#he's just. he's just a guy. and i love him

[morganbritton132]

AU where Dustin is obsessed with this band that recently went viral. Their origin, unknown. Their members, unknown.

Suddenly, one day, they were there and Dustin is obsessed and like, yeah. Okay. They have a lot of songs about a hazel eyed king but - “Corroded Coffin also had a lot of songs about dragons. Are you also a dragon?”

“No, those songs aren’t about me,” Steve insists. “I swear to god, this song is about me, and that one! There’s like a half dozen songs here that sound like they’re about me.”

“You’re so delusional.”

“This song literally talks about a guy,” Steve gestures to himself because he’s a guy. “With great hair and two freckles on their neck like vampire bites. That’s me! That’s what I look like!”

Mike chimes in like, “I don’t see it.”

“Oh my god, is this gaslighting? Are you gaslighting me?”

So imagine Dustin’s surprise when he posts this conversation online and not only does it go viral for its hilarity, but Eddie Munson himself comments on the video.

‘He’s right - E,’ The Official Corroded Coffin account comments followed by another one that says, ‘he single? - E.’

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

What was in the blood.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[rawme-price]

Gator!reader who is lowkey malnourished and doesnt even realize it.

You grew up surrounded by humans and thus eat alot of thier food. Any cravings for extra portions of meat and protein were quickly noted and swiftly joked about, so you simply never acted on them. It gets to the point where you prefer to eat like a human, feeling much more comfortable with this. You only associate eating like an actual hybrid with being laughed at. Kids at recess used to run away from you, saying you would eat them next...needless to say you stuck to PB&Js after that.

Of course, this habit carried into ur eventual placement with the 141, no one caught it before bc gator hybrids are pretty strong even when malnourished. Even then, you try to eat alone when possible, so its only after you warm up to them that things start to get concerning. They notice how your meals are exceptionally small, and severely lacking in any protein. Ur plate looks like a light snack next to prices.

They think at first its deliberate, stressing amongst themselves how to help you. You seem to be the closest with gaz, so he offers to be the one to ask. After dinner, he pulls you aside into a small alcove, hand lightly on ur bicep in a comforting gesture.

"You alright, love? Anything....Anything bothering you?" Hes hoping its just stress, or someone being mean to you, something he can fix. But when you seem confused about his question, he continues.

"Its just, your meals. They've been a bit small, yeah? And i dont think ive seen you actually eat any meat." You glance away, nervous. Had you been younger you may have rumbles or lashed ur tail, but those impulses have long since died.

"Uhm, its fine? I just prefer more human meals, I guess. Look, its not a big deal, okay? Don't worry about it." You push past gaz before he can say more. He doesnt see you the rest of the week, you dont show up to meals or hang out with him. The others see you, but you seem more tense even then, nervous and jumpy.

Price has to set his foot down when you have to pause while walking down the hall twice because you felt dizzy. He forces you to go to medical, and instead of maybe the confirmation that you were underfed he was expecting, ur rushed into a patient room.

Apparently you were worse off than expected, and now the guys aren't allowed to see you at your own request.

[kukinkrim]

the prettiest manager goes to..

saja boys x gn!manager!reader

notes: what's up with kpop groups and their pretty managers bro 🤧

the saja boys were gods among men.

literally. more than half of the nation's population practically worshipped the ground they walked on.

which is ironic since this group of boys are anything but angelic.

nonetheless, they were still worshipped. they were practically the nation's golden children next to huntrix. they were loved, not only in south korea, but all across the globe. these five demon boys had the whole nation in a chokehold that no one could quite explain.

it's a no-brainer. attractive men with honeyed voices? of course, everyone's already practically drooling on their feet.

well, that's what abby believes anyway.

"manager-nim, we love you!" he stares in disbelief as he was cast aside, being shoved somewhere in the back as fans rushed towards you who was merely standing in the background.

you, not him.

the fans that used to carry boards with their faces now had yours plastered everywhere with hearts decorating all over it. it's safe to say abby is in shock. he watches from the back as fans swarmed you from left to right, cameras clicking and fans chanting your name over and over again.

"it seems our fans love them," jinu chuckles as he watched you look over at them through a sea of heads, begging for help.

"am i the idol here?" abby blinks, genuinely still baffled at how things turned out. what was supposed to be just a quick move from their apartment to their black van, was now an unexpected meet-and-greet with their beloved fans. except, they weren't fawning over the saja boys.

they were fawning over their manager.

“you were,” mystery replied with a deadpan tone, patting him on the back comfortingly. “but not anymore,” he added, watching the chaos unfold before him. “we've been dethroned.”

“i feel… replaced.” romance sighed dramatically, trying not to laugh when he sees you sending him a look that screamed for help. the entire thinf was rather amusing to watch.

baby squints his eyes when he catches one of the signs that a fan has brought. a picture of your face decorated with glitters with a quote that says, 'MANAGER-NIM PLEASE HAVE MY BABIES' and he physically recoiled in disgust. "are you sure that's not sexual harassment?"

“well,” jinu grinned, clapping to gain the attention of his members. “that’s what we get for having a pretty manager, i suppose.”

durimg the car ride to the studio, who were utterly exhausted. your back hunched in the worst way possible as you drove. “next fan meet,” you muttered. “i’m retiring.”

“too late,” baby said, scrolling through twitter. “you’re trending. again.”

“#managernimsupremacy,” abby read aloud from his phone, pouting. “unbelievable!"

that's how it started; as a joke. it was something that was just amusing to watch. afterall, it wasn't everyday you get to see your beloved manager be awarmed by thousands of fans.

a harmless, chaotic little joke they all laughed about.

at first.

until it became an everyday occurence.

“wow, the fans love you more than us now,” romance teased one day as you stepped back into the van, arms full of fan gifts: hand creams, vitamin packs, an absurd number of plushies, and three more custom water bottles with your name on them in a cursive font.

he takes one of the hand creams from you, a rose-scented one, happy that he got a free product despite being a rich idol who could probably afford to buy more than 10 boxes of each scent.

you merely shrugged. you've gotten used to it at this point. you've learned to be grateful of the gifts you received, even when they are being constantly shoved in your face left and right. "i think they’re just being nice. i take care of you guys for years now, afterall."

"nice?” baby echoed, peeking into the box you placed on the seat beside you. “these creams are imported from france!”

“lucky. and i got a drawing of myself being lovingly thrown into the ocean,” mystery muttered, sulking as he leans against the door of the van.

it was funny at first, really. they’d giggle when fans squealed at your presence. playfully sulk when they caught fans sneaking pictures of you while pretending to wait in their lines. jinu even once asked a fan to move over so he could take a selfie with the poster of you she brought instead of his face.

all jokes. harmless teasing.

