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goldsbitch · 3 days ago

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Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 1 - A bit of a bad boy

Yeah, sure. Let’s do the talking on track. Only - the track is public roads of Monaco and the talking is a couple fight.

word count: don't even ask, it's getting out of hand warning: kissing, m/m, Jos Verstappen A+ parenting introduced, few awful homophobic comments, couple fight

"Max, if you don't want to have the whole of Monaco gossiping about us, you're going to have to stop touching me every time the realtor turns his head around," Charles stifles as he reluctantly pushes Max's arms away from his waist. Both of them know Charles does not really mind Max's hands roaming around his body.

The Dutchman laughs. "The guy is too focused on explaining why this specific faucet is the best in the world, I don't think he remembers we're here," Max argues and steals one kiss and pinches Charles' hip. But, after that he caves in and puts his arms away from Charles and does few steps back, to create a distance that would somewhat be acceptable for "a buddy who's helping him pick out a new apartment to move in". Charles walks toward the realtor guy to listen to a lecture on kitchen cabinets, something that Max knows he secretly enjoys. Max still does not understand why all of a sudden Charles needs his own apartment. Yes, technically, he's still living with his mother. However, realistically, he spends any free moment in Max's place. The phrase "a Ferrari driver can't be living with his mother" is not a strong argument in his opinion. He lets them debate about the marble tile materials and takes one more walk around the place. It's a particularly nice apartment, the best one so far. Main feature being the massive terrace overlooking the city and sea. Provides enough of privacy for them to let go and promises a notion of domestic freedom. It's been just a few months since they first hooked up. Seems like ages ago, everything went to quickly and naturally after that. Max especially appreciated the fact there was no bullshit needed with Charles. They both understood the predicament. Keep things private from others. Don't let their relationship affect racing and vice versa. It was surprisingly hard to watch Charles and his first potential win slip through his fingers. Max won't ever admit this to him, but it's going to be way harder to balance this than he ever expected. And the season has just started. He will uphold their unspoken agreement. Charles has entered his life in a measure like no one else before. Max prays that he is mature enough to not fuck it up for both of them.

He joins Charles back in the kitchen and waits for the damn realtor walk away to the bedroom again, before caging Charles against the kitchen counter, back to back. He bends him over and hold him by his hair.

"Max," the man, who's ass he's pressing into, warns. But even though he can't see Charles' face, he can hear the hidden amusement in his tone. Max chuckles and rolls his hips into him. It would only take a moment for the realtor to turn and spot them in this position.

"What?" he whispers into Charles' ear while giving it a quick lick. In return, he starts to melt under his touch immediately and almost gives in to whatever Max would suggest. As always. "I need to make sure the kitchen is up to our standards. We don't exactly use it for cooking," he comments, images of him fucking Charles hard against the counter at his home flooding Max's brain. He knows Charles enough to know that it takes everything he has to wiggle out of the embrace and walk away, like a responsible adult would. But it's all clear when he flashes him a flirty smile on the way over to the realtor. Just like Max, he is nothing but a horny post-teenager, who would happily get bent right then and there. His hot, desirable and inescapable Charles. With dimples created specifically to make Max lose himself in them.

The start of his dream career in Ferrari is about as hard as expected. Completely new environment to blend into, battling the strange combination of part of the team believing Charles is there to help them get to the top, generational talent and all that, and the other side of the garage, that is still bitter about Kimi Raikonnen getting replaced by a rookie. Then there is Sebastian Vettel. Someone he used to look up to. It took him the first two races to abandon that sentiment completely. Seb radiated a sort of tired, I'm-so-over-it energy that poisoned anyone who was willing to listen. And the fact Charles looked so happy to be part of the old, somewhat stagnant team, was not exactly helping their teammate energy.

The Ferrari engagement is ten times more demanding than his workload in Sauber was. Charles' life lately has been reduced to his work and Max exclusively. Time with friends replaced by PR duties and trying to make space for some downtime with one of his biggest rivals. And here's the wildest thought he keeps for himself. He'd give anything to have Max as a teammate. It might be not exactly the healthiest of wishes, but after getting stuck in another strategy meeting, when he's on the receiving end of Sebastian's self-introduced Ted talk about how the current newcomers into F1 don't follow the proper ethics of racing (something Charles finds incredibly ironic, coming from this man), he's getting more and more annoyed with this approach. They are not there to drive around all politely and harmoniously. He never thought that the biggest inspiration he'd take from this legend of a driver is to make sure he never falls into the trap of this attitude.

He can feel himself spacing out during the drivers parade. Sebastian is standing next to him, nagging something to his ears about a hot reporter standing nearby, challenging Charles to come out of his shell for once. He's not listening to him. His eyes keep sliding over to a certain driver.

Charles can’t stop himself from watching Max, even when it’s dangerous to look. Which seems to be the case all the fucking time. There’s something magnetic about the way Max carries himself, completely unaware of how he commands attention. Not just from Charles, but from everyone. It’s in the sharpness of his jawline, the way the light catches in his sun-streaked hair, and the way his eyes, icy and calculating on track, turn softer when they’re alone. Max Verstappen in public is a machine, a flawless embodiment of focus and precision. Max in private? That’s the man Charles loses sleep over. Endlessly proud to know he's the only one who can see him like that. They never discussed what they were - and Charles is grateful for that. Because there is no need. It took them one night spent together to know it is inevitable.

Max, dressed in his Red Bull kit, stands at the other end of the drivers’ parade truck, casually leaning against the railing. His laughter cuts through the general hum of the crowd, drawing Charles’ attention like a moth to a flame.

Charles knows he shouldn’t stare, not with Sebastian Vettel by his side, who is murmuring something that’s no doubt vaguely inappropriate. But Charles has stopped caring. He can’t help it. There’s a warmth in Max’s laughter that Charles rarely sees, a kind of unguarded joy that makes him wish they could exist in a world where nothing had to be hidden. Where Charles could walk across the paddock, curl his hand around Max’s wrist, and pull him into a kiss for everyone to see.

His pulse quickens at the thought.

He knows the paddock is connected through and through with affairs and relationships. But, he can't help but fall into the pattern of thinking the two of them are just so much more than what anyone here around them have. They don't need the layer of secrecy to keep the blood flowing. It's a burden, not a blessing. Max glances over at him, catching him mid-stare. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of them. Charles feels like he’s standing still while the truck rolls on, the crowd cheers, and the cameras flash. Max’s lips quirk into a small, knowing smile. It’s nothing much, just a subtle curve at the edge of his mouth, but it’s enough to make Charles’ knees weak. It’s infuriating how easily Max gets under his skin, how even in a sea of people, Max can find him, target him, and ruin him with a single glance.

He recalls last night - another impulsive, reckless visit after terribly long day. Max had pinned him to the wall of his hotel room, breathless and relentless, as if daring Charles to pull away. He hadn’t. He never could. They made a deal to avoid visiting each other's hotel rooms as much as possible, keep their affair locked in Monaco, where they could be somewhat safe. But how does one do that, when they get to spend so much time together?

Standing on the track, anthem blaring, Charles feels the weight of it all. The impossibility of their situation. The inevitability of it. Max is the one thing Charles has, and nobody can ever know. The one thing making him able to unwind and with that, he's giving him all the power in the world to destroy him.

When the anthem ends and the drivers disperse, Charles doesn’t let himself glance Max’s way again. Not until he’s strapped into the car, visor down, engines roaring around him. Only then does he let his mind wander, let himself imagine what it would feel like to have Max beside him - not as a rival, but as a partner.

And in that fleeting moment, before the lights go out, Charles feels it in his chest. The ache of loving someone who has set his entire world on fire. Charles knows this is real. There is no need for the "what are we" talk. It's been so obvious, even for his anxious soul, that what they have is real.

At that time, he has no idea that last night was the last one he'd spend moaning Max's name in good faith and not cursing him until the morning hours.

It's his first Monaco home race as a Ferrari driver. The team has got his schedule planned out to minutes every day. Still, he manages to sneak in one dinner at mamma's apartment, just like the old days. Charles sits at the table, in the same chair he’s occupied since he was a boy, but tonight it feels different. Heavy. The kind of heavy that presses on your chest, makes you shift in your seat, and has your fingers nervously spinning a fork against the edge of the plate.

His mother bustles around, humming softly, the clatter of pots and pans filling the room. She’s always been able to fill the space, even when it’s quiet. Normally, Charles finds comfort in that. Tonight, though, it just makes the knot in his stomach tighten.

She’s been on him for weeks now - little comments slipped into phone calls, questions disguised as casual curiosity but cutting deeper than she probably realizes.

