#They don't even win like Leave Me Alone!!!

[suksatoru]

another love; itoshi sae

itoshi sae came to spain with dreams bigger than the skies themselves. after watching his future be crushed to dust, he fails rin and decides he's not cut out for the big brother role. but then, itoshi sae meets you, and he realizes he has a second chance to try and be a better man. plus, if there was one person in the world sae could openly admit to loving—it was you.

a/n; sae and reader's relationship is platonic, reader refers to him as nii chan, rin is out of the future sae envisions for himself, indirectly replaced by your love instead.

in spain, there was only one person who made itoshi sae feel at home. you were a rebellious kid, reminding him too much of the one he had left back at home in japan. sae had just lost a brutal match to some guys who challenged him in hopes to win some money off of the foreigner, and he lays on the dirty field after being defeated for the first time ever in a football match.

the setting sun is hot as it beats down on him unforgivingly, and even as sae closes his eyes—he can feel a shadow hovering over him. with a barely restrained groan, he opens his eyes. they widen a fraction when he sees you, a young girl, peering over him curiously. your gaze flitted nervously between him and your older brothers, the ones chatting a few meters away as they bragged about their victory against sae to their friends. they were completely oblivious to your advances on their opponent as you bite your lower lip nervously

"are you okay?'

sae was still getting used to spanish, but he understood yours perfectly. his scowl deepens, and he sits up. he tries not to wince as he feels a sharp pain shoot up his leg, the same spot where he was kicked by one of your brothers for no other reason besides scoring a goal against them. you notice it instantly, crouching down and placing a gentle hand on his calf in hopes to soothe the pain as he jerks away from your touch.

"get lost, kid." he mutters bitterly, running a tired hand through his sweaty hair—the dark pink locks stick to his forehead, and he pants heavily from the excess strain on his body. you inch closer, ignoring his protests as your eyes squint.

"don't let them see you're hurt," you whisper quietly, crouched down beside him as he blinks back at you blankly. though the expression on his face gives away nothing, you can see the gears shifting in his mind as he realizes the situation he's in. sae was barely fourteen, and your brothers looked like they were almost eighteen—one match with them allowed him to learn the nature of their playing styles and personas. you on the other hand looked just shy of eleven.

"i-if they see you're hurt, they're gonna hurt you more. they're not nice."

sae's eyes narrow stubbornly, and he watches your brothers laugh loudly from afar as they skim through his wallet, pulling out hundreds of euros and pocketing the cash quickly.

"bastards," he growls, moving to stand because your stupid brothers were taking all of his money. he put a hundred euros on the line, sure of himself and his abilities to win. he thought he could take on all three players alone, but sae realizes he would've lost against just one of them in the end. his own weakness is apparent in the way he struggles to stand, and your eyes widen in panic as you push him back down

"no, no! it's okay, just, uhm—go home. i'll get you your money back, promise! but you can't fight them, they play dirty," you affirm, placing your smaller hands firm on his back and helping him get up. he stands quickly, an angry huff leaving his lips as he lightly smacks your hand away from him

"don't touch me, you brat. they can't just steal from me like that, i won't let them. i don't care if they beat me. that money is mine."

later, sae staggers all the way back to his dorm—body spent and bloodied as he returns empty handed. he hated getting lectured by the program's stupid teachers, but he couldn't deny that getting an injury that kept him from playing football for at least a week wasn't something to be proud of, either.

it's late one night when sae's laying in bed, his dorm mate out practicing football, that he hears a soft knock on his window. he ignores it at first, passing it off as an animal scurrying by. with his tongue poked out in concentration, he focuses on balancing his soccer ball on the tip of his foot before he hears it again.

he tugs out his switchblade, something he acquired from a street vendor after he landed in spain before he approached his window with purposeful strides. in a single, fluid movement—he rips the curtains away and peers out into the dark landscape outside

he's surprised to see you outside, small hand curled into a fist as you pause mid knock. you suddenly make a pointer figure, gesturing eagerly to the window lock as sae sighs, complying and pulling it open for you. he leans out the window, a bored expression on his face.

"did you follow me back here?" he accuses, brows pinched together in silent frustration as you take a moment to silently admire the boy in front of you. your brothers, the meanest brothers in the world, couldn't break this boy's spirit. he seemed just as determined and strong as he did when you'd first met him. even after getting beat in both the match and by your brother's brutal punches—he stood tall and strong, in all his glory.

itoshi sae was incredible.

"your wallet," you stammer, shoving the money forward through the window as sae frowns in confusion—looking down at the familiar cash, he blinks slowly, before raising his eyes to look at you.

"you didn't have to. i could've just told my supervisors i lost my wallet. they'd replace everything." he states, and sae watches your fingers curl uncomfortably into the fabric of your dress. it swayed in the summer wind, colorful flowers—rosettes—printed all over the fabric. your eyes are round, and sae thinks you kind of look like rin when you pout.

"i hope you're feeling better, 'm sorry they hurt you. i-if it makes you feel better, i made 'em think they lost your money on the drive back home!" you confess, smiling a bit as you peer up at him. sae scoffs, moving away from the window to throw the wallet back onto his bed before he leans back out the window. he stares at you quietly for a moment, before sighing.

"what's your name?"

he repeats your name a few times after you tell him, before he finally managed something similar to a smile. well, at least sae hoped it looked like a friendly gesture from your perspective. but he wasn't used to smiling, and it appeared more like a grimace in your eyes—your heart sunk at the sight.

"you're absolutely insane, y/n. i've never met anyone who defies their brothers of all people the way you just did. you're gonna get in big trouble one day, i can already tell."

your lips tremble, and you nod quickly in agreement. brothers are scary, you mumble quietly, and sae stays silent as he watches you. he knows the tell tale signs, thanks to rin. the way you stammer, the way your breaths come out in short huffs as you quiver—you're far too close to bursting into tears for his liking. he exhales through his nose quietly, before a rough palm is cradling your cheek—turning your head towards his as his hardened gaze softens just a fraction as he looks at you.