“manager-nim, i wrote a song about you. it’s called ‘my only manager.’ can i sing it?” a fan once asked as he skipped throigh the five boys during their fansign, waltzimg straight to you who was waiting at the end of the table. he was clasping his hands together, pleading, that you didn't have the heart to refuse.

besides, happy fans, happy idols, right?

you, being your polite, adorable, very-unaware-of-the-effect-you-had-on-people self, smiled and said, “of course!”

the moment he opened her mouth and serenaded you with tearful sincerity; with a voice that only a mother could love, the atmosphere had already began to shift.

suddenly, abby wasn’t smiling anymore. he was pouting with his hands pressed against his ears. his eyes were glaring at the fan who was still talking to you.

romance forgot what he was supposed to write on the album page and signed I HATE HIM in all caps. the poor fan looked at him in confusion, looking at her album before shrugging.

baby was recoiling in absolute disgust. his mouth opens once in a while, his hand on his microphone. his throat was itching to say something but the hand om his shoulder stopped him from saying anything that could get him cancelled. jinu's hand on his shoulder was firm, his eye twitching and his smile tight.

mystery looks like he's about to lunge out of his chair and bite the vocal chords of this stupid fan and his stupid serenade.

after that day, it wasn’t funny anymore. it became annoying.

fans constantly showered you with gifts and love confessions and marriage proposals—which is something they should be getting used to. they are idols in the industry, afterall. they've gone through it and so much other worse things!

but they really couldn't help but be annoyed whenever you were at the receiving end of their fans' affections.

“do you want people to fall in love with you?” baby asked one night during dinner at a restaurant, stabbing his kimchi a little too violently.

“i—what?” you blinked.

“maybe wear a mask or something,” abby suggested, half-joking. “your face is… too face-y.”

“face-y?”

"it means stop being pretty for once!"

"you guys are being unreasonable."

“we’re done,” jinu said as he placed his chopsticks down. "you're getting demoted to a water staff."

"what?!"

"you only get to show up once during the day and that's to bring us water. no mingling with fans!"

“wait—what? why?!”

“you’ve been working too hard,” he said, but his eyes were definitely glaring. though it didn't seem to be aimed directly at you. not at you, but at something outside the restaurant’s window. you followed his gaze just in time to see two fans holding up a banner that read: MANAGER-NIM, YOU ARE OUR LITERAL SALVATION 💘💘💘

you laughed awkwardly, waving at the two, before sighing. “is this because someone shouted ‘marry me’ at me during soundcheck yesterday?"

“it's because five people shouted it,” abby corrected, “one of them brought a ring.”

“an actual ring,” abby added. “it even had your initials engraved."

“that could’ve been a coincidence,” you tried, but even you, yourself, didn't believe in your own poor excuse.

“it had your face on the box,” baby deadpanned. “your graduation photo. the ugly one.”

“okay wow, rude.” you huffed, glaring at the teal-haired demon who only shrugged.

“don’t dodge the point!” abby snapped. “you do know this is parasocial, right? that kind of fan attachment isn’t healthy!”

You stared at him. “you’re all literal idols. you thrive on parasocial relationships.”

“yes,” baby muttered into his drink, “with us. not with you. that’s the natural order of things.”

“you’re quite literally disrupting the ecosystem,” mystery added, deadpan.

“yes,” romance said, “but not when we’re the ones being ignored! #managernim is now trending higher than our actual comeback teaser.”

there it was.

the real reason.

you slowly leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms. a smile so smug forming on your lips. “ah. so it’s jealousy. you're jealous i stole your fans?”

“what? no—pfft.” jinu waved a hand dismissively, clearly lying. “it’s concern. genuine, heartfelt concern.”

“you’re mad because you tripped over a banner with my face on it.”

“i bled,” abby whimpered dramatically, rubbing his shin.

“you’re demons. you heal.”

“it stung me emotionally.”

romance groaned into his palms. “i literally sang a high note and no one blinked. but the second manager-nim smiles? everyone’s sobbing like they've been enlightened.”

“marry me. manager-nim is my mother and my father and my hope,” mystery quoted, mimicking the fan tweets he read before. “it’s endless.”

“i think it’s sweet,” you said with a small smile, just to poke at them.

five pairs of eyes glared at you in unison.

“no more public appearances,” jinu declared. “effective immediately. you’re on water duty and emotional lock-down.”

"you can’t be serious.”

“we are,” baby said. “and if any fan asks where you are, we’ll say you’re… on a paid vacation. to reconnect with nature. maybe with no wifi.”

“oh my god,” you muttered, hiding a laugh behind your hand. “you’re all actually insane.”

[heejamas]

MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne. 

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and ​​you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously.  short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back. 

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet. 

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his. 

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you. 

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. ​​he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked. 

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam. 

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part. 

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you. 

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[brute1234]

I feel crazy I feel rabid GGRRRGGRREGGR BARRY STYLES BE UPON YE

me and him would yap SO HARD TOGETHER I JUST KNOW IT OOOHHHH i love him a normal amount (nothings normal about the way I need him)

[suliigwp]

Lucky Page — OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader | established relationship, SMAU

SULI: have this little treat before the next chapter of tronab — I'm obsessed with this man. Short and sweet🧡 also please pretend it says Saudi Arabia instead of Miami in a pic😘 you'll get it

Warnings: Thirsty comments, sexy jokes

SUMMARY: Every time Oscar Piastris girlfriend posts him on her private Instagram page before a race— he wins

China race week

Liked by pastrypriv, lando.jpg and 21 others.

y/npriv: IM GONNA EAT HIM (lando ipad kid behind 'em)

16 comments.

lando.jpg: I was reading your post🙄

pastrypriv: only you're allowed to eat me

↳ y/npriv: 👀

↳ pastrypriv: can you be wholesome for just a second?

charl3smess: no bc why does he look like he’d taste like strawberry yoghurt

car1105.finsta: I bet he smells like sunscreen I gifted him

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I think if you bite him he’d make that lil “ow :/” sound

↳ y/npriv: CAN CONFIRM. tested. 7/10 bite resistance

piastrilicious: what the hell is going on here

georgewearssocks: blink twice if they’ve put seasoning on u

↳ lando.jpg: he blinked once. medium rare incoming

↳ y/npriv: dinner’s at 8 x

↳ car1105.finsta: save me the elbow

↳ charl3smess: i want the cheek. soft bits hit different

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: dibs on the fingers

↳ pastrypriv: you guys are sick

↳ y/npriv: bff you literally said I'm allowed to eat you

↳ pastrypriv: bc I wanted to be devoured with love 💔

...

Liked by mclaren, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 1M others.

yourusername: First win of the season and so many more to come! I'm so proud of you🧡

24k comments.

oscarpiastri: Couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm 🧡

↳ yourusername: Are you calling me the tire strategy again 😒

↳ oscarpiastri: Maybe 👀

piastribabe99: SHE MANIFESTED THIS I KNOW SHE DID

landonorris: Here we go. Can’t wait to hear about this for the next 3 months.

↳ yourusername: You’ll live.

↳ oscarpiastri: You’re just mad I finished ahead 😌

↳ landonorris: Don’t test me little man

mclarensunshine: this is my Roman Empire. the way she looked at him on the podium 😭

↳ wagsonsight: HER EYES WERE GLOWING

danielricciardo: OH HE’S WINNING WINNING 🔥

↳ yourusername: more things than the race if you know what I mean

↳ danielricciardo: oop

↳ lando: WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR

↳ oscarpiastri: y/n.

gridwives: their dynamic >>>>>

maxverstappen1: Congrats, mate. Let’s see if you can do it twice 😉

↳ yourusername: 👀 challenge accepted

↳ oscarpiastri: 😬

oscarpiastriluvr: She’s the proudest gf and I’m sobbing about it

carlossainz55: You better frame this post. Historic moment.

↳ yourusername: Already making a scrapbook 🧡

↳ oscarpiastri: I’m scared

f1wifematerial: real love is posting him even when he still has champagne in his hair

...