“Where do you spend your nights, Charles?”

It’s why he got his own apartment. Her gentle but relentless probing on where he hangs about when she knows he’s in Monaco.

“You’re doing a bad job at pretending you’re only happy because of Ferrari. Is there someone special in your life? You look like you're in love.”

The hardest one. The one that makes him want to blurt it all out something he had never said out loud to anyone ever, not even Max: Yes, I am in love, more than I ever thought possible.

“Why can’t you tell your own mother?”

He puts the fork down harder than he means to, the sound startling both of them. She looks over her shoulder, brow furrowed, silence crawling around the room, filling every free space.

Charles takes a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He’s dying to tell someone. To tell her. To share the happiness that bubbles inside him every time Max so much as looks at him, the way Max’s smile makes his world turn upside down. He’s already nearly spilled it to Pierre more times than he can count. And now, sitting here, the words claw their way up his throat faster than his brain can stop them.

“Okay,” he blurts out, his voice louder than he intended. His mother turns fully now, watching him with that patient, all-knowing gaze that makes him feel like he’s still ten years old and caught stealing cookies. “Yes, I’m with someone.”

Her face softens immediately, curiosity lighting her eyes. “I knew it,” she says, tone laced with the feeling of winning, the same one he uses when he himself stands on a podium. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Who is it?”

He hesitates, his hands curling into fists on the table. Every muscle in his body tenses as the next words tumble out.

“You won’t like it, Mamma. Nobody will. It’s career-ending if it gets out.”

She sits down slowly, her brows knitting together in concern. “Charles,” she says carefully, leaning forward. “I might not understand racing as much as you do, but I do understand love. The time I spent with papa was the best thing I could ever wish for. And if my child, the one born out of our love, is experiencing the same thing, nothing else matters.“ It's becoming impossible to fight the urge to tell her the name immediately. Because what does one say to follow up that.

She continues. "Is it someone from Ferrari? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

"No," he speaks, his voice sharper than he intended. Her expression flickers, and guilt washes over him. He softens, exhaling shakily. Fuck it, there goes nothing. Maybe the questions will stop after this. "It’s a man."

There it is. The truth. The first and most terrifying step.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Instead, her head tilts slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And?"

Charles stares at her, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. That’s it? No judgment, no hesitation?

He swallows hard. "And... I’d like to bring him over for dinner," he mumbles, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. His chest feels tight with adrenaline, but there’s something exhilarating about it too. Like throwing himself into a corner on a wet track, knowing it could go horribly wrong but trusting himself to pull through.

His mother reaches across the table, placing her hand gently over his. "Charles," she says softly, her voice unwavering. "Anyone who makes my child happy is welcome in this house."

The weight in his chest shifts. Small wave of temporary relief washes over him, so profound it nearly makes his head spin.

"Sunday," he says quietly. "After the race."

She nods, smiling warmly as she squeezes his hand. "Sunday it is. I’ll make something special."

It all dawns on him on the way home. By patching a small wound, he managed to create a whole different one. He’s not just made a promise to his mother. He’s made a promise that relies entirely on Max agreeing to something he knows Max won’t like. Charles stops in the middle of the street, the cool night air biting at his cheeks. He can already imagine the way Max will react. The scowl, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’ll cross his arms defensively and say something like, "Schatje, why do you always have to make things complicated?"

For a moment, Charles considers calling the whole dinner off. He could make an excuse, tell his mother Max is traveling, or the timing isn’t right. But then he thinks about Max - about the softness in his eyes when they’re alone, the way he reaches for Charles in the quiet moments, the quiet vulnerability he hides from the rest of the world.

Charles loves him, even if he struggles to say it out loud. He’s just going to have to convince him, let him break through his shell.

As he unlocks his apartment door, Charles resolves to talk to Max. He can already feel the nerves twisting in his stomach, but for once, the fear doesn’t outweigh the hope.

For Max, for them, he’ll make it work. He just has to. Otherwise, what is the point of all of this? He does not need to flaunt their love in everyone's faces. But he wants at least someone to know. He's proud of their unlikely journey. So proud, it makes his heart want to jump out of his chest sometimes.

Max loves race and practice debriefs. He always has. The precision, the data, the raw feedback, it’s where he thrives. Things are clear when data is involved. No margin for assumptions of decision based on false pretense. But today’s debrief feels different. Suffocating. Mainly, because the data speaks for itself.

The sour feeling starts with the slides. A giant screen dominates the room, displaying Charles’ lap times from practice, sector by sector, alongside Max’s. Every thousandth of a second where Charles was faster is highlighted in beaming bright red, as if to drive home the point. This season, there are people specifically designated to dissect Charles’ times. He’s the main enigma, the unknown. Max tries to shut off any guilt creeping in. His personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. He knows that’s not what team would think. Had they found out that Charles regularly wakes up in his sheets, they’d find a way to use it for the team to beat Ferrari.

“Leclerc was gaining on you in Sector 2 here,” the one of the strategists assistants speaks, circling a specific corner on the map with his laser pointer. “You carried too much speed into Turn 6, and he took a tighter line—clean, precise. That’s where the gap started.” Long gone are the times when the people in the room would feel like they had to sugarcoat the truth to Max. Overtime, they leaned that the best way is to serve it as it is.

Max’s jaw tightens. He stares at the screen, but the words blur together. This isn’t the first time they’ve dissected Charles like this, and it won’t be the last.

“His medium-tire stint was particularly strong,” another engineer chimes in, clicking to the next slide. It’s a chart, Charles’ performance in clean air compared to Max’s in traffic. “He’s consistently managing his degradation better than you in the latter half of the stint. We need to figure out how to counter that.”

Max’s fingers tap against the table, a restless rhythm that no one seems to notice.

"It’s not just the car," the strategist continues. "Charles is not afraid to play dirty with his teammate." Max should feel proud. He’s the one who’s been drilling that into his brain. Now, it’s starting to feel more like digging his own grave. "You saw how he defended in Turn 3 today." The unspoken end of the speech hangs in the air. He’s beating you, Max. If he goes like this, he’ll finish the season above you. Get a grip.

There’s an edge to the words that grates on Max’s nerves. He knows what they’re implying. That Charles is evolving, becoming sharper, stronger.

"He’s reading you," the engineer adds, tapping his pen against the table. "You’re predictable to him in some situations. We need to mix things up. Throw him off. Make him doubt himself."

Max finally looks up, his expression blank but his voice cold. What a bizarre thing to get asked of. "You want me to play games with him?"

The room falls silent for a moment. The engineer hesitates before replying. "Not games, Max. Just… keep him guessing."

Max leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His team has no idea how hard it already is to keep things straight with Charles. On the track, off the track - it’s all a balancing act. A line he has to walk perfectly every single time.

"Anything else?" Max asks flatly, his voice cutting through the tension.

The strategist frowns, glancing at the screen before turning back to Max. "We’re not saying he’s unbeatable, Max. But you need to stay sharp. Leclerc’s coming for you, and he’s not going to let up. He’s your biggest threat this season."

The words linger in the air, louder than the hum of the projector or the scribble of pens against paper. Max doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust himself to. Because what can he say? That Charles has already gotten under his skin in ways his team could never imagine? That every time they ask him to find a way to "beat Leclerc," they’re unknowingly poking at something far more personal?

Max clenches his fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He forces a small nod, his face carefully blank.

“Understood,” he says, his tone clipped. "Monaco race this weekend is a crucial one,“ the head strategist adds and Max almost laughs, because he says this about every fucking race.

The debrief continues, more slides, more data, more dissection of the man Max has to pretend he’s indifferent to. But the truth lingers just beneath the surface, raw and unresolved.

Charles isn’t just his biggest rival. He’s his greatest weakness.

As he drives home, he can’t stop small doubts forming in his head from getting louder with each corner he passes. Days, months and years spent, sacrificed, only to get him to where he is now - and suddenly, it feels like he is letting that all pass through his fingers for few moments of unfiltered pleasure. Guilt enters the chat. Work of so many people tainted, because he can’t keep it in his pants. This is the first time he cancels on Charles. He does not trust himself around him today.

It's a long Thursday evening talk, topic being the Sunday dinner. And it goes just about as Charles expected. Back and forth - it's not a fight per say, but it does resemble one.

Max argues that Charles is pushing things too quickly. That to bring up the topic of official introduction to his family day before qualifying is a low blow. That he should have talked to him before agreeing to step big like that. Charles apologizes many times, comes close to pleading for making this happen. Apologies don't seem to land well with Max. Surprisingly, Charles is the first one to reach anger. Does not understand why Max pushes so much against this. He asks hard questions that Max can't answer. Throughout the talk, Max becomes more and more numb. In the end, he agrees to the dinner. They fall asleep next to each other and don't fail on kissing each as a last thing of the day.

