a nice big ass, haha.” Shocked faces turned to the pink-haired boy, not expecting such blunt honesty. “Just sayin’.”
Out of sheer curiosity, Todo leaned in, a mischievous grin on his face. “Got an example?”
WARNINGS: smut, male masturbation, lewd language and thoughts, overstimulation, sub-ish!yuji itadori, semi-public, use of pet names (puppy & ma'am) aged-up characters, whimpering, obsessed!yuji itadori, reader is mentioned like a person with big ass and tall, and lmk if i missed smth!
౨ৎ a/n: guess who's back baby! i listened to megan's new song and couldn't resist writing for my golden boy after hearing his voice omfg... 🫠i'm still a lil rusty and this might be short (1.4k words) but owmawgawd, this got meee
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“I like a tall woman with a nice big ass, haha.” Shocked faces turned to the pink-haired boy, not expecting such blunt honesty. “Just sayin’.”
Out of sheer curiosity, Todo leaned in, a mischievous grin on his face. “Got an example?” The room filled with mixed reactions, some intrigued and others apprehensive. They were already tired of his daily talk about Jennifer Lawrence. Who could he possibly like more than her?
The boy smirked, leaning back casually. “Like the new grade one sorcerer from Kyoto, [Y/N] [L/N]...”
A collective gasp echoed through the room. Everyone knew about you, the formidable new sorcerer who had quickly risen through the ranks. But hearing that someone admired you in that way was a revelation.
He flashed back to the first time he met you. The memory was vivid. It was during a joint training session between the Tokyo and Kyoto schools. You had walked in with an air of confidence that immediately caught his attention. Tall, strong, and undeniably sexy, you had an aura that made it impossible for him to look away.
From the moment you started sparring, he was entranced. Every move you made was precise, powerful, and graceful. He could barely focus on his own training, his eyes constantly drifting towards you. When you finally spoke to him, your voice was low and sultry, asking for a sparring match. He was so flustered that all he could manage was a shaky “yes ma’am,” despite you being the same age.
The sparring match was intense, the air thick with tension. He gave it his all, but you were relentless. Each of your strikes was met with awe and admiration. By the end, he was exhausted and utterly defeated, but he didn’t mind. He was too impressed by your skill and the way your body moved.
After that day, you became a frequent topic of his thoughts. He admired not just your beauty, but your fierce dedication and prowess as a sorcerer. Every time he saw you, he couldn’t help but be reminded of how captivated he was by you. His fantasies about you became more vivid, more intense, fueled by the memory of your close combat and the way your body pressed against his.
“So yeah,” he continued, snapping back to the present. “That’s my type.”
The room fell silent, the other boys processing his words. Some were still shocked, others nodded in understanding like Panda and Todo. It was clear that his admiration for you went beyond mere physical attraction. It was rooted in genuine respect and a desire that bordered on obsession.
You and he had been talking for a few months now, and his clear attraction to you only grew stronger with each passing day. Your casual conversations and shared laughter were becoming the highlight of his days. Sometimes, during joint training sessions between the two schools, he found it increasingly difficult to focus. His eyes would wander towards you, watching the way your body moved with precision and strength. The mere sight of you was enough to send a surge of desire through him, making it impossible to concentrate. On more than one occasion, he had to leave the training area, his cheeks flushed and a raging erection straining against his pants. The frustration was palpable, but he couldn’t help it. You had a hold on him that was both thrilling and torturous.
He had to leave training again just to find some privacy in the restroom, where he urgently pleasured himself through his pants, softly moaning your name. The need had become insatiable, every thought consumed by the image of you—your intoxicating smile, the curve of your hips, and the way your hair cascaded over your shoulders.
In the quiet sanctuary of the restroom, he leaned against the cool tiles, his breath hitching with each stroke. With trembling hands, he hastily undid his pants, revealing his throbbing cock already slick with anticipation. His mind replayed every encounter with you, from the shared glances to the moments when your eyes held a tantalizing promise.
Despite the overwhelming sensation after coming once, he couldn't resist the need to relieve himself. His hand moved almost mechanically over his throbbing cock, slick with his own essence. The thought of your touch, your fingers wrapped around him instead of his own, consumed him. He imagined how much better it would feel, how your soft, skilled hands would bring him to the brink and beyond.
As his hand wrapped around his pulsating shaft, he couldn't suppress a low groan. The touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure through him. Starting slow, he savored every sensation, but the ache only intensified. Each stroke brought him closer to the edge, his fantasies blending seamlessly with reality in a haze of desire.
Soft, needy moans escaped his lips, mingling with the sound of his rapid breaths. He imagined your touch—delicate yet commanding, expertly teasing him to the brink. His cock twitched at the thought, pre-cum slickening his fingers as he quickened his pace.
Lost in the moment, he couldn't help but fantasize about how your lips would feel against his skin, your hands exploring every inch of him with a hunger that matched his own. The idea of you taking control, guiding him with a firm touch, made him shudder with anticipation.
His movements grew more urgent, chasing that elusive release. He could almost feel you there with him, your presence palpable in the confined space. With a guttural moan, he finally spilled over the edge, his release pulsing through him in powerful waves. He rode the wave of pleasure, his body trembling as he emptied himself, gasping for breath.
But even as he came for second time, his body continued to react, hypersensitive to every touch. He overstimulated himself, prolonging the pleasure and pushing himself to the brink of overwhelming sensation. Despite the intensity, he couldn't stop, his hand moving almost mechanically, seeking that final, blissful release.
As he leaned against the cool tiles, spent and still trembling, he couldn't shake the lingering desire for more. The fantasy of you lingered in his mind, fueling a hunger that would not easily be sated. He knew that the next time he saw you, every glance, every word exchanged would hold a newfound intensity, a longing that burned deeper than ever before.
Curiosity got the best of you as you entered the restroom in search of Yuuji, wondering why he had abruptly left practice. It had been unlike him to disappear without a word, and you couldn’t shake the concern that something might be wrong. Pushing open the door, you were met with the unexpected sight of him sprawled on the cool, tiled floor. His pants were pooled around his ankles, and his toned abs and hands were slick and glistening with his own release. Despite the aftermath, his cock stood proudly erect, a conflicted expression etched on Yuuji's face as he stared at it, small whimpers escaping his lips in his desperate quest for release once more.
The air in the restroom was heavy with the musky scent of arousal, adding to the charged atmosphere. Yuuji’s eyes, normally vibrant with energy and mischief, now held a mix of embarrassment and raw need. He looked up at you, his gaze pleading silently for understanding and perhaps even assistance.
You stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. His vulnerability in this moment was palpable, and you found yourself drawn to him despite the unexpectedness of the situation. Slowly, you approached him, the click of your shoes against the tile echoing softly in the silence. As you knelt beside him, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, his skin flushed with desire and frustration.
He whispered your name, thinking all of this was a dream– Tentatively, your hand trailed down his chest, fingers ghosting over the slick, sensitive skin. His breath hitched at your touch, a mix of anticipation and relief flooding his features. "Please," he begged, his voice strained with desire. "Poor puppy– leaving training just because hormones got the best of him." He whimpered at the pet name you used, your hand now gently caressing his balls, catching him off guard and eliciting a loud moan that made you quickly cover his mouth with your hand.
"Shh, puppy," you whispered, your tone teasing yet commanding. "We wouldn't want others to hear what a needy slut you are, would we?" His eyes widened, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he shook his head frantically.
"Good boy," you cooed, your touch firm yet reassuring, knowing exactly how to play him.
pt2?
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ayumip · 18 days ago
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𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬
boyfriend!nanami x afab!reader; modern au
word count: 1.5k
mdni, 18+ smut; teasing, oral, overstim, he's pussy drunk (rightfully so), not proofread and probs so many grammatical errors... lmk if im missing anything <3
nanami’s a gentleman, there’s no way around it: he pulls out your chair, letting you sit first during date nights; allows his shoulder to get soaked during rainy days just so you can stay dry; and listens to your rambles despite being tired and on the verge of falling asleep. however, when it comes to his work, he really needs to stop drowning himself in it.
it was late at night, you pried open the door to his office. he was sitting at his desk, unmoving for the past 3 hours, filling out mountains and mountains of documents. 
“ken?” you walked over to him, bringing him a cup of tea.
“yes darling? what is it?” he turned and looked at you with a tired expression, taking a sip of the brewed tea. he looked quite exhausted, his work taking a toll on him. 
“can it wait? i really need to get this done, darling” he said with a sigh, going back to his paperwork, clearly not wanting any distractions as he scanned over the document in his hand.
“can i sit on your lap? please…” you muttered, feeling guilty for distracting him. however, your desire for him, and his touch, outweighed your sense of guilt.
giving you a soft smile, nanami rolled his chair back slightly, patting his lap as a signal for you to come and stay on his lap. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he wrapped one of his around your waist, pulling you closer. he then returned his attention to the papers scattered on his desk. the sounds of pen scratching filled the room as his pen moved across the pages again once more.
as the clock ticks closer to midnight, nanami’s breath hitched as you nuzzled your face against his neck, the warmth of your breath against his skin sent shivers down his spine. he attempted to ignore it, but fuck was it hard. 
“darling— you’re…making it real hard to concentrate…” he muttered, voice slightly strained as he tried his best to suppress whatever desire he had, focusing once again on the work in front of him.
“...ken, baby…take a break…” his heart quickened at the sound of your sweet, enticing whine. it made him feel weak. god, you were irresistible, and you knew that. you, not so subtly, started grinding your hips against him, rolling and pressing your core against his.
“fuck- darling… behave yourself.” he clenched his jaw and let out a low growl, the arm wrapped around your waist tightening his grip on you in an attempt to ground your movements.
you let out a whine as protest. you wanted him, no, you needed him. he’s been so preoccupied with work lately—what about you! he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at your whiny tone. 
“so needy, trying to tempt me? you little minx” he whispered in a teasing voice, his breath hot against your skin whilst tracing small circles on your hip.
“...no…” you retorted, trying to act all innocent; but he knew better.
“no? then how come you’re squirming against me…hmm..?” nanami whispered, trailing kissing along the side of your neck, gently nipping at the sensitive skin.
“thats-!” *you gasped at his ministrations, biting your lip to conceal your sounds as he sucked on your neck, leaving traces behind.
“what’s more important…your work- or me…” you teased back, though instead of sounding bold like you intended, you sounded breathless, needy for more.
how unfair, he thought. it was impossible to resist you if you begged for him like that. 
“you, of course. you always come first — you know that. but, darling, i really need to finish these papers. please, just let me finish these last couple, and then i’m all yours. alright?" he pleaded softly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes.
“…hmph” you got off his lap and stripped off your dress shirt, well, his to be exact. underneath, you were wearing his favourite set. teasingly, you tossed the dress shirt onto his lap, full of your scent, his favourite perfume, and walked to the door of his home office.
nanami watched intently as you got off his lap. he picked up the shirt on his lap, filling the surrounding air with you, you and you. he let out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair as he leaned back on his chair, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped.
“fuck— that’s just not fair…” he muttered to himself as he let his thoughts be consumed by you, and how fucking badly he wants you. he could feel the blood rushing downwards, losing his composure and whatever focus he had left on his work. “you’re playing a dangerous game, darling.”
“your work…or me…~” you looked absolutely sinful, breaking the last bit of resistance and self control nanami had left. all he could think about was you, how badly he wanted to touch you, how badly he wanted to have you. his work could wait, he couldn’t care less. to hell with it.
“you, always you.”
he rose from his chair, papers flying off his desk. in long strides, he made his way to you, pulling you into his arms. his hands roamed over your body hungrily as he kissed you deeply. his tongue explored your mouth passionately, leaving no room for you to breathe. you were kissed breathless.
“ken- bedroom…!” you whined out between kisses, moaning at his taste.
he didn’t need to be told twice. he swooped you up easily, one arm under your thighs as he picked you up bridal style, swiftly carrying you towards the bedroom. he was already so fucking turned on, and seeing you in arms, just made him impossibly harder. he was utterly whipped for you.
once inside, he hastily shut the door, gently laying you down onto the bed. his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. he climbed on top of you, kissing you deeply yet again. he was addicted to your taste, trailing kisses down your neck, claiming every inch of your skin.
“do..you like this new set? just bought it…f’ you…” you bashfully looked away as he chuckled. of course he likes it, he loved it even, it was driving him crazy. the lace of the lingerie hugged your curves perfectly, making you even more alluring to him.
“fuck, darling, i love it…”
“…you’ve worked hard, ken ... have a treat” you murmured, guiding his head down.
nanami let out a low, guttural sound at your words, smirking slightly as his body shuddered with desire at the thought of tasting you. he let you guide his head down, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed soft kisses against your inner thighs.
he sees the wet patch of arousal on your underwear, pressing his finger against it as you moaned from the sensation. he gave an experimental lick before prying the fabric aside, burying his face deeper between your thighs. he lapped up your essence, moaning at the sweet taste against his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly to keep you in place.
“oh…f-fuck…” you whimpered out, feeling his tongue swirl and suck at your clit. his fingers grazing up and down your folds before sinking one finger into your core, hitting deeply at your convulsing g-spot perfectly. he knows your body, maybe even better than you do.
“there we go darling…don’t hide yourself…i wanna hear you…” he cooed as you arched your back off the mattress, mewling out desperately as you dug your hands into his hair, pulling him closer. god, you were so responsive to him, and he couldn’t help but to grind his hips into the side of the bed, groaning and moaning into your cunt which sent vibrations, heightening the sensation you were feeling. 
“baby- ‘m close…’m gonna-!” you cried out, grinding your hips upwards. you were gone, and the only thing in your mind was the mind-blowing pleasure your boyfriends was giving you. nanami continued to eat you out like a starving man, snaking his other arm up and towards your tits, caressing your soft mounds and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers. 
your hips involuntarily buck upwards into his mouth, searching for more contact, more pleasure. 
“that’s it, darling…let it out-” he groaned as he continued his actions, his tongue gently lapping at your sensitive flesh, eyes fixed upon you as you writhed and trembled under him.
“s-shit- kennn-!...’m cumming…’m cumming~!” you cried out as your vision flashes white, seeing the stars as your climax washes over you in waves. nanami lets out a moan as he feels you shudder and convulse around his fingers, immediately prodding his tongue to drink up all your essence.
it was so messy, his chin covered in your juices as he whispered against your core, voice thick and raspy with pleasure.
“fuck, that was beautiful darling…can you give me one more..?” 
before you could even register, still coming down from your high, he started again, and didn’t stop.
oh, it’ll be a long night.
authors note: i was listening to chase atlantic when i wrote this and i honestly don't even remember what i’m writing. nanami is so ooc here bro hates working overtime but….yeah whatever-
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nemisuki · 17 days ago
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A Special Day
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Dating AU | You never felt the need to celebrate this 'special' day every year. But time it's different, the first year with your explosive boyfriend. And seems like he thinks differently.
᧔o᧓ || Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader, no manga spoilers, no nsfw, pure fluff, no angst, aged up, oneshot, bkg is a softie, gift giving, 1.3k word count
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"So do you have any plans tomorrow?"
The sound of his voice breaks the silence between you two. The only other noise being the scribbles of her pencil and flipping of paper.
Her eyes don't break away from the math problem in her notebook, the source of her misery for the past 10 minutes.
In response to his question, the girl exhales a short hum while erasing her failed attempt of multiplication, "Not really."
A small pout begins to form on her face as she concentrates on the equation.
What sane person puts letters in math?
Listening to her reply, his eyebrows furrow with slight confusion, his hand pausing from completing the assignment in front of him.
He takes this opportunity to pause his studies, leaning back in his chair to stretch his limbs.
A small sigh exiting his mouth as he stands up to lift his arms over his head to give relief to his aching muscles.
"It's your birthday, don't ya want a party or go out to eat?"
At his movement, she takes a peek in his direction.
Her gaze roaming his backside - noticing the outline of his back muscles from that tank top he's wearing.
The combination of his shirt and the grey sweatpants loosely hanging on his waist was deadly.
It's even worse that he is completely unaware of the effect it has on her.
Seeing him take a break gave her an excuse to do the same.
She props herself off his bed with her elbows, now sitting up on the edge of his mattress with a small yawn, "Not really. I don't usually celebrate it."
"Like at all?" he turns back to look at her, noting the aloof expression on her face.
"I mean maybe when I was younger but not anymore.”
He examines her body language intensely, only to find no signs of discomfort.
So she really doesn’t want to celebrate huh.
I mean he understands, he wasn’t one to care about his own birthday either.
He steps closer to plop down beside her, looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, “we should call it a night.”
“Yeah I should head back to my dorm now” she smiles, looking at how the moonlight accentuates his features, only enhancing the vision beside her.
“Just sleep over” he mumbles, already moving to lay down on his bed. Making room for her as he scoots towards the wall.
“And your roommate?”
“Shitty hair said he’s crashing at Raccoon eyes dorm. So turn off the lamp and come over here yeah?”
She couldn’t help but to laugh at his blunt demands, reaching over to shut off the lamp then resting beside him in an instant.
There's no way she'll let an opportunity like this go to waste.
With that, the blonde drapes the blanket over the two, looking almost offended that she didn't wrap her hands around him like she always does.
He isn't one for physical touch but he's gotten used to hers.
She seems to feel his stare and immediately scoots closer to curl up beside him, leaning her face into his chest.
Thankfully dismissing all his dramatic thoughts in an instant.
He wraps his arms around her torso to hold her close, "Real tired. Gonna sleep now, night."
"Mhm good night 'suki. I love you" she whispers back, closing her eyes to relish in his warmth.
A feeling she loves all too well.
"....love you too" he replies after a few seconds. Before his eyes fall close, allowing himself to drown in the feeling of her presence.
Already knowing what he must do tomorrow.
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ     ⎯⎯ ✦
Her eyes squint in response to the distant sound of raining pattering outside the window.
The once dark room is now filled with morning light peeking through cracks in the curtain.
A groan escaping her as she rubs her eyes awake, attempting to fight the invisible force that's trying to pull her back to eternal sleep.
Though under the covers, she shivers at the chilly room she's woken up too. Expecting to be tangled under the covers with her favorite blonde, yet is only faced with an imposter - a pillow taking his place.