Bahrain race week

Liked by charl3smess, a.lbonbutmakeitferal, georgewearssocks and 19 others.

y/npriv: how he was looking at me last night

22 comments.

pastrypriv: Y/N!

↳ y/npriv: just like last night

↳ lando.jpg: stop this madness 😭

lando.jpg: YOU NEED TO GO TO CHURCH. IMMEDIATELY.

↳ y/npriv: my god is busy blessing Oscar

↳ lando.jpg: I’m calling his mum

m4xisnumberone: I should not be here

↳ y/npriv: then leave

↳ m4xisnumberone: not until I report you to the FIA

charl3smess: I will never unsee this

↳ lando.jpg: SAME

↳ charl3smess: why are you everywhere

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Delete this before I make a group chat without you

↳ y/npriv: you wouldn’t dare

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: try me

georgewearssocks: This is entirely inappropriate

↳ car1105.finsta: just say you’re jealous

↳ georgewearssocks: 😐

car1105.finsta: wait so is this a before or after quali kind of look

↳ y/npriv: Carlos?

↳ car1105.finsta: i’m just trying to understand the timeline 🧎‍♂️

↳ pastrypriv: this is so humiliating

...

Liked by car1105.finsta, m4xisnumberone, lando.jpg and 22 others.

y/npriv: LAWRD HAVE MERCY

comments.

lando.jpg: GET A GRIP

↳ y/npriv: I physically CANNOT

↳ lando.jpg: you need to be stopped

m4xisnumberone: nah cause this one actually made ME flinch

↳ y/npriv: 😌

↳ m4xisnumberone: NO

charl3smess: you’re not normal

↳ y/npriv: he unzipped his suit and so did my sanity

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: not to be dramatic but i feel unsafe here

↳ y/npriv: okay but imagine you saw this in PERSON

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: i’d pass away

car1105.finsta: you didn’t even try to be subtle

↳ y/npriv: didn’t even TRY

↳ car1105.finsta: that’s love i fear

georgewearssocks: Lord have mercy? No. We need a restraining order.

↳ y/npriv: try and catch me 😌

↳ georgewearssocks: i’m telling Oscar

dannyricc3: yeah okay this one is a little bit illegal

↳ y/npriv: delete your jealousy x

↳ dannyricc3: i’m texting your mother

dannyricc3: Not Oscar keeping his silence

↳ pastrypriv: let me be

...

Liked by dannyricc3, m4xisnumberone, car1105.finsta and 17 others.

y/npriv: HE WON AGAIN. TWO IN A ROW. i’m not saying it’s because i posted him last night but i posted him last night.

18 comments.

lando.jpg: no because this is getting weird now

↳ y/npriv: don’t act like you’re not scared

↳ lando.jpg: i AM

↳ lando.jpg: imagine how big the gap would be if you attend a gp👀

charl3smess: if he wins three in a row i’m opening a shrine to you

↳ y/npriv: start collecting candles

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I KNEW IT. WITCHCRAFT.

↳ y/npriv: consider me your local track witch 🧹✨

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: you’re too powerful

georgewearssocks: I was skeptical. Now I’m terrified.

↳ y/npriv: you should be

m4xisnumberone: This is how cults start

↳ y/npriv: you’re just mad i didn’t post you

↳ m4xisnumberone: DON’T

car1105.finsta: can i send a photo of ME with puppy eyes for this week??

↳ y/npriv: lol no. this account chooses oscar now.

↳ car1105.finsta: brutal

pastrypriv: Two wins. Coincidence.

↳ y/npriv: say that again when you’re holding another trophy next week

...

Saudi Arabia Race Week

Liked by gridlife2025, paddockfashionista, waglifeinsta and 45k others.

F1GossipFeed: Spotted at the Saudi Arabia GP: @/yourusername making a stylish appearance in the paddock! Looks like she’s here to support @/oscarpiastri in person this weekend. ✨🏎️

12k comments.

f1fanatic_23: Love seeing the support! Hope Oscar feels the energy 💙

gridlife2025: She always looks so cool, no wonder Oscar’s killing it this season

raceweekbuzz: VIP vibes for sure, who else wishes they had paddock access?

speedqueen_94: This is the motivation Oscar needs to bring home another podium 👏

paddockfashionista: Okay, her outfit is EVERYTHING. F1 fashion goals!

motorsportjunkie: Supporting your driver in person? That’s next level. Respect.

tracksidevibes: I’m here for the power couple energy, can’t wait to see them at the podium

...

Liked by lando.jpg, georgewearssocks, pastrypriv and 22 others.

y/npriv: trying something today🤭 good luck my boys!

10 comments.

lando.jpg: You better post me twice for extra luck

↳ y/npriv: double the trouble 😈

pastrypriv: Don’t jinx it, witch

↳ y/npriv: oh, I’m blessing you. Big difference.

charl3smess: Proof that the best wingwomen come with filters and funny faces

m4xisnumberone: I demand a selfie too or I’m boycotting podium photos

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Make sure you send one to me or I’m crashing your next Zoom call

car1105.finsta: Officially the best hype squad captain

georgewearssocks: I see the power of good vibes in action

dannyricc3: This energy is everything. Good luck boys, don’t disappoint!

...

Liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri, ln4 and 2.3M others.

mclaren: ✨ DOMINANCE ✨ What a sensational performance from @/oscarpiastri and @/landonorris today at Saudi Arabia! A commanding 1-2 finish, crossing the line nearly 30 seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. Pure teamwork, focus, and speed. 🏆🏆

77k comments.

f1fansworldwide: That’s how you show up and shut it down. McLaren is back baby! 🔥

oscarpiastrifan: Oscar and Lando are unstoppable when they’re together. Loved every second of that race!

landonorrisfanclub: A 30-second gap? Unreal. Proud of my boys 🧡💙

yourusername: My boys did THAT 👀💥 So proud!!

↳ mclaren: our lucky charm🧡

...

Private Group Chat—

'Paddock Hazard'

@/yourusername:

ok but seriously… 30 seconds ahead??

Lucky Page magic strikes again 💅✨

@/lando: I want to believe but you’re gonna have to post me solo next time or I’m out 😤

@/oscarpiastri: I’m not sure if I believe this “Lucky Page” thing but… can’t argue with results 😂

@/maxverstappen1: I’m starting to think you’re the real driver here tbh

@/charles_leclerc: Not gonna lie, I’m lowkey jealous of this power you’ve got.

@/alex_albon: So when’s the ritual? I wanna join the cult.

@/yourusername:

First, you gotta post the ugliest selfie you have.

No exceptions.

@/lando: Nooooooo

@/oscarpiastri: If posting on the Lucky Page means I keep winning, I’m down to let her do whatever she wants.

@/yourusername:

Careful what you wish for… next race I’m posting the one of you with bedhead.

@/lando: Wait, that was private!

@/maxverstappen1: I vote for more bedhead pics. It’s only fair.

@/charles_leclerc: Honestly this chat is the best thing about race weekends.

@/alex_albon: Agreed. Also, when’s the group photo for maximum luck?

@/yourusername:

Only if you promise to not fight each other

@/georgerussell63: you expect too much from us

@/maxverstappen1: No promises.

@/georgerussell63: see?