Once the idea flourishes in Max's head for few days, he becomes more accostumed to it. Pascale is a kind woman. If Charles believes she will be supportive, he just has to trust him. He wishes he could find the time to tell him in person, but another busy weekend prevents him from doing so.

DNF. In Monaco. Charles is fuming. He's smashing things again. Tears fall down his cheek in the privacy of his driver room. His home race. Fumbled from the start, he didn't even get to finish - which in hindsight might be a blessing. Having to drag his half functioning car back to the pit and look at the faces of sympathetic mechanics. As always, he stares misery right into its face and watches the rest of the race, eyes glued to the monitors. He gets to watch Max, cruising through and then experiencing the brutal Hamilton ruling the world of racing. He's witnessing the cheer in Ferrari garage as penalties push Vettel in front of Max. He's not even sure how he feels about that one. What he would like to believe is that there isn't any part of him that would be happy about Max missing the podium. The internal decision comes - ignoring any thoughts reaching that topic, shutting down and focusing on his own tragic race. Next year. It will just have to be next year. As he walks through the hoards of reporters, sponsors, fans and just about everyone he's ever met, he feels so painfully small. A confused, beaten up child. It all melts into one big blur. He hides in his new apartment and ignores Max's texts.

Max manages to get hold of Charles the following noon. It's clear in Charles' tone that this one stings. Max tries to distract him and for a moment it almost works.

"I'm excited about this evening," he hears Charles getting little more relaxed once they get onto this topic.

"Are you sure you don't want to meet up before that? So that we could like, hang out prior to speaking to Pascale?" Max can't shake this strange feeling that he does not want to walk in there without seeing Charles first. Just few months ago, the man on the other side of the phone call would do almost anything to prevent her from finding out. And now, he's urging him to walk in as if it was the most casual thing ever.

"I think I need to clear my head from the race alone. Just for a little longer...Oh and Max, just a reminder - my mom does not really like red roses," Charles says instead and has Max roll his eyes. Talk about subtle demands.

"You're impossible," he says instead of any filler words.

"And yet..."

"And yet."

Somehow, with the way how tragically his first home race with Ferrari went, this dinner is starting to become the one light that's still up there to guide Charles out of this with at least some achievement in his pocket. The one thing he can win. Last part of his life where has some control left. These past few days have been several steps back for every one tiny leap forward. But his mother and Max might just be the last people who won't look at him with the quiet, suffocating pity that twists the knife of his own humiliation. With Max, it's an agreement - they don't hang out together directly after one of them has a bad race. It's too hard to navigate. They don't feel sorry for each other. The urge to seek validation after a failure is something they have to saturate elsewhere. It feels like first day of school. Charles gets ready at his apartment and arrives to his childhood home with enough time to spare, with the intention of pretending to help his mother in the kitchen, while both of them know she'll do anything in order for him not to meddle. He ignores everything else happening, pushes all this weekend inside and fills his head with daydreams about Max and Pascale finding common ground, about Max fitting into his safe space perfectly, cementing their connection. They'll tell the story of how they got together for the first time and truth be told, Charles can't wait to hear Max telling his point of view. His mom will get to be the first witness of their connection. He'd been terrified of her finding out about them, so to allow himself to make this extra step has been a thrilling distraction from it all. He can see it clearly: Max in his sharp, casual confidence, offering his blunt humor in the way that always disarms Charles, even when it shouldn’t. Pascale teasing Max, probably about his awful performance at the hair salon that morning after their first night together, and Max would lean into it, charming her in that effortless, maddening way of his. By dessert, Pascale would see exactly what Charles sees - the real Max, the man beneath the hard edges. He has a good feeling about this - his mom is already asking him so many question about "the mystery guy" that's on his way. And Charles talks and talks and talks.

A long hour later, the table is set, the food is warm, and Pascale is opening a bottle of wine. But Max isn’t there.

At first, Charles tries not to think too much of it. Max is probably running late, nothing unusual in the racing life. He tries to ignore the fact Max is rarely, almost never, late. Charles double checks the text he had sent him, just to make sure he did not mess up the information about the time or address. In the middle of each of her stories, Pascale finds a moment to pause, seemingly addressing the situation, non verbally. It only takes one look. While she does not approve of this behavior, she is there as a supportive figure. It keeps Charles going. Max won’t miss this.

Still, as Pascale lights the candle in the center of the table, Charles finds himself glancing at his phone. No messages. No missed calls.

Pascale has a talent for addressing the unspoken. She’s been silent on this topic for some time, filling the space with latest stories from the neighbors, skillfully getting away from the topic of Charles’ visitor.

"He’s probably just caught in traffic," he says aloud, mostly to himself. "Lot of the roads are still blocked," he addresses the obvious. Like this is Pascale’s first time being in Monaco during a Grand Prix.

Pascale doesn’t comment, though he notices the small glance she gives him, her quiet way of observing.

Charles picks at a piece of bread, his nails all gone now as a result of his never-ending bitting. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty.

The silence starts to press in. Pascale makes an effort to fill it, chatting lightly about the neighbor’s new dog or the strange man she saw at the market, but Charles can’t focus. His mind keeps drifting to Max.

What’s taking him so long?

His phone vibrates, and he grabs it instantly, his heart leaping. But it’s just a notification from one of his racing group chats. He sets the phone back down, his chest tight. Pascale is doing her best to lighten the mood up. She began to avoid the subject of Charles' lover just when it started to be clear he is late. Painstakingly so.

The bouquet of white lilies and pale pink roses sits forgotten on the counter, the paper wrapping soaking at the bottom. Max glances at the clock for the third time, his chest tight with the nagging guilt of being late. Pascale is waiting. Charles is waiting. He needs to leave.

But, that is currently not an option. Just as he was about to put his shoes on and head out, his dearest father decided to pay him an unannounced visit. One of the pro's of Monaco racing weekend. Everyone is in town.

"Dad, I'd love to chat, but I really have to get going," he says again, speaking in Dutch, as they always do when their alone. But Jos is standing firmly, blocking the hallway, his arms crossed, and that familiar expression - half-smirk, half-glare - plastered on his face. He owns the room. Max knows this face. Whatever is about to follow is not going to be nice. He asks him once more, if the matter at hand really can't wait until tomorrow. The only reaction he gets from his father is a nod towards the kitchen table. There is nothing else for Max to do than follow his lead, unless he want to get into a fight immediately.

"So, where are you rushing so much?" Jos asks once they're both seated, his tone calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of trouble in the air.

Max knows better than to not proceed with caution. This is not a friendly catch up. This is a screaming warning: negotiations ahead.

"Dinner," he keeps his answer deliberately short. Somehow, even this one word gets Jos rilled up. His lips shut into a thin line, his gaze stuck on the table, where his fingers are tapping the glass.

"With who?" Jos shots back, his voice slicing through the air.

Max is calm on the outside, storm of panic brewing on the inside. He knows. "Nothing serious," he lies.

There is a momentary shine is Jos's eyes, as he smirks once again. "That is a good answer. Remember it."

It's like a knife to his chest. Before diving into the difficult conversation, Max manages to send a quick text to Charles, while his father smirks at him. He does not have time for an apology.

The text message is short. Too short.

I’m not going to make it. Need to talk.

The words blur on the screen as Charles stares at them, his breath catching in his throat.

He reads it again, and again, his fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles turn white. Need to talk. The phrase feels like a punch to the gut, its weight heavy with implications he doesn’t want to consider.

Pascale’s voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"Charles?" she asks softly, her brow furrowed with worry.

He blinks up at her, forcing himself to breathe. His mind races, scrambling for something to say that will keep her from asking too many questions.

"He’s not coming," he concludes finally, his voice flat, hollow. ůSomething came up."

She frowns, leaning forward slightly. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," he lies, sitting still. "He’s not like this…He cares," Charles does not know where the tendency to defend Max comes from or why it is here, but it's an automatic reflex. Nothing is lost, yet. He tries, desperately, not to panic. His racer instincts kick in and his body is taking in this new wave of adrenaline. He must have pushed Max too far. It was a mistake to force this upon him. He’ll need to do some damage control. The realization that just because someone is willing to spend every available night kissing you goodnight does not automatically mean that they are ready to be your official partner. Charles is a romantic person - something that not everyone might share. He like to believe life is better than it usually is.

It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, totally fine. He’s trying to hide his hand that began to shake a minute ago. If he stays strong, his mom might just believe that Max is not a complete asshole.