It takes her a few minutes of mindlessly staring at the ceiling for her to sit up, but only due to the sound of the door slowly creaking open.
His figure comes into view as he closes the door behind him, placing a mysterious bag on his desk as he takes off his coat and tucks his umbrella away, "You just woke up?"
"Yeah just now. Where'd you go?" she tilts her head, ruling out the option that he had class since he doesn't have his bag.
She stands up and begins approaching him but he holds his hand up, making her pause in her tracks.
"Close your eyes for a minute" he mumbles quietly, all of a sudden avoiding her questioning gaze.
Despite her confusion, she doesn't ask to investigate further as her eyes flutter shut.
"Don't peek or I'll kill ya."
An amused smile appears on her face at his snarky comment, "I won't but if you don't hurry up I might fall back asleep."
The sound of rustling was heard in the room, as well as a small clicking sound shortly after.
"Can I look now?"
"No."
"What about now?"
"I told you already, not yet!"
Laughter escapes her as she impatiently waits, fidgeting her fingers as she hears him step closer.
"...Alright you can open them now."
She hums and her eyes slowly open, slightly squinting to adjust to the light of the room once again.
Once done, she looks ahead of her and is met with an overwhelming sight. Complete shock taking over her face.
Bakugo is standing there, holding up a small birthday cake with lit candles on top.
Her heart thumps louder in her chest, so much so that it almost drowns out the noise of rain happening outside the room.
And she wonders if he can hear it too.
"I uh... know what you said yesterday but it just-" he holds the cake closer to her face, "didn't feel right to me."
Her gaze roams across the cake, pretty cursive letters in frosting spelling out 'Happy Birthday Y/N' on the surface. Along with her favorite pieces of fruit scattered around the edges.
"You didn't have to" she mumbles, a thankful smile taking over her face the more she stares at the cake.
"Well I wanted to. Now blow out the candles, nerd."
Holding back a laugh, she takes a moment to look at him, "Not gonna sing for me?"
"Hah! In your dreams maybe. Hurry up would ya? My arms getting tired here" he rolls his eyes at her teasing, the tip of his ears turning a soft pink from embarrassment.
She holds back a wide smile and blows out the candles before he grows more shy.
"What flavor is it?"
"You're favorite one, obviously" he huffs, stepping away to set the cake down on his desk.
As her gaze lingered on him, a sudden feeling took over her whole body.
She notices the small puddle forming under his wet shoes, a mini bouquet of her favorite flowers resting in a vase he must've bought earlier and a gift bag carefully placed on the sidelines.
Katsuki Bakugo hates the rain. Avoids it at all costs.
Yet he willingly went out in this downpour to buy her these things.
Ah....
"Oi do you want a one slice or-"
His words falter when her hands suddenly wrap around his waist from behind. Her face resting against his back, not wanting him to see as silent tears trickle down her cheeks.
"Thank you Katsuki."
He stays silent, feeling the back of his shirt grow damp from her quiet cries.
A sigh exits his mouth as he prys her hands away, spinning around to hold her close to his chest. Rubbing her back in gentle circles and whispering rare words of reassurance.
"Yeah yeah let it all out. I got ya" he mumbles, knowing exactly how to calm her down.
She just needs him there to hold her as he always does.
And he'll stick around - for her.
"Happy Birthday Y/N."
✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚。⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚。⋆⎯⎯ ✦
A/N ||| hey hey everyone! It's actually my birthday today so I quickly wrote this up hehe. Sorry if it's a bit choppy, this was rushed. Anywaysss I finally made a taglist - so if you want to get tagged in my bakugo fics then click on this link!
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diamonddaze01 · 7 days ago
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Full Throttle (ii)
pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 16.7K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOW BURNNN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), some nipple-play, vaguely (?) rough (?) sex, begging
PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record 
a/n: ok pt 2 here we gooooo! to kae @ylangelegy , who hasn't read the ending of this because they wanted to be surprised. i love you, im sorry, i love you // to alta @haologram , who hyped me up so much and made me feel so much better about my writing // thank you to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading! // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!
read part 1 here.
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FORMULA 1 PIRELLI GRAN PREMIO D’ITALIA 2024 Track: Autodromo Nazionale Monza
Monza, the Temple of Speed. The track that had seen countless legends, where every tire mark told a story of glory and heartache. The crowd—the tifosi—roared like a living entity, their chants filling the air, demanding greatness from Ferrari’s finest. It wasn’t just a race here, it was a pilgrimage. The heat of Italy in late summer mixed with the electric atmosphere of a home Grand Prix, and Jeonghan could feel it all—the energy, the expectation, the weight of a thousand eyes on him.
The Autodromo Nazionale Monza was a track built on speed, but more than that, it was a track built on history. The sweeping curves, the long straights, the iconic Parabolica that would make or break a driver—it was a place where only the brave thrived, and only the strongest survived. Jeonghan knew the stakes: it wasn’t enough to be fast, not when you were wearing Ferrari red. He had to win, not just for himself, but for the tifosi, who saw him as their golden boy. He had to deliver.
As the weekend progressed, he couldn’t escape the growing weight on his shoulders. His performance was scrutinized with every passing second. In the pits, the team’s eyes were on him, hoping for that perfect lap. The techs, the engineers, the strategists—all working in harmony, hoping that Jeonghan would be the one to pull them across the finish line, but in the back of his mind, Jeonghan kept hearing the unspoken truth: nothing less than pole would suffice. Anything less was a failure.
He felt his pulse quicken as the qualifying session wore on, his concentration laser-sharp, every move calculated. But the tire strategy wasn’t perfect, and as the final moments ticked down, the truth settled over him like a cloud of doom. He was not going to make Q3. Neither was Soonyoung. The agony of it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.
The Ferrari garage was quiet, save for the hum of the engines being powered down. Soonyoung clapped him on the shoulder, a small gesture, but Jeonghan could see the frustration in his eyes, the mirror of his own defeat. The disappointment felt like a heavy weight on Jeonghan’s chest, suffocating, and he couldn’t shake it off. He couldn’t even look at the team, let alone the tifosi waiting outside.
The mood around the paddock was tense as Jeonghan left the garage, still in his race suit. The world felt unreal, as though it were in slow motion. He couldn’t escape it. The tifosi would be waiting to cheer their heroes, but today, he hadn’t been the hero they wanted. He was just another failure in a sea of victories that had come before him. He needed to escape it, to clear his mind.
It was then, as he walked toward his motorhome, that he felt it—a small, electric connection. Your hand brushed against his.
He froze.
Your presence was like a balm, soothing the sharp sting of defeat, but it also distracted him. The familiar, intoxicating scent of your shampoo, something floral and faintly sweet, hit him like a memory, and his heart skipped a beat. That scent, mixed with the lingering tension of the day, flooded his senses. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t form words. All he could think about was that fleeting moment—so close—and the ridiculous notion that he had never noticed how desperately he wanted to be closer to you.
You didn’t stop walking either, your movements fluid, confident. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you, the way the tension built with every step.
Without a word, you both continued on, the space between you shrinking until you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, something that told him you understood more than he let on.
“Tough luck out there,” you said, a hint of sympathy in your tone.
The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened as he swallowed. “It’s... whatever,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. He didn’t have the energy to care.
You glanced at his fist, clenched so tightly it was almost painful to watch. “Doesn’t seem like ‘whatever’ to me,” you countered, raising an eyebrow, your words cutting through the fog in his mind.
He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice more convincing than he felt. But even as he said it, he knew. He wouldn’t be fine—not until he had redeemed himself, not until he could prove to the world that he was still Ferrari’s shining star. He had to be.
But for now, there was a fleeting connection between the two of you, and it was the only thing that made his heart skip, even if just for a moment.
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The race was an uphill battle from the start, as expected. Jeonghan’s starting position was far from ideal, and the track ahead was a maze of cars, each one blocking his path, each one a reminder of the high stakes. The pressure weighed on him heavily, like an invisible force that squeezed the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just about the race, it was about redemption. The tifosi—his tifosi—filled his mind with a deafening chant, a roar of expectation, as if they were willing victory into existence. The weight of their adoration and their demand for perfection followed him, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried.
But Jeonghan had never been one to back down. The track felt like an extension of himself, the tires gripping, the engine vibrating beneath him, urging him to push. Even with traffic clogging his way, he found openings. He fought for every inch of track, his movements sharp, instinctive, like a surgeon making precise cuts. Overtaking felt almost effortless—his car slipping through gaps with the grace of a dancer. He was fluid, controlled, never losing sight of the goal.
As the laps unfolded, his nerves sharpened, but so did his focus. The aggressive strategy that had been laid out for him was beginning to pay off. He was making up ground, inching forward, climbing the ladder of positions one battle at a time. The thought of the tifosi cheering, of their voices blending into one thunderous symphony, drove him. They believed in him. He had to deliver. His mind cleared. He no longer heard the roaring crowds, the whirling thoughts of doubt. All that mattered was the track, the tires, and the roar of the engine beneath him. The conditions became his advantage—he thrived in this chaos.
Through the speed-trap corners, Jeonghan carved his way through the field. The world outside the cockpit blurred into a haze, his focus narrowing into sharp precision. He saw every gap, every opportunity, and he seized them without hesitation. The rain had turned the race into a dance of risk and control, and Jeonghan was leading the waltz.
Crossing the finish line first, Jeonghan allowed himself a single moment of release. The victory wasn’t just for him—it was for Ferrari, for the tifosi, for everything that had been building in his chest since the first day he’d strapped into the car. He had done it. He had delivered.
The roar of the crowd felt like an affirmation of his own heart, beating in time with the cheers of thousands. In that moment, the weight lifted off him, replaced by an overwhelming surge of satisfaction and relief. He had proven himself once again, and it was more sweet than any victory lap could ever capture. The tifosi were wild, their cheers ringing through the air, a thunderous confirmation of what Jeonghan had already known in his heart: this was his race. This was his victory.
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After the podium celebrations, the champagne-soaked cheers, and the endless barrage of media questions, Jeonghan finally managed to steal a moment of solitude. His body was spent, muscles aching, his throat raw from the adrenaline-fueled roar that had escaped him as he crossed the finish line. And yet, his mind wasn’t on the race anymore. Not on the points, not on the tifosi.
It was on you.
The fleeting brush of your hand earlier lingered like a phantom touch, a warmth that refused to fade even as the hours passed. The memory of your scent—the subtle floral notes of your shampoo—clung to him, more grounding than the overwhelming chaos of the Monza circuit.
He walked toward his motorhome, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had begun to wane. The din of the paddock was fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows, and as he turned the corner, there you were. Waiting for him. Leaning casually against the side of his motorhome, your arms crossed and a knowing smirk dancing on your lips. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto yours, the soft gleam of your smile both a challenge and an invitation.
“You’re late,” you teased, tilting your head in mock disapproval.
Jeonghan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”
“You’re always on a schedule,” you shot back, your tone light but your gaze sharp. “Besides, I thought you’d be faster off track too.”
His smirk deepened as he stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of champagne and adrenaline clung to him. “Big words for someone who’s hanging around my motorhome.”
“Big win for someone who barely made it out of Q2,” you quipped, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.
Jeonghan’s chuckle was low, almost indulgent. “Touché.”
There was a moment of silence, the din of the paddock fading into a distant hum. His eyes traced your face, noting the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheekbones, the way you seemed perfectly at ease under his scrutiny. That unnerved him more than he cared to admit. You’d always been too good at staying cool, keeping him on edge.
“So,” he finally said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “where’s your article? Shouldn’t it be out by now?”
You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think I’m done? I’m holding out for an exclusive.”
Jeonghan’s grin widened, his ego soaking up your words. “An exclusive? From the tifosi’s god?”
Your laugh was soft, teasing, and it sent a warmth through his chest that rivaled the rush of the race. “Your words, not mine.”
“You want a headline that bad?” His voice dropped, his tone dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you shift.
“Maybe,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way he was looking at you now—like he was ready to devour you whole. “But you’d have to give me something worth writing about.”
It was playful, the banter you always shared, but there was something crackling beneath the surface tonight, an electricity neither of you could ignore. Jeonghan stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. You shifted back instinctively, your spine meeting the cool surface of the motorhome door.
“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.
“Someone has to keep you grounded,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly as his hand braced against the door beside your head, caging you in. His other hand hovered near your hip, close enough to make you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him.
“Grounded?” he repeated, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “You’re doing a great job of that.”
Your heart was pounding now, the proximity, the tension—it was overwhelming. “Jeonghan,” you started, your voice quieter, more measured, “this… this isn’t professional.”
“Fuck being professional,” he said, the words slipping out like a confession. Before you could respond, his fingers tilted your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding you to look up at him.
And then his lips were on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was as fierce as it was unrelenting. It wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was raw, all the tension and frustration that had built up between you spilling over in a single, consuming moment. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might pull away.
But you didn’t. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands finding the front of his race suit, clutching the material as if to steady yourself. The world around you blurred into nothing; there was only the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he kissed like he was claiming something he’d wanted for far too long.
Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—confirmation, permission, anything. Whatever he found made him grin, wicked and hungry. Without a word, he reached for the door handle, pushing it open with a sharp motion. The door swung wide, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you inside. 
The door clicked shut behind you, plunging you both into the dim interior of the motorhome. Jeonghan's hands were everywhere at once, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, as if he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a moment.
You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the edge of the small couch. Jeonghan followed, never breaking contact, until you were lying beneath him, the leather cool against your heated skin. His weight pressed you down, a delicious pressure that made your head spin.
"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your neck, his words punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses that trailed down to your collarbone.
You arched into him, your hands fumbling with the zipper of his race suit. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged it down and yanked off his fireproofs, revealing more of his sweat-slicked skin. Jeonghan groaned against your throat as your hands slipped inside, exploring the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen.
"How long?" you managed to ask between ragged breaths, curiosity mingling with desire.
Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto yours. "Since the first time you interviewed me," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "The way you challenged me, saw right through my bullshit... I knew I was in trouble."
The confession sent a thrill through you, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as his hands roamed your body, pushing up your shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.
Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss. Jeonghan groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. 
“So what you’re saying,” you whispered, grinding your clothed cunt against him. “Is that you’ve been obsessed with me as long as I have with you.”
He drops his head and groans, hot and heavy, against your throat. “You’re telling me we could have been doing this for three years?”
You pull him back to your lips by his hair, relishing the way he hisses at your touch. “If only you’d put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy.”
At that, he props himself up above you, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “I knew you called me pretty in Japan!” 
You desperately claw at his shoulders in an attempt to bring his mouth back to yours. After three years of cat and mouse, you do believe you’re entitled to it. “Jeonghan, I swear to everything that is holy-”
“Say it.” His necklace hangs in front of you, glinting in the dim light of the motorhome. You have half a mind to crane your neck and take it with your teeth. But instead, you choose to stare up at him in mock confusion, fingers dancing at the nape of his neck. 
“Say what?”
His answering laugh mocks you a little, and he leans down to gently bite your earlobe. When he speaks, it’s low and deep. “Say I’m pretty. I know you think it when you’re drunk.”
You shiver at the sensation of his teeth grazing your ear, heat pooling in your core. His words make you flush, remembering all the times you'd drunkenly gushed about him to your friends. You'd always been careful to keep things professional in person, but apparently some of your true feelings had slipped out.
"And how would you know what I think when I'm drunk?" you challenge, trying to regain some control.
Jeonghan chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You're not the only one with sources in the paddock, sweetheart."
The pet name sends another thrill through you. You decide to give him what he wants, if only to move things along. "Fine," you breathe, trailing your fingers down his chest. "You're pretty, Jeonghan. Gorgeous, actually. Happy now?"
His grin is triumphant as he captures your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming. "Ecstatic, darling," he murmurs against your mouth.
Your hands roam his body, tracing the lean muscles of his back, feeling them flex under your touch. Jeonghan's fingers dance along your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, then your neck, drawing a soft moan from your lips.
"You know," he says between kisses, his voice low and husky, "I've imagined this so many times. On the couch in the media room, in the garage, during those long interviews..."
You gasp as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck. "Is that why you always fidget so much during our talks?"
He chuckles against your skin. "Guilty as charged."
Your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, , but as one hand curls around your jaw, the other stops you. 
“You first,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees to gently urge you out of your shirt.
You lift your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air of the motorhome raises goosebumps on your flesh, but Jeonghan's heated gaze makes you feel like you're burning up.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. "Even better than I imagined."
You reach up to pull him back down to you, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As your lips meet again, his hands roam your sides, mapping out every curve and dip. You arch into his touch, desperate for more.
His hands brush over your clothed nipple, and you inhale sharply. The sound makes Jeonghan raise his head, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. “Sensitive, are we?” He coos, hands drawing shapes against the swell of your breasts until goosebumps erupt on your flesh.
Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you though the thin fabric of your bra. “Jeonghan,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.
His smirk widens as he lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "Yes, sweetheart?" He murmurs against your skin. His lips trail lower, ghosting over the lacework.
You arch your back, silently begging for more. Jeonghan obliges, his tongue darting out to trace the lace edge of your bra. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close.
With deft fingers, he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. You lift slightly, allowing him to slide it off. His eyes darken as he takes you in. You moan wantonly, arching your back in an effort to touch you - somewhere, anywhere.
“Jeonghan, please-”
A singular finger traces the curve of your waist up to your collarbone. He hums as you squirm. “Look at you,” he murmurs. You shriek as he pinches your waist. “You act so big in the paddock, and here you are, begging for me to touch you.”
It enrages you a little, how easily he takes you apart. Hell, he’s barely even touched you and you’re already rubbing your thighs together, desperate for any amount of friction.
"Jeonghan, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Less? Everything?
He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding.
You swallow hard, and the heat pooling between your legs feels hot enough to burn. “Y-your-”
“My what, baby?” His words are punctuated by hot, open mouthed kisses against your collarbones. He pointedly ignores your nipples, a thought that makes you whine. “Speak up.”
“Your mouth, Jeonghan,” you finally get out, hissing when his teeth find purchase on the skin of your neck.
“Yeah? Where, baby?” His hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist. “Here?”
“N-no,” you hate it, the way Jeonghan turns you into a whimpering mess. You shiver as his hands trail up your body.
“Hm…how about…here?” His thumbs brush against the underside of your breast again, and you arch your back, desperate and aching for him.