"not all brothers are so bad."

he started seeking you out more often after that day. you see him again after a few weeks, when you're dribbling a run down pink soccer ball happily as your brothers play on the field adjacent to yours. a lot of people liked gathering and playing football together, and your brothers let you tag along sometimes so you could go off and practice on your own.

you don't have anyone to teach you how to play—football is a boy sport, your brothers told you when you asked to play one day many years ago. they said you could kick it around if you wanted to, but you're not allowed in their games. so, you watched from afar. tried to copy their moves as you played aimlessly without a proper teacher.

the ball dribbles out of your control, before someone moves into view and stops it under their foot. itoshi sae stands proudly, not even a hint of the smile he shared with you that night weeks ago is present as he kicks the ball back towards you, expression stoic and bored as he hums quietly

"i didn't know you played football,"

his injuries have healed, and he looks a lot better than he did the last time you saw him. your brothers probably didn't even remember sae—just how many guys have they beat up in football matches after sae? too many, but sae's pink hair did stick out. luckily, your brothers were too immersed in their own game far away from the two of you, so you allow yourself to indulge in the foreigner you were growing quite a liking for.

sae teaches you how to dribble and pass, just a few helpful hints that worked wonders. he came back next week too, and the week after that. he could only come after his classes were finished with for the day, but slowly, surely—sae became someone important to you.

"you would say nii chan, that's what rin calls me."

sae only talks of his younger brother back in japan, nobody else from his home country is mentioned. you nod quietly, sipping on the mango smoothie he bought you as you repeat the foreign word back to him

"nii chan," you repeat, and sae nods firmly.

"you said you wanted to make me feel more at home, so call me nii chan."

and sae really was incredible. he taught you more than your brothers ever would. he bought you sweet treats every friday afternoon when he was allowed free time from his classes, and he invited you to his games—organized ones where hurting each other wasn't tolerated, and you were introduced to a new world of football. not the violent sport your brothers had shown you, sae showed you a game that involved thinking and skill—instinct and talent, he opened your eyes to a prettier picture than the muddied one your brothers had painted. a game where players high fived each other after matches instead of throwing punches.

"midfielder?"

sae nods silently, chewing slowly on his sandwich. you watch his adam apple bob up and down as he swallows, and he turns to you with a sigh.

"i can't be the best striker. not after what i've seen here—i'm nothing."

you strecth your legs out in front of you wordlessly, and sae takes your leg before his hand moves to slowly massage your lower leg—uncoiling the knots he found beneath your skin and easing the tension. for some reason, sae found the activity stress relieving for him. bringing you ease made him feel better, oddly enough.

"you're incredible, sae nii,"

he wants to tell you to stop lying, but he knows how persistent you are when it comes to him. your loyalty for him, your devotion—it truly was admirable. and sae hated making himself seem weak in front of you, he wanted to be someone you could look up to. but he is weak—spain taught him that. he's nothing. a waste.

"i've seen the players here in spain. everyday, my brothers watch matches from all around the world on our small tv, where i see even more people play. but there's something none of those players have—you're raw, like a diamond in the rough, waiting to be carved. you're special, i know that nii chan. please believe me."

neither of you speak after that. you sit beside him, feet idly swaying back and forth over the rocks you two sat on after you tug them out of his lap. the sun sets in the distant horizon—casting a golden blanket over sae's face. his eyes glitter like emeralds.

"when i go pro, when i leave this place—you're coming with me."

sae stayed true to his word. the program he was in allowed his talent to shine—he would travel the world now, maybe go back to japan—he tells you one night. sae tells you that you can do whatever you want, be whoever you please—he says with him, you can become something great.

it doesn't have to be football. sae took you out of your small town in spain so you could explore the world with him, it was always nii chan this, and nii chan that. there was something sae felt for you that was indescribable. you were rare. you cared for him when he was nothing, and only one other person had done that for him. but itoshi rin was long forgotten now, a lost cause.

right now, sae was warming up for yet another match. something about the u—twentys versus a place called blue lock, he'd told you. you help him stretch before hand, dutiful hands running up and down his back as the two of you prepare for the day's events. you're rolling around on the clean green football field now with a childish type of excitement that has his lips twitching upwards.

"nii chan, i had no idea japan's fields were so big! so clean, wow!"

"i know," sae muses as he lays down beside you with a sigh. he watches you from his peripheral vision, unsure if he should bring up his brother's name.

"wanna go one on one?"

the field was empty, not a soul lingered near you two. sae stays quiet for a moment, admiring the stars peaking through the clouds in the darkening sky above. sae almost always won when the two of you played one on one, nii chan was just that awesome. but sometimes, he slowed down to your pace and allowed your talent to shine—your smile after scoring a goal was far more important to him than his ego.

"you know i can't say no to you, y/n."

and there's something euphoric about the way you laugh, something that makes sae's heart soar as he remembers the real reason he began playing football. he thinks about rin, how he may not have been a good brother to him—but he could be a good brother for you.

your footsteps are fast, spinning around sae and making him dizzy. you wore one of his spare jerseys, and his eyes barely catch the embroidered name sae on your back whizzing past him as you score a goal. he wonders if rin would enjoy playing with you, too. rin and him were in a tough spot, but sae hoped he would eventually get over himself and see not everything was sunshine and rainbows.

but, if sunshine and rainbows were anywhere in itoshi sae's life—they were through you, a reprieve in the cruel world around him.

so, sae will indulge in you. he'll forget about his real brotherly responsibilities, he'll forget about the rules of football and help you win against him—because even though this sport is something near and dear to his heart, nothing is more precious than you and the soft sound of his honorific, nii chan, slipping past your lips—he had a second chance to be a good brother, and he vows not to break your heart the way he broke rin's.

[gracie-eilish]

Peachy🧡✨🍑 pt. 2

an: here she is y'all. i was NOT expecting all the excitement from part one so thank you for that!🥹 that was so exciting to see!! im not used to writing any kind of smut, so please forgive any bumps in the road if you find any🥺 i’m trying over here!🫣🤪 anyways, i hope you like it!!

warnings: smut, fingering (r! receiving)👀, billie being a total flirt cause duh

It had been about a week since you last saw Billie, but for some reason you felt like no time had passed. Because for you at least, you'd subconsciously spent every day with her since that night. Her little flirts and nicknames had been ringing in your mind, making you blush and your heart skip a beat even just thinking about it. In fact, you couldn't even look at a peach without your breath catching. And don't even mention what happend at night when you were alone with your thoughts...

Tonight your friends were all getting together again but this time at Billie's place. You guys all rotated around apartments so it wasn't one person's responsibility to host everyone. You were already in the area so you decided to head over a little early, wanting to return the favor of Billie helping you clean up the other night, hoping you can help set things up tonight.