There is unmistakable sorrow and a hint of disappointment in his mother’s face, but her words tell a different story. Somehow, this disconnect makes it all just a little redundant. She is dancing around the truth that both of them don’t want to address. "I know, Charles. I’ve known you well enough to know that you won’t just settle for anyone. It’s ok. A strong relationship won’t crumble over one missed dinner. Don’t let that happen."

They sit like that for about ten minutes, which for Charles seems like seven hours. Charles knows there is nothing his mother can say to make this go away. He is still for one more second, before he stands up abruptly, the chair nearly falling down.

"I'm sorry mamma, I have to see if everything is alright." Without waiting for her response, Charles grabs his jacket and heads for the door. His heart pounds as he pulls it on, his mind a swirl of emotions - anger, disappointment, confusion, fear and all of these are tripping one over each other creating a cacophony he does not want to listen to. Not this weekend. Not after the fumble of a race he's had.

As he steps into the night air, one thought rises above the rest: This isn’t like Max. Something’s wrong. All he knows is that he can’t sit still, can’t wait for Max to decide when and where they’ll have this talk, which is apparently so important they can't have dinner at his mother's house prior to that.

Rip the bandaid quickly. If Max won’t come to him, Charles will go to Max. Whatever’s happening, he’ll find out. He has to.

With a swift move, Jos whips out a paper folder, its edges worn as though it had been handled too many times. He sets in on the table, slowly, and to be honest, overly dramatically. It slides toward Max.

Max glances at the folder and then at his father's face, obviously inviting him to open this up. Max is determined to stand his ground as long as possible. He does not move.

His father only smiles at the lack of reaction. "You already know what this is, don't you?" It could be anything - leaked texts, phone call recordings...But most likely a photo. Max tries to brace himself and his last though is that maybe, just maybe, he is wrong and whatever this folder contains does not have anything to do with Charles. He is not wrong. It's obvious from the first second he sees the image. Staring back at him is a blurry, but clear enough photo of him giving a small peck on Charles' cheek. The smile on the Ferrari driver, wide as the sun, makes it sting all that much more. On a normal day, he would be almost grateful to have a photo like this in his possession. He recalls precisely what moment this commemorates. He forgot himself, or possibly ignored for one second the fact they were out in the open, and kissed Charles, after he messed up yet another English idiom. It was the cutest thing. He was about to pay a gigantic price for the warmth he felt that one time. Max is not a man to cry easily. But there's only so much he can take as a person. After the initial drop of his stomach, he gathers up all the strength he has within him to keep it together in front of his fucking father. He looks up and is met with one of the worst expressions he has ever seen on him.

"What, you're only going to look at one photo?" Jos teases, raising his voice, while smiling evilly and starts to shuffle the folder. "Because, there are plenty. Oh, look at that, here it looks like you're holding his hand! It'll look great in the family photo book!" He smashed the pile of photos down with unnecessary force. There must be about ten pictures mapping their short trip from Max's apartment. His heart keeps sinking.

"I'm sorry," Max mumbles quietly, not really knowing what else to say. Part of him hopes that this is all just a really bad nightmare.

Jos switches up his expression, going from almost mocking Max to more distressed. "I'm not even going to comment today on the fact my son likes to fuck pretty boys," he says casually and ultimately, by putting it like that, it brings Max back to when he's ten again, keeping his helmet on just in case his father decides to hit him because of his bad performance on karting track.

"Where did you get this?" Max asks quietly with the intention to keep the conversation as factual as possible.

Jos snorts. "Where do you think? Do you think this kind of thing stays hidden? Do you think nobody is watching you, waiting for you to slip up?" He gestured at the photo. "This? This is a gift. A warning. One that I had to pay a hell of a lot of money to make disappear. More than most people earn in a year."

There is a part of Max that is grateful for his father being one step ahead of him. He just wishes he wasn't so cruel about it. "How long do you know?"

Jos clearly has no plans on being the one answering questions. "How long is this going on?" It's rhetorical one, a mockery laced with Jos' obvious disgust. He has the upper hand. Max is barely able to hold it together. Anything he says will result in an angry response from his father. Because even it this talk lasts for ten minutes, it's too long.

"Let me be absolutely clear, Max," he speaks again, before actually giving him a chance to respond. "This - whatever it is - ends now."

"You can't force me..."

"I can't? Well...Oh ok. You go and fuck whomever, for what I care. You know what, go on and stay with Leclerc. Wait until someone finds out and then you finally become someone who makes a mark on motor racing. The first openly gay driver. Doesn't that sound amazing?" The way he says it makes it sound like the most pathetic title in the whole world.

"Dad.."

"No, seriously. Judging by your performance of late, you don't have it what it takes to become the legend I've managed to convince everyone you will be. So maybe, this actually might be the only way for you to have a legacy." It stings. Awfully familiarly.

"The world has moved on from this homophobic approach," Max tries, but his words come out weak.

Another half-smirk. "Not the world of F1. Half of our sponsors are from countries where they stone people like you," he says with utmost snobbishness. "This is a direct path to ending your career. But maybe it's good. At least you'll have something else than your abilities to blame for not winning a championship." It's like Jos is a cook and Max is nothing but a piece of bread for him to rip apart. No words come for him to defend himself, or Charles.

Jos takes a dramatic pause and closes the file. "Leclerc is using you. He knows he's not better than you, unless he gets into your head. Which is exactly what is happening now."

Max knows deep down his father is not right. Charles can't be doing that and it would take a hell of a lot trying to even get Max to consider this option. It's everything else that his father has said so far crawls around Max's brain and he struggles to find any arguments to defend the whole affair.

"I saved you this time. But we got lucky. I trust you know what to do."

Max wishes he never woke up that morning.

Charles does not wait before knocking loudly, nonstop. No sound comes from the inside, after a moment the door opens to silent Max, who stands in his otherwise empty apartment. Charles takes a good look at Max, who seems to not be hurt or particularly distressed in any way.

Charles gulps. The air of casualty floating around Max, as if this is just another boring day, is infuriating. His expression speaks a different story. Cold, unapproachable and icy. He imagines this is the look other drivers receive when they cross him. The worst kind of Max is silent Max. He manages to become completely unreadable and in that moment, Charles questions whether he had imagined their whole encounter.

Max does not even greet him. He just stares. There is no quick pulling inside for a kiss. It makes Charles feel guilty, the thought that he’d rather see Max in some sort of crisis, something that would give him a valid excuse for ditching the dinner. But no. There he is. And the sight hurts. Charles fights the urge to rip the beer he’s holding and smash the glass on the floor.

"I see you're ok," he proclaims as casually as he’s currently able to. His mother's words are ringing in his ears.

A strong relationship won’t crumble over one missed dinner. Was this even a relationship?

Max nods and reluctantly steps back, inviting him in and refusing to meet his eyes once he gets closer. Charles can't stop his memory from flashing back to the first time he stormed his apartment and his stomach turns in disgust. He'd probably give up his seat in order to get back to that night, rather than this one.

He has to fight his body from shaking, and his mouth from spilling out sour and needy comments.

"You said we needed to talk. And here you are - not talking." Max shifts his weight, fingers tightening around the beer bottle in his hand. "I'm sorry for missing the dinner." His voice is flat, too controlled, like he’s reading a scripted apology and hoping it’s enough to move on.

Charles does not want to know "what came up". Whatever he might say would probably be a lie anyway. He always believed Max’s biggest issue was telling the truth obsessively. But he has seen him lie to others about them endlessly in the past few months. Keeping him like a little dirty secret. His heart sinks. That must be it. He is so ashamed of being seen with him that even the idea of his mother seeing them together is too much. "I'm sorry I pushed you into it." He does not know why he’s apologizing.

There is a pause on the other side of this conversation. "I like it when you push me out of my shell. I mean, this is how this all started in the first place," Max exhales sharply. It might sound like a fond sentence on paper, but his tone makes a clear emphasis on being pushed.

"I'm sorry I pushed you into that too," Charles lets the words out flatly.

"Stop apologizing, please!" Max finally snaps, his voice cracking with something that’s neither anger nor frustration, but exhaustion. His grip tightens around the back of his neck as he turns away, like he can’t bear to look at Charles when he says it. Like it might break something in him, too.

And it does break something, mainly Charles' patience. "Well then, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell how embarrassed I feel, how I couldn't look my mother in the eyes because even after the shitfest of a weekend I've had, this was the moment when she started feeling sorry for me? Because you couldn't even say why you didn't show up?" Max won't even acknowledge Charles' pain. He's searching for any proof in his eyes that he cares.