“Higher,” you breathe, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance up your body, by the way his eyes never leave yours.
“Here, baby?” His fingers tweak an already-hard nipple, and you gasp.
“Yes, please-”
“Say I’m a good driver, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.”
Your eyes snap open, narrowing at him in disbelief. Even now, with you half-naked and writhing beneath him, he can't help but tease. "You're kidding, right?"
Jeonghan's grin is wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not at all. Come on, darling. Just a few little words."
You bite your lip, torn between your pride and your desperate need for his touch. His thumb circles your nipple lazily, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Finally, you cave. "Fine," you breathe. "You're a good driver, Jeonghan. The best, even. Now please—"
Before you can finish, his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet. You cry out, arching into him as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His hand kneads your other breast, fingers teasing your other nipple. 
Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Jeonghan's tongue and teeth work in tandem, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The sensations are overwhelming, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.
"God, Jeonghan," you breathe, your head falling back against the couch cushions.
He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging for more.
Jeonghan lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as they meet yours. "Tell me you want this," he says, his voice husky and low. "I need to hear you say it."
You nod frantically, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," you breathe, your voice filled with need. "I want this. I want you, Jeonghan."
His eyes darken further at your words, a low growl escaping his throat. In one swift motion, he unbuttons your pants and slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You kick them off eagerly, now fully bare beneath him.
Jeonghan's gaze rakes over your body, hungry and appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs. "So fucking beautiful."
You reach for him, tugging at the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. "Your turn," you say, your voice breathy with anticipation.
He grins, standing to shuck off the rest of his clothes. Your eyes widen as he reveals himself fully, drinking in the sight of his toned body. Jeonghan's grin widened as he caught you staring. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice low and husky.
You nod, unable to form words as your eyes roam his body. The lean muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the impressive length of his cock standing proud against his stomach - it was all even better than you'd imagined.
He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"
That snapped you out of your daze. "Shut up and get back here," you growl, reaching for him.
Jeonghan obliges, lowering himself back onto the couch and covering your body with his. You gasp at the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of his body against yours. His lips find yours in a searing kiss as his hands explore every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers finally brush against your core, you gasp into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily.
“So wet,” he murmurs against your lips. “All for me?”
"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling against his hand. "All for you."
Jeonghan's fingers explore your folds, teasing and mapping out every sensitive spot. When he finally slides a finger inside you, you moan loudly, your back arching off the couch. He sets a slow, torturous pace, curling his finger just right to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Jeonghan."
He obliges, adding a second finger and increasing his pace. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that have you writhing beneath him. You can feel the tension building in your core, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. Your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders – you’re too drunk on lust to recognize if you’re pushing him away because it’s too much or pulling him closer because it’s not nearly enough. 
"That's it, baby," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. "Let go for me.”
His words push you over the edge, and you come with a cry, your body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're trembling and oversensitive.
As you come down from your high, Jeonghan peppers soft kisses along your jaw and neck. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "You're so beautiful when you let go."
You're still catching your breath when you feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Your hand snakes between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. Jeonghan hisses at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
"Show me," you breathe, thumb brushing over the tip of his pre-cum slick cock. You relish the way he shudders against you. “Show me everything you imagined, pretty boy.”
He preens a little at your teasing words, arms shaking with the exertion of keeping himself above you. “Yeah?” he purrs, hips bucking to the tempo of your hand. “You wanna see, sweetheart?”
You barely have the time to nod before he’s sweeping his arms under your thighs and sitting back against the couch, setting you on top of him. Your wet heat is inches from his weeping cock, and you give him an experimental roll of your hips. The friction is delicious, and you bite your lips at the way his head rolls back.
You take advantage of his position and press hot kisses against his neck as he squirms below you.
“This is what you wanted, baby?” you whisper against his ear, biting gently. He shudders, one arm circling your waist and the other finding purchase in your hair. “You wanted me on top? Me in control?” 
He laughs breathlessly at that, hips grinding against yours with such fervour that you almost succumb right then and there. “You might be on top, sweetheart,” he hisses as you position yourself above him, one hand circling his length. “But I’m the one in char-”
He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as you sink down until your hips are flush to his. “Hmmm?” You hum sweetly against his throat, exhaling at the sheer size of him inside you. “What was that?”
“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch as his hands trail down to rest on the curve of your ass. “Move, please, sweetheart.” 
“Tell me how much you love my writing.” The words leave you in a rush, the sight of him panting for you almost too heady to ignore. You hadn’t planned on teasing him, but his earlier words had lit a fire in your core that would only be doused once you flipped the script on him. 
His head is still on the back of the couch as he barks out a laugh. “You’re a fucking menace,” he murmurs, pinching your waist. “Now, move.”
“No.” It takes every bone in your body to stay absolutely still. You can feel him, thick and throbbing, and the thought of it makes you almost forgo this insanity to ride him into oblivion.
His eyes meet yours, and he raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. “Are you serious?” He punctuates his words by dragging a hand down your body, fingers finding your clit and pressing until you jerk away from him. It’s a futile attempt though, because his other hand is still fisted in your hair, and he uses it as leverage to hold you against him, powerless against his ministrations. 
With a shaking hand, your press against his wrist until his fingers stop moving in circles around your clit. “C-come on,” you tease breathlessly, using your other hand to thread through his sweat-soaked hair and yanking until he bares his throat to you with a groan. “Play nice, pretty boy. Tell me how much you love my writing.” 
He groans again as you lick a stripe up his throat, the hand in your hair loosening as his resolve weakens. ��Y-you don’t play fair,” he moans, legs shaking with the exertion of keeping still, of playing your little game of cat and mouse. 
“Neither do you,” you whisper, your words paired with a tweak to his nipple that has him gasping and arching his back. 
“Fuck!” He cries out, curling forward until his chin rests against your ribs and he’s staring up at you. “Y-your writing is perfect.”
He’s rewarded with another gentle tug on his hair and a firm, “keep going.”
“S-so perfect and wonderful, I – fuck, baby please – read every word th-three times,” he’s almost whimpering now, looking up at you with so much desire that you decide it’s time to reward him for being so pliant, so good for you. “You-you’re the best writer in the whole paddock, fuck, yes, thank yo-”
You decide to put him out of his misery, preening at his praise, you start with an experimental grind against his hips, and watch with glee as he almost melts back against the couch. You decide to take advantage of the situation for a little while longer, rocking your hips faster as his lips find your nipple.
“Who’s in charge?” you coo, fingers gripping his hair a little tighter. He draws back to give you a quick smirk. They don’t call him the fastest on the grid for nothing – one second, you feel like you’re in complete control, and the next, he’s lifting you off of him with surprising ease. Your chest meets the couch before you can even form a single thought, and Jeonghan gathers up your wrists in one of his hands. 
“You really thought,” he hisses as he re-enters your aching pussy. “You were in charge, sweetheart?”
The new angle allows him to sink even deeper inside you, drawing a low moan from your lips.
"You were saying?" he purrs, chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and whimpering beneath him.
"You thought you could tease me like that and get away with it?" he groans, his free hand gripping your hip tightly. "Thought you could make me beg?"
You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly. The couch creaks beneath you dangerously.
"Answer me," Jeonghan demands, slowing his pace torturously.
"J-Jeonghan," you manage to stammer, your voice muffled against the cushions.
He leans over you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispers in your ear. "What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear you."
You turn your head, meeting his intense gaze over your shoulder. "Please," you whimper.
“Please what?” He demands.
"Please," you gasp, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Jeonghan's hips continue their torturously slow pace. "Please, I need more."
His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "More what, baby? Use your words. You’re so good with words, aren’t you?"
You whine in frustration, trying to push back against him, seeking the friction you desperately crave. But his grip on your hip is firm, holding you in place.
"Fuck me," you finally manage to choke out. "Please, Jeonghan, fuck me harder."
"There we go," he purrs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Was that so hard?"
Before you can retort, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.
Jeonghan sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch cushions. The hand not holding your wrists snakes around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Jeonghan groans, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect for me."
You moan at his words, feeling the familiar coil of heat building in your core. "J-Jeonghan," you whimper, "I'm close..."
"That's it, baby," he encourages, his fingers working faster against your clit. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
Every part of your body is on fire, from the way Jeonghan's hips press against yours to the way his fingers expertly stroke your clit.
You come with a cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a deep groan from Jeonghan.
He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you towards another. You're oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.
"God, you're perfect," Jeonghan pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. "So fucking perfect."
You feel his thrusts becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged against your neck. "Come on, Jeonghan," you manage to gasp out.
"Come for me," you urge him, clenching around him deliberately.
With a guttural groan, Jeonghan's hips stutter and he comes, spilling inside you as his body shudders with release. The feeling of him pulsing within you sends you over the edge again, and you cry out, trembling beneath him.
For a long moment, the only sound in the motorhome is your combined heavy breathing. Jeonghan releases your wrists and gently pulls out, causing you both to wince at the sensitivity. 
Jeonghan collapses onto the couch beside you, his body warm and solid as he pulls you into his arms. The weight of him, the feeling of his heartbeat drumming against your cheek, is grounding. You curl into his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull you into a rare moment of stillness. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your back, the movements unhurried, almost absentminded, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you just yet.
“Well,” he says finally, his voice rough and lower than usual, laced with satisfaction. “I think that was worth the wait.”
You huff a laugh, the sound barely audible over the soft thrum of life outside the motorhome. “Of course you do,” you mutter, your cheek pressed against the hard planes of his chest, which smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely Jeonghan.
His fingers pause their tracing for a moment, as though considering his next move, before starting again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Admit it,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, though softer now, quieter, like the vulnerability from before hadn’t completely left. “You’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”
You tilt your head up, catching the faint glow of the ceiling light reflected in his eyes. They’re darker now, warmer, but still full of that infuriating smugness. Your lips twitch in defiance as you fight the urge to smile. “What makes you so sure I was thinking about it at all?”
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, a lock of hair falling across his forehead in a way that’s unfairly distracting. His grin is sharp and unrelenting. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Am not,” you fire back, though your tone lacks any real conviction. The way his fingers continue their soft, languid exploration of your back doesn’t help.
“Okay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself as he leans his head back against the couch. “So when you cornered me after qualifying that one time in Japan two years ago, that wasn’t because you couldn’t stop staring at me in my race suit?”
You gape at him, your body jerking upright just enough to glare at him properly. “I cornered you because I wanted a quote, you egomaniac.” You punctuate the accusation with a half-hearted swat at his arm.
He catches your wrist easily, his grip firm but gentle, and intertwines his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand against yours is distracting, and it takes all your willpower not to lose focus. “Oh, you got a quote, all right,” he counters, his laughter bubbling up like he’s savoring every second of your indignation. “Admit it—you’ve been counting the days.”
You roll your eyes, the movement dramatic, though the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. “And if I was?”
Jeonghan’s grin softens at your words, the sharp edges smoothing out into something quieter, something vulnerable. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Then I’d say it was worth the wait,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.
The air between you shifts, heavier now, the teasing replaced by something else entirely. His gaze locks on yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades—the low hum of the paddock outside, the faint creak of the motorhome settling. All that exists is him, his hand still resting near your face, and the weight of his words hanging between you.
Your throat feels tight, and you clear it quickly, trying to shake off the spell he’s cast over you. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shifting slightly to put some distance between you.
“Too late,” he replies with a ghost of a smirk, leaning back lazily against the couch. His arm stretches along the back of the cushions, the casual sprawl of his posture somehow making him seem even more confident. Then, with an easy grace that feels entirely unfair, he leans forward and plucks something from the coffee table. “By the way, your article? It’s still late.”
You blink at him, incredulous, before groaning and burying your face in your hands. “Now you care about professionalism?”
Jeonghan shrugs, holding out his hand as if offering you an invisible microphone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Exclusive with the winner of Monza? Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
You peek at him through your fingers, shaking your head with a laugh that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he counters, his voice softening again as he leans forward to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, warm and reassuring, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little while.”
Jeonghan’s arms tighten around you as the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet. The warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing are grounding, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You tilt your head up to look at him, searching his expression for something you can’t quite name.
“What?” he asks softly, his tone warm but teasing. His fingers brush over the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
“What… what are we now?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.
Jeonghan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His thumb brushes your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. “We’re whatever you want to be, sweetheart,” he says simply, his voice low and full of something too deep to name.
You feel your heart stutter, the weight of his words sinking into you. “Can we…” You hesitate, the vulnerability of the moment making your voice falter. “Can we take it slow?”
For a second, he just blinks at you, and then the corners of his mouth lift into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. “Take it slow? After you just made me beg?” He chuckles, the sound soft but undeniably teasing. “You’re full of surprises.”
Your face heats instantly, and you swat at his shoulder, your embarrassment overridden by his smugness. “Shut up.”
Jeonghan catches your wrist before you can retreat, his laughter fading as he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. The mischief in his eyes melts into something gentler, something that makes your breath catch. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”
You glance at him, your walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “It’s just…” You trail off, trying to find the right words, the weight of reality settling in around you. “Our careers, the season… It’s a lot. I don’t want to mess this up, not with everything else happening.”
Jeonghan’s expression softens even further, the teasing flicker in his eyes replaced by understanding. “I get it,” he says quietly. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’ve waited three years to feel this close to you. What’s forever if it means I get to do it right?”
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, equal parts devastating and beautiful. You close your eyes for a moment, letting them sink in, before leaning forward to press your lips to his—soft, brief, but full of everything you can’t quite bring yourself to say.
When you pull back, Jeonghan’s smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazes at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“No pressure, though,” he adds after a beat, his teasing tone returning as his grin widens. “Unless you’re writing a follow-up article about me being the world’s most patient man.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest as he laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he counters, his hand sliding back to your hair, cradling you close.
And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.
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FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Baku City Circuit
The streets of Baku were as much a character in the race as any driver—a stunning clash of history and modernity, where medieval walls stood beside glimmering skyscrapers. The track was notorious for its tight corners and long straights, a playground of risk and reward. Jeonghan knew every inch of it like it was an old rival, one he had to best to keep his championship hopes alive.
Qualifying was tight—Jeonghan secured P2, just behind Mingyu. "He’s fast," Jeonghan muttered to you that evening, the weight of the competition clear in his voice. But there was no self-doubt, just the quiet calculation that always preceded his brilliance.
Race day was a spectacle. Jeonghan’s precision through the castle section was breathtaking, and when the opportunity came to pass Mingyu on the long straight during the final stint, he didn’t hesitate. The roar of the tifosi—echoing even in Azerbaijan—followed him as he crossed the line first. The team’s radio had erupted with cheers as Jeonghan crossed the finish line, and when you saw him after the podium ceremony, his champagne-damp hair and triumphant smile had made your heart skip a beat.
Later, after the media frenzy, Jeonghan pulls you aside. "Come on," he says with a conspiratorial grin, grabbing your hand. "You didn’t think I’d let you leave Baku without exploring, did you?"
The cobblestone streets of Baku feel like something out of a postcard. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the historic Old City. Jeonghan walks beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he gestures to the buildings with a sense of wonder that’s rare to see in him.
“How do you know all this?” you ask, genuinely curious as he points out the Maiden Tower and recounts its legends with surprising accuracy.
He grins, tilting his head in that maddeningly charming way. “What, you thought I only studied race strategies? I’ve got layers, sweetheart.” He insists on taking cheesy tourist photos, including one where he pretends to be a knight defending you at the city walls.
“I could be your knight in shining armor,” he teases, holding his imaginary sword aloft.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re already Ferrari’s golden boy,” you shoot back, snapping the photo anyway. “Isn’t that enough?” 
He’s good at this—whisking you away from the chaos of the paddock and making you forget, even if just for a moment, that the world is watching him.
Now, as you wander the streets of Baku, he’s more relaxed, his usual playful demeanor slipping into something softer. You pause in front of a street vendor selling intricate souvenirs, and Jeonghan picks up a small, hand-carved wooden box.
“For your desk,” he says simply, handing it to you before you can protest.
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but you take the gift anyway.
“Yeah, but you love me,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the two of you continue down the street, the sound of distant music and laughter filling the warm night air.
That night, back at the hotel, Jeonghan skims your article on his phone while sprawled on the couch.
Jeonghan’s Baku Blitz: Closes the Gap to Mingyu with Stunning Victory
His smirk grows wider with every sentence. “Stunning victory, huh? You really know how to make me sound good.”
You roll your eyes, throwing a pillow at him. “It was stunning. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that,” he quips, pulling you into his lap. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the little shout-out to my late-braking move. Makes me wonder how closely you’re watching me.”
“Always,” you admit softly, the truth laced between your words. His grin softens, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
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FORMULA 1 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Marina Bay Street Circuit
The Marina Bay Circuit was infamous—its oppressive heat, humidity, and unforgiving corners made it a grueling test of endurance. It was Jeonghan’s least favorite track, something he’d muttered repeatedly during practice.
In qualifying, he delivered a masterclass, securing pole position under the glowing lights that lined the circuit. "See?" he said, leaning casually against his car afterward, sweat still dripping from his brow. "Guess the heat doesn’t bother me as much as I thought."  Watching him grin through post-quali interviews, drenched in sweat but radiating confidence, had you practically floating back to your hotel room.
You’ve barely ventured outside the hotel after qualifying, and he texts you cryptically to “stay put.” Now, the air conditioning hums softly as you sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through headlines about his performance. You’re still reading when the door swings open, and Jeonghan strides in, carrying a tray.
“Room service,” he announces with a dramatic flourish, setting it down beside you.
Your eyes widen at the sight of chocolate-covered strawberries and a chilled bottle of champagne. “What’s the occasion?”
He shrugs, popping the cork with practiced ease. “Pole position deserves a celebration. Plus…” He smirks, holding up a strawberry. “I wanted to see you smile.”
You laugh, shaking your head as he moves closer, offering the berry. But when you reach for it, he pulls it back, dragging it over your lips instead, smearing chocolate at the corner of your mouth.
“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss it away. The sweetness lingers on his lips, and before you know it, he’s pulled you into his lap, the rest of the world forgotten.