@/oscarpiastri: Whatever happens, Lucky Page is here to stay. Thanks for keeping my podium streak alive

_____________________________________________

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

[flwrstqr]

ADORE YOU ⭑ WHEN THEY'RE YOUR HUSBAND

𝐈𝐕────𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂'𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈

❪ 𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗦&𝗖𝗢 ❫ husband!enhypen & fem!rea 1OOO ◞ ◟书 fluff established relationship headcanons 𝘄 ｡ drinking skinship petnames ❞ DAILY

다니 ⦂ i miss my flueries a lot TT i promise i'll be more active soon ><

LEE HEESEUNG

your cheeks are flushed and you're giggling into his shoulder, arm slung lazily around his waist as you sway just a little, drunk on champagne and the fact that you’re married to the prettiest boy in the room—he's yours. “he’s my husband,” you whisper again to a poor stranger who just smiled too politely, and heeseung’s laughing under his breath, hand slipping down to squeeze your hip as he presses a kiss behind your ear. “i know, love,” he murmurs, “i’m right here.” you pout when he tries to tug you away from the hors d'oeuvres table, your fingers lacing with his. “he’s mine,” you tell the bartender next, and heeseung just grins like a fool as he spins you into his chest. “yes, baby. forever. now let’s get you some water before you propose to me again.”

PARK JAY

you’re leaning over his desk, the soft clack of your pen against paper filling the room as you scribble your signature—mrs. park, almost out of habit now—and you don’t even notice the way jay’s watching you until he hums lowly. his arms looping around your waist as he leans in, the soft brush of his loosened tie grazing your shoulder. “my last name looks good on you,” he whispers, smirking. you blink, caught, heart skipping. “jay,” you say, pretending to scold, but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. he chuckles, brushing your hair aside so he can kiss your neck ever so lightly. “yes, princess?” he teases, hands stroking your hips, his thumb lazily traces your waist. “sign all the papers you want, baby. i already put a ring on it.” god—this man. in his office. and only eyes for you.

SIM JAKE

you don’t even notice the guy at first—not until he leans in too close and asks, “are you single?” with a half-smile that makes your stomach churn, but before you can answer, jake’s arm is suddenly around you, pulling you so close your back hits his chest, “she’s married,” he says, voice smooth but laced with steel and coldness, and the guy blinks, stunned, until jake adds with a little smirk, “by me,” his eyes are locked on the poor guy who’s suddenly stammering and backing away, palms raised. “jesus,” you mutter, half-laughing as jake presses a kiss to your cheek. “what?” he shrugs innocently. “can’t have people thinking my pretty wife’s up for grabs.” you roll your eyes but your heart stutters anyway, the ring on your finger suddenly burning with meaning, and you lean into him, whispering, “jealousy looks hot on you.” “good. now dance with me, baby.”

PARK SUNGHOON

you’re leaning over the bathroom counter, fixing your lip gloss with practiced ease, when you catch sunghoon’s reflection behind you—shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp, but his gaze is soft, entirely on you. you pause, blinking at him through the mirror, and that’s when he murmurs it, voice low, almost like he’s thinking out loud—“how did i get so lucky?” the gloss wand stills in your hand as your heart stumbles, and you turn just slightly, smiling despite yourself. “you say that like i’m not the lucky one,” you tease, but he only walks closer, slipping his arms around your waist from behind, nose brushing your temple. you lean back into him, fingers brushing over his. “you’re gonna ruin my makeup,” you whisper. he just smiles, “worth it.”

KIM SUNOO

you’re half-distracted, phone pressed to your ear as you rattle off your order, casually adding, “and my husband will have the strawberry one,” not even thinking twice—meanwhile, sunoo’s halfway across the room, frozen with a spoon in his hand as he tries to hide his smile. his ears go red instantly, and when you hang up and turn around, he’s just standing there, grinning like an idiot. “what?” you laugh, confused, and he practically skips over, wrapping his arms around your waist and nuzzling into your neck. “you called me your husband,” he whispers, voice all giddy. “i mean... you are?” you smile. he just melts more, and three hours later, he’s still smiling like he just won the lottery.

YANG JUNGWON

you’re curled up beside jungwon, his arm draped lazily over your shoulders as you both lounge on the couch. the warmth of his body makes everything feel perfect, his soft breath tickling the top of your head. "babe," he murmurs, gently kissing the ring finger of your left hand, the one he’s kissed so many times, his lips lingering there a little longer than usual, sending a small flutter through your chest. “you’re so beautiful,” he adds, making you smile. you tease him, "flattery will get you everywhere, hm?" he chuckles, pulling you closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "i just speak the truth, sweetheart," he whispers, wrapping his arms tighter around you. his fingers trace slow circles on your arm, a grin. dimples.

NISHIMURA RIKI

it’s funny how people still think riki is your boyfriend, even though you two got married early , he knew from the start he wanted to be with you forever. as you two were talking with some friends, one of them teased, "so, your boyfriend is here?" riki, with a smirk, quickly corrected them, "no, i'm her husband." he leaned in to press a quick kiss on your temple. you roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. he loves it—loves making that little correction, watching the surprise flicker across their faces.  "a little more serious than boyfriend and girlfriend," "i guess he can’t stop showing off that ring," you add, with a teasing tone. "can't blame him," 

[gothicfied]

Teen reader who is comforted and taken care by the other players because of her young age?? Father and daughter relationship, big sister and lil sister,etc. btw I love your ficss!! ♡

Squid Game (S2/S3) characters with a teen (18) reader

Pairing: Various characters x teen!fem!reader, !!platonic!!

Warnings: Mentions of killing, gunshots, death, fights, violence (typical squid game stuff), reader is !!18!! years old, slight swearing, this is set in Season 2, other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

A/N: The req is 6 months old, SORRY. But, I still had fun writing this since it's easier to imagine yourself in that position lololol This is also probably the last squid game fic I'll write, either for now or even for longer, unless I get a request again. It's sad that this era is over now, I still remember how excited I was for Season 2 back in 2021 ):

જ⁀➴ For as long as you could remember your parents struggled with debt and you never questioned it when they would disappear the whole day for work just to put food on the table. So, when you turned 18 and graduated secondary school, you didn't go to University, but started to work jobs here and there to help your parents out. Some of them were sketchy, some of them didn't pay enough for the work you were doing, some of them were exhausting.. but an opportunity came when a man made you a strange proposal: Play ddakji with him — If you win, he'll give you money, if you lose he'll.. slap you?

જ⁀➴ Ultimately, the guy in the suit couldn't bring himself to hurt him (maybe because you were so young) and just handed you a card with a number on it. Yeah, turns out participating in this weird stuff was the worst decision of your life. Waking up in this dormitory, suddenly wearing a green tracksuit instead of your usual clothes and finding out you're stuck here with 455 other people already scared you shitless.

જ⁀➴ When other people started to notice you and how young you looked, you immediately became the focal point of their attention. People left and right were asking you all kinds of questions, if you were okay or not, how old you were, what the hell you werr doing there. You quickly understood that everyone here had a debt problem... but everyone here was also at least in their mid twentys.

જ⁀➴ After the gruesome experience that the first game was, with people getting shot and dying because of a game (or so you thought at the moment) there was one particular group that took you in. Two marines, one pregnant lady, a guy that claims to be the winner of one of the previous games and 001 himself, who seriously freaked you out.