You gave yourself one last glance in the car's mirror before reaching to open the car door. You stopped yourself remembering your mini perfume in your purse. You spritzed some vanilla and peach scented perfume, your signature scent, onto your pulse points, and a few extra sprays on your neck before tossing the bottle back into your purse and getting out of the car.

You weren't deliberately planning for something to happen tonight... but if something did you wouldn't be mad, your little friendly crush was growing to be not so friendly anymore.

Within seconds of you ringing the doorbell, the door flew open revealing Billie. She had a surprised but sultry smile on her face.

"Hi peach," she said. “You’re here early! D’ya miss me that much?” Her words sent a shiver down your spine and a flush to your face.

You giggled trying to brush it off. “Stop Billie. I wanted to return the favor from the other night and help you get everything ready for tonight!” You said sweetly.

So sweetly it made Billie’s heart start to melt. It was quite obvious to everyone Billie had some kind of feelings for you. And for a while Billie just thought it was her normal kind of crush on a hot girl. But recently she felt the shift too. It was something more and moments like this made it hard for her to keep up the charm.

Well, not that hard.

“God you really are an angel aren’t ya?” She said with a smirk, finally letting you into her apartment. You just giggled and continued down the hallway towards her kitchen, leaving Billie standing in the cloud of sweet peachy perfume you left in the air. Billie inhaled your sweet perfume as she shut the door and leaned back on it for a second before composing herself and making her way to the kitchen.

After a little while, the rest of your friends started to arrive, tearing the two of you apart. But Billie kept her eye on you subtly all night. She just couldn’t get over it.. The way your hair just fell perfectly over your shoulders, and the sweet freckles dotting your nose, and how the sound of your giggle could win grammys in Billie’s opinion, and that god damn sweet peach perfume that was now stuck on every surface in her apartment infiltrating her space like you were infiltrating her mind. And the sweet little looks you gave Billie right back across the room, made more than just her heart throb.

As the night grew on and conversations grew tired, someone suggested putting on a movie. More as background noise but everyone gathered around and snuggled up in their chosen spots.

Naturally Billie patted the spot next to her when you made your way over. But being the flirt she is, Billie pulled you down onto her lap (not that you were complaining), wrapping her arms around your middle as you got comfy.

“You cozy, peach?” You blushed at the nickname. You had just started to get used to the spontaneous “baby” or “mama” but having a nickname all to yourself was kind of driving you wild.

You just nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Billie hummed in satisfaction, smiling before pressing a soft kiss right below your ear making you breath hitch.

As the movie began, Billie pulled you in closer to her, your hands brushing against each other on your tummy.

The movie being a rom-com, provided the perfect backdrop for you and Billie. As the movie went on, and tensions rose, so did the tension between you and Billie. Billie's hand slowly moved under the blanket, her fingers gently brushing against your thigh. The touch was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but it sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You bit her lip, trying to suppress a gasp, as Billie's fingers began to explore, slowly inching upwards.

Billie's touch was deliberate and teasing, making your breath catch in your throat. She knew your friends were just inches away, oblivious to the intimate game unfolding beneath the blanket. The contrast between the innocent movie and your hidden passion was exhilarating. Billie's fingers traced lazy circles on your inner thigh, her touch feather-light and teasing. Your heart raced, and your body tingled with anticipation.

"Can you stay quiet for me peachy?” Billie whispered, her breath hot against your ear. "Mm-hmm." you nodded, unable to properly speak.

“Is this okay?” Billie whispered, even the flirty little minx she was, of course made sure you were okay first. You smiled softly before nodding again, letting her continue.

Her nose nuzzled into your jaw before she pressed a few kisses there. “You always smell so good peachy,” she purred making you let out a breathy, quiet moan. Billie's fingers continued their ascent, slipping under the hem of your shorts, finding the soft lace of your panties.

With expert precision, Billie hooked her fingers into the fabric, slowly pulling it aside, exposing your folds. Your breath hitched as you felt the cool air on her sensitive skin, your body already responding to Billie's touch. Billie's fingers traced the outline of your pussy, teasing the edges, making you squirm under the blanket.

"You're so wet already, for me peach," Billie whispered, her voice dripping with desire. "I love how responsive you are mama." Your cheeks flushed with pleasure and embarrassment, knowing your friends were mere feet away, unaware of the erotic scene playing out beside them. And forget about the fact that of all the ways you thought about hooking up with Billie, this surprisingly was not one of them… not that you minded either way.

Billie's middle finger dipped into your slick heat, eliciting a soft moan that you quickly stifled with a hand over your mouth.

Billie's finger moved in slow circles, massaging your clit, her thumb pressing gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your body trembled, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to focus on the movie, but Billie's touch was too distracting, too pleasurable. You could feel your juices flowing, coating Billie's finger as she worked her magic.

“You’re doing so good baby love,” she whispered in your ear, pressing another kiss to your neck. “Being such a good girl.. bein’ such a peach.” Her words sent you into overdrive, biting down on your lip so hard you were sure you would draw blood.

As the movie's dialogue filled the room, Billie's finger slid deeper, curling upwards, searching for your sweet spot. Your breath quickened, your body tensing as you fought to keep your moans silent. Billie's thumb continued to rub circles on your clit, her touch firm and relentless. Your hips bucked involuntarily, your body betraying your attempts at control. You turned your head slightly to look at Billie who until you turned your head, looked totally un-phased while watching the movie. As if she wasn’t ravishing her complete dream girl under the blanket.

"Let go f’me, angel," Billie whispered, her voice a soft command. "I want to feel you come around my fingers." Her words were like a spell, pushing you over the edge. It was so good you heard a ringing in your ears.. wait no. You actually were hearing a ringing.

You and Billie looked away from each other towards the sound of the ringing.

Of fucking course it was your phone.

You hit decline, if it was that important they’d call back. You sheepishly apologized and giggled at your phone being so loud right in the middle of the movie. You turned your ringer off with a sigh and settled back into Billie’s lap.

She pinched your clit, sending a jolt through you, you kinda forgot her hand was still in your pants. Giggling, you snuggled back into her and her arms tightened back around you as she started to rub slow circles on you clit, building you back up.

Until your fucking phone rang again.