The race the next day is less triumphant. A perfectly timed pit stop keeps Jeonghan ahead of the pack for most of the race, but a late safety car allows another driver to close the gap, relegating him to P2. Still, with Mingyu out of the race, Jeonghan’s second-place finish is enough to reclaim the championship lead.
Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable when he reads your latest article:
Heat and Havoc in Singapore: Jeonghan Takes Second as Mingyu Crashes Out
“Well, at least you didn’t call me lucky,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.
“You weren’t lucky. You earned that result,” you reply, watching his face carefully.
He hums, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Still. Next time, I’d rather win outright.”
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FALL BREAK: SEPT 23-OCT 17
The crisp autumn air brushes against your face as you unlock your front door, arms full of groceries. It’s been a quiet few weeks since Singapore, the space between races stretching out like an eternity. You’ve tried to enjoy the pause, but it feels strange—unnatural, even—to be so far removed from the whirlwind of Jeonghan’s life.
Your thoughts drift to him as you drop the keys on the counter. Monaco. Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello. Both places are worlds away from your little apartment.
You’re unloading a carton of eggs when there’s a knock at the door. Confused, you glance at the clock. It’s too late for deliveries and far too early for your neighbors to come by.
When you open the door, your heart stops.
Jeonghan stands there, his frame relaxed yet somehow magnetic. He’s dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the setting sun. A bouquet of your favorite flowers is clutched in one hand, their vibrant colors almost as captivating as the smile tugging at his lips.
“Jeonghan?” you ask, blinking in disbelief. “What are you—how—”
“Miss me?” he interrupts, stepping inside before you can fully process his presence. He hands you the flowers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning in to press a quick kiss against your lips.
Your breath catches, and you can only stare at him, your mind struggling to keep up.
“You live in Monaco,” you point out, still staring at him. “And work in Italy.”
“I’m aware,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Of course, I missed you,” you murmur, your cheeks heating.
“Good.” He grins and takes your free hand, tugging you toward the door.
“Wait—where are we going?”
“Out,” he says simply.
You try to protest, gesturing to the groceries still sitting on the counter, but he’s already leading you down the hallway. His excitement is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite your confusion.
An hour later, you’re standing at the entrance of a sprawling amusement park, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the evening sky.
“You’re serious?” you ask, staring at the carousel spinning lazily in the distance.
“Dead serious,” Jeonghan replies, his tone light as he hands over your ticket. “I figured you could use a night off.”
“I’m not the one traveling the world every other week,” you point out.
“Exactly,” he counters, his smile growing. “I needed to see you smile. And this seemed like a good place to start.”
The night unfolds in a blur of laughter and adrenaline. Jeonghan, surprisingly competitive, insists on winning you a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss, only to fail spectacularly—twice. You tease him mercilessly, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.
When you step off the bumper cars, your cheeks are flushed, and your voice is hoarse from yelling. Jeonghan is no better, his hair sticking up in all directions after you gleefully rammed into him three times in a row.
“I think you’ve got a mean streak,” he says, pretending to nurse an invisible injury.
“Me?” you gasp, feigning innocence. “You literally tried to corner me!”
He doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Instead, he grabs your hand again, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you toward the Ferris wheel.
The view from the top is breathtaking. The park stretches out below you, a sea of lights and movement, while the city skyline glimmers in the distance.
Jeonghan is quiet beside you, his gaze fixed on your face instead of the view. You turn to him, suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting.
“What?” you ask softly.
“You’re happy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I like seeing you like this.”
Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s slow and deliberate, his hand moving to cradle your jaw as the world around you seems to fall away.
When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.
“This is dangerous,” you tease, though your voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re going to make me think nothing can go wrong.”
“Maybe nothing will,” he replies, his forehead resting gently against yours.
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FORMULA 1 PIRELLI UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Circuit of the Americas
Austin brought a different kind of challenge. The Circuit of the Americas was iconic for its mix of sweeping corners, elevation changes, and a crowd that rivaled the tifosi in their enthusiasm. Jeonghan thrived here, securing P1 in qualifying and delivering a flawless race to claim another victory.
"Two wins in three races," he said that evening, pulling you into his side as you walked into a cowboy-themed bar downtown. "Guess I’m on a roll."
The bar was loud, filled with locals and fans alike, but Jeonghan stood out effortlessly. His cowboy hat tilted just right, a plaid shirt unbuttoned enough to make you wonder how he managed to look like that after hours in a car.
He kept his hand in your back pocket all night, his touch a silent claim when no one was looking. Every time he leaned in to murmur something in your ear, his lips brushed your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy," he whispered at one point, his grin wicked as he tipped his hat at you.
That was all it took. You dragged him back to the hotel, barely making it through the door before he was on you, the hat ending up on the floor somewhere between the bed and the door.
The article you write the next day earns a rare whistle of approval from Jeonghan:
Cowboy Jeonghan Rides High in Austin, Extends Championship Lead
“I think this might be your best one yet,” he says, setting the phone down as he pulls you into his lap.
“Because I complimented you, or because I called you a cowboy?”
“Both,” he answers, his lips brushing against yours. “You know how much I love it when you’re right.”
And as his hand slides to the small of your back, you can’t help but think this season isn’t just his championship—it’s yours, too.
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FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO 2024 Track: Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez
The atmosphere at the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez crackles with energy even hours after the race ends. The stands have mostly cleared, but the celebratory chaos of the paddock lingers. Jeonghan, fresh off another stellar performance, grins as reporters crowd around him, microphones extended like offerings. His hair is damp with sweat, his race suit tied around his waist as he leans casually against the Ferrari garage.
You watch from a distance, notebook in hand, trying not to let your gaze linger too long. He catches your eye anyway, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been calling you his “lucky charm” ever since you started waking up in his bed on race mornings, and it’s a moniker he seems to enjoy reminding you of at every opportunity.
"Don't go too far," he says when the interviews wrap up, his voice low as he brushes past you on his way to the motorhome. The warmth of his fingertips grazing your wrist sends a jolt of electricity through you. "We’re celebrating tonight, and you’re not wriggling out of it this time."
You don’t see the ambush coming.
You’re reviewing your notes in the quiet corner of the paddock when your editor finds you. His expression is stern, almost irate, as he approaches. The celebration around you suddenly feels muffled, the weight of his presence pulling you back to reality.
"Finally," he snaps, crossing his arms. "I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days."
"Hey, sorry, it’s been hectic," you start, tucking your notebook under your arm.
He doesn’t let you finish. "Hectic? I gave you the Ferrari all-access months ago. They’re breathing down my neck about where the hell it is. Where’s the draft?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut. You open your mouth, fumbling for an answer, but he’s already barreling forward.
"And don’t think I haven’t noticed your tone shift," he continues, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "All this newfound niceness toward Jeonghan in your articles. What’s that about, huh? You sleeping with him or something?"
The accusation slices through you, leaving you momentarily stunned.
"That’s not—" you begin, but your voice falters.
"Spare me," he says, waving you off. "I don’t care what’s going on between you two, but I do care about the reputation of this outlet. You’ve built your career on being incisive, unbiased. So get it together, or I’ll find someone who can."
He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving you standing there as the din of the paddock swells around you. The celebration feels distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears.
When Jeonghan finally finds you later that night, you’re a bundle of frayed nerves. The confrontation with your editor replays in your head like a broken record, each word cutting deeper into your carefully constructed sense of self. You sit hunched over your laptop in the corner of the media center, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that match the knot in your chest.
“What, you sleeping with him or something?”
The accusation echoes, burrowing into your mind, where it tangles with your own insecurities. You’ve built your entire career on being sharp, unbiased, and unflinchingly honest. And yet, somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had slipped through your defenses. You can still hear the venom in your editor’s voice, feel the judgment in his eyes. The doubt wasn’t just his anymore—it was yours, too.
Was he right? Had you compromised everything for Jeonghan?
Your hands tremble slightly as you scroll through the notes you’ve been trying to organize for hours, but the words blur together, useless. Guilt presses against your ribs like a vice, mixing with a raw ache of something you’re too scared to name. You’re drowning in your own thoughts, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve let everyone down: your editor, your readers, and most of all, Jeonghan.
When he finally appears, his presence fills the doorway like a shadow cutting through the sterile light. He leans against the doorframe with a casualness you can’t match, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead. The sight of him, so familiar and yet suddenly so distant, sends a pang through your chest.
“Working late?” he asks, his voice low but carrying the faint edge of concern.
You look up, startled, and quickly shut your laptop as if that might erase everything weighing on you. “Just...catching up,” you say, forcing a smile that feels as flimsy as the excuse.
Jeonghan doesn’t move, his eyes scanning you with the precision of someone who knows you too well. He doesn’t buy the act—you can tell by the way his brows knit together, a subtle but telling sign of his worry.
“Catching up on what?” he asks, stepping closer, his tone light but probing.
You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just notes. Articles. The usual.”
His gaze sharpens. “Right. And that’s why you look like you haven’t breathed in hours?”
You glance away, your fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. “I’m fine, Jeonghan. Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”
“And what, leave you like this?” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. “Not happening.”
The flood of emotions bubbling under your surface threatens to spill over. You want to tell him everything, but the words feel too tangled, too raw.
“I just need to get this done,” you say, your voice tight.
Jeonghan frowns, studying you more closely. "What’s going on? Did something happen?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, sidestepping him. "I just need some space tonight, okay?"
His hand brushes your arm, but you pull away, and the confusion in his eyes makes your stomach twist. "Fine," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "If that’s what you want."
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Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the bed feels empty. The cool sheets where you usually sleep tug at his attention before he fully registers the weight in his chest. Frowning, he rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand, still groggy.
The screen lights up with a mess of notifications: congratulatory texts, memes from Soonyoung, and a dozen links to your latest article. He swipes through the chaos with a faint smile, already anticipating your sharp insights mingled with the familiar affection that’s always laced through your critiques.
Propping himself up against the headboard, Jeonghan opens the piece. At first, the smile lingers—he’s grown to appreciate the balance you strike between honest criticism and admiration. But the further he reads, the slower he scrolls, the words pressing into him like bruises.
His smile fades entirely by the time he reaches the paragraph describing his meltdown in Spain. The words cut too close, dragging him back to that moment in the Aston Martin garage: the oppressive silence, the rain hammering against the roof, and the suffocating realization of yet another missed opportunity.
"Jeonghan’s brilliance is undeniable, but brilliance without consistency leaves championships just out of reach."
The sentence burns itself into his mind. The carefully chosen words feel clinical, detached—so unlike you. He rereads it, hoping to find the warmth he’s come to expect, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Jeonghan tosses his phone onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, disbelief simmering into anger. This wasn’t just an article. This was personal.
The paddock is bustling, teams dismantling their motorhomes to get ready for next weekend. Jeonghan doesn’t bother changing out of his sweats before leaving his room, each step through the maze of hospitality suites and garages fueled by frustration.
When he finally reaches the media center, his chest tightens at the sight of you hunched over your laptop, headphones in, oblivious to his stormy approach. He doesn’t hesitate.
"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" His voice slices through the low hum of conversations around you.
Startled, you pull off your headphones, your eyes widening as you take him in. "Jeonghan—"
"No." He slaps his phone onto the desk in front of you, his movements sharp and deliberate. The article stares back at you, a glaring reminder of the wedge you’ve driven between you. "Don’t ‘Jeonghan’ me. What is this?"
"It’s my job," you say, standing to meet his intensity. The tremor in your voice betrays your composure. "You’ve always said you respected that about me."
"Respect?" His laugh is sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You think I respect this?" He gestures to the article like it’s a living thing, something venomous and cruel. "You went for my throat."
"I didn’t go for your throat," you argue, though your voice cracks at the edges. "I wrote the truth."
"The truth?" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know when you’re pulling punches? You tore me apart for no reason."
"You’ve been avoiding media days. You had a meltdown in Spain," you fire back, your tone rising as your frustration bubbles to the surface. "Those are facts, Jeonghan."
"You didn’t have to highlight them," he counters, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You know how much this season means to me."
"And do you think this was easy for me?" you ask, tears pricking at your eyes. "Do you think I wanted to write that?"
"Then why did you?" His voice softens, the anger slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do that to me?"
"Because I had to!" The words explode out of you, breaking the fragile tension. "Because people already think I’m biased. That I’ve gone soft. That I’m compromised because of you."
The weight of your confession hangs in the air, pressing down on both of you. Jeonghan’s face shifts, the fury giving way to something heavier—hurt, confusion, disappointment.
"I never asked you to compromise anything for me," he says quietly, his voice thick. "I never would."
You look away, your gaze falling to the floor. "I know. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about my career. My integrity."
"And what about us?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "Where does that leave us?"
You have no answer, the words lodged in your throat. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of activity outside the room.
Finally, Jeonghan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I can’t do this right now," he mutters, taking a step back. "I need...I need to get out of here."
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Jeonghan finds himself at the bar later that evening, the neon lights washing over him in hazy blues and reds. The whiskey in his glass is halfway gone before Soonyoung slides onto the stool next to him, his arrival quiet but not unnoticed.
"You look like shit," Soonyoung says, his tone light despite the obvious concern in his eyes.
"Thanks," Jeonghan mutters, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
They sit in silence for a moment before Soonyoung breaks it. "Want to talk about it?"
Jeonghan stares at his drink, the ice melting faster than he can keep up with. "I don’t know what we’re doing anymore," he admits, the words coming out heavier than he expected. "Me and her."
Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You two have always been complicated."
Jeonghan huffs out a humorless laugh. "That’s one way to put it."
"But," Soonyoung says, setting his glass down, "you’ve also always figured it out."
Jeonghan doesn’t respond, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and longing.
"You’re not going to fix it tonight," Soonyoung continues, his voice quieter now. "But if it matters—and I know it does—you’ll find a way. Just...don’t wait too long, yeah?"
Jeonghan nods slowly, the whiskey burning on its way down. Soonyoung’s words linger, a reminder of what he already knows but isn’t ready to face.
Not yet.
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FORMULA 1 LENOVO GRANDE PRÊMIO DE SÃO PAULO 2024 Track: Autódromo José Carlos Pace
The rain is relentless in São Paulo, hammering down on the paddock and turning the atmosphere into a chaotic mess of drenched personnel and frayed nerves. Qualifying has been suspended indefinitely, the downpour rendering the track undriveable, and the mood in the Ferrari garage is grim. The asphalt glistens under the floodlights, reflecting streaks of color from team banners and sponsor logos. It feels like the world is holding its breath. 
You’ve never liked rain. It has a way of amplifying what’s already simmering under the surface, and today is no exception. Your heart pounds as you weave through the maze of garages, dodging puddles and sidelong glances from team members. You know exactly where he’ll be—Jeonghan never strays far from the Ferrari setup, even when there’s nothing to do but wait.
Sure enough, there he is. Sitting on the edge of a workbench, his race suit unzipped to his waist and his damp undershirt clinging to his torso. His head is bowed, one hand gripping the edge of the bench while the other pushes wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally—but the moment your shoes scuff against the concrete floor, his eyes snap up to meet yours.
You’ve been blowing up his phone all week. Texts, calls, voice notes—all unanswered or met with cold, clipped replies.
"Jeonghan," you start, the sound of your voice barely carrying over the rain pelting the garage roof.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. "What are you doing here?"
The coldness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you force yourself to step closer. "I could ask you the same thing."
His laugh is short, bitter. "Why are you surprised? This is where I always am."
"Don’t do that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don’t act like this is normal. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks."
"I haven’t been ignoring you," he snaps, pushing off the bench. He stands tall now, towering over you, his hands resting on his hips. "I’ve been busy."
"Busy?" You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "You call one-word replies busy? Jeonghan, I’ve been calling and texting nonstop, and you’ve barely said anything to me."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant clatter of tools being packed away. Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again.
"Maybe I’m tired," he says, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Maybe I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."
Your heart twists at the admission, but you push it aside. "What’s not fine? Tell me, Jeonghan. Because I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out."
He shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "You don’t understand?" His voice rises, cracking with the weight of his frustration. "How could you not? You tore me apart in that article like I was just another driver. Like I meant nothing to you."
"It’s my job," you argue, but the words sound weak even to your ears.
"Your job?" he repeats, throwing his arms up. "You mean the job where you’re supposed to be unbiased? Yeah, I’ve noticed how ‘unbiased’ you’ve been lately. Especially when it comes to me."
"That’s not fair," you shoot back, taking a step closer. "You know I’ve always tried to be honest—"
"Honest?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You call dragging my worst moments into the spotlight honest? You didn’t write about me; you dissected me. Like I was nothing more than a story."
Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see how much his words cut. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."
"But you did," he says, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. "And now I don’t even know where we stand."
"We stand..." You falter, your throat tightening. "We stand where we’ve always stood. I care about you, Jeonghan. But this is complicated."
He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "It doesn’t have to be. It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way."
You look away, unable to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand what this means for me. For my career. For the season."
"And what about me?" he presses, his voice breaking. "What about what this means for us?"
The weight of his words hangs between you, heavy and suffocating. You take a shaky step back, the sound of the rain growing louder in the silence. "Maybe I should go," you whisper, turning toward the garage entrance.
"Don’t," he says sharply, and before you can take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me.”
You barely have time to register the movement before he’s pulling you back, his other hand cupping your face as his lips crash against yours. The rain spills into the garage, soaking you both as his kiss deepens, desperate and unyielding. His hands slide to your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I won’t give you up," he whispers, his voice raw. "But I need you to choose."
"Jeonghan..." Your voice trembles, but he cuts you off.
"You love me," he says, his hands cupping your face. "Yes or no."
You hesitate, the weight of his question pressing down on you like the storm outside.
"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don’t make me beg."
"I’m scared," you admit finally, your voice breaking. "Scared of losing myself. Of losing everything I’ve worked for."
He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Are you willing to lose me to keep writing?"
"I..." The words catch in your throat, the truth slipping through your fingers. "I don’t know."
His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, the distance between you like a chasm. "When you decide," he says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation, "give me a call."
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The rain clears just in time for Sunday’s race, and Jeonghan is unstoppable. He weaves through the slick track with the precision and grace that made him a legend, crossing the finish line first and extending his lead in the championship.
But you’re not there to celebrate with him.
You watch from the media center, your chest tight as the cameras capture his triumphant smile. But there’s a hollowness in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken as he scans the crowd for someone who isn’t there.