Finally, an emotion creeps into Max’s face. Despair and guilt, if Charles is still able to read him correctly.

"I can't do this," Max says the damning sentence. Charles flashes him a look and more adrenaline kicks in. No. He stares back at him. And, like the enigma Max is, he follows that sentence with launching onto him, gripping Charles' head with everything he has and connecting their lips together, before Charles can even register the words. Charles is helpless. Leans into his touch without any hint of self-control. His thoughts are still, but his tongue is roaming about Max's mouth and this kiss is anything but cute, light or romantic. It is hungry, desperate, borderline aggressive. Somehow, they're finally on the same page. Anger ruling their bodies and it all ends up with Max slamming Charles into the wall, full force, so much it almost hurts. In return, he grips his t-shirt as if the goal was to rip the fabric apart. This is wrong, everything about this is like from a bad dream. He can sense it in Max's touch. Charles feels the first tear of the evening rolls down his cheek and it's all so unhinged, which he realizes only once he can taste his own salty tear mixing with Max's saliva. It acts as a catalyst and he breaks down completely, gripping Max's shoulders, as if he's about to disappear if he lets him go. He knows he's losing him, unless he's already lost him. Charles can feel it in the way Max kisses him - desperation, restraint unraveling at the seams, a kind of hunger that feels more like a last resort than something born out of love. He's never felt smaller, so insignificant and down right doomed. Charles is selfish and a dreamer - he wants to have it all. And right now, it’s making him drown in it, as he grasps on the last remaining straws.

Inevitably, Max slows his movements down, initial fire dying down and Charles bites his lip one last time before he starts pulling back. "You're the worst things that's ever happened to me," Max whispers and it's probably intended sarcastically, but right now it only makes a harsh chuckle and few more tears come out of Charles. He leans against the wall and stares into the ceiling, trying to swallow the words I love you before they can escape.

He doesn't say them. Max's words burn him like fire.

"Well, then get ready, because we have a long journey to go through. I have not pulled out my greatest weapons, yet" he replies, not even sure what he means by that. It does however earn him a small sad laugh from Max.

Then, he exists Charles' personal space and starts pacing slowly around, hands on his hips and Charles can't do anything but watch him and wait for his final sentence.

"This has gotten too far," Max announces after few moments and Charles can't but agree - but most likely in a completely different context than Max intended. While he's probably referring to their affair in general, Charles would be referring to the fact he left him stranded and cancelled the last minute - and as it looks like, with zero to no remorse. He stays silent. Max stops pacing, his hands still on his hips, his jaw clenched so tight that Charles wonders if he’s actively holding himself back from saying something worse. There's something new in his expression now - something calculated. Charles braces himself for whatever comes next.

His speech is becoming apathetic. "So, one dinner with my mother is too far."

"No."

Charles spots set of flowers on the table, looking truly out of place in Max's apartment. They're smashed up, like he'd thrown them against the wall and then tossed them aside. Kind of like he does with Charles.

He thought they were meant to be. Painfully similar destinies, yet different enough to keep it fresh. Nobody understands him like Max does. And at the same time, nobody understands him less. They won't make sense to the outside world. He'd always thought that's a good thing. A proof that what they have is real. If it's there, loud and clear, but without a reasonable explanation. That's what love is suppose to be, right?

"Max, what is going on? Tell me. Speak to me. I'm so lost," he pleas, holding on last strain of hope that this is all just one big mistake.

Max stops abruptly, voice heavy with something final. "I can't keep doing this."

Charles grips the wall behind him. Max shakes his head, like he's convincing himself of his own words. "Things are different now. Too complicated. We're risking so much and one mistake can cause us our lives. Fuck - I - Charles, you're my biggest rival."

Charles freezes. It's the desperation with this the last word hit the ground that shuts off all the roads leading back to the place they were at just few days ago. He can't help but laugh.

Max exhales sharply, raking his hands through his hair and speaks in a defensive tone. "Every single meeting, briefing, interview - your name is the first thing to come out of their mouths. ‘Charles is faster in Sector this and look, he's doing that...'" his voice tightens. "Do you know what that's like? To sit there and listen to them rip you apart, to tell me exactly how to beat you - and then come home and pretend none of it matters?"

Charles swallows. Of course he does. He's been sitting in meetings like that for the past two years in F1. Ferrari strategist bring up Max at any given opportunity, mainly to avoid the subject of Sebastian. But...they agreed. Racing and home don't mix. He promised. "Max…" The hint of yet another betrayal is probably more than noticeable in his voice.

Max laughs, but it's cold, tired. "You think they wouldn't drop me in a second if they found out I was fucking my biggest competition?"

Charles flinches. Because now he gets it. This is not about Max being afraid. This is Max's ego swallowing him up hard. This is him, unable to tone out the voice of people who don't even have an idea on what kind of damage they cause with their casual remarks. Max probably loves him - but, he will never hear those words. Because Max also has to destroy him. And he doesn’t know how to do both.

It's clear as day. Some sort of mania takes over his body. It's what it is. Now he gets it. It's sudden, quick - the total opposite to the way how he fell for Max. Charles takes a breath, nodding slowly. "Okay."

Max stiffens. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Charles laughs, but it's empty, broken. "I actually get it now." He leans away from the wall and heads towards the door.

Max moves forward like he's going to stop him, but Charles doesn't let him.

His breath shakes, hands clenching at his sides. "You know, I always thought we had something special," he tilts his head slightly. "But maybe we were just inevitable. Two drivers, too fucked up to be anything but this." It's plain as a day. They were way past their expiration date anyway. Charles tries to burn the image of Max permanently in his memory, standing in his kitchen, vulnerable and open - because he knows he's never going to see him like that again. In a way, Charles appreciates that they depart in this way. He probably couldn't stand watching Max grow sick of him. They were fine just two days ago and now there is no "them" to even speak of. Simple, clean cut.

Max studies the floor, as if it holds some answers. "Charles-"

"No." Charles shakes his head, voice all calm now. "You're right. I don't want to be your weakness. And you don't want to be my distraction," he says, making sure to have the last part come out as cruelly as possible. "So I guess that means we're nothing."

Max’s face twists, his whole body going rigid. "Charles, wait - let's pause and think this over, you're everywhere in my life and I-"

Charles interrupts him, because his mind is already made up. "Well. Let me solve one of your problems for you," he says bitterly and does what is most natural to him when he feels like his presence is making the situation worse than his absence. It's like he's being served this option on a silver platter. He has to smile. They'll end just how they started.

So, he walks out. He recalls promising Max he won't ever do that - and there is a part of him that is doing this purely out of spite, because he knows just how it’s going to infuriate him. And it gives him a sense of control. No longer just reacting to things. He does not need Max. There must be a guy somewhere that will not think of him as an obstacle in his life mission. As an accident that’s gotten out of hand. It's a wave of rush all of a sudden. So he opens the door to unknown rooms inside his head and leaves self-control behind. Invites the most malicious parts of himself inside.

He has to, in order to save what's left of him. It's bitter and he hates it. But he fails to see any other option.

Major chords turn into minor. Leading vocals fade out and the only thing guiding him now is the background noise and the beat of his heart.

He's barely out of the building when his phone start blowing up. Brief check confirms that it's Max. He mutes the phone and buries it deep in his pocket. He needs to get out. For once, Monaco truly has him in a choke hold and he will do anything to leave the city behind. It could burn all down, for what he cares. With Max in it.

Max stays glued to the floor as he watches Charles vanish into thin air. Again.

There was no clear plan when Charles inevitably stormed into his apartment. His father kept on urging him to break it off with Charles, so much that Max smashed the flowers when the door closed behind him. His brain worked in overdrive, justifying following Jos' direction, while every cell in his body screamed to do anything but that. And it all mixed together in a perfect mush. There is a way, there always is. But definitely not the way he handled the whole thing up until this point. Do something, you moron. He's fighting himself on every front and if keeps on doing that, he'll stay frozen in the same spot for eternity.

He whips his phone out while he reaches for his car keys. Charles' number on dial - and then few times more - always ending up in voicemail.

That's it. Unable to just stand there and let this slip past his fingers, he heads out the front door of his apartment building and frantically looks around every surrounding street for a glimpse of Charles. The ghost of him seemingly gone into thin air. So, he hops into his fastest car, cursing himself for losing time.

There is zero remorse regarding road traffic rules as he springs out towards Charles' apartment. He's driving on autopilot, lost in the thoughts about the only person who makes him drive like a possessed madman even outside of the track. Nobody else does that to Max. Is that good? Is that bad? Let's not dwell on that.