Well it didn’t ring, but the screen lit up with your siblings contact across the screen again. With a huff you situated your shorts and got up to leave the room to take the call. Billie followed quickly behind, watching you stumble like a baby deer a little bit. She stifled a laugh as you picked up the phone.

“Hello?” You answered with a bite in your voice. Billie came up behind you, snaking her arms back around your waist. She nuzzled her nose on your jaw before kissing the area.

“This better be fucking important,” You groaned into the phone.

🧡✨🍑🫧

an: and with that i would like to formally introduce you to evil gracie hehehe🫣🥰 do you wanna part 3???👀

[callme-holly]

𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫

petrichor: (n.) the earthy, nostalgic scent of rain falling on dry soil, often associated with calm after a storm and bittersweet serenity. a/n: might open my inbox tonight for some more dally requests bc i love writing for him...

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, thick and heavy with a frustration that seemed to linger like a storm cloud ready to break if provoked enough. Only the distant sound of the world outside and the party downstairs seemed to cut through the quiet, and even that seemed deadened and muffled.

Dallas glared at you from across the room, his hair a tousled mess and his expression stony. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and you could see him biting back another cutting remark, his jaw tense with the effort. You had no doubt that you looked just the same—your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, your throat raw from the yelling and the screaming, tired of being spoken over. But now you don't have that problem. Not at all. Because it seemed nobody wanted to be the first to break the silence, so you both stood there staring daggers at each other, your hearts slamming against your ribs, your palms sweating profusely despite the cold. 

Fianlly, with an annoyed sigh, you rolled over the face of the wall, turning your back on your boyfriend, deciding its better to ignore him than to play whatever game he's trying to rope you into. The matress springs creak with the movement, protesting vehemently; it's old age shining through, and you have to feel bad for it. 

Dallas clears his throat loudly, trying to draw your attention, trying to get you to snap, to break, to say something that will rile you both back up, but you don't rise to it. You just continue to ignore him.

The fight had been over something stupid; Dallas had made a comment that had grated on your last nerve, and you'd snapped, the argument spiralling from there. And now... well, now you weren't talking. 

You hear the faint sound of him shifiting from behind you, his footsteps sounding on the hardwood, before finally stopping beside you. He stands there for a moment, just watching you, waiting, and you can't bite your tongue any longer.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" you demand, pushing yourself up onto your forearms and looking at him through narrowed eyes.

His expression is unreadable, his eyes still dark and heavy. "You're in my bed, sweetheart." He says simply, almost as if he’s bored of talking to you. “If anyone should be leaving, it’s definitely not me.” 

Your jaw sets, your anger starting to boil under the surface, and you scoff indigently, facing away from him once more. "Whatever," you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm not going anywhere," and you mean it; no matter how annoyed you are with him, you're not moving from the bed, not giving him the satisfaction of winning. 

"Then stop bitching and move over."

You dont protest as he shoves your shoulder lightly, simply shifting just enough to let him flop onto the mattress beside you. It's a routine you're satisfied with by now to even bother a question. After every fight, you'll both just lay together until you're both calm enough to act civil, brushing it under the rug and sometimes even talking about the issue. It's become second nature, something that is significantly better than walking away and never looking back. No matter how angry or upset you both are, it's better to go to sleep knowing the person you're lying next to isn't going anywhere, and while he'd never say it, you know Dallas likes you too much to even consider walking out on you.

A few minutes tick by, still agonisingly quiet; however, the tension has slowly started to bleed away, replaced with something that almost feels akin to regret for your heated words. Dallas' arm slowly snakes around your waist, and your fingers naturally find their way into his blonde locks, stroking absentmindedly while you both try to think of something to say. He shifts slightly, leaning further into your body, and you feel the soft weight of his head on your shoulder—an action you know he'd deny vehemently if you ever bought it up.

"I don't think you're a bitch," he murmurs after a few moments, so quietly you'd miss his words if not for the fact you're lying to close together. "It came out wrong." 

His tone doesn't give anything away though, making it impossible to tell whether he actually meant what he said or was just saying it for effect. Your lips twitch upwards at the thought; you lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes, and feel the weight of the world slip away with the soft breeze blowing through the open window. "Thanks," you hesitate for a few seconds before adding. "I still think you're a jerk." 

He snorts. "Maybe, but you love me anyways." 

And suddenly you can't help but laugh—a genuine, free chuckle that spills from your mouth before you even realise it. 

You smile wryly at him. "Sure, I do 

Dallas' hand moves to your waist and gently squeezes, pulling you closer to him. "I'll take it," he hums, his voice a low purr of pleasure and affection, and for the briefest of moments, you're happy just being held like this, safe and secure. All traces of your earlier spat are gone, and it's almost as though it never happened, but you know it did, and so does Dallas,  and neither of you wants to bring it up because you'd rather enjoy it in silence than risk making it worse. 

You just lay there, his head on your shoulder, his arm around you, and for just a moment it seems like things might be ok. 

[nilesmoon]

parani trying to kanallen ship bait is so funny to me. thanks for always choosing to focus on the most boring things kings 🙏🏻

[dayabot]

drag race fans on reddit will be like DAE think x queen is an irrelevant flop because they haven't been on the pit stop/any other wow show/drag race adjacent youtube show recently

[the-casbah-way]

not to beat a dead horse but jesus christ can you just leave people alone in public bathrooms i just want to fucking piss girl i'm so tired of feeling anxious and trying to avoid using public bathrooms because of how fucking weird cis people are about it. i tried to go into the bathroom at work today (i have worked here for years) and this woman who has worked here for two weeks and doesn't know me laughed and tried to like. steer me in the direction of the men's toilet instead and was like "wrong way!" are you fucking kidding me fuck off

[einaudis]

This is so scary and exciting at the same time.