The post-race interviews blur together, and even as you type up your article, the words feel lifeless. Without him beside you, the hotel room feels cold and sterile, the thrill of the race dulled by the ache in your chest.
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The days leading up to the Las Vegas Grand Prix are a haze of press releases and anticipation. Jeonghan is one race away from becoming a world champion, but all you can think about is the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you under the floodlights.
Your editor calls to praise your latest pieces, but the compliments feel hollow. The articles are polished and professional, but they lack the spark you used to feel when writing about him.
You glance at your phone, your thumb hovering over Jeonghan’s name. You haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t dared to.
Because the truth is, you’re terrified. 
Terrified of losing yourself. 
But even more terrified of losing him.
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FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN SILVER LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Las Vegas Strip Circuit
The sun sets over Las Vegas in a haze of neon and desert dust, the city already buzzing with anticipation for the final race of the season. But in the paddock, the air is electric for all the wrong reasons.
Jeonghan crashes out in Q3.
Your eyes are glued to the screen as Jeonghan’s car slides violently into the barriers, the sharp sound of the impact slicing through the usual hum of commentary. Gasps ripple through the room, but your stomach lurches with something deeper than professional concern. 
You’re in the media center when it happens, staring at the screen as his time locks in. The commentators speculate, the other journalists start drafting headlines, but you can’t hear a word of it. Your heart is already in free fall, and you don’t breathe again until he climbs out of the car, his hands held up in frustration as he waves off the medics.
P8. A disastrous result for the race that could make—or break—his championship. It might as well be the end of the world. 
The room erupts into murmurs as analysts speculate on strategy and rival team fans cheer, but you barely hear them. Your editor sidles up to your desk, his grin practically gleaming in the fluorescent light.
"Well, well," he says, leaning over your shoulder. "Looks like we’ve got our headline for tomorrow. ‘Jeonghan’s Championship Dream in Tatters.’ Perfect angle to dissect his mistakes, maybe even his cocky attitude catching up with him—"
His words fade into the background as something clicks inside you. Every fiber of your being recoils at the thought of reducing Jeonghan—your Jeonghan—to nothing more than a headline. You love writing, yes, but this? This isn’t writing. This is tearing apart the one person who matters most to you, all for clicks and ad revenue.
Without thinking, you swivel in your chair, fixing your editor with a glare so sharp it silences him mid-sentence. "This is my two weeks’ notice."
He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You stand, grabbing your bag and laptop. "I’m done."
Before he can argue, you’re already out the door, leaving behind the cacophony of keyboards and camera flashes. The paddock is chaos as you weave through the throngs of team personnel and fans, your heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and urgency.
You run.
The Ferrari garage is chaos. Engineers scramble to pack up the car, Jeonghan’s manager barks into his phone, and his publicist looks ready to faint. You push your way through it all, ignoring the glares and the shouted protests.
“He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” Soonyoung says, stepping in front of you as you approach the motorhome.
“I don’t care,” you snap, shoving past him.
The motorhome is empty.
For a moment, you’re frozen, your chest heaving as you glance around the pristine space. The stillness only amplifies your worry. And then it hits you, like a sudden gust of wind: you know exactly where he is.
You sprint again, your heartbeat pounding louder than the chaos of the paddock behind you. The world blurs into streaks of neon lights, the hum of distant conversations, and the faint roar of engines being powered down for the night. The grandstands loom ahead, their cold metal steps stretching upward like an impossible climb. Each step burns in your legs, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but you don’t let up.
You don’t stop until you see him.
Jeonghan sits alone, halfway up the grandstands, his figure slouched as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The floodlights bathe him in a pale glow, illuminating the soft curve of his profile, his hair catching the light in strands of gold. His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the track below as if searching for answers in the lines he couldn’t master tonight. A half-finished beer dangles loosely from his fingertips, the bottle swaying slightly with every small movement. Beside him, another bottle sits untouched, condensation pooling on the aluminum seat beneath it.
Waiting.
You take the last steps slowly, your chest tightening as your breathing evens out. Up close, his exhaustion is palpable—dark shadows under his eyes, his usual sharp features softened by an unfamiliar vulnerability.
“I knew you’d come,” he says without looking at you, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but it carries a weight that settles heavily in your chest. He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thought.
You hover for a moment before lowering yourself into the seat beside him. The cold aluminum seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own skin after the sprint. Jeonghan doesn’t move, doesn’t turn toward you, and the distance between you feels like a chasm.
“Jeonghan...” you start, your voice hesitant, but he cuts you off with a bitter laugh.
“This is what happens when my lucky charm leaves me,” he mutters, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. His tone is light, but it does nothing to hide the ache in his words. He takes a slow sip of his beer, the motion unhurried.
You glance at the track, the sharp turns and straightaways now cloaked in shadows. “It’s not your fault,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to brush his arm. He flinches at the contact, his muscles tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“P8 doesn’t mean it’s over.”
This time, he turns to look at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The raw vulnerability there makes your chest tighten further. His voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his gaze drops to the beer bottle in his hand. “This race... it’s everything. If I win, I’m a champion. If I don’t...” He trails off, his words hanging in the air between you.
“I’m scared, Y/N.” His voice cracks, and the sound is almost unbearable. “Scared of all of it. The pressure, the expectations... losing.”
You stare at him, the usually unshakable Jeonghan, the Golden Boy, the Ferrari God, unraveling before you. Your hands move without thinking, cupping his face and tilting his chin so he’s forced to meet your gaze again. His skin is warm beneath your palms, a faint flush from the alcohol—or maybe the stress—lingering across his cheeks.
“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you close the distance between you. “You love me. Yes or no.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. And then his hands come up to grip your wrists, his touch firm but trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling from his lips without hesitation, raw and resolute. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold yours, steady and certain despite the tears brimming there.
A soft smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, your lips brushing against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. “Good,” you whisper, the word carrying a quiet strength. “You’ll always have me.”
His grip on your wrists loosens, his expression shifting to something between confusion and hope. “But your job... your writing?”
“I’m quitting,” you say simply, letting the words hang for a moment. You watch the shock bloom across his face, his eyebrows shooting up as he sits back slightly, pulling your hands with him.
“You’re what?”
You laugh softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek as if to soothe him. “Not writing, idiot,” you tease gently. “I’m still going to write. But I’m not writing for any organization that profits off me tearing the man I love to shreds.”
His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, trying to process, and you take the opportunity to continue.
“Besides,” you add, your voice lighter now, “Sky Sports has been trying to recruit me for an on-air job for almost a year now.”
He stares at you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of doubt or regret. Finally, his voice comes, soft and uncertain. “You love me?”
The corners of your mouth lift into a playful smile, and you raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you decide to focus on?”
“Y/N,” he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost desperate. His hands move to clasp yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if afraid you’ll slip away. “Do you love me?”
You answer with action, leaning in and capturing his lips in a quick, tender kiss. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening around yours. “Win tomorrow, golden boy,” you whisper, your lips brushing his as you speak. “And I’ll tell you my answer.”
For the first time that night, Jeonghan smiles—a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and softens the tension in his face. And in that moment, as the world fades to just the two of you under the floodlights, you know he’s already won.
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Jeonghan is going to lose.
He’s sure of it.
The car feels like it’s fighting him at every turn, the tires slipping just slightly when he needs them to grip, the brakes locking up when he’s trying to conserve them for the final laps. His body aches from the sheer force of the race—the g-forces on the corners, the strain in his neck, the tension in his hands from gripping the wheel too hard.
The numbers on his dashboard blur together, his mind a muddled mess of strategies, tire temps, and sector times. He’s made up four places since the chaotic start and sits in P4 now, but every gain feels like a herculean effort. Every corner feels like it could be his last.
He slams the steering wheel in frustration as he exits another turn slower than he should, the car wobbling slightly under him. “This isn’t working,” he growls into the radio, his voice clipped and strained.
His engineer’s calm voice filters through the crackling static. “We know, Jeonghan. Stay focused. We believe in you.”
Jeonghan clenches his teeth, a biting retort forming on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, the radio crackles again.
“Your girl is here. In the garage. She’s watching.”
“What the fuck?” The words come out before he can stop them, his tone incredulous.
“Soonyoung wanted to surprise you,” his engineer explains, and Jeonghan can practically hear the grin in his voice.
His mind stutters to a halt, and for a moment, all the noise fades—the engine’s roar, the tires screeching against the asphalt, even the deafening wind rushing past his helmet. He blinks, the image of you sitting in the garage flashing in his mind, your presence there grounding him in a way nothing else can.
And then, like a light cutting through the fog, your words echo in his head. “Win tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my answer.”
His grip on the wheel tightens, his breath steadies, and something in him clicks. It’s not just the car anymore—it’s him. His mind, his body, the machine—they all fall into alignment like pieces of a puzzle.
“Copy,” he says into the radio, his voice calm now. The frustration is gone, replaced by a steely determination.
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Lap 50. Jeonghan is chasing down P3, the gap shrinking corner by corner. His tires scream in protest as he takes each turn with precision, braking just a fraction later, accelerating just a fraction earlier. The car isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s making it work.
As he dives into the braking zone at Turn 7, the car in front of him falters, locking up slightly. Jeonghan seizes the opportunity, darting to the inside line and slipping past with a calculated aggression that leaves no room for error.
P3.
Lap 53. The leader pack is within sight now—Mingyu in P1, his closest rival, and Seungcheol in P2, a surprising dark horse this season. The three of them have danced this dance all season, but tonight feels different. Tonight, everything is on the line.
Lap 55. Seungcheol’s car begins to falter, his tires degrading as he struggles to maintain pace. Jeonghan hovers in his slipstream, biding his time.
On the main straight, he pulls to the outside, pushing his car to its limits. The engine roars as he edges past Seungcheol, the two of them side by side into the braking zone. Jeonghan holds his line, his heart pounding as he feels the car stick.
P2.
Lap 58. Mingyu is just ahead, the gap less than a second now. Jeonghan can feel the strain in his body, his hands cramping from the sheer effort, but he doesn’t let up. Every ounce of energy he has left is poured into these final laps.
Lap 59. DRS is open, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag as Jeonghan closes the gap on the straight. Mingyu defends aggressively, forcing Jeonghan to the outside.
They enter Turn 10 side by side, the apex inches away. Jeonghan holds his breath, his tires brushing the curbs as he edges ahead. But Mingyu doesn’t back down, his car pushing right up to Jeonghan’s rear wing as they exit the turn.
Lap 60. The final lap. It’s a battle of wills now, neither of them giving an inch. Jeonghan’s heart feels like it’s about to burst, the sweat dripping down his face soaking into the padding of his helmet.
The final corner looms ahead, and Jeonghan knows this is it. Mingyu is on his inside, the two of them neck and neck as they approach the braking zone.
Jeonghan brakes just a millisecond later, his car sliding slightly as he takes the tighter line. He holds his breath, willing the car to stay steady, and then he’s through.
The checkered flag waves, the two cars crossing the line almost simultaneously.
Jeonghan’s chest heaves as he slumps back in his seat, his mind a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. He doesn’t know if he’s won or lost—everything was too close, too fast.
The radio crackles to life, and for a moment, all he hears is chaos—shouting, cheering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.
And then, cutting through it all, your voice rings out.
“YOON JEONGHAN, TWO-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”
The words hit him like a lightning bolt, and a yell tears from his throat, loud and raw and triumphant. He punches the air, his entire body trembling with emotion as he lets out another scream, so loud he’s sure the neighboring cars can hear him.
He’s done it.
Through the static of the radio, he hears your laughter, bright and unrestrained, and it’s the only sound that matters.
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Jeonghan rolls into Parc Fermé with deliberate precision, the sound of his engine fading into silence as he pulls to a stop. His hands are shaking, his knuckles pale from the grip he’s maintained for the last grueling laps. The cockpit feels stifling, and yet he lingers for a second longer, the enormity of what’s just happened crashing over him like a wave.
He’s done it.
The realization leaves him breathless. His fingers fumble with the steering wheel as he pulls it free, his movements automatic even as his mind spirals. Around him, the world is chaos. Fans scream from the stands, the floodlights of Las Vegas painting the scene in stark gold and shadows. Through the static in his earpiece, his engineer’s voice is still ringing with elation, and he hears indistinct shouting from his crew, but it all blends into a distant roar.
All Jeonghan can think about is you.
He climbs out of the car, bracing his foot on the halo as he pushes himself upright. For a brief moment, he stands tall atop the machine, his body vibrating with adrenaline. His fists shoot into the air, and he lets out a triumphant yell, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. The Ferrari crew erupts in response, a sea of red swarming toward him, shouting his name, their arms outstretched in celebration.
But Jeonghan’s eyes are already searching, scanning the barriers beyond the chaos, darting from one face to another. He’s not looking for his engineers or the cameras or even his teammates. He’s looking for you.
And then he sees you.
You’re there, pressed against the barricade, your hands gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles are white. Your face is wet—tears streaming freely—but your smile is brighter than anything he’s ever seen. It’s disbelieving, joyous, and so achingly familiar that his breath catches in his throat.
In that moment, everything else fades away. The cheers of his team, the flashing cameras, the rules about protocol—none of it exists anymore.
Jeonghan jumps down from the car, tossing the wheel to a waiting mechanic, and tears at his helmet strap. The world around him is a blur of movement and noise—his team surging forward, the cameras flashing, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—but none of it registers. His helmet comes off with a sharp tug, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he grips the sleek surface in one hand and bolts toward you.
He’s moving before he realizes it, his boots pounding against the pavement as he cuts through the throng of people. The barricade draws closer, and the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling shoulders—grounds him in a way nothing else could.
When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop.
His hands find you immediately. One curls around your neck, his palm warm and steady against your skin, while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing away the tears tracing paths down your cheek. His chest is still heaving, his breath ragged from the exertion of the race, but his touch is impossibly tender.
Your lips part, and your voice comes out in a trembling whisper, just loud enough for him to hear over the chaos. “Congratulations, pretty boy.”
It’s like the world holds its breath. For one fleeting second, it’s just the two of you. The noise of the paddock fades, the flashing lights dim, and all that remains is the quiet intimacy of your words.
Jeonghan’s lips curve into a smile so pure, so unrestrained, that it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. “You love me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. His forehead dips to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Yes or—”
You don’t let him finish.
Your arms shoot out, locking around his neck as you pull him down into a kiss. It’s desperate and dizzying, a culmination of everything left unsaid. Jeonghan freezes for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening, before melting into you entirely. His lips move against yours, soft but insistent, and the hand on your neck slides up to thread through your hair, holding you close as if you might disappear.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth, your voice breaking. Your hands fist in the front of his race suit, anchoring yourself as you press your forehead to his. “Yes. I love you.”
The barriers around you tremble as the Ferrari crew erupts in celebration, their cheers deafening. Jeonghan barely registers it. His fist shoots into the air, his lips still brushing against yours as he laughs—a sound full of pure, unrestrained joy.
“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and certainty.
And when you smile back at him, it’s brighter than the floodlights, warmer than the victory. 
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EPILOGUE
FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit
The air at Albert Park hums with the kind of energy that only a new season can bring. The stands are packed, a sea of flags waving for drivers and teams, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. It’s not quite spring yet, but the Melbourne sun still beats down relentlessly, leaving Jeonghan’s fireproofs clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he strides out of the Ferrari garage.
His mind buzzes with the aftermath of qualifying—P2 isn’t pole, but it’s close enough to feel like a promise. Yet, beneath the satisfaction, there’s the familiar tug of nerves that always follows a strong start. Tomorrow is what counts.
His publicist catches up to him, clipboard in hand. “Sky Sports first,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind.
Jeonghan barely suppresses a groan, already knowing what awaits him. He doesn’t mind media—not entirely—but right now, his thoughts are miles away from answering questions about his out lap or tire degradation.
He rounds the corner into the media pen, where cameras are trained on bright logos and polished smiles. But his eyes find you immediately, waiting just behind the barricade, a microphone in hand, your hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.
You’re a vision.
He slows as he approaches, his publicist muttering instructions he doesn’t bother to hear. Your eyes catch his, and a secret smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors it, his heart lifting in a way that has nothing to do with his qualifying position.
Jeonghan leans against the barricade, his hands braced on the metal. It’s casual, nonchalant—a stark contrast to the spark simmering beneath the surface. As the questions begin, his fingers shift, brushing yours. The touch is featherlight, a soft sweep of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten.
The lanyard around your neck gleams in the sunlight, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. You’re still you.
And you’re wearing it.
The chain glints faintly against your skin, the two charms catching the light with each movement. One is the microphone, delicate and detailed, perfectly crafted. The other is his initial: J. Small, simple, yet undeniably his.
(You’d teased him endlessly when he gave it to you at Christmas. “Modest as always, aren’t you?” you’d laughed.
“Of course,” he’d replied, his voice low and teasing as he leaned into your hair. “One charm for your new job, because I’m so proud of you. And one for me, because I’m so amazing.”
“Two-time world champion,” you’d corrected, poking his ribs.
“Two-time world champion,” he’d agreed with a grin, pulling you into his arms.)
“Jeonghan,” you greet, a secret smile tugging at your lips.
The sound of his name on your lips—professional but laced with affection—sends a warmth through him that he doesn’t bother to hide. “Y/N,” he replies, his tone light but his eyes heavy with meaning.
The interview begins, your questions sharp and to the point. Jeonghan answers with his usual ease, the confidence that had earned him his titles. But he’s distracted, his focus flickering between your voice and the way your thumb absently brushes the microphone charm as you speak.
“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who only managed P2,” you tease, tilting your head slightly.
He leans closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Just keeping it interesting. Wouldn’t want to win everything too easily.”
You roll your eyes, but the soft laugh that escapes you betrays your amusement.
The banter continues, each exchange laced with an undercurrent of warmth that only the two of you can fully understand. To anyone watching, it’s just another driver and journalist sharing a lighthearted moment. But to Jeonghan, it’s everything.
When the cameras finally cut, the energy between you shifts. He leans over the barricade without hesitation, his hands curling around the edge for balance as he dips his head toward you.
The first kiss is quick, a soft press of lips that feels like a punctuation mark to the conversation.
The second is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the fact that he can do this now.
The third lingers, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.