જ⁀➴ Jung-bae and Gi-hun became your biggest protectors — Next to Jun-hee, who was carrying her baby, you basically still were a baby. Whenever the pink guards gave out food, those two split it up between you and the other girl, saying that you guys need it more than they do. Particularly Jung-bae was shocked at hearing your reason for being here: "You shouldn't have done this, financial problems are the worries of the parents!" He scolded you, but never meant it.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho, the other marine, kept telling you how much you reminded him of his sister. Even though he was the youngest child back home, he was fully blooming in this new big-brother-role that he adapted when it came to you. He spoke up for you whenever someone else decided to be an asshole to you, he laid awake in his bed most of the time to watch over you (ever since Gi-hun told him about ambushes at night he's been paranoid) and would actually sacrifice himself in one of the games if it meant you'd be safe.

જ⁀➴ Jun-hee and you were much closer in age than you were with any others. She became comfortable with you in an almost instant, mostly because you were also a woman. She woke you up to ask you if you'd come to the bathroom with her in the middle of the night, to which you were joined by an older lady, Geum-ja, and another woman, Hyun-ju.

"You are so young.. oh, my heart breaks for you, my child." Geum-ja told you once you were escorted to the bathroom, to which you were only able to nod. What else was there to say? You really just wanted to help your parents out. "I just.. you don't understand, we really need the money." Geum-ja looked at you sympathetically, but she was just really disappointed in the world for making someone like you worry about debt. "Hey," Hyun-ju spoke out, "If you need anything, yell for me, okay? I'll make sure nothing happens to you. You have.. so much ahead of you."

જ⁀➴ You mostly felt cringe and maybe also a bit uncomfortable when hearing people talk to you like you were a child. Then again, these people didn't have the humanity to deny participation to a pregnant woman and a teenager, so you were kind of glad to get special treatment from the other players. Even Young-il, the guy that creeped you out the most, had a pity expression on his face whenever you joyfully talked about things only someone at your age would talk about. Video games, the grades you finished school with, friend group drama... it was obvious you didn't know anything about the world yet and it was even sad for him to hear it so clearly.

જ⁀➴ After another failed round of voting, the two idiots from the 'O' side of the dormitory started approaching your bed. Thanos and Nam-gyu, you quickly learned, were the one's causing most of the trouble and now it seemed like they wanted to manipulate you as well. "Hey there, little Dove," the purple-haired junkie started, to which you told him to fuck off, basically. "Woah, hey? Watch your mouth, kid. I definitely didn't know those words when I was your age." For about five minutes these two tried to talk you into voting 'O' next time, because "It would only benefit you!" and "You wouldn't have to work for a bit with that money!" You called out for Hyun-ju who quickly made them go away.

જ⁀➴ In the end, you understood you were doomed as soon as more players started to die due to fights and lights out. There were plenty of others who were there to protect you, who promised you that you'd get out alive, but now you weren't so sure anymore.. the revolution Gi-hun wanted to go through with seemed like the only option for everyone to get out of here.

[kenniesf1]

in burning red | CL16

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: charles needs a date to his brother's wedding and yn is famously obsessed with him

tropes: strangers to lovers, social media AU

ln.yn

liked by yoursibling, lorde, and 801,247 others

ln.yn wrote a song called "red," it's NOT about charles leclerc (trust me chat, i wish it were 😭🙏). out now!!!!

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user1 she can write the most real songs ever, but her crush on chalres leclerc is the most relatable thing about her

yoursibling stop ruining f1 for me

ln.yn you know what now im gonna ruin it even MORE hoe

user2 im in love with her

user3 and she... is in love with charles leclerc

user4 when the finna is tea but the chile is gag (this music is about to EAT)

oliviarodrigo song of the year!!!!!!

ln.yn that means a LOT coming from youuu 💞

user5 can we collectively make a kickstarter to buy her a paddock pass 😭

ln.yn i would not be opposed to that 🧐

user5 OMG YN YOU REPLIED TO MY COMMENT???

user6 someone inform charles of his #1 fan pls

user7 HELL YEAH YN LN #3

user8 guys if yncharles happens it'll be like tayvis except she's travis

user9 YOU'RE SO RIGHT

troyesivan answer my texts bitch

ln.yn you leave me on read for days stfu

charles_leclerc playing red - yn ln

liked by lando, georgerussell63, and 1,023,184 others

charles_leclerc Leo and I like this song

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ln.yn HOLDDDDD THE DAMN PHONE

charles_leclerc hello

ln.yn ...hello

user11 focus less on girls and more on winning a race pls!!!

user12 holy annoying ahh

pierregasly shooting his shot

arthur_leclerc he better, he needs a date to lorenzo's wedding

user13 YNCHARLES?!?!?

oscarpiastri Can I petsit Leo?

charles_leclerc maybe, son

user13 il predestinato ❤️

carlossain55 i am more aesthetic than you

charles_leclerc whatever you say 🧎‍➡️

scuderiaferrari Our favorite (and Charles is there too) liked by author

lewishamilton roscoe's waiting on that playdate, mate

charles_leclerc we can't let our dogs become better partners than we are

user14 im concerned for yn

ln.yn posted a story!

ln.yn flying to monaco for the first time!!!

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user15 im worried for charles leclerc's safety

user16 She's so gorgeous 🥰

user17 omg my queen posted

charles_leclerc cute

charles_leclerc posted a story!

charles_leclerc Se préparer pour le jour du mariage avec les idiots 1 et 2

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user18 the leclerc brothers 🔥

arthur_leclerc les deux idiots dont vous parlez doivent être vous-même

ln.yn voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

charles_leclerc lady marmalade

user19 eek!!!! i can't wait for lorenzo's wedding!!!

user20 yn in the comments AND charles replied WHAT

ln.yn

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, and 843,871 others

ln.yn lorenzo and charlotte, i know i just met you, but i need you to adopt me. amazing, amazing wedding with an amazing, amazing date (thank you charles_leclerc)!!! i can't thank all of the leclercs for letting me be here for such an important and beautiful moment. safe to say, monaco is my new favorite place ❤️🤍

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user21 OMG YN AND CHARLES DATE???

user22 she needs to teach us her ways

user23 hg has been PINING

lorenzo_leclerc Thank you for accompanying Charles (we didn't want him to look lonely)

ln.yn it's okay (just pay me later) 😉

charles_leclerc ☹️

user24 she look so prettyyyy

user25 her and charles look so good together it's wild

user26 yn knew before anyone else did

charlixcx hot

ln.yn im partying 4 u

user27 yesss, we needed her to get new music inspo

user28 the charles songs are gonna SLAP

charles_leclerc thanks for coming with me, chérie

ln.yn thanks for inviting me 😊

charles_leclerc round 2? drinks?

user29 OH HE'S SMOOTH (operator????)

ln.yn yes, round 2, but this time on my turf (you're gonna love manhattan)

lando i ship it 👍

charles_leclerc

liked by scuderiaferrari, yourbestfriend, and 1,029,054 others

charles_leclerc Lorenzo, mon frère aîné, ma plus grande inspiration, et Charlotte, la meilleure belle-soeur de tous les temps, se sont mariés ! Je suis tellement heureuse pour vous deux, vous méritez tout et plus encore. J’ai passé des moments formidables à célébrer avec vous, je vous aime et je vous dois tout à tous les deux.