The brakes certainly do not appreciate the way Max slams them down, the car barely heating up before he swings it into a violent stop against the curb. The tires screech in protest, the engine growling as if it, too, is furious with him.

Max does not care. The only thing he's focused on is Charles, who is approaching his own car right now. He barely registers throwing the door open, feet hitting the ground with the same force that’s been thrumming in his chest since Charles walked out of his apartment. He calls his name, in loud and sharp voice, cutting through the empty street, but Charles doesn’t even flinch.

Max swears under his breath, picking up his pace and crossing the street. "Charles, wait. Just...Just stop for a second." Nothing. No reaction. Not even a glance over his shoulder. Max's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, frustration boiling over. He reaches out, fingers curling into a fist like he's about to grab Charles by the arm, force him to listen. But Charles is already pulling his car door open. He slides into the driver's seat, fingers gripping the wheel with the kind of easy control Max knows too well. Max watches, helpless, as the engine roars to life.

The brake lights flash red against the night, burning into Max’s retinas like an direct beam of sunlight. And then - Charles drives away.

Not with fury, not with recklessness. He doesn't spin the tires, doesn't make a show of peeling off in a rage. No, Charles drives away calmly. Smoothly. Effortlessly. Not skipping gears or overbearing the clutch. Still, in the split second before he disappears down the street, Max swears he sees it. A smile. It's small, barely there, but it's real. A cruel, bitter thing. A smile that tells Max everything he needs to know. Max stands frozen for a moment, the street too quiet now, the air too thick. His pulse is still racing, and the back light of Charles' Ferrari seem to mock him too. His fingers twitch at his sides.

Slowly, stiffly, he turns back to his own car. The driver's door slams shut behind him. Max grips the wheel too hard, the tension in his jaw spreading through his entire body. The engine hums beneath his hands, ready and waiting. He exhales through his nose, sharp and short.

Then, without hesitation, Max slams the pedal.

Fine, have it your way.

He accelerates at alarming speed and leads his car to follow the annoying red one. There is no tears speared for anyone living nearby, let them all suffer with the sound his car is making. It's a long straight followed by a turn to the left - and then he can see Charles' car again. He's still driving like a civilian, perhaps slightly above the speed limit. Max flashes his eyes further down the line. The road is narrow, but not impossibly narrow. He does not think twice about his actions. Let's hope there is no car driving in the opposite direction. No hesitation. His car surges forward, roaring past the tiny gap between streetlights, sliding up alongside Charles, like they're racing down a straight at Spa instead of a dimly lit city road. Funny, how overtaking becomes possible in Monaco all of a sudden.

Max barely registers the blare of a distant horn, the way the world tilts slightly as he swings into position alongside Charles' car. The only thing he's focused on, apart from the road, is him. Hands steady on the wheel, streetlights flickering over his face, mouth set into something too sharp to be neutral. And finally, Charles turns his head.

Max catches the split-second flicker of pure disbelief in his expression - the way his brows snap together, lips parting just slightly, like his brain is still processing the fact that Max is actually here, driving next to him, in the wrong fucking lane. It's not panic, just shock. Max does everything in order to convey to Charles to stop his car. But, the only thing that does is replacing Charles' shock with something else. Something equally crazy as what can be found in Max's eyes.

Charles fixates his look ahead, position of the hands gripping the steering wheel changing. His shoulders settle, his body falling into something that Max knows better than anyone. The click of instinct taking over and just like that, the all-polite Charles is gone. Max barely has time to react before Charles yanks the wheel right, cutting across the road without warning.

"Fuck!" Max slams his brakes as Charles' car swings violently into the turn, tires marking the street. His tail lights flicker as he disappears around the corner, leaving nothing but the smell of burnt rubber behind. Max barely breathes before he reacts. He shoves his foot against the brake, twisting the wheel hard as his car twists into the intersection. The back tires lock up, the entire chassis shuddering violently as he spins - too fast, too fucking sharp, the whole street blurring past in a rush of movement.

He lunges after Charles. Quickly, he's right behind him again, but this time the other car is ready and expecting him. Max has seen these moves countless times before, but never outside of his helmet visor. Charles does not give him any space, recklessly driving in both lanes, only barely letting random car in the opposite lane pass by. He's reading the street like the beast on wheel he can be. Predicting Max's moves and doing everything possible to avoid Max getting ahead of him. At this rate, this is going to end badly very quickly. Max does one more thing to make this even more dangerous and shuffles around, searching for his phone. This makes him lose few seconds on Charles, but nothing he won't be able to catch up to. Once he manages to find it, he dials up Charles' number, his phone thankfully connecting to his car automatically, as Max has to do another manic turn of his steering wheel. Another intersection passed by. The sound of the phone dialing echoing through the whole car, mocking him and making this all much worse.

Charles is heading east, away from the centre and onto the highway. But, before they get there, he turns the car over the an actual part of the Monaco circuit. A track that has barely been dismantled few hours ago.

Max is now calm and focused. Charles is leading them through turns that feel like they should still have barriers up, marshals waving flags. The ghost of the Monaco Grand Prix lingers. Finally, the familiar angles of corners they both know, not just streets of Charles' childhood hometown.

The hairpin is coming up. Max is calculating all the possible moves the Ferrari can make. Charles is setting up wide, making sure he owns the entry, just like he did in the actual race. Max knows what he's doing. The bastard is using the street as his personal defensive line, keeping Max behind him just enough to make sure he can't dive in without risking everything, in a car that is nowhere near as safe and a formula 1 car. For a moment, he considers doing just that, to prove a point and get the lunatic to talk to him, like a normal person. But, racing instincts prevail. It's a Monaco move. And it's fucking working.

The phone still rings, unanswered, the sound piercing in Max's ears. He clenches the wheel tighter, body moving on pure instinct. The next thing he does is a fake move to the outside, knowing full well Charles will react, will shift his car to cover the line. And the second he does, Max cuts inside.

It's a lunge, one he wouldn't have dared to try in an actual Monaco race, but this isn't an ordinary race. It's something else entirely.

Charles reacts fast - of course he does. He sees Max's front light tilting and closing in and jerks his car over, forcing Max to hesitate for couple of milliseconds. That's all it takes. Max almost gets alongside him again, but Charles slams the gap shut, leaving Max inches away from scraping against the concrete barriers still lining the street.

Max slams the brake, feeling the car lurch beneath him, his heart pounding as he barely avoids disaster.

The phone stops ringing. Finally, Charles picks up. There's a pause, just breath and static, before Charles speaks. His voice is frighteningly calm, steady, like he’s completely unfazed.

"Max. Are you trying to kill us?"

It only makes Max chuckle. He's in line behind Charles' car, practically glued on his back. If Charles slowly down even by one second, Max is full on crashing into him. He does not think about that, he only stops at the thought that this is strangely thrilling. Once again, they're speaking the same language.

"Stop the car and talk to me," he orders and copies Charles' racing line.

Charles laughs. It’s breathless, sharp around the edges, the kind of sound he makes when he’s seconds away from snapping.

"Stop being a little bitch, Max. It's pathetic," he sings and hangs up the phone.

Strong words coming from someone who cried in his apartment just minutes ago. Is this his position now? Playing it out tough, acting like a baby? "Dickhead," he comments to no one but himself.

And then - Charles takes off. Max barely has a second to react before Charles swings his car out wide, flooring it onto the open stretch ahead, heading toward the tunnel.

Max doesn't think. He just follows.

Full send into the last turn of the circuit as he heads over to the regular road. The other lane is filled with cars, preventing Max from making any moves. He's cursing himself for missing few opportunities before, the words of his strategist ringing in his head like a loud alarm he can't turn off. Ironically, this might be the best Charles has ever driven around here. Simply fuckin' lovely. It's impossible to get ahead of him. And even if he does, what will happen then? Is Charles going to crash into him? Will he turn the car around without a care for safety of anyone nearby and this whole circus is going to happen all over again?

They are forced to drive more calmly now, nevertheless, to the other people on this road, it still looks like two reckless idiots trying to kill each other. As the scenery changes and houses get replaced by small trees, Max starts to doubt his genius plan of following Charles. They drive like this for half a kilometer. It's obvious where Charles is heading. The last place where Max can be seen.

He dials the phone one more time. To surprise of no one, Charles does not pick up. Max counts his options one more time. His emotions settling down and reality creeping in. Charles does not want to be caught.

All the fury is gone with the wind. Reluctantly, he slows down the car and at the first opportunity turns in the side of the road and kills the engine. He watches, as the scarlet car keeps on going and going, until it disappears over a hill.