[iamnotlookingidonotseeit]

pretty cringe of me to be freaking out over not meeting a requirement that I knew I was being lax about but didn't know was an actual hard and fast Rule

[arcadian-vampire]

Nervous giggles

Even more nervous giggles

There are so many professional paintings here, so many technically advanced, highly impressive works, and I'm just like [slaps some crayons down] y- yeehaw,,

I'm keeping the Escape Motions site Exciting. keeping it Interesting and Ridiculously Colorful

[comradecowplant]

i've still been feeling bad about things not working out with the sad neighbor lady with the busted leg, even though SHE was the one who 180ed and pushed me away, but then i start thinking about all the shitty little -isms (mostly race) she said, some of which i confronted in the moment & some that i picked my battles over given the circumstances, and then i feel less bad :)

[all4yoi]

𝒥ust a bet﹕hyung line

𝑒nhypen x fem!reader ︎︎⚹︎ cw: angst, no fluff (yet), reader is mostly viewed as a loser and nerd, lowercase intended, kinda went overboard with hoon's, reader gets called a bitch once, not proofread!

sypnosis﹕after a few months of dating, you find out you were just a bet.

part two !

★ LEE HEESEUNG (wc 0.3k)

you and lee heeseung has been dating for a total of five months, and throughout those months you can confidently say that you were the happiest. he was the perfect boyfriend, his family loved you and so did yours.

today, heeseung promised he would take you on a date after his basketball practice despite your protests on how he should be resting instead. you wouldn't have agreed if it weren't for the fact that he had shot you with his pleading big doe eyes that never fails to make you agree on whatever he asks for. 

so here you were, making your way towards the gymnasium with your bag hanging on your left shoulder. the lack of dribbling and smacking basketball noise from behind the closed doors told you that their practice was done.

entering quietly out of habit, you were about to approach your boyfriend when you overheard his teammates talking to him.

"don't tell me you're still with her?" asked one of boys, an amused smile on his face. heeseung only raised a brow.

"what? you won the bet, you can dump her now. you're ruining our image you know? plus she's a total nerd and loser, you're much better with someone like yunhee." and with only just a few words, you felt your world crashing down.

right, who would date someone like you? you always found it weird, that heeseung just approached you one day in your biology class with the cheekiest smile on his face. the fact that he wouldn't leave you alone until you've agreed to go on a date with him. it all made sense now, why the popular basketball captain suddenly gained interest on the school's "biggest nerd."

"speaking of.." another guy spoke, nodding towards you with a cheeky smile. heeseung turned around only to be met with your glassy eyes.

you didn't move, wanting to hear him defend you. wanting to tell his teammates that you weren't a bet and he actually liked you throughout the months you two have been dating.

his silence said everything and with that you turned away and ran out of the gym.

"shit." he muttered, running after you.

★ PARK JONGSEONG (wc 0.3k)

"i'll pick you up later, okay?" your boyfriend of almost a year said softly through the phone. you've been dating jay since the first week of your first year in uni, others found your relationship weird. maybe because back in high school, jay never and refused to even spare you a glance. he was an asshole who looked at you as if you were the epitome of disgusting.

but the past is in the past now, right?

"okay baby, see you." you reply and put your phone down on your table, knowing that he's usually the one who ends the call.

you go back to the papers scattered on your table. the silence in your room was disturbed by sudden noises in your phone, turning to look, you see that jay hasn't ended the call.

picking your phone up with a smile, you were about to call out for him but a voice stopped you.

"i can't believe you've gone this far dude." you recognized the slightly muffled voice, it was a friend of jongseong's.

"what do you mean?" your boyfriend grumbled. the audio was muffled, you figured he was moving and the phone was in his pocket.

"you're still dating her!" the voice exclaimed, as if amused. "seriously, i didn't think you'd take that bet seriously. fine you win, i'll clean your car for a month. but you've gotta cut it out, you're starting to disgust me." the boy laughed.

before you could hear what your boyfriend would say, you ended the call. your hand was trembling and tears were falling from your eyes unconsciously.

were all those months just a joke to him? were your feelings really worth a free car wash for just a month? were you that unworthy?

jay was an asshole back in high school, you thought he changed. turns out he didn't, you felt like a fool for falling for his antics.

★ SIM JAEYUN (wc 0.3k)

if someone would be asked who you were, they'd all say the same thing. a loner, pathetic loser, and a nobody with a pretty face.

because what was a pretty face if you had no friends and a social life?

you almost believed you would die alone, you were too socially awkward to make friends. so when sim jaeyun, the transferee, approached you with a warm smile and a hand outstretched for a shake, you were beyond shocked.

your relationship went from being block mates, friends, then next thing you knew you two were dating. at first you were reluctant to enter a relationship, scared that it would ruin your friendship, but he insisted you both tried. that was three months ago.

you didn't have any friends, but atleast you had jake.

jake who smiles at you as if you had carved the stars in your hands. jake who would never forget to bring your coffee every morning. he was everything you ever needed. he was it for you, you only hoped he felt the same towards you.

walking through the hallway of the school, you stopped infront of your locker only to be met with a sticky note on it.

HOW LONG CAN JAKE LAST WITH LOSER L/N?

A WEEK : 卌 - 卌 - 卌 - 卌 - III

FIVE MONTHS : 卌 - I

A YEAR : II

Furrowing your brows, you stare at the note as your breathing grew heavy. It was obvious that the paper was old, it had folds and it was only stuck on your locker with a washi tape.

"what are you doing l/n? go on, cast your vote." a mocking voice said from beside you followed by a bunch of laughter. "personally, i thought he'd last a day. i guess i'll vote for five months then." then the hand went and tallied on the five months category.

"what's going on here?" upon hearing your boyfriend's voice, you fled away immediately, not wanting to face him. everytime something good happens in your life, it's always ripped away from you. jake was just like them, you were just a toy for their own entertainment.

★ PARK SUNGHOON (wc 0.5k)

"i'm sorry baby, i really am busy with practice tomorrow." your boyfriend, sunghoon, says in genuine sorry. it was the fifth time you have asked him to meet your parents, who also by the way was so desperate to meet the boy you've been dating for seven months now.

every time you ask him, he's always busy. either with practice, a project, a family matter, or whatever excuse he can come up with. but you always brush it off, knowing he means well and he really is busy as he's an athlete student.

"i'll meet them next week, okay? i promise." that's also the same thing he says everytime too, and once again, you only nod in response.

you and sunghoon met in a physics class. he was clutching his head with a frown on his face as he desperately tried to understand what the professor was going on about.

you remember clearly the way he approached you in the library, a physics book on his left hand as his right scratched his nape. "can.. i noticed- uh, can you help me with this topic?"

that was where your relationship started. you tutored him and helped him improve his grade. when he got an A on the finals, he kissed you on the lips in glee. he was taken aback by his own actions but nevertheless asked you out after.