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carlossainz55 happy wedding, enzo and charlotte!

oscarpiastri Congratulations!!!

lorenzo_leclerc Je t'aime, mon frère

ln.yn charlotte and lorenzo, my pinterest board wedding and couple!!

charles_leclerc girl comment that on their post, on mine say i'm pretty

user30 DOWN BADDDDD

user31 i love them so much!!! i wish i were there

user32 charles looks yummy

user33 is this yn's secret acc?

ln.yn NO i would say on my main that he looks yummy

scuderiaferrari We love the Leclercs in this house

user34 yncharles mention!

maxverstappen1 congrats, guys! i wish you the best!

user35 mad max is being so nice 🥺

arthur_leclerc i looked better than you

charles_leclerc maybe shut up, this is ENZO'S DAY

a week later

charles_leclerc posted a story!

charles_leclerc date #2 with ln.yn 🫶

view all comments

user36 she's so beautiful, can charles fight

user37 i love them together

user38 AWWW i love my yncharles

user39 the next yn album will be a BANGER

user40 cuties!!!

ln.yn hey you're nice!

the first charles fic! hope y'all like it <333

[itzpookiepooh]

Watch him for me?

You set the phone down and record him

“Hey can you guys watch him for me?” You walked into the room setting the phone down in front of him. He looked up briefly as he was making his model. He just stared at the camera for a moment before flashing a smile. He continued to work before looking over again.

“She’s always doing pranks. I don’t think I understand this one though.” He explains not making eye contact with the camera, “I enjoy it though makes me feel wanted.” He mumbles before finishing his model.

“Done. It’s the newest one and I finished it in a little less than an hour.” He explains smirking as he shows it off to the camera. You come back and pick the phone up.

“Thanks guys!” You smile ending the video. Caleb showed off his model to you as you stared in awe.

Later that day you watched back the video with a sad smile. You hugged Caleb a little tighter that night and told him you loved him a bit extra so he knows you’ll always want him.

“Hey guys can you watch him for me?” You say as you put the phone on the claw machine. Xavier looks down for a second before waving. He watched you briefly as you walked away before looking back at the machine.

He presses the button and watches it lower before it drops the plushie. He huffs before his hand lights up causing the plushie to fall into the hole. He side eyes the camera before putting his finger to his lips.

“Don’t tell her.” He whispers as he picks up the plushies. When you return he gives it to you.

“Aww thank you Xavier.” You coo as you thank the camera for watching him. He gives the camera the eye before you shut it off.

Zayne was reading when you set the camera down in front of him.

“Watch him for me guys.” You wave “bye” before leaving the room. Zayne glances up before looking back down flipping the page. His glasses sitting on his nose.

“I don’t understand why I have to watched.” He says not looking up. He sits in moments of silence before closing the book.

“Let’s play a game of saying keywords until you come back.” He smiles softly as he repositioned the phone towards the door.

“I should go get some dinner before it gets too late.” He says loud enough for you to hear. You tumble into the room falling over your two feet as he stood there with his arms crossed. You look up with a smile.

“Dinner?” You offer as he chuckles helping you up. He turns the camera off before handing it back to you.

“Watch my boss for me?” You ask the camera before putting it on a stand across from Sylus who was listening to classical music. You scurry out of the room before he can question you.

He turned to the camera before putting his finger to his lips. He grabs the camera and the video swishes catching glimpses of his swaying waist before he stands by the door. He tilts his head towards the door before opening it to see you standing there with your ear to the door.

“Gotcha.” He chuckles making you pout as he records you both. He kisses your cheek before ending the video.

“No fair.” You whine as he laughs. “Alls fair in love and war.” He teases giving you your phone back.

“Watch him for me?” You put the phone across from the ladder. Rafayel’s eyes follow you as you leave. He looks back at the camera, his eyes shifting around.

“I don’t feel comfortable with anyone watching my creative process…it’s like taboo.” He climbs down before standing in front of it.

Immediately his demeanor shifts as he grabs the phone in a rush. His eyes shift around the room as he gets up close and personal.

“Guys I’m trapped here. Everyday I’m making paintings until my hands bleed.” He says quickly as you burst into the room to snatch the phone.

“Don’t listen to him!” You yell into the camera as he doubles over in laughter. You glare at him as he cries laughing.

This has been in the vault too long as you can tell by the eye dividers 🥲

[midnite-c6]

guilt sex w namgyu, reader guilting namgyu into sex or the other way around idc

i see alot of ppls reqs are more needy!nam-gyu hmmm. i miss this man everyday (fuck YOU minsu) ty guys for all the love in my inbox ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

warnings: 18+, sex, degradation, dubcon, fingering, nam-gyu guilts you into sex, humiliation kink, exhibitionism, nam-gyu's high asf ∆ nam-gyu x fem!reader || ⁠✧

～⁠ˆつ⁠｡⁠☆ you know nam-gyu, all too well. too caught up in his head, too caught up in whatever people had to do and think about him.

meeting him in the games was surprising enough, for you and for him, but it wasn't surprising to see him cling onto the only guy who had some power and pride: thanos. he was weak. without anything he was weak. with pills though? he was anything other than it. he frightened you more than the other players. he was strong enough to reach the game with only 24 players left, hell, you're not sure why you're still alive right now. you shouldn't. and he knows this. takes full advantage of it too.

so with his wasted mind, too polluted with colorful pills, maybe in mourning to his good friend— who he really didn't consider as a friend. more of a rival. because it felt like the world revolved around people like thanos, not the lackey. he drags his body, walking over to you. he had only made a few interactions with you upon entering the games. nobody needs to acknowledge past relationships, you liked that unspoken rule. but it seems he'd told thanos about your "history". he was so dependent on the key approval of others, he had to "flex" you.

"babe. babe." he called out from just a few feet away, you had just finished eating lunch, staring at the floor as you try to let the feeling of seeing countless deaths in the span of a few days. "baby, can'tcha hear me? did someone cut your ears?" a sober, less thanos-consumed, nam-gyu wouldn't have called you that. you don't reply to him, and obviously his dependent personality takes the hit, he's probably getting pissed off by the second. "shut it,"

he immediately sits right next to you, back pressed against the wall, his right arm wrapping right around your shoulders, mouth pressed right against your ear. "you know you shouldn't be alive right now." you forget to speak, earning him a squeak, "but i'm glad we have a chance to talk, yeah..." you shake your head. and he chuckles. you speak, "no we don't." but of course you won't get it, he thinks.

"just tell me, tell me what you're feeling right now, i know you're lonely." he rubs the back of your neck, your shoulder blades, anything to rile you up. "’cause i'm so lonely too. you know that?" he looks you in the eye, face just centimeters apart. maybe if he acts all sentimental and emotional, you'll believe him.

"you are?" he nods immediately, grateful for any sort of response from you. "i'm... really scared." you quietly confess, he only purrs, that's what he likes to hear, you're finally starting to give yourself. "aww... yeah? you're scared? i know you are." his hands move to the back of your head, "so many people dying... so many killings..." he'd switch the facade just as fast- "like- i could kill you, right now- during lights out, babe." the hand on the back of your head tugging roughly on the strands, a pyschotic smile plastered on his lips. "but i won't cuz- cuz i'm scared like you, it's okay." you were confused, and feeling all too much at once accompanied with the weight of the games.

"and i miss you so much! sososo much, your skin n' all...i wish i could've fucked you that time we met." his hand would now wrap around your neck, tightening ever so slightly, "’m so sad you barely noticed me right in here," his left hand would graze the center of his pants, rubbing at the point where you would think is the tip. "i was jerking off in the bathrooms, thinkin' of your sweet ass..." he bites his lips, hands fidgeting slightly from symptoms of overdose. he barely gives you any space to talk back, because what would you even reply to that?