He sits in the car for few minutes, then gets out into the cool spring air. The sea below does not provide any answers into what's going to happen now.

chapter 7, part 2

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

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linkcharacter · 1 month ago

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Can you draw Anya losing to daisuke but as that one image

#i know exactly what image you're talking about #anya after a game session #mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #daisuke mouthwashing #linkch art #asks

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diluc33rpm · 1 year ago

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the romance/relationship system in bg3 is genuinely some of the worst designed shit i've ever seen in any game with that feature but at least the memes we get out of it are funny. once saw someone comment something along the lines of 'patch note: waving at gale will no longer cause him to buy a house for the two of you to retire in' and i've never recovered since

#i love gale he doesn't deserve (most of) the incel slander #but it's painfully such a good riff because it really really does feel like that #the player choices being a b/w alternation between 'hey there' and 'YOU SHOULD KILL YOURSELF... NOW!' normally is already comical as is #the fact that it carries over into interactions with the party members who you're presumably trying to be close with is... something else #and what makes it worse is it ISN'T jokey hyperbole. anyone remember 'send a mental image of you kissing him or HIS HEAD ON A PIKE.' c'mon #trying to chat and vibe at the refugee camp celebration and the sum of conversation i get is one (1) line asking how they're doing #because going any further than that elicits marking you down for the path of boning take it or leave it #it's genuinely so hard to get to feel like you can deepen a relationship with the characters in ways that aren't trying to pursue them #yes! halsin! i really want to know you better! i just don't want the ass!! why is trying to hit the only option other than up and leaving!!#99% of the time i expect nothing from media creators in terms of writing interactive relationships #larian are beyond parody in that they've somehow managed to do worse than the already suboptimal majority #we're just going to impose the roadblock of do you want to fuck y/n right off the bat. good luck finding a way to talk around that if not #the obscuration surrounding where exactly the checks are really does not help at all either #when the shit's got even the allos complaining about it you know it's BAD #shame because i was excited for character scenes given that's a lot of what's hyped up about the game #but no it's all just the romances. 'what if i'd like to breathe in someone's general direction-' well now have you heard of our romances?#fish fear them party members fear them and tav is going to have to walk alone on this sinful earth #conservative bigoted relative at the family reunion withers era was a fucking time before they tweaked that line speaking of #just so crazy they can get away with this shit #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 liveblog

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lycorogue · 5 months ago

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[image ID:

Tweet by anna (constellationary) [@sweetsubkoo]

The weird thing about reading so much as a child and gaining a huge vocabulary from that is I can't define a lot of words I use, I just...know that they would fit correctly in a specific sentence? Does anyone else experience that?

/end ID]

#As a Millennial I still do this #But with Gen z/internet slang #I can't explain/define what you mean #nor can I typically use it in a sentence myself without questioning that I'm using it accurately #But when I see you use it I know exactly what you're talking about #It is a weird sorta bilingual thing but with generational divide instead of actual languages #(but yeah I also do this with dictionary-recognized words)#vibe based knowledge #vocabulary #LycoRogue's added two cents in the tags #includes image #includes image ID #includes image description #described #reblog

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hellokittyish · 2 months ago

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★ thinking about ex!satoru who still stubbornly refers to you in conversation as his girlfriend, even after a few long months have passed since your breakup.

he simply can't (or won't) acknowledge the fact that the two of you are no longer an item, even going as far as to frequently send you texts updating you on his daily life and then spamming you with facetime requests that you have to keep declining until you eventually give in and respond to his original messages.

and when you inevitably block his number? that's okay, he'll just pop on down to the nearest electronics store and purchase a new phone. no biggie!

so later that evening when your screen lights up with a suspicious looking notification from an unregistered contact, you unfortunately already know exactly who it's from.

unknown: can't a guy talk with his pretty gf anymore? :(

unknown: oops, that was a typo! i definitely meant ex gf

and you're rolling your eyes in annoyance, finger hovering just above the oh-so-tempting bright red block button before the sight of a photo appearing in the chat captures your attention.

unknown: sent [1] image attachment

unknown: i think he misses u almost as much as i do

curiosity overtaking your rational thinking, you find yourself clicking on the picture... only to be greeted with the overly familiar sight of satoru's lengthy cock, hard and leaking between his legs.

unknown: see? he's cryin for u and everything

unknown: [incoming facetime request]

and this time; instead of just simply pressing decline like your muscle memory frantically urges you to — and in what can only be described as a moment of intense weakness... you answer.

part two here.

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florida3exclamationpoints · 10 months ago

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Completely random thought but I'm really grateful I've never had any huge body image issues but it's crazy how much other people tried to give them to me 💀

#i have one very vivid memory #of me and a few other girls talking #and for some reason our clothes sizes came up in conversation???#i think a group of 13yo girls should never be talking about clothing sizes anyway but #i was the ~curviest~ of us #and there were these 2 sisters who were both a lot smaller than me #and they were talking about how teeny tiny their clothes were #and how sometimes 00 jeans were too big #and they asked me what size pants i wore #i felt weird about being asked and i didn't even exactly know #i remembered that i had gotten some jeans from old navy #and they were specifically curvy cut. but size 0. curvy size 0 #and all i remembered when they asked was the number 0 #so i said that #and they looked me up and down. like. Disgusted #and said 'NO way YOU'RE size 0. WERE 00. and look how much BIGGER than us you are'#and LAUGHED at me!!! like i was lying on purpose!!!! and was disgusting!!!!!#and that!!! messed me up a good bit!!!!!!#and as ive looked back on it as ive gotten older (and curvier) im like. wow. how do people think its ok to say stuff like that 😭#we were young but one of the girls was a few years older than me #like. come on. you think it's ok to say that????#what kind of PARENTS????#tw body image

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sugoroo · 3 months ago

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ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, reader plays volleyball, masturbation, oral (f receiving), obsessive behaviour, boobjob, penetration (p in v), 18+ minors dni.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who decides you're going to be his the very first time he sees you playing volleyball on the beach with your teammates wearing those pitiful scraps of material that can hardly be classified as a bikini.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes sure to pick up any and every extra shift he can just so he can figure out exactly what times you come down to the shore to practise.

pervy lifeguard!gojo whose new favourite pastime is just to sit in his lookout post, barely paying attention to the water to keep an eye on anybody who may be in potential danger — no, lately, his gaze always seems to be fixed squarely upon you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but push his sunglasses up to rest in his hair so he can get a clearer view of you as you move around the sand, the way your scantily-clad body moves whenever you jump to hit the ball over the net just hypnotizing the poor man.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to disregard his duties completely to duck into a nearby beach hut when it becomes too much to just watch you, furiously fisting his leaking cock to the delicious mental image of your ass bouncing as you played.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who emerges from the hut looking like an utter mess, snowy locks dishevelled and swimming trunks hanging low on his hips as he stumbles back over to his lookout post. his strange behavior even grants him a few curious look from nearby beachgoers, but he couldn't care less.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who finds his hands clenching into tight fists by his sides when he observes one of the boys from the opposing volleyball team shaking your hand after a match. it's just a sign of mutual respect between players — he knows that.

but that doesn't mean it irritates him any less.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who finally gathers the confidence to actually approach you later that afternoon while you're packing up your things, idly scratching the back of his undercut while he tries to think of a normal way to start a conversation.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who doesn't have to speak at all in the end, because you say the first words for him, greeting him with that pretty little smile of yours that he's only been able to see from afar up until now and outstretching a hand for him to shake.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but let a pleased grin spread across his lips while he returns the gesture, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction rising in his chest that his own touch on your palm has erased that previous guy's.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who falls even harder for you (if that's possible) during the few minutes he talks with you. it's nothing more than a friendly interaction between two regular beachgoers, but to him, it's one of many more to come.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels like he could do an embarrassing victory dance on the sand right then and there when you casually mention an upcoming volleyball competition that you'll be playing in. so you want him to be there, huh?

he nonchalantly responds that he might just be able pop by and watch some of it during his break — as if he isn't already planning on completely abandoning his post in favour of spectating the entire match instead.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is so full of excitement during the week leading up to the tournament that he just can't keep quiet about it for even a single second. his poor bestfriend lifeguard!geto is beginning to feel like he's the one with the giant, pathetic crush on you at this point.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who would most likely be fired if his boss was to see him right now, sprawled across a bench and watching you compete at volleyball instead of looking out for drowning children in the waves.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is sporting a not-so-subtle tent in his swimming trunks as he sits there, which he tries in vain to hide by crossing his legs over his lap. i mean, can you really blame him? just look at the way those doughy tits of yours jiggle in that downright sinful bikini top!