"i love you," he whispers, pressing a kiss on your temple. "let me get something from my room." you hum in response as he takes his arm that was previously wrapped around you before going up to his room.

you can't help but notice the way his phone was blowing up from beside you.

you weren't the type to snoop around other people's phones, especially your boyfriend. it just felt wrong, you trusted him fully. but the way it kept ringing with text notifications, you just couldn't help it.

looking back to the stairs, you note he isn't back and there was still rummaging noises from his room.

taking his phone, you enter his passcode and read the messages from one of his group chats.

JONGSU

lol don't tell me she asked again.. em ba rrah sing

DAEHYUN

hahah when is she gonna take a hint?? 💀

JOON

you gonna blame her? hoon's been at it for months lmao

DAEHYUN

i actually can't believe he went that far, wasn't it only supposed to be for a month? 🗿

JONGSU

a week actually, but ig that bitch y/n was so easy. yk hoon likes to get his ego fed 💀💀

putting the phone down, you exhaled in disbelief. you took your bag from the floor and threw it over your shoulder and went to the door of his apartment to put your shoes back on.

"baby?" sunghoon emerged from the stairs, looking at you curiously. "you're going already?" he asked, extending an arm towards you but you slapped it away. the tears on your eyes shocking him.

"hey, hey what's wrong?" he tried again but his hand was yet again slapped away.

"i don't want to see you ever again." was the last words you uttered to him (shakily) before leaving his apartment.

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze ��, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

[racew1nn3rs]

─ 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘪. (𝘪'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦) 🧶

⤷ summary: the world meets the newest mclaren team member, and they are loving it! it's poor oscars first day and shit's already hitting the fan sorry dude ): LMAO. lando just experienced love at first sight, while y/n is ready to fist fight

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liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 32,890 others

mclaren oscar's first day of kindergarten, done. pre-season testing, done. (we'll be even faster soon 🙏🏼 don't worry guys)

2,568 comments

user2 HELLO??? WHO HACKED THE MCLAREN ACCOUNT

user6 we'll be racing past redbull in no time

mclaren a girl can dream

user7 lando is this you??? 😭

user8 budget dropped so low they had to hire the drivers for social media

user3 this is haas money behavior

mclaren excuse you i am NOT LANDO

user8 oscar????

mclaren no sir, i'm the owner of this house 🫵

user9 idk if this is a new admin but this is so unserious

mclaren new year new me babe

user9 give her a raise mclaren 🙏🏼

mclaren REPOST REPOST REPOST

landonorris first day on the job and already asking for more money?

mclaren i'm so sorry lord lando, you forget that us lowly peasants aren't on an athelete salary 🙄

user10 HUMBLE HIM, WE LOVE TO SEE IT

user11 mclaren admin beefing with lando was NOT on my 2023 bingo card

user12 she really said, "ik we're slow but LET US COOK"

mclaren TRUUUSTTT THAT COMEBACK IS COMING (im manifesting)

oscarpiastri KINDERGARTEN??? i'm nearly 22 mate

mclaren teensy weensy baby basically

oscarpiastri your fired /:

mclaren HAHA YOU CAN'T DO THAT 🏃🏻‍♀️

user13 petition for all the f1 team accounts to be run by young admins, this is tooooo good

mclaren screenshotting this for my boss so they don't see these comments and fire me

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user14 she. looked. up. his. salary. 💀 ICON

user15 hiring her was such a rare mclaren W

user16 MCLAREN ADMIN HEAR OUR PRAYERS AND MAKE TIKTOKS 🙏🏼

user17 OMG CAN U IMAGINE

user18 HOW MUCH MONEY DO I HAVE TO PAY MS. MCLAREN FOR THIS OMG

user19 will our team win? probably not BUT AT LEAST WE'LL BE GETTING CONTENT 😘

user20 AYYYYEEEE

user21 LANDO MAY NEVER WIN, BUT THE FANS NEVER LOSE 🤞🏾

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liked by mclaren, maxfewtrell, and 60,050 others

landonorris don't mind me, just living my lord life on my athlete's salary. bahrain here we come!

10,750 comments

user22 WHERES THE MCLAREN ADMIN

user23 lando nowins flexing on us poor people

user24 someone come get this man's phone

user25 oh i KNOW pr is mad 💀💀💀

user26 daniel ricciardo leaves and mclaren loses it's mind

user27 daniel leaves and all of us lose our minds 🥲

oscarpiastri jesus christ mate, log out

mclaren i'm not sure he knows how, he might need to pay someone to /:

user28 CRAZZZYYYY

user29 THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING

user30 "f1 is a serious sport." the serious sport in question:

user31 the papaya hat 🫵

user32 HE'S SO FINE IM GNAWING AT THE BARS

user33 BARK BARK WOOF WOOF

mclaren phones. on the table. NEOWWW

user33 holy shit this is actually so embarrassing

mclaren at least ur self aware!

user34 she clocked ur asses 😭😭😭

maxfewtrell lord lando flying economy

landonorris I AM NOT

user35 bro took that personally

user36 me thinks the man doth protest too much

danielricciardo i leave you alone for a few months and this is what you're doing

landonorris i learned from the best

danielricciardo DONT BLAME ME FOR THIS

maxverstappen1 ... that's my plane???

landonorris SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

maxverstappen1 you can't just take credit for my private jet. its mine.

mclaren this just in, little lando norris is a little LIAR

mclaren when he steals a plane and wears bucket hats 🫵🤣 everyone point and laugh

landonorris I QUITE LIKE BUCKET HATS

mclaren i quite like bucket hats 🇬🇧☕️🤓

maxverstappen1 🫵🤣

danielricciardo 🫵🤣

charles_leclerc 🫵🤣

carlossainz55 🫵🤣

maxfewtrell 🫵🤣

oscarpiastri 🫵🤣

landonorris OSCAR????

oscarpiastri 🫵🤣 🫵🤣 🫵🤣

mclaren damn he got you there

user37 this cannot be real

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There were quite a few things Lando expected to be on his agenda when he arrived in Bahrain after him and Max went seperate ways to their own teams. He figured he would meet with his engineers, spend some time getting adjusted to working with Oscar (especially given he hadn't had very much time to meet or bond with the rookie over the break or during pre-season testing), and doing some press interviews as per usual. However no where on his list was an impromptu meeting with Zak Brown. Oscar seemed clueless as to what was going on as well, and Lydia, Lando's personal assistant of two years, was just as clueless.