"...and who knows, we might die tomorrow, hm? right? what if i get eliminated on the next game? my only wish is to fuck you..." the hand on your neck moves immediately past the waistband of your pants, "are you not charitable enough to make a dyin' man's wish come true?" he pouts, looking at you like it was your fault he would have a probability of dying tomorrow, the tips of his fingers would linger at your clothed clit, rubbing lazy circles on the sensitive nub. "so please, would you do it f'me? you're obedient enough..." you're not sure if you did nod or not... you just know it might be worth it in the end.

you're glad that your beds placed on the corner, but it was still a public place...

now your back's pressed against his chest, legs spread apart by the arm and hand working underneath in-between your thighs, pants now moved to your thighs. "c'mon, you're a good whore, i know it, you made it this far," you shake your head, "they're starin', ah...nam-gy-" he'd cut you off, thrusting his dick deeper inside your wet heat. his other hand presses against your mouth, "let them look, it's okay, you're sososo pretty..." he whispers praise, despite the absolute filth of an act you two were doing. "letting me do this to you... just ’cuz i asked you, huh?" he'd even block your nose for a few seconds so he could see the way you panic, panic with his dick inches deep inside you. he was humoured, and don't you think he wouldn't notice the way you'd clench tighter when he does it. "you like it when i'm in control... didn't expect any better..." you frown, mixed with a whimper, "i don't-"

"you do. you're enjoying it, i'm so smart to think this, don't cha’ think?" he looks down over at you, fingers still lazily tracing against your sensitive nub, just so you could squirm more and more. he didnt need to move that much, just balls deep, kissing you cervix was enough. "im sure you are... yeah... ’cuz your eyes are rolling like those whores in pornos, wow..."

he's fucked you hard enough to forget about the games for a brief second, maybe that's his little sabotage tactic so you're caught off-guard when you compete in the next round. "mmph- wait, gonna- gonna give you a gift-" he bounces your body with his hands, rapidly, as if he was in a hurry. but he was desperate just like you. you could already feel the warmth spilling out to paint your insides, that's when you moan just a little bit too loud, "you're makin' such- such a fool outta' yourself, that's right, fuckin' moan more-" when he's fully satisfied that's when he'd break character, when he knows he's gotten what he wants. "good slut.. won't fuck this pussy in the real world though." he mumbles to himself, enough for you to hear.

but god did his dick contain the pills he was consuming too? ’cuz you sure are addicted now. no matter what mean words he says.

a/n : idk if u guys still like myunggi enough to accept a myunggi and namgyu threesome or like myunggi fucking you as an apology...

[hearts4hughes]

Drew being interviewed by a very touchy/ flirty interviewer and they even ask if he would date them if it wasn’t for you at the end (req btw lol)

the interview starts innocent enough. he’s in a soft black sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a thin gold ring on his right hand, turning slow circles as he listens. he nods and smiles smiles, says something about the script pulling him in, about working with good people. his voice is low, lazy—media trained mode.

and the interviewer? she’s eating it up. she’s laughing too hard, leaning in and pushing her plastic tits up. her eyes duck to his mouth a little too often. she asks about the movie and then his skincare routine and then, “okay, sorry, not to be that person, but…do you ever get tired of being so hot?”

drew blinks, raises his eyebrows, and tilts his head. he looks off to the side at his management team and they shrug with wide eyes. when he looks back to the interviewer, he merely laughs and says, “uh, i think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“nope,” she grins, one leg crossing over the other. her shoe brushes his ankle like it’s an accident—it’s not. “definitely the right guy. your girlfriend must be, like, spiritually enlightened to handle it.”

he smiles, but it’s smaller now. a light blush dusts his cheekbones at your mention. “she is.” just three words, but his voice dips. there’s weight to it—pure love and admiration.

you know that tone. it’s the one he uses when he slides your shirt off slow, kisses your hipbone like it’s holy. it’s the one he uses when he’s madly in love and trying not to give it away.

the interviewer shifts and tries again. “so what’s the secret? to making it work?”

“respect,” he says. “and trust. and she’s smarter than me, so i kind of have to keep up.” his smile turns sideways. “it’s a full time job.”

the girl laughs. the noise is a little sharper this time. “you talk about her like,” she pauses to pout her lips, “she’s your religion.”

drew shrugs. “maybe she is.”

that gets a pause. a beat of air where her flirty bravado slips. but she recovers. swings her hair over one shoulder and grins wide. “okay, so be honest,” she purrs, faux casual. “if she didn’t exist…would you date me?”

camera’s rolling but the crew goes still. drew leans back in his chair. eyebrows up and mouth twitching. there’s a pause. like he’s weighing the humor of it versus the disrespect. and then he says, lightly, almost sweet, “nah.”

“no?” her grin falls into a frown.

he smiles, all teeth this time. wolfish and fond and dangerous. “you couldn’t handle me.” the girl blinks again. red fills her cheeks and this time it’s not from how attractive he is. “i’m serious,” he says. “you like the version of me that sits pretty and says nice things. she likes all the other versions. the messy ones. the ones that don’t make the press junkets.”

he looks into the camera like it’s you. like you’re already watching this and rolling your eyes at home. “she likes the real me. and that’s kind of rare, isn’t it?” he shrugs again, and just like that, the camera stops.

~

later, in the car, his phone buzzes with your text.

you: you couldn’t handle me??

he grins, fingers already typing back.

rafe: you liked that and you know it.

rafe: home in twenty.

rafe: shirt off in twenty if you’re lucky.

you: 🙄

and then a selfie. you’re clad in a tank top and no bra—nipples peaking through like a tease of what’s to come. you’re smirking as you flip him off. his gold ring shimmers on your middle finger. he groans, one hand adjusting his pants, the other texting.

rafe: yeah. you’re definitely my religion.

you: i’ll worship however you want

you: just promise to blacklist that interviewer

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04

[rawme-price]

Ghost who has a really low sex drive but loves seeing soap have fun, versus reader who would look amazing under soap.

You met simon at the animal shelter, funny enough. He usually comes in to just sit with the dogs and let them climb all over him. You occasionally join him too, when you have the time, eventually becoming pretty close friends.

You learn hes got a husband who paints, a small house a bit outside of town, and quite a few pets of his own. You tell him abt ur life too, in the middle of regaling him with the fact you haven't had a good fuck in forever. Simon doesnt even glance up from where hes petting a goldens face, "y'wanna fuck johnny? You're his type."

You splutter for a good minute before finally asking if hes serious bc there's no way thats not a joke. But simon explains the whole thing, how johnny is insatiable and he doesnt really match that, but he likes to get johnny people to play with every now and then. You tentatively agree, remembering the photo you saw of johnny and knowing there's no way ur hand will satisfy if you dont find out what hes like.

Which leads you to the mactavish house. You expected them to get straight to it but johnny had cooked dinner, insisted on treating you properly beforehand, a really sweet guy. When dinners done simon takes u upstairs while johnny cleans, gets you set up for his husband.

Hes got you face down ass up on the mattress, working a dildo in and out of u, getting u nice and warmed up. When johnny does arrive? God its better than you imagined. He presses his whole weight into u, a hand at your nape and the other running along ur torso. The whole time hes chatting to simon between praises for you, telling his husband what a great find u were, how much he loves him.