“Jeonghan,” you murmur, glancing around with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But your grin is wide, and your cheeks are flushed, and he knows you’re not annoyed in the slightest.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice so low it barely reaches you. His eyes are soft, his expression open in a way that’s reserved only for you.
Your hand finds his wrist, your fingers curling gently around it. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, your gaze unyielding.
For a moment, the world around you fades—the bustling media pen, the hum of conversations, the clicking cameras. All that exists is the space between you, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet certainty of what comes next.
And as Jeonghan straightens, reluctantly stepping back into the whirlwind of his world, he knows he’s carrying a part of you with him—just as you carry a part of him. Always.
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a/n: and that, was full throttle. i cannot express to any of you how proud i am of myself for finishing this. i think i spent more time deleting things on this doc than i did writing it and somehow, i fucking love the way this turned out. alta, kae, if you're reading this - thank you. from the bottom of my heart. this story would have never happened had it not been for the two of you motivating me to get this out of my head and onto a doc. you both inspire me every day and i am lucky that i had you on my side for this one.
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hoseoksluna · 3 months ago
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PROMISES | myg
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pairing: idol!yoongi x f. reader
genre: fwb au / angst, smut
word count: 9.3k
summary: when you needed your social battery recharged by your fuck buddy yoongi, you didn't expect to have your undiscovered feelings for him reciprocated. 
pin: promise / taglist: join / discord: join
warnings: strong daddy issues, slight dd/lg, manipulation, tiny rough treatmeant, edging, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), teasing, mixed feelings, oc is confused abt her feelings and the whole situation, fight, yoongi counts down, unprotected sex, pussy spanks, nipple play.
note: this has to be my worst work in the whole hoseoksluna universe. i'm terribly upset, disgusted, unmotivated. i wrote this all week, hated every second, and i'm sorry to say this is my last smut for a while. i'm really struggling mentally, i'm struggling with writing, and i don't know what to do anymore. i'm posting this a day early because i can't stand this fic anymore. i can't stand smut. you're free to skip this one until i get better.
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You were a folded swan, drifting upon the smooth, glittering surface of a river that led nowhere—a dead end, bearing the face of a man you’ve been casually seeing for the past few months. A man that clutched adrenaline and tenderness in his fist like a bouquet of the prettiest woodland wildflowers, on top of which perched a note signed in your name. Scratchy Latin letters, doused in ebony ink, they had more life than you did at this moment; poetry-woven experiences that had you feeling life like life should be felt—drastically, enthusiastically and delightfully. Every vowel depicted the closure of each night you spent with him: mouth parted agape, through which the sweetest moans would erupt and saturate him in a certain kind of fatherliness, pride and manliness. 
It’s what you need, laying as you are on the linen sheets of your bed, dressed down to your lacy underwear that you thought would make you feel better, somehow would recharge your dead battery that was stuck on zero percent for longer than you care to admit. Father issues, dissatisfaction at your workplace, at your home life, at life itself. You were tired, your concentration running thin as you were watching your well-loved K-drama that you have seen a hundred times before. Through your vision, your own non-romantic interest would fly by, smiling down at you in your dejected state and form. Your body knows him more thoroughly than your heart, stirring erratically at the memories that would begin to flood your system. Tongue, lips, hands. His cock that he would tease you with, giving it to you and not giving it to you purposefully because he enjoyed the sight of your desperation for someone like him—a person who has seen the worst of life, its characteristics engraved upon his skin, and yet you still yearned for him, yearned for those scars. You didn’t have to tell him, but he knew. 
He knew by the way you would so very often trace the scar upon his shoulder, either with your fingertips or your lips. You were friends, fuck-buddies to be more precise. You were aware that someone entangled in a special friendship such as this shouldn’t do something like that, but you couldn’t help it. Yoongi taught you many times to listen to your body and you were doing just that. 
Following your body’s inclination to sink into his soul that he wasn’t too scared to let you inside of. 
He allowed you to do it to such an extent that the threat of his quick orgasm would appear and he would slip out of you, distract himself between your legs, make you come twice in a row—perhaps as a playful punishment, or perhaps as a reward. 
He saw you—and right now you need to be seen, folded in your forest-scented exhaustion while the river flows on, the trees sway on and everyone else passes by while you remain fixed on the same spot, stooped in your ungratified, seemingly unnamed problem. 
You can text him, ask for a quick fuck, something he’s very well acquainted with, used to at this point—so much that everytime you leave his place stuffed full of his cum, he stuffs you with something else as well. 
A promise for the next time.
A package of something to make you look forward to your tight-knit time spent with him. The last time, he had promised to take you to a running sushi restaurant, where you didn’t linger for long because you got fed up with the way other people would steal the sweet plates you wanted to try. He had fucked you in his car to make you feel better about your innate misanthropy and while he was balls-deep in you and you struggled to catch your breath, he promised you ice cream. With each thrust that squeezed your soul, he described how you’d enjoy each lick, the details of the flavor and how he’d buy you any ice cream you wanted. You hadn’t realized it then, within the stupor of your mind-numbing pleasure, but now as you are recollecting it, you perceive how bothered he was by the way other people ruined your night with him. 
And that rips open the restraints around the butterflies in your stomach. 
You want some ice cream—and more than that, you want to see him. Close your mouth around the adrenaline he’s always so willing to fill your life with. 
You don’t know what he’s doing at seven PM on a Thursday night. You usually meet him on Fridays or during the weekend if he’s working the day before. You’ve never shown him your neediness—and there’s a certain dangerous feel to it, baring yourself naked in this way, despite the fact he’s seen, touched, and licked every inch of you. And it’s hard for your brain to comprehend that you yearn for him when your social, emotional and physical battery is dead. If anything, you should be resting as you are, get right in order to be at your best for the next time you see him. 
But alas… 
With a sigh, you turn to your other side and reach for your phone that you’ve been charging, gliding your hands down the cable, imagining it’s his arm. And with a frustrated furrow of your brows, you tap on the circle above your messages. A pinned picture of him that you took, his face caught in his gummy smile against the dark backdrop of his car interior, filtrated with the twinkling lights of Seoul’s city buildings. Another sigh leaves you, one that exasperates you because why are you so needy for him? Why can’t you be a normal girl, independent, okay with your own company shared with the fictional people that you love? You’ve spent your girlhood like this, and happily so. Why does growing up mean you need the male energy more than your own? 
Biting your lip, your anxiety spikes up, but your desire for Yoongi overwhelms it, wins. And that settles a layer of calmness over it, gives the command to your fingers to type what they need to type. 
hi
what are you doing 
The bubbles don’t emerge from the dark motive of your chat until a few minutes later, the green of his message brightening up your phone—and your life, too. 
About to have a concert. Having a shot right now for your health. 
Oh, shit. A strange concoction of disappointment and a deep, low, murmuring stimulus rises in you. The swan in you elongates her neck, interested, but still dispirited considering her options. She will have to fold back into her form, and continue on her long, somber voyage back from the dead end, dwelling on the thrill of the flirtation of the man that she likes a little bit too much. 
Staring at the thick canvas of trees and shrubbery that aren’t letting you in to see him, you think about what to type, your thumbs hovering in the air. Life dislikes you; life wants you to suffer—
A ringing tone of your phone tugs you away from your distressed thoughts. The Latin letters of Yoongi’s name expand across the screen behind that picturesque and private shot of him, enlarged, stirring your heart. Silence spreads through your mind and your thumb quivers as you slide it across the bar to accept his call, placing the device against your ear. 
It feels as though you’re pressing the side of your head against his, especially so once you hear the warmth of his raspy voice pronouncing your name in his accent, marked by the liquor he drank prior to your messages. 
Enlivened, your body is. Just from that. 
“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, and the swan sails a little bit more swiftly, her tucked-in wings fluttering against her feathery body. You play with your necklace, your trembling so, so terribly evident. You’re glad he didn’t video call you, but the phone call is much more intimate and pleasant. 
You huff out a noise of desperation without meaning to and cringe at yourself, crunching up your features. Yoongi calls you by your name with a tiny hint of alarm and you curse yourself, silently. Your misanthropy gets pointed at you. 
“Noth—”
“Should I cancel my concert right now?” he suggests, cutting in, and you can hear the drunken playfulness in his voice, the one you have enjoyed on many occasions. Even acted out on your pleasure from it by making him, physically, feel good about it. You wish you could suck his dick right now, right before his concert, so he gives out his best for his fans. 
The sighs are ceaseless and you don’t bother to stop them at this point, your enlivened body soaking up in a swelling, unmet desire. 
“You’re sighing,” he notes, and you discern a cube of ice clinking in his glass, then a swallow of his throat, as if the indication of your yearning got him going, got him needing that burning liquid. “Are you horny for me?” 
Enlivened, your butterflies are, starting a war just from that sole question: desire versus your mental health. 
And using the vanilla scent of their wings, they remind you of the fact that you’re an adult woman and that you’re allowed, and more than allowed, to do whatever your body asks for. And if it’s asking for Yoongi, you’re going to go the extra mile to get him. 
Brazenly and femininely—and a little bit slyly. 
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m really craving that ice cream you promised me,” you say, lowering down your tone, and you play with the lacy lining of your bra. Think you can tease him with it for a good effect. “I’m wearing a nice lacy set right now.” 
Yoongi sucks in a breath and lets it out in a sigh that is entirely redolent of you, making your mouth curve in a soft smile. “What color?” 
Your expression of a muted joy expands as you tell him. “Red.” 
He swears, raspily, and the shade of your lingerie becomes more vibrant in the dimmed yellow light of your bedroom. And there you feel it—a more intense tendril of lust slithering down your sternum, moving your body side to side against your sheets in need. And the whimper that comes out of you is more primal than it is forced. 
At the sound, Yoongi pauses. You imagine him biting his lip, the gears in his brain turning, and he doesn’t disappoint you. He never does. 
“Do you have a dress of the same color?” he asks, small pants escaping his mouth, and you smirk. 
“I do.” 
He chuckles in personal delight. “Wear it for me. The set, too. I want to see it. I will pick you up after the concert and get you that ice cream.”
Your butterflies spring to your lungs, making it hard for you to breathe. And you don’t know whether to be glad, to be happy, to jump on your bed or to get ready. All those emotions simultaneously gather in you, spreading sparks of excitement down your nerve endings. And most of all, you want to hug him. 
You want to hug your adrenaline-infused angel. 
“Okay,” you agree, prolonging the vowel, the muscles in your cheeks aching. “How long is the concert?”
His delight leaks out through a deep hum, one that causes you to tense your body in feverish eagerness. “Two hours. Can you wait that long for me without touching yourself?” 
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Think you can wait however long for him, just as long as you get to see him. “I can, but my panties will be ruined. Sticky and uncomfortable.” 
The hum is strangled by his strained intake of breath, turning you woozy, your fingers itching to slide beneath your said panties, knowing his noises alone would make you come in seconds. You weren’t wet before he called, but now you can feel the center of the fabric dampening the longer you talk to him. 
“I’ll take them off as soon as I can. I promise. Hold it out for me.” 
And you believe him. You compress that promise into your hand, warming it up with your body heat before you tuck it safely into the chambers of your heart—and you wait. 
You wait for him to fulfill the myriad of his promises. 
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You did hold it out for him, and brilliantly so. You watched one episode of your drama with a little bit more vehemence, despite the fact Yoongi swam past your thoughts more times than you can count. You’ve never watched him perform in real life as his own private life was always kept in secrecy from his fans, but your curiosity led you to search him up online and watch a playback of one of his more upbeat songs. Dressed in a long black coat, white shirt and a tie, your mouth was wide open, as well as your eyes, as you took in his ferocious energy, enhanced by his passion, and you never looked at him the same as before. He became someone else, a figure of brutal yet tender power and it made you want him even more zealously. 
The memories of that performance resurfaced in your mind every now and then, and his Agust D persona would melt into the male interest of the show, deepening your desire for him as you dreamed. 
Dreamed of reaching different highs with him. More profound, more devastating. 
A dream that could never come true. A promise that would never flow past his mouth. 
You didn’t let that ruin your night, however. As the second hour wrapped around you and your body lacked the heat it needed, you shut your laptop and stood up to your feet, walking over to your closet. Your fingers found that red dress you had spoken about first before your eyes did, silky and sleek amidst the thick, woolen fabrics of your winter clothes. It was the only nice dress you had, one you haven’t worn before, and you were thrilled you got to wear it for him tonight. 
It fit you like a second skin, hugging your curves just right, fading into the lacy linings of your lingerie. One would have to sharpen their gaze in order to notice it—and you wondered if Yoongi was going to scout it with his eyes first or with his fingers. 
The unknown excited you, so much that your panties gained that stickiness you mentioned in the phone call. And when you sat down to slide your feet into your black strappy heels, the feeling was so intolerable that you cringed—and your brilliancy ended there. 
How were you going to sit against your cold arousal for another hour? 
The awaited text didn’t come through until you were dousing yourself in your vanilla perfume. Yoongi was downstairs, waiting for you in his car. Left my lights on for you, he had typed to reassure you because he knew how anxious it made you, looking for his parked car in the dark when you couldn’t see anything. 
Your heart blossomed two times bigger when you checked it from your window. Yoongi in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, the headlights filtering through the mist of the deep of the night. You smoothed a hand down your tummy, calming your butterflies, and, reapplying your lipstick, you grabbed your coat and went outside to meet him. 
He spotted you long before you lifted your head to smile at him and he reached over to the side and opened the door for you. The motor was running, keeping the warmth intact for you, and you sighed in relief when you entered it—only to realize that Yoongi had turned on the seat heater for you. 
You melt into the leather, closing your eyes, the ambience of the present moment nestling upon you like the most delicate layer of snow that dissolves when you feel a swift breath along your neck and it’s Yoongi, lengthening his arm and closing the door while keeping his twinkling gaze on you and giving you a pleased smile. 
The butterflies kick against your stomach. 
“I was going to do that,” you say because you truly were—it’s just that the snug, comforting heat he prepared for you made you want to stop and bask in it as the short walk from your apartment building to his car numbed your bones to such an extent that you needed the time to defrost. And he quickened the process by placing an even warmer hand upon the nylon of your inner thigh that the slit of your dress and your trench coat exposed. “It’s just so cold.” 
He fondles the fabric of your tights on the top of your thigh with his thumb. A gesture of comfort that diffuses life down your legs and colors your cheeks in a shade of pink that irradiates the subdued atmosphere of the car. It’s hard to breathe—and it’s hard to resist him, keep yourself cool and not swing your leg over. 
Fuck the ice cream. You want something way creamier. 
“It’s only right I close it for you after I opened it,” he reassures, the deep tenor of his voice puncturing right through you, looking for your core, and you shift your hips, the discomfort of your wetness not allowing you to relax as much as you need. Yoongi’s eyes flick down to your movement and he parts his mouth as that distinctive smirk of his divulges his enjoyment in seeing you so horny for him. “Are you still sticky for me?” 
It’s now that you take the time to fully look at him. There’s a certain glossiness to his long hair that tells you he went home and took a shower before he got inside his car and drove through the quiet night to meet you. You can smell the rosemary of his shampoo and the usual minty aroma of his body wash, blended with his natural musky pheromones and the wood, the tangerine of his perfume. He’s the synthesis of your internal woodland, the breath of the trees that your swan inhales and a punishment, all in one; and you’re not sure if you can hold out any longer. Both emotionally, both physically.
“Very sticky,” you say, wrapping your hands around his arm, descending your fingers down the bulky, wooly material of his winter jacket like you were touching your charging cord—a temporary dream come true. You enclose your palm around his knuckles, think that if he feels how wet you are, he’ll realize that you sentimentally require more than he normally gives you—that your flesh will somehow tell him and give him the bravery to do so. 
But Yoongi doesn’t move an inch. His fingers remain fixed on the inner of your thigh, digging dents into the skin as you feel the bulging of his bicep the more you push his hand towards your wetly clothed cunt. His smile falls, his eyes droop—and the energy is charged with such unnamed intensity that you let go of your pursuit, slipping your fingers beneath the edge of his sleeve as a sign of your submission. 
That quickly. 
“You promised to hold out for me, didn’t you?” he asks, waiting for your agreement, and you nod, feverish, dripping with perspiration, with this great need that towers over you. “Then, be like Daddy and keep your promise or you’re not getting anything.” 
A shiver cascades down your spine—not merely from his authoritative voice, but from the role he dipped into that immediately puts you into yours. You begin to giggle, palming your mouth as the blush in your cheeks bursts and tears of overwhelmingness add a certain glint to your eyes that sparkles beneath the yellow-tinted car interior lights. And using this fatherliness of his, he interweaves your arousal around his long, piano fingers, announcing he’s its King. 
Your essence trickles out of the confines of your panties. 
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whine, still giggling, you can’t help it. Yoongi takes after you, blessing you with that gummy grin of his that you adore so much. Your heart enlarges. 
“What exactly am I doing on purpose?” he challenges, kneading the flesh of your thigh, and he senses his answer right away. Your essence travels to his hand, stopping there, and once again Yoongi’s smile falls, eyes plummeting to it, hand lifting—and fingers gathering that warm slick. 
And it drips onto his own pants-clad thigh when he plunges his fingers into his mouth, shocking you to your core. 
“Yoongi—”
He hums in titillation, interrupting you, and smacks his mouth. For a brief amount of time, he seems to be in his own world as he tastes you on his tongue. And then, he takes those same fingers, turns the key in the ignition, moves forward the shift stick, and without sparing you a glance, he drives out of his usual parking spot and doesn’t hesitate to correct you. 
“Not Yoongi. Daddy.” 
You clamp your mouth shut. Think you need some kind of plug to stop your arousal from flowing down your thigh. Yoongi doesn’t mention what just happened throughout the whole drive, but you do notice his semi-hard manhood poking out of his groin area. You salivate, but don’t tempt him, squeezing your thighs together so tightly that your muscles cramp. 
You’ll save it for later. 
You listen to him talk about his concert experience of tonight while the drum in your clit matches the beat of the songs of his playlist. He speeds down the road, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and the shift stick, and he doesn’t look at you until he halts the car at the first red light. 