Lando and Oscar filed into the board room, bottles of water in hand, only to be met face to face with their team manager. Nothing seemed suspicious which Lando hoped was a good thing, but after their underwhelming performance in pre-season testing he knew anything was a possibility.

"Have a seat guys, it's good to see you both. I hope you've been well-rested since testing," Zak greeted with his usual cheerful attitude. Lando and Oscar looked at each other warily but nodded at their boss nonetheless. Zak was usually more of a 'get to the point' kind of man, so this change of pace was unnerving to say the least. Normally it scared Lando a little bit, but truthfully, right now, Lando wanted to be done with this meeting and to get to race preparations.

"That's good, you need all the rest you can get if we're going to try and put up a fight this weekend. In all honesty, I think within the next two years we have a chance to become real competition here. I think we can give Red Bull and Ferrari a run for their money and earn plenty of points this year. Hell," the older man chuckled, "maybe we can win it all."

Lando didn't want to seem skeptical, but he was definitely skeptical. He did not think the car he was given in testing could win the championship, but he would sure as hell be trying.

"But no matter how hard the engineers work the car, and no matter how many sims we do, the one thing we're lacking in is presence. McLaren is notable, we have a famous team and a long roster of famous, successful drivers, including the two of you, but we don't have the same dominating media presence that Mercedes or Ferrari do. And that's what gets us sponsors, and celebrity visits, and fans, and funding. We may not be struggling for money, but if you guys like your multi-million dollar salaries and you want your car to keep being better, we need more media presence. Which is why we decided we wanted to go a bit of a different route this year, with media and all of that."

Oh god. Lando knew where this was going. This was about the new social media admin that had been ruthlessly harrasing him- albeit teasingly- for days now. Only employed for less than two weeks and already stirring up the pot across platforms. Lando looked at Oscar, noting that his teammate was clearly following as well now.

"I know you both have come to realize this already, but there is a new social media manager who runs all of the McLaren accounts. We wanted someone young, someone trendy, someone who knew what the internet is looking for, and who can help us connect and start getting more eyes on McLaren. We want her to meet with you guys today to share a couple of ideas so you can be on the same page for what we'll be doing online. The new manager is just outside. Let me get her so you can speak with her."

Lando nodded dumbly. Right, ok, he could do that. Lando was young, he was online, he was trendy. Plus, most of if not all of the F1 drivers had some kind of media presence already. Lando streamed, he had instagram accounts and twitter, and he even had Quadrant. Lando steeled himself. This would be just fine. An adjustment, but fine.

Zak greeted someone outside of the door and a small bit of shuffling sounds were heard. Before Lando had a chance to stand, Zak was turning and nodding a quick goodbye. Leaving the office room, as a smaller body replaced the space he had been in.

Lando felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs and hoped he hadn't made a noise out loud. He stared, he couldn't help it. He was sure he was slack-jawed, mouth agape and flies coming in. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that he should be professional and behave like a normal human being. But the other part of his brain, the dominant part of his brain, was in awe.

Lando looked at the girl in front of him up and down, probably far too obviously, and was stunned. He saw jean shorts, a faded and a mid-washed denim. A colorful-tighter cropped shirt and some layered gold jewelery. Rings on her fingers. Sunglasses in her hair, making her look way to cool to ever speak to him. She rocked on the balls of her sneaker-clad feet- sneakers that matched her clothes perfectly much to Lando's delight- and quickly moved to set her laptop down of the table. She left her small colorful handbag on the table alongside a cup of iced coffee that was already melting in the Bahrain heat. She looked as if she had jumped straight from a Vogue cover (or one of his favorite dreams) and landed right in front of him.

Was it the heat that was making it so hot? Because Lando was becoming suddenly aware of the heat beneath his shirt collar. A stifled cough from Oscar drew Lando from his observation- or rather his creepy, stalker staring- and Lando realized this was not the social etiquette that the situation called for.

Before Lando could even take a step, the girl smirked.

"Nice to finally meet you guys. Hello Oscar," the girl leaned over and shook the taller man's hand. "And Lord Lando, is it? It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Y/N L/N, i'm the new social media manager for the season."

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Y/N could now officially say she is not a fan of Lando Norris. The online feud she had cleverly created to generate some conversation about McLaren before the season started had been banter. She had taken no offense to Lando's jokes at all, but now that she was in front of the man and could feel his judgement, her opionions had changed.

From the second she walked in Lando had begun unabashedly staring at her. Looking her up and down, from the shoes she had recently bought to the hair clipped back on her head, and was not sparing a single detail. She felt vaguely like a mannequin on display and it unnerved her.

Oscar smiled at her politely as she set her things down, and she felt thankful for the reprieve from the judgement and critcism she had been recieving since she arrived and was now experiencing again from Lando in full force.

Y/N was aware that her outfit wasn't uniform or professional, but those were not the qualities she was hired for. Y/N had been confident coming in here, feeling like she would likely connect better with people her own age, but was thoroughly dissapointed to find this was not the case.

Oscar ultimately cleared his throat awkwardly, and it appeared as though this finally snapped Lando out of his judgemental stupor, so Y/N decided to finally make her introductions.

"Nice to finally meet you guys, hello Oscar," she leaned over and shook the taller man's hand. "And Lord Lando, is it? It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Y/N L/N, i'm the new social media manager for the season."

Lando groaned loudly and Oscar laughed.

"Lando I don't think you'll ever live this one down," and Y/N forced a laugh and nodded in agreeance.

"No, probably not. But that's good, that's what I was hoping for." Y/N stated bluntly.

"You were hoping to torture me?" Lando stuttered out and Y/N rolled her eyes, "You'll live I promise." Oscar laughed before pointing out, "at least your not a kindergartener."

Lando stifled a laugh but agreed.

"What purpose did Oscar's baby jokes serve?" Lando asked, and Y/N forced herself not to punch the man at his judgemental tone. He clearly didn't believe in her ability to do her job.

"It's funny, that was it's purpose," she stated, gesturing to the table for the boys to sit as she opened up her laptop. She turned to face toward them, lifting herself slightly so was seated criss-crossed in the chair. She never had liked sitting normally. The boys across from her stared at her expectantly.