All the while i being fucked stupid, used and ruined in the perfect ways. Johnnys got you whining and babbling by the end, fucked out and limp with pleasure. While Johnnys cum is leaking out of u, him and simon share a loving kiss. You wonder if they'll invite you back...

[shosweet]

“ohhmmmyyygooosshhhf,” you slur, cheeks a bright red as your head spun.

“everything okay?” a man asks, holding your wrist with concern.

“mmhmmm! jus— just realized something,” you chirp, one too many shot glasses clinking together on the table as the hustle and bustle of others continue.

“yeah? what is it?” he chuckles. you look around with suspicioun, cautiously studying the area for any rubbernecks.

“‘s a secret. promise you won’t tell nobody?” you hiccup, raising your pinky in front of his face.

“promise,” he smiles, locking his own pinky with yours. you smile, scooching in closer to reveal your secret.

“i have a crush on someone…” you whispered, sweet alcohol laced in your breath.

“that so?” he smirks. “who is it?”

“his name’s hajime. iwaizumi. hehe hajime,” you giggle to yourself. he smiles, letting you continue.

“he’s sssoooo handsome. so caring and nice, too. sometimes, i have dreams of him telling me he loves me,” you ramble, words tripping over themselves. he laughs as you mimick what dream-hajime does to you, cupping the air as if it had a face, pushing your lips together in a smooch, and saying “i love you” in the deepest voice you could make (albeit with a few voice cracks).

“oh really? sounds like a nice guy,” he smiles, resting his chin on his hand as he traces the rim of his empty water glass.

“and sometimes… i wanna kiss hajime. like, on his soft, pretty lips,” you admit, giggling to yourself like a high school girl.

“yeah? i think hajime would like that,” he replies. you beam at his words, scooching closer to him once more.

“ah, really?! maybe i’ll kiss him tonight then! if he wants to, hehe.”

a server comes back with a card and a black, leather check presenter. the man gently thanks him, placing his card and receipt in his wallet before checking the table for anything else. he gently takes your purse hooked on the chair next to him, slings it over his shoulder, and kneels before you.

“ready to go, mrs. iwaizumi?” he asks, voice patient as he holds out his left hand, a ring slightly catching the light above.

“but, we were just talking,” you pout. “wait… mrs? ah— iwaizumi?” you ask, now processing his words. he only smiles, rubbing your knee with his other hand.

“hajime wants you home now, okay?” he says, words carefully woven with warmness. you look down at your hand and see a ring, one that matches his. your eyes slightly widen in realization, but not one that sobers you up. you nod your head and let him lift you up, wobbling on your heels as he walks you to the car.

even as you wake up the next morning, head pounding and mouth dry, you find hajime asleep in front of you, lips slightly parted as he holds you close. the gaps in shadows let the sun’s light in, painting him a soft, golden hue. he grumbles in his sleep, pulling you somehow closer as his lips instinctively find their way to your forehead. without another movement, he drifts off back to his deep slumber.

huh, you think to yourself.

either i’m still drunk or still dreaming…

[ccupcakqs]

— don’t start it, but i’ll finish it ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: one punch thrown, mentions of someone insulting oscar, light arguing pairing: oscar piastri x impulsive female reader a/n: “she’s a menace but she’s my menace” energy, request!

you don’t even hear all of it at first. it’s late, you’re in the hospitality tent grabbing a bottle of water after the race, your head still buzzing with nerves and adrenaline. oscar’s doing press somewhere a few paddocks over, and you were planning to find him as soon as the media cleared out.

but then you hear his name.

and the way they say it makes your stomach twist.

“piastri’s such a damn robot, man. no balls. never makes a move unless someone tells him to.”

the second guy laughs. “he's the world’s most well-behaved number two. they should just paint ‘doormat’ on the back of his suit.”

a third voice—more smug than the rest—leans in. “he’s got the personality of an instruction manual. perfect for mclaren, right? all smiles, zero fight.”

you stop walking.

your water bottle crunches slightly in your hand.

then comes the worst one.

“you think his girlfriend’s with him for the fame? can’t be for the personality.”

there’s laughter. loud, careless, ugly.

you don’t even remember moving.

just your voice—sharp, clear, cutting through their little circle like a blade.

“what the fuck did you just say?”

they all turn.

you don’t flinch.

you step right into their space, eyes locked on the last one who spoke.

“say it again,” you snap. “say it to my face.”

he hesitates, hands raised like he’s trying to play it off.

“hey, relax. it was a joke.”

“not funny,” you say. “try again.”

“look, we were just talking. he’s not even here.”

“doesn’t matter,” you say, teeth gritted. “you don’t get to talk about him like that. not when you wouldn’t last five minutes doing what he does. you sit behind a screen and run your mouth like it’s brave. it’s not. it’s pathetic.”

the guy scoffs. “what, you’re gonna hit me now?”

you don’t answer.

you just let your fist connect with his face.

clean. sharp. direct.

the sound is sickeningly satisfying. his nose cracks and he stumbles back, swearing as blood spills down over his lip. one of his friends catches him. the others back off fast, eyes wide.

you toss the half-empty water bottle on the ground.

“think next time before you talk shit about people better than you.”

and then security shows up.

fifteen minutes later, oscar finds you sitting on the edge of a low wall near the paddock entrance, a small bag of ice in your lap even though your hand’s fine. you’re quiet now. a little flushed. slightly sheepish.

he stops in front of you, arms crossed.

you look up at him and wince. “hi.”

he stares at you.

you smile.

“they said horrible things,” you explain. “i couldn’t just let it go.”

he blinks. “so you punched a guy.”

“i was defending your honor.”

“you broke his nose.”

“he called you a doormat and insulted me.”

he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, trying very hard not to smile. “you can’t just hit people.”

“you can, actually,” you say. “there are consequences, but the action is entirely possible.”

he laughs under his breath and crouches down in front of you. “you’re insane.”

“i know.”

“and what if he hit you back?”

“then i’d have hit him again.”

he grabs your wrist gently, inspecting your knuckles like he’s still half in disbelief. they’re a little red, but not swollen.

“you’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself.”

you grin. “i train.”

“you box like once a week.”

“still counts.”

he shakes his head, but there’s a strange expression creeping onto his face—equal parts exasperated and… something else.

“you shouldn’t be doing that,” he says, soft now. “not for me.”

you lean in. “why not? i love you. you matter to me. i don’t care if they were just being loud and stupid. they don’t get to treat you like you’re nothing.”

he swallows.

his fingers flex slightly on your wrist.

“oscar?” you ask, brows lifting. “you good?”

he clears his throat, very pointedly not looking at your mouth. “yeah. just—yeah.”

you tilt your head. “are you—are you turned on right now?”

his ears go pink immediately. “no.”

“oscar.”

“okay. maybe a little.”

you burst out laughing.

he groans and buries his face in your shoulder. “don’t make it weird.”

“me? you’re the one with a weird protector kink.”

“i do not have a kink—”

“babe.”

“fine. i have a slight appreciation for how hot you looked when you went full unhinged.”

you hum. “you should’ve seen their faces. i didn’t even swear at first. i just stood there like i was about to ruin everything.”

“you did ruin everything.”

“i did it for you.”

he kisses you then—hard and a little breathless—like he’s trying to make up for how flustered he is by just giving in.

when he pulls back, he tucks your hair behind your ear and mutters, “next time, just threaten them. no punches unless absolutely necessary.”

you grin. “so violence is on the table?”

he sighs.

“you’re lucky i’m in love with you.”

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!