He smiles at you, knowingly. A dirty, dirty smile that turns your world upside down, vexes you deeply—enough for you to swivel your head in the other direction to ignore him because if you looked at him any longer like that, you’d be unbuckling his pants. But Yoongi does what he pleases. With his index finger, he whips your chin back to him, leans over and grins before he presses his lips against yours. 
A gentle, gentle kiss. One that does not mirror his demeanor. 
Your walls flutter, your whole body, too. Shock seizes you in its grasp at that gesture of affection and you can’t breathe—he’s stolen all of the oxygen in your lungs. The trees sway and bend, the swan in you dances quite buoyantly, despite the fact that a storm is coming. 
A storm of your emotions. 
He’s never kissed you like that—out of the blue, at the red light. He kisses you when he’s drunk, handsy and touchy-feely as he everlastingly is, but he doesn’t kiss you just like that when he’s sober. 
“You doing good?” he murmurs against your lips, ripping away the fingers of your shock, and it feels as though you’re waking up from a dream—only to glide, boundlessly, into another one. Yoongi waggles with your chin before he pulls away, the yellow light bathing him in its shade momentarily before the green blinks and he jumps back into his own world. 
Does he really think you won’t erupt in this storm? Disintegrate into smithereens and wipe everything clean that he is? 
“What was that for?” you ask, softly, your lips numb and aching for more of his tenderness, one that you would, in all honesty, die for. You trace the print of his own lips on yours, feel its heavy warmth, and you might as well be drunk just from that. 
You need a shot. And not just one. 
Yoongi bites his bottom lip. “You’re holding out so well. I thought you deserved it.” 
You roll your eyes back—not from raw annoyance, but from the pristine pleasure you receive from the dominant, fatherly energy of his words. Suddenly, you don’t know what to do with your hands, what to say, what to think. What you do know is that you surely will be crying into his pillow by the time this night is over and he’s fast asleep. 
But you can’t cry much. Can’t wake up with puffy eyes. Can’t reveal to him the gravity of your feelings. 
You don’t even remember the moment you realized you loved him. Think you loved him the first time you laid your eyes on him, but you buried it deeply in you—so deeply that you didn’t even recollect your feelings when Yoongi told you, straight away, that this was just a friends with benefits kind of arrangement. Truth be told, this business is the sole kind of relationship you can give him as you hate men. Always hated them. But you don’t hate him. 
He’s not them. He’s different. 
You may have wanted adrenaline and joy tonight, but as you dwell in this state of mind of yours, you slouch deeper into the leather and come to a heartbreaking understanding that you’ll never be happy in this life. 
The night-clothed streets pass by you in soft shapes in colors, disappearing instantly out of your view. And the woodland, the trees and the swan, they disappear, too. Shrouded by the fog of your abysmal sadness. 
***
Yoongi took you to such a small hotel that its luxuriousness pierced your eyes with its glorious light. You thought you were dining and ending the night at his place, but once Yoongi ordered your favorite shots of sweet rum with cocktail cherries, you perceived you were staying here. Perceived he was unknowingly giving you the opportunity to drown your feelings in alcohol as well. 
You almost didn’t wait for him to take his own shot before you downed yours, but hearing the click of his tongue, you stopped midway. And to make sure you did wait, he placed his palm upon your wrist, bringing your arm down onto the table as he ordered your dessert. 
Chocolate ice cream, just for her. Thank you. 
He made everything worse. 
You weren’t sure why you wanted to be so good for him, listening to every order of his that came to his mind. Why you wanted that validation, that praise. You could just do whatever you desired—it wouldn’t scratch your relationship with him. You could be bad and he wouldn’t mind. Hell, you think he would even enjoy it. But why is it your inert yearning to please him so much? It’s devastating—and it’s your personal ruination. Because the more you do things that caress his ego, the deeper the abyss of your feelings for him goes. 
You shouldn’t. Not in the construct of your friendly relations. For the sake of your well-being.
You pry his fingers away and take that shot, watching his eyes grow large in their surprise. You never slide the cherry along with the liquor into your mouth, so once you swallow it, you open it wider and begin to chew it. His brows twitch, his own mouth parting at the sight and he leans back into his chair, completely submitted and enthralled by your act of defiance. 
And it feels good, going against him like that. Living your life by your own decided rules, and not his. 
You don’t hesitate to gulp down the other shot, but it’s not the slight burning of the liquid that gives you the buzz. It’s the way he seems to be completely pleased by your self-will, smiling lazily at you with his head tilted to the side. It propels you to steal his shot, too, and the brief facade of his pleasure collapses. A dark tendril of concern lines his eyes and those brows that twitched furrow, casting a dusky shadow over those slits. 
Now he’s aware of it, the tornado that spins within you. But he doesn’t know the cause of it, the decadent poetry verses that cover it. 
And he’ll never know—he’ll never read them. Because you’d much rather keep it in secrecy than risk losing him for all eternity. Feelings can be hidden, feelings can wander off, lose their bearings until they no longer remember that your body used to be their home. But Yoongi… he’s a person that you meet once in a lifetime. And losing him would mean that you lost not just your life, but the blood pumping in your veins as well.
It’s wrong, being attached like that to someone, regard him this way. And you’re cognizant of the fact it’s temporary—and for that sole reason, you bask in it. Because your life would be prosaic, and not poetic, if you didn’t. 
That is the motto you carry in your pathetic, but strong heart. 
And the darkness of his concern, it intoxicates you more than the last shot you take. 
The backdrop of dining and chattering people sway, just like your past trees, behind him. Manifestations of foreign lives you’ll never witness twice in your life, that are a part of you today and will part from you tomorrow. Yoongi, in the middle, remains stable. A beacon of light, unmoving, a great pillar of fixedness and steadiness. He peers at you through the thickness of his eyelashes, his aura solemn, no longer playful. Your sighs emit out of you in a constant stream while your eyes roam at everything in motion but him and he seems to strongly, strongly dislike that. 
“What’s up with you?” he asks for the second time around this evening, but the question has a loftier ring of seriousness to it. It passes through you, puncturing you until it pokes out of your back and transforms into a pair of monumental wings. Ones, upon which your feelings are mockingly hung, for his eyes to see, but not to recognize.
And the swaying of your body brings forth wetness to your eyes, for it is an anamnesis of the inner world you lost due to the comprehension of your feelings. 
“Nothing,” you say for the second time around, too. A hefty blanket of silence is thrown across the table, scattered with empty shot glasses that were meant to be shared between the pair of you. Unable to look at him, your eyes drop to them, count them—one, two, three, four—and then your irises wind up at his clenched fist. At the white valleys of his knuckles that are composed only when his fingers are wrapped around a microphone. And the blanket of the silence is warmer than the warmth he has given you—a sweltering layer of heartsickness that you can’t bear. With your drunk brain, you think you should pierce it, as if with a needle, with a response to a question he didn’t ask you. “I haven’t eaten much today, that’s why I’ve gotten drunk so quickly.” 
Yoongi runs a tongue down the inner flesh of his cheek. Ponders the information you have given him before he scolds you. “You didn’t eat and you drank four shots in a row. You won’t tell me what it is, fair enough, but I know you’re hiding it behind the pretense of you being horny.” 
His head swivels to the side, sensing a presence. And he watches as the waitress puts down an ornamental plate of two scoops of chocolate ice cream in front of you. You don’t pay her a second of your time. You set your eyes on Yoongi, on the darkness of his energy that you are ever so slowly and magnetically pulled to. 
Yes, he sees the problem, but doesn’t recognize it. He sees the shape of your wings, but he can’t recognize their color. 
The solidness of his call-out quivers. You’re not sure if you’re hiding it; you’re no longer sure about anything at this moment, but you don’t care. You have to stick to your secrecy, you have to keep your feelings safe and tucked away, no matter how far on the edge of the cliff they are. 
“I’m not hiding anything. I was horny,” you retort, not caring that the waitress is still present, picking up your shot glasses. Yoongi gives you a look while you tip your chin down and gaze at him through your long lashes—just like he did. A taste of his own sweet poison. And then you lift your foot and rest it between his outstretched legs, the sole of your stilettos pressing lightly against his soft groin. 
This is fun. This is the adrenaline you were seeking. Who would’ve thought you would be your own provider of that. 
Surprised by the abruptness of your act, he doesn’t let it show on his face, but his hands drift upwards from his thighs before he settles them around the bridge of your foot. He waits for the waitress to finish her job and, sensing the pressure, she scurries away without asking if you wanted to order another round. 
And in her absence, Yoongi begins to touch you. 
He sails his fingernails from your toes up to the thin strap of your shoe, wrapping them around your ankle. He squeezes your limb once, warning you about something you don’t know, his eyes tiny, tiny slits. Perhaps if you keep up with this, the night won’t end so prettily like it normally does. 
But you don’t believe it. You refuse to. And to be frank, you can’t. 
You shall have your fun. 
“Eat your ice cream before it melts,” he orders like the father he is, pointing at the dessert with his irises. 
You look at it, at the bits of the chocolate bars jutting out of it, then back up at him. “Feed it to me.” 
The slits break, his eyes enlarging. His reaction spreads all across his face—brows curling upwards, mouth parting, his thumb absentmindedly swiping across the skin of your shin, exposing how much he liked your request. Such an intimate place for that to happen. 
Then, he examines his surroundings. Then, he gets up from his chair and sits next to you on the booth, taking a hold of the spoon and your leg simultaneously, hooking it over his thigh. Scoops the ice cream and turns to you, his arm suspended in the air. 
“Open,” he rasps, and your eyes wet first before your mouth complies, opening wide for him. Yoongi slides the spoon into your mouth with expert gentleness, careful not to hurt you, and your first tear of the night cascades down your cheek when your mouth closes around the silver, your tastebuds cheering due to the chocolate flavor that overwhelms them. 
Yoongi, the man that could never disappoint you. Yoongi, the man who has given you more fatherly love than your own father ever did. 
How could you not love him? How could you not want more from the casualness of your relationship with him when he treats you like this? When he prepares a warm faith in men within your chest, a wet soil—out of which the tenderest sprout of joy shall grow? 
The second tear cascades down. The ice cream melts on your tongue. You swallow. 
Yoongi sighs, dropping his hands, the corners of his eyes rounding in an emotion you’ve never seen upon him. “You have to tell me what’s going on.” 
Your wings, swan-like, flutter behind you, ruffling the hair on the crown on his head. “The ice cream tastes good.” 
You brush away your tears, lamenting your foolish mistake, and fold your hands on your lap. Give him a teary smile that you can’t hide and open your mouth for him again. Yoongi doesn’t say anything as he continues to feed you and frown at you, not until another waitress comes and asks if you wish to order another round. His anger is evident in his voice as he turns her down, stating you won’t be drinking any more than you have. 
And again, he makes everything worse when he wipes your mouth clean after you finish the dessert. Pats your head to reward you. 
You hold your tears, watch him pay for you, give him your hand when he leads you towards the elevator up to the room where you’ll be staying tonight. 
Him, completely sober; you, drunk out of your mind. 
He doesn’t let go of your hand, even as you and him stand side by side, the silence as thick as death. You can’t stand it, can’t do anything else but to break it all over again. Though this time, you don’t do it with words. 
You do it with your actions. 
Stumbling on your feet like a freshly-born fawn, it’s only then that Yoongi looks at you. Holds you steady as you move in front of him to face him. He doesn’t swim along the current of all these brown shades of the elevator, but you can see a deep emotion waving through his ice-cold eyes that heat up, melt and droop when you envelop your arms around his neck and press your face against the side plane of his, kissing him there a hundred, a thousand times. You sink your fingers into the hair at the nape, tracing circles along his scalp and Yoongi shudders, breathes evenly against you, and it reminds you of the wind that swept past your woodland—the one that made your trees sway. 
All of that is gone because of your mistake. 
And something tells you that nothing will ever be the same. That something groundbreaking awaits you once these elevator doors open. 
And they open too quickly. 
Breaks your wordless actions that speak your gratitude for his fatherly behavior by gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of the elevator. Doesn’t let your aching feet touch the ground until the snugness of the tiny room welcomes you in. A queen-sized bed, a mirror across the wall that faces it, a round table by the balcony. It would be stifling if you were here alone, but Yoongi, somehow with his domineering energy, enlarges the room—makes it his. 
He empties out his pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. A white lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His jacket follows next, hooking it around one of the chairs, and once he notices your wavering feet, he sits down at the edge of the bed and sheds your trench coat, throwing it over his own jacket. Bends at the waist and takes off your heels, one by one. Only then, when you’re comfortable, does he set you down in the center of his lap. And you realize that the mirror is right in front of you. 
You watch him through it. Watch his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck; watch your own form disappear into the buffiness of his body as his hands begin to roam. His watch glints in the dim light of the room and his own being coalesces, becomes one with the murkiness. 
You want to do that, too. Forget who you are. Forget what you’re feeling. 
Tears prick at your waterline and you let out a pained sigh. Another foolish mistake of the night, one you’re about to pay for. 
“Talk to me,” he begs, a wisp of a tiny whiny weaving into his voice inconspicuously, but you catch it—and it vibrates through you, weakening you. It makes it so much harder for you, his unyielding need to know what’s troubling you, but how can you tell him? How can you risk never seeing him again? 
You remain silent, painfully so. 
Yoongi lifts his head from your neck and stares you dead in the eye through the mirror, chilling you down to the bone. 
“You truly think I’m just a guy you fuck?” he spits, his anger on full, unabashed blast that you should’ve seen coming with your restrained behavior, but it’s better to take his anger than to take his absence—and you shall devour that emotion of his. His question causes a hiccup to ensue in your chest, the secrecy of your feelings leaning over the edge of the cliff. Dangerously, dangerously close. “That you can’t confide in me? You think I’m just gonna fuck you and pretend I didn’t see you cry?” Your eyes dart away, a heavy load of agony settling over your heart, but Yoongi prevents you from looking away. Makes you look at him by grabbing your chin and keeping your head still, facing the mirror. “Is that what you want? You want me to be this kind of asshole?” 
You bite your lip, not knowing what to say, not knowing who you want him to be, not wanting to be in this situation at all. But Yoongi can’t stand your silence. Can’t stand the privacy of your trouble, as if he inertly knows that it has something to do with him. 
He softens his touch, but he doesn’t do the same with his voice. 
“Answer me.” 
You cry out in unnamed desperation, which propels Yoongi to lift your head up to him, so you can look at him—so you can see how much this matters to him. The emotion in his eyes vivaciously thumps, urging you to speak to him. He holds you to him like this, gripping your cheeks with the littlest amount of pressure, sucking in small breaths and you can’t. You’re going to explode if he keeps at it, and you’re going to die.
“Yoongi,” you whisper, tiny cries emitting out of your throat, and it’s almost a cry for help. You bunch up his T-shirt in your trembling fist, seizing the solidness of him like your fear seizes you, and you don’t know whether to run or stay put on his lap like this. You’re appalled about where this is going and you’re certain that the same dead end is impatiently seeking you—
Yoongi shushes you. Averts his hand and caresses your hair down. Kisses your forehead, where he lingers a few long seconds that subdue the expression of your storm. Waits until your breathing evens out, so he can unravel the words swelling in him. 
“Even if you asked me, I couldn’t be this kind of asshole to you,” he reveals against that plane of your face, punctuating his sentence by pressing his nose against yours. And you can’t believe his actions, you can’t believe the kind of affection he’s bathing you in; it lessens your fear, slashing it apart until there’s nothing left of it. “Something is hurting your heart and that bothers me. And what pisses me off most of all is that you think I can’t help you.” 
You sniffle and slide your hand upwards to his neck. Try to memorize every inch of this paintwork that your life is graced with as tomorrow won’t have the same paints, the same brushstrokes—
“I’m not gonna fuck you. If you want to be touched, I’ll touch you, but don’t think for a second you’re coming tonight, not if you won’t talk to me,” he murmurs and you gasp, lowly, your wings slumping limply.
The promise of him fucking you was your only salvation for tonight. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, your mouth falling agape, unbelief clutching you at the intensity of his stubbornness. 
And you want to know the meaning behind it. 
“Why?” 
He scoffs, kissing your cheek as if you were a baby he’s cradling, and you can’t take it anymore. You untangle yourself from his grasp and stand up to your feet, your back against the mirror. Yoongi peers at you disapprovingly and then he shakes his index finger at you. Your legs mimic the same movement, trembling, weakening at that. 
“You need to be taught a lesson,” he says and flattens his lips, pauses before he opens his mouth again, but you stop him, despite how much you like it. 
“No, Yoongi. Why are you treating me like this?” 
He props his knuckles against his thighs. A powerful, powerful stance. Curls his lips around his teeth. “Like what?” 
You reflect him. “Like I’m something more.” 
Yoongi chuckles, humorlessly, at that. You spewed it out so rapidly that you don’t realize what you said until he lets out that noise that returns the drum to your sensitive parts. And briefly, as if you uttered something stupid, you grow smaller and smaller—until his following words change your life once and for all. 
“Because you are and because you always have been,” he rasps, the corners of his mouth downturning for a split second, exposing his own secrecy that brings you to your knees. They scruff against the white carpet, stained by time, and Yoongi’s eyes flash with light to see you in this position. 
Your heart hammers with more life than it ever had, with a kind of adrenaline it never felt before, and wetness clouds your vision, misting this situation in a cloud of disbelief. Your lungs fail you, shuddering underneath his hard gaze, and they swell greatly when Yoongi clasps your face in his hand, the one that pointed at you so fatherly, so devastatingly. 
“You’re not just a girl I fuck and I know I’m not a guy you fuck. What we have is irreplaceable, what we do has always been something more, beyond the label we gave it and I regret it,” he lets out, a pained sigh—just like yours—wafting over your features, and Yoongi leans over, propping his elbows on his knees, his other hand joining your face, fingers gripping your hair on each side. “I should’ve treated you more properly, with respect. Take you out on dates. Get to know you. Wait before you let me touch you… because that is what you deserve. You’re not a girl to mess around with. You have a dignity that needs to be taken seriously, that needs to be respected and I wish I had done that. I wish…” he trails off, clicking his tongue in ultimate regret, and you break. You break, break, break. Sob in his hands that hold you so steadily, that give you life, adrenaline and a new meaning to your whole being. Suffocate under his watch, the earth-shattering notion that this has changed the course of your trajectory of your relationship with him forever constricting your throat. “I wish I had allowed myself to court you like you deserve. I wish I had been better mentally, but I’ll make everything right if you want me to. If you want me as much as I want you, I’ll make it right. I’ll try my hardest.”