"So you create jokes the make people look at us more?" Oscar asked.

"In a way yes. My job is to manage the accounts, but I've also been hired to help get you guys more fans. Fans love to be interacted with, they love seeing you guys joke around, they like feeling like they have content to consume," Y/N explained.

"By playing into these desires, you get more fans, because they feel they 'know you" in a way they don't know the other drivers." The boys nodded their head in understanding.

"So the plan is for me to keep interacting with fans through the McLaren accounts, playing up jokes with you too, and for us to give the fans new content in a way they don't usually get it. Livestreams, youtube vlogs, inside internet jokes, TikToks, the works." Y/N stated.

"Essentially," she said dragging the word out, "I'm going to make you guys the internet's little papaya stars," Lando laughed but nodded. Y/N, despite her first impressions and her developing dislike for the driver, found herself smiling. She could see the vision. Both Oscar and Lando would be awkward and loveable and humorous. The perfect mix for internet support.

"So where do we start?" Oscar asked.

"I'm glad you asked," Y/N smirked. "Have you heard the clip of 'Cuffing Season' by SZA? There's a TikTok trend I think will be perfect for you to do."

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user38 can we talk about how gorgeous admin is?!?!? LIKE OH MY GOD

user10 only hot people go to mclaren

user40 that check better be huge for her

user41 oscar was so mf stiff 💀💀 free my boy

user42 who had a gun to oscars head, he was so scared

user43 lando thirst trapping ICB 😭 I NEED A BIG BOYYY

user44 god admin is so sexy and smart, that was art

user45 CAN WE DISCUSS HOW LANDO LOOKS AT HER

user46 ikr 💀 get off the floor lando your drooling

user47 i want a man to be that down bad for me

user48 lando loverboy era unlocked

user49 meanwhile admin didn't look him in the face

user50 f1 2023 is going to be a WILD RIDE for us mclaren fans if this is before the first race even starts

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hope you all enjoyed! please let me know your thoughts and feel free to leave a request for me to write something for your fav <3

-

𝙩𝙖𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

@lemon-lav @slutforpopculture @m4rt10ne

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Angsty Sentence Starters #5

"I'm screaming and no one listens."

"Who am I without you?"

"How did we end up like this?"

"I thought you understood, but clearly, I was wrong."

"Every day feels like a battle I can't win."

"I can't keep pretending that everything is okay."

"Why does it always have to be like this?"

"You promised you'd never hurt me."

"I'm tired of being the one who cares more."

"There is no home to go back to."

"It feels like I'm drowning."

"You don't even notice me."

"Feels like we lost it all."

"I'm not going to leave you alone again."

"The more I try to forget, the more I remember."

"We're out of options here."

"How can you stand there and act like nothing's wrong?"

"Sometimes I wonder if you ever really loved me at all."

"I believed in you, but now I see the truth."

"You used to be my safe haven."

More: Angsty Masterpost

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[pandorashearts]

i wish i could be like "people with victim complexes dni" because at this point it's just infuriating how often we gotta deal with that kinda shit when we bust our ass to remain polite and civil as we're actively invalidated and treated like shit while we're openly unstable and dealing with the darkest year of our life. needless headache, man.

[prlssprfctn]

The first time, Tim notices someone observing them from afar, it is when they are all settled for a brief dinner together. It is the middle of the week, and Bruce gathered all of them together to... relax. Which is strange but not unwelcome. Everyone is so involved in chattering and bantering that they don't notice a lingering gaze through the window; they don't, but Tim does.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out that it is Jason.

He is not sure if Bruce reached for him to invite, and Jason just declined, or there was no offer to begin with, but Tim knows for sure Jason lurkes behind windows for a few minutes before disappearing in the night.

And the funniest thing? Tim understands him.

He thinks he is not Jason's replacement — never truly was, despite what the other thought — but in a way, they did swap their places. Because in the past, it was Tim, who hid on the rooftops, staring at Bruce and his family, listening to the snippets of their conversations. And now it is Jason.

It is still different, of course. Tim had a choice, and it was his... enthusiastic project, if anything — Jason doesn't really. But if anyone understands the feeling of standing far away from everyone, it is still Tim.

That's why the next time in happens, Tim reaches out.

It is after the particularly easy mission, when Tim spots the red motion on the rooftop. He slips away from Nightwing and Robin, who debate about something with Batman through the comms, and finds himself standing behind Red Hood.

The way Red Hood taps his fingertips on the balustrade makes Tim remember that he is not included in their comms anymore. He wonders how lonely it is, to hear the voices of his brothers, but never being able to grasp the whole conversation they have.

'Hood,' he calls for him.

To Jason's credit, he doesn't scramble in panic, even if it seems that he is surprised by his appearance.

'Red,' he mutters back, instantly defensive. 'What, came to mock me?'

Tim rolls his eyes; he wishes things would be easier with Jason, but they are not, and he can't really blame him for that.

'Had I ever mocked you?' He copies his stance, arms folding in the chest. When Jason tilts his head, almost asking, "Really now?" Tim rolls his eyes again. 'Okay, I did a few times. But it mostly were jokes about your death.'

Jason chuckles.

'Good one, punk. It changes everything.'

'You like jokes about your death,' Tim protests. 'And I know you allow Arsenal to joke about it, so it is not entirely closed topic.'

'I don't remember allowing you to joke about it, though.'

...

This conversation is so fucking stupid. Tim didn't even came here for this, but-

But fine. He still can win.

'So, you only allow it to your friends. Fine. Let's be friends,' Jason chokes on his own exhausted sigh. 'Do you need some friendship questionnaires to fill to be my friend? I can arrange that.'

Jason kindly flips him off under his breath before disappearing in the night, leaving him alone with whining Nightwing and irritated Bruce in his ear.

The next time he stalks down Jason, who in turn is stalking Damian and Bruce, he shoves in his hand twenty three papers filled with bunch of friendship questions — half stripped from internet, half made by Tim that involve the specifics of their jobs.

He doesn't expect anything to come after it, but in two weeks after Jason returns to the city after his mission with Outlaws, Tim finds these papers filled with surprisingly neat, calligraphic answers.

And he gets the printed copy of the same questions, with one page of an additional one, written in the same handwriting, and with a little sticky note atop of it.

Your turn, Timbo.

Tim smirks.

Oh, he will so drag Jason back in the family, somehow.