Your own words, your heartstrings tangle up in a complex manner. Your tongue twists, your speech held back, and you have no control over what comes out of your throat. You’re crawling through a limbo that has no end and each movement you make, the way back gets erased. You need to keep going before it swallows you, but you need him to lead you. You need him inside your skin, inside your heat, inside your mouth. You need to be connected to him in a way you’ve never been connected to him before. You need his breath in your lungs—and your attachment to him bursts in flames. 
Sated, elated, magnificent. 
“Fuck me and make me yours, Yoongi.” 
He sucks in a breath as if he didn’t expect you to accept his favor. The light in his eyes soaks his irises in wetness and his mouth trembles in a tender emotion before he smashes it against yours. And within that lip lock, the swan in you is reborn. 
A baby swan, learning how to sail upon this new, new river—needing her father more than ever before. 
The kiss is hard and the kiss is catastrophic. Yoongi moves his mouth against yours, sucking every bit of your old life out of you to fill you up with newness. Lifts you up and sits you back on his lap. But the kiss is too brief and you soon perceive that his anger hasn’t been shunned out. 
Wet and blue flames lick over his black pools. 
“Not until you tell me what’s bothering you. What I said still applies.” 
The zipper slides down, the straps follow suit—and your silk is ripped away from your body that Yoongi turns over and moves to his preferable position, cradling you sideways like a child. And there—as he gives you a once over, studying the red lace of your lingerie, the swell of your breasts, the little valley of fat upon your tummy, the ruination of your panties and the stickiness of your thighs—there you realize that he’s as punishing you as much as he manipulating you into telling him. 
And it’s as arousing as it is bad. 
His free hand begins to roam while the other one holds you close, wrapped around your back, preventing you from running away. It ghosts over your breasts, causing your spine to arch into his palm and his throat to emit a delicious groan that drenches your panties. His fiery hand ventures down, his tongue gracing you with little praises of how beautiful you are, and when he reaches the V-line of your private parts, he discovers how much his deep voice and his touches affect you. 
He lifts his fingers and catches them glistening in the orange light. And this time, he doesn’t plunge them into his mouth. No, he sinks them inside your own. You swirl your tongue around them, coaxing that throaty noise of his that makes your hips buck up. Your tangy sweetness stupefies you and your so-loved woodland is remolded by that intimate act. By your connected gaze that could start a foreign war and bring the world down. 
“Suck on them,” he orders, and you comply. Hollow out your cheeks, make sucking noises as you find everything you ever searched for in his eyes. Stability, warmth, a father. Switch, cutely, between sucking them and dancing your tongue around them. His index and pinky fit just right between the elongated clefts of your cheeks and he coos, grows hard underneath you, kisses the tip of your nose, onto which he whispers: “Such a good little girl.” 
You moan and he reacts so trenchantly fast, withdrawing his fingers and using them to slide your panties to the side, placing them on your clit and not moving. 
“So swollen,” he comments, kissing you for a beat of time without closing his eyes, without missing this moment. “I like it when you’re like this. Swollen, dripping and so horny for me. Like I’ve never taken care of you before.” He glides his fingers down, past your lips to your hole before going back up, rooting on your throbbing clit before starting over. He etches desperation into your veins, stirs your butterflies to madness, and you breathe heavily. “No one will ever see you like this. No one, you hear me?” 
Your nod is automatic, thoughtless, and he’s pleased to the core. Enough that he begins to massage circles on your clit, your wings fluttering, no longer limp, but full of zest. And he can sense it—and it touches him so much that he deepens the pressure while the circles remain agonizingly slow. Your body writhes. Yoongi smirks down at you, grins fully when you clutch the nape of his neck and make little noises into his T-shirt. And just as soon your vision begins to blur and you reach the cusp of your orgasm, he stops.
“What’s hurting you?” 
He reciprocates your feelings, so you have no reason not to tell him. It’s more of a problem with your speech. You’re so fucked out that you can’t speak. 
Yoongi waits for a few seconds before he spanks your pussy. Maneuvers you so you can look at yourself in the mirror, your back against his chest, and he collects your arousal while he pins back your thigh, drifting all four of his fingers along your femininity, stimulating you and punishing you at the same time. Then, he lets you see your slick trickling out of his digits. 
“Look how wet you are, don’t you want to come?”
He’s a dark figure behind you while you are a small creature, spread wide, drooling, dressed in a sinful shade of red that doesn’t indicate her purity, whose smeared red mouth leaks loud, whiny whimpers when he sticks one of those fingers inside your heat, adding another one right away once you accommodate around him. He fucks you with a force that reverberates throughout your whole body and his name that pours out of your mouth like a prayer is a cry for help all over again. He pumps his fingers and pulls away, edging you in such a sinister way that drives out your tears. 
He worsens your condition—like he invariably does. But the rapidness of his pace, it unlocks your mouth, it untwists your tongue, and you begin to babble. 
Incoherent words, nonsense noises; sounds that blossom in volume when he withdraws ultimately, pushes the lace of your bra away from your breasts and kneads them with wet fingers. 
And you erupt, at last, when he flicks your nipples. You flood his pants-clothed thighs and knees, your slick streaming all the way to the carpet. And the river continues on with his words.
“I know you want this cock. I know you want it deep in you. But you’re not getting it if you don’t tell me right now what it is you’re using me to forget about,” he whispers into your ear, tweaking your nubs, his hands descending down your body and pinching your clit. You cry out, the aftershocks of pleasure dizzying you, his manipulation technique in full effect, and you’ll give it to him. Because of his cock, because of his affection. “You have three seconds. One, two, three—”
“I love you,” you confess, screaming it out of your lungs, and his eyes enlarging and his mouth parting in shock is all you see before you’re thrown on the bed.
Before your panties are ripped in half and flung behind him. 
Before your pussy is eaten and fingered in a way that makes you come in four heartbeats. 
Yoongi’s skilled tongue flicks your clit, his fingers curl in that special spot that bespeckles your vision with the stars of the night sky beyond the hotel room window. And you don’t latch onto the fact you’ve drenched him with your juices until he straddles your thigh, arches over you and kisses you with love-drunkenness, his fingers sliding back inside. 
And he doesn’t start fucking you until he confesses something, too. 
“I love you, too.” 
His digits drill you, his eyes pierce your soul and your orgasms are countless like this, not bound to time, not bound to anything at all. You squirt on him, bathe him in the newness of your relationship, cleansing off the old. And then he’s inside of you, murmuring reassuring words against your mouth about how that shouldn’t be troubling your heart. And you cry, you sob, you scream, overtaken by it all, your mouth numb by his constant hard kisses and if you ever belonged to him in the past—you didn’t. Because at this moment, as he stuffs you full of his cum, you’re interwoven into his DNA for all eternity. 
One that he nurtures as he holds you in his arms and asks you about how long you’ve loved him. And he in return tells you that he loved you the moment you first had a taste of what he could give you—laughter, guidance, and orgasms. All from the first date. 
And when you kiss him for the last time before sleep steals you away, you know that you’ll never lack adrenaline in your life ever again. As long as you’re with him, you’ll be on the receiving end. And his unchanging promises will make you look forward to each day, your batteries charged and green—like your blooming woodland.
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yandere-3-sagau · 1 year ago
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Yandere!SAGAU x Secret!Creator!Reader Part 3
Short Summary: You’re on the Crux and want to test the limits of your new abilities. While you’re on your way to Inazuma, more and more people become aware of your existence. characters: Venti, Xiao, Zhongli, Beidou, Kazuha warning(s): none word count: 2221
(Sorry i’ve been inactive. I stopped playing genshin but i’ve come back for my bby Neuvillette. i’m including him soon to this series hehe)
─── ・ 。゚✧: *.☽ .* : ✧.───
The Anemo Archon may be inactive, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. As they always say, the wind carries words… even those meant to be kept secret.
Despite being a god that hasn’t shown himself to his people in ages, Venti is a lot more informed about his nation than most would think. And it’s not just his nation, but other nations as well.
So, when the wind carries the latest rumor to his ears, Venti drops the wine bottle he’s drinking. The glass shatters to the ground, the red liquid seeping into the wooden floors of Angel’s Share. Diluc groans, putting down the wine glass he was cleaning with a tired look on his face.
“Maybe it’s time you head home, Venti. It seems you’ve had too much to drink.”
Diluc’s words don’t seem to reach him as Venti’s aqua green eyes are widened in shock, his face unmoving. The red haired swordsman snaps his fingers in front of Venti’s face.
“You alright there?”
Venti snaps out of it, shaking his head. There’s a large smile on his face that he’s unable to wipe off.
“Yeah… it’s seems you’re right. I’ll be off, now.” He rushes out of Angel’s Share leaving Diluc bewildered at his speed.
“But you haven’t paid…” Diluc sighs, the words dying in his throat. He shakes his head at the Anemo Archon’s erratic behavior, red locks swaying.
As Venti exits the tavern, he jumps into the air and allows the wind to carry him, not caring who sees it.
His small frame is shaking with excitement over the new rumor… but he had to confirm it.
There have been countless times where the words he hears are false…but on the off chance that this new rumor is proven true, it would be groundbreaking.
So, Venti rides the current of the wind, directing it towards the neighboring nation of Liyue where the subject of the rumor was last spotted.
─── ・ 。゚✧: *.☽ .* : ✧.───
You’re shocked, seeing the almost love stricken gaze of the vigilant yaksha.
The curse word slips from your mouth but Xiao doesn’t bat an eye, too dazed.
When you finally regain your senses, you have no time to think about Xiao or how he even knows you’re the creator. All you know is that you’ve been discovered and that you need to get back on the Crux before Grandpa Fuyi wakes up and discovers you’re missing.
With that goal in mind, you close your eyes and try to concentrate, thinking of the lower deck of the Crux and Grandpa Fuyi.
Slowly, you open your eyes but immediately jump back, startled. Instead of the lower deck of the Crux, you’re faced with Xiao who has moved disrespectfully close to you.
Xiao’s body is moving on autopilot, subconsciously bringing himself closer as his mind is only filled with thoughts of you. He wanted in engrain the image of you so deep into his brain that he’d remember every detail even when he closed his eyes.
Your presence is so warm it feels like all of the pain he’s suffered has disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Even just the scent of you is so addicting that he’s unable to remain composed. No matter how disrespectful Xiao may seem for invading the creator’s personal space, the need to be near you overcomes any sense of shame he may have. When he notices your shock, he immediately bows his head down.
He can’t stop the tremble of his hands as he stands so close to you, his heart racing. If he just lifted an arm, he’d be able to touch you. He fights the urge with every bone in his body before speaking so quietly that you almost couldn’t hear him.
“I-I’m sorry! I just… I’ve only ever dreamed of meeting you… to think that you’re really here…”
You don’t notice the internal conflict Xiao is having, only feeling your anxiety rising. If Xiao is already aware of you, who knows who else has been informed of your “descension”.
“Listen, Xiao…” he shivers, hearing you call out his name. You’re heading to the exit, determined to find a hidden spot where you can try again to teleport.
“You may have confused me for someone else. I would love to stay and chat but I have some really serious business I need to attend to-“
“Your grace…”
The deep voice that cuts you off fills you with panic as you slowly turn your head and come face to face with the Geo Archon and the sole reason from your departure from Liyue. His tall stature blocks the only exit, hands twitching as his eyes rake all over you.
Zhongli’s long legs make wide strides over to you. He seems to have lost all reason now that he’s finally found you. That face… so filled with joy that it’s almost insane… it makes you shudder.
With deep fear and desperation, you squeeze your eyes shut.
The Crux, The Crux, The Crux…
Finally, you feel that familiar energy surge through you and you know you’ve succeeded. Zhongli and Xiao watch you disappear before their eyes, the Geo Archon’s hand stretched out to touch you before you vanish completely.
Suddenly, you hear the sound of a tea cup clashing against a table. When you open them again, you’re met with two sets of eyes that stare at you in shock.
In front of you, Kazuha and Beidou sit at a round table, the steam from a freshly made teapot slowly rising in the air as the room is filled with silence.
At least you made it to the Crux.
“Well, hello stranger. That’s quite the entrance you’ve made,” Beidou drawls. Her cheek rests upon her hands as she stares at you with interest.
You’re thinking of excuses to make when Kazuha decides to speak after staring at you for a while.
“You’re bleeding,” he says. Panicked, you look at your clothes for any indication of blood but you’re unable to see anything from the dark color of your clothes.
“N-No, I’m not…” you lie, trying to play it off.
“You are… and it must be a lot since I’m able to smell it all the way from here.”
Of course, you know he’s right. The pain is still there since it hasn’t been that long since you were shot and you’re not exactly an expert at patching wounds.
“Why don’t I help you,” Beidou says. “In exchange for the secret on that little entrance you made.” The leader of the Crux steps closer to you causing you to take a step back.
“No, that’s fine! I’m just passing by. My grandpa is on the lower deck and he’s recovering from a heart attack so I really need to-“
With speed faster than you could even comprehend, Kazuha’s hand grips your wrist tightly, preventing you from leaving.
“You’re too suspicious to let go… state your purpose or we’ll have no choice but to treat you as an enemy.”
Beidou sighs, walking over and patting his shoulder as if telling him relax.
“Give them a break, Kazuha. Can’t you see they’re injured? At least patch them up before you start your interrogations.”
You have half the mind to teleport but their movements are so fast, you’re unable fight back. Within the blink of an eye, your hands are bound and you’re seated on a stool as Beidou lifts your shirt to inspect the wound on your back.
Her eyes widen, seeing the messy cloth stained with golden blood. Her hands pull back so fast it’s as if she was burned. Her ruby red eyes snap to look up at the back of your head.
“The creator…”
Kazuha studies you, his face blank but you can see the surprise in his eyes. Both of them take a step back, as they stare at you in silence.
Unexpectedly, it’s the calmest reaction you’ve witnessed so far.
“What brings the creator aboard my humble ship?” Beidou asks, forcing her voice to stay steady as if a big shot… no… the big shot of Teyvat isn’t bound to a chair on her ship.
You sigh. This is the exact reason you wanted to avoid being discovered.
“I wasn’t lying when I said my grandpa is on the lower deck.”
“The grandpa of the creator…”
“Well, adoptive grandpa… but you know, same thing.”
“You’re heading to Inazuma? What for?”
“…vacation.”
Beidou’s hands move back to you this time, asking permission before touching you. You nod your head allowing her to untie you. She then carefully lifts your shirt and removes the wraps to assess the extent of damage. As you twist your head to look at it, you realize it looks a lot less worse than before.
“Who was stupid enough to attack the creator…” Beidou asks but Kazuha nudges her.
“We tied them up… and threatened them,” he says quietly. As if realizing the severity of their actions, Beidou flinches.
“We greatly apologize, your grace. I hope you can understand us. We were just taking precautions to ensure the members of the ship are safe.”
You nod your head, not thinking anything of it. Beidou helps you patch it up and you wince, feeling the stinging pain.
“I will accept your apology… as long as neither of you speak a word of me being here. Don’t tell anyone what you saw or heard. Act as if you’ve never met me.”
You can sense their confusion. They want to ask you why but they stay silent, only nodding at your request. After Beidou patches you up, you immediately leave to the lower deck of the Crux.
The two of them bow their heads down respectfully, waiting until you are completely out of earshot before speaking.
“You’re gonna keep the creator’s secret, right Beidou?”
“…we’ll see how much mora someone offers me for it.”
─── ・ 。゚✧: *.☽ .* : ✧.───
The pupils of Zhongli’s eyes shake as he stares at the spot you had just disappeared from.
When Zhongli had arrived at Wangshu Inn, he immediately recognized the scent he found back at the house he discovered. Like a hound, he followed the scent to the top of the inn and when he saw you… his whole world froze.
Unlike when he first met you back at the stall, he knows exactly who you are. This time, he was able to truly take you in.
Staring at the full glory of the creator, illuminated by the warm glow of candles, Zhongli thought that you were more than he could have ever imagined. For the first time in his thousands of years of life, he was completely awestruck.
He forced himself to steady his voice, quietly clearing his throat before speaking. But just as he called out to you, just before he was able to feel you, you vanished.
Zhongli feels as if the coldest of waters was suddenly poured all over him. His breath hitches and the emptiness of his hand physically pains him.
You disappeared. No… you ran away. From him.
It wasn’t obvious before, but Zhongli is sure of it now. You are running away from him.
Your stall that had been opened for months closed just after you had met him, and now. The moment you heard his voice and the second he almost touched you, you left.
The former Geo Archon feels his heart clench up. He slowly turns to Xiao. The intensity of Zhongli’s stare sends a shiver down the Yaksha’s spine.
“You… why was the creator here? When did they arrive? How come you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I-I’m not sure… From what I can remember, I was just thinking of them and suddenly, they appeared. They were only here for less than five minutes.”
The creator appeared for Xiao when he thought of them… but disappeared when Zhongli came.
The ground rumbles beneath them and the walls of the inn begins to shake. The two can hear the guests of the inn start to panic.
“Earthquake!” someone shouts.
Zhongli takes a deep breath and suddenly the rumbling stops. Still, the words keep circling in Zhongli’s head.
The creator appeared for Xiao.
Why? he thinks. There’s not a single second since he’s been aware of your descension where Zhongli is not thinking of you. For longer than Xiao had even been alive, Zhongli prided himself on being the most loyal acolyte of yours. With how much of his being that Zhongli devotes solely to you… why would you appear for Xiao and not him?
Are you unsatisfied with him? Was there something he did?
Just tell him, he thinks. Instead of running away and leaving him in the agony of uncertainty, just tell him what he did.
Does he need to prove himself to you?
Zhongli is more than willing to prove himself. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to repent and prove himself worthy if the reward is your presence. He’s spent thousands of years devoting himself to you and he’ll worship you til the day he dies.
So now that you’ve finally descended, he doesn’t care if he has to chase you around all of Teyvat. Whether it’s stealing his gnosis back from the Tsaritsa and becoming Morax once more or defeating all the archons of the other nations to prove himself worthy, nothing will deter Zhongli from gaining your acceptance.
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