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to clench his jaw to stop from snapping various profanities at the nearby beachgoers who have stopped in their tracks just to witness the match — he's not oblivious, he can see them checking you out just as he is.

but it's different when he does it. why? because you're going to be his soon enough. don't they understand that?

pervy lifeguard!gojo who isn't surprised in the slightest when your team easily triumphs over the other. after all, the opposing team doesn't have you on it. and although he knows little to nothing about volleyball, he can easily declare that you must be the best at it.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who would ideally like to run up to you and gush about how well you performed, but due to the very visible... problem in his trunks, ends up darting into the nearest beach hut for the second time this month to relieve himself because of you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is halfway through sloppily jerking his hips up into his closed fist when sunlight suddenly starts to flit through the gap in the door — shit, he was so worked up he forgot to even close it.

rookie mistake, satoru.

pervy lifeguard!gojo whose eyes widen to the size of saucers when he realizes it's you who just walked in through the doorway, shutting it gently behind you. he's about to start furiously apologizing for what you stumbled in on when he notices you don't seem nearly as shocked as you probably should be.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can only watch in stunned silence as you slowly saunter closer to him, your hands hidden behind your back as they easily untie the strings of your bikini top before letting it fall to the floor.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who releases what can only be described as a pornographic moan at the sight of your freed breasts, his neglected cock twitching beneath his hand as he ogles you without shame. if he had any self-awareness left, he might've been embarrassed of the small trickle of drool oozing from his slackened mouth.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels his cheeks flush a shade of red brighter than the leaking tip of his bobbing cock when you purr to him... "do you really think i haven't noticed you checking me out for these past few weeks, mr lifeguard?"

pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow finds himself living out a scenario lewder than the wildest of wet dreams he's had about you, his jittery hips thrusting erratically between your tits as you keep them pressed together for him with your hands.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who reaches what is undoubtably the fastest orgasm of his life, his sunglasses toppling from his head as it falls back in bliss, messy white locks stuck to his forehead with sweat as he releases a series of broken groans and whimpers.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who immediately joins you on your knees once he's come down from his euphoric high, long pink tongue lolling out to lap up every drop of sticky cum he split on your pretty tits, sucking and nipping at every inch of supple skin within reach.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who just can't stop yapping, going on and on about how perfect you are, how you've been on his mind for what feels like forever, how sexy you look when you're hitting around that volleyball.

it seems the only way to actually shut pervy lifeguard!gojo up is to shove his beautiful face between your legs, the only sounds leaving him now being mewls of enjoyment as he mouths at your saccharine taste through your bikini bottoms.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is already too lost in you to properly remove the material keeping him from your pussy, instead lazily yanking it to the side with a single finger so he can dive nose-deep into your sweet cunt like he's been dreaming about doing for weeks.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is just so messy with it, practically making out with your dripping hole as he rapidly delves his tongue in and out, moaning so shamelessly you'd think he was the one getting eaten out and not you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes you cum using only his sloppy mouth so many times neither of you even know just how long you've been cooped up in this beach hut where there's a real possibility that someone could walk in at any given moment.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't hold himself back from fucking you anymore — he's waited long enough already, after all. so he's effortlessly manhandling you onto your back as he pushes in, eyes locked onto the sight of your tits still glistening with his saliva and cum from earlier.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who buries his face between the valley of your breasts as he ruts into you like a rabid animal, word after word of slurred praise failing from his lips as he looks up you with those wide, lovestruck cerulean eyes.

god, he's so fucking obsessed with you. getting to finally feel you like this was just the last nail in the coffin.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow cums even harder than his previous climax, the overwhelming sensation of the tight, spongy walls of your cunt pulling him back in over and over again just unravelling his hazy mind with ease.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to psychically stop himself from letting out a choked whisper of 'i love you' as he spills his milky seed right into your womb where his cockhead is lodged, seemingly having enough awareness left to know that it's much too soon for that.

instead, pervy lifeguard!gojo settles for fixing you with a dopy grin so wide that both rows of his glinting pearly whites are on full display, murmuring a cheeky... "what do you say we make this a routine after every competition, pretty baby?"

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

pervy yoga instructor!geto <- PREVIOUS.

pervy electrician!toji -> NEXT.

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arminsumi · 3 months ago

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tattoartist!suguru losing nonchalance when reader flirts with him?

im down bad for him holy hell

Oh, he's falling to pieces, got it bad for the girl he just met 'n he's gonna make a drunk little bet — y'think he's crazy enough to get your name tattooed on him? Or crazy enough to ink his name into your skin?

ㅤ★ wc; ~3k

ㅤ★ note; continuation of tattoo artist Suguru Geto!

ㅤ★ an; aaa!! you got my brain whirring like a laptop... tysm and i hope this makes u blush and kick ur feet as much as i did while writing!! 🍰✨

ㅤ★ tagz; @ohimsummer 💗@fairiesthrum💗 @heartofjasmina 💗 @kwonan 💗 @ghost-buddies 💗 @madamecorbie 💗 @mima0127 💗 @moggleatlife 💗 @natasaa13 💗 @yemmuishomeforthementallyunwell 💗 @wakashudou 💗 @khaothick 💗 @candy-s72 💗 @creamflix 💗 @starriesworlds

ㅤ★ warnings; sum alcohol/drunkenness

“So, was she joking, or am I your type?” Suguru asks, black eyes staring right into your soul.

“Mm, well…” you hum, giving his form a look-over – god, if only you could feel how hard his heart’s beating when you do this. “Maybe.” You reply teasingly.

“Aw, just ‘maybe’?” he groans, now leaning his hip against the edge of the display case that housed the studs and gauge earrings.

“Yeah, just ‘maybe’ – I’m teasing. No, she wasn’t joking; I’ve always had a thing for the black hair, black nails, bad boy look…”

“The ‘bad boy’ look…?” he questions, recalling what your friend had said earlier about bad boys being just your type.

“Yeah, the ‘bad boy’ look.” You giggle.

His heart beats even harder, muttering a naughty little “Well, lucky me.”

“Nah, not so fast – I’m a smart woman.” You warn.

“Oh, are you?” he clicks his tongue in defeat, “Damn, would you believe that my type is smart women? No, no I’m serious… I’ve got a thing for smart women.”

Your cheeks grow hot, the heat spreading to your ears.

“I can assure you that the ‘bad boy’ look is just an aesthetic; I’m really an artsy dork making a living off doodling on people’s bodies.” He shrugs.

“Hm… maybe, maybe not.”

You rub your lips together. He briefly licks his bottom lip. You look him up and down. He looks you up and down. Body language open and alive with attraction, the both of you stand in this air of electric tension that Shoko spies from the other end of the room.

She watches as the two of you giggle like little flirts, observing how totally absorbed the two of you are in each other’s company. When you catch her eye, Shoko gives you a wink and points at her wrist, mouthing “five more” – fair enough, the two of you have promised to get pizza.

Pizza first, boys later, right?

Five minutes more go by – adding to the total of four hours spent at the tattoo & piercing parlor. But despite her discomfort and need for a change of scenery, Shoko decides to linger around just a little longer so that the two of you can indulge in each other just a little more.

But now you're getting nervous – Suguru has you breathless, holding you in a battle of who can flirt harder? which you're starting to lose.

He's captivated by you. This 6’3, tattooed, goth-grunge, slightly dorky man chuckles and smiles like he hasn’t had this much fun talking flirting with someone in years.

It's going well, then your smile trips him up. I know, it’s always the smile, huh? If you see enough of it, you slip… and that’s exactly what's happened to Suguru. He quickly grows obsessed with the way your cheeks look when you smile – the image burns into his memory without him even realizing it in the moment.

No, in the moment he doesn't realize the magnitude of your effect on him. He's just thinking about himself, about you, about —

“I’ve gotta go,” you say goodbye finally, “I don’t want to keep my friend waiting. But you’ll probably see my face here again… she loves dragging me along for these kinds of things.”

He stutters, “Oh! Oh… yeah – yes. Of course. Looking forward to it… maybe next time, you’ll be the one getting ink in your skin.”

“Yeah right.” You smile.

It’s your French exit that makes his heart throb in need.

No, don’t leave yet… I like you – don’t you ever wonder how many acquaintances in your life have thought this when leaving your company? And you’ll never even know.

Oh, Suguru was thinking so hard about asking you to exchange numbers or to meet up for coffee, but he didn’t want to come off as too forward – no, no… he had to maintain his mysteriousness. Or at least, he had to cling to whatever was left of it after revealing his inner dorkiness to you.

*****

After you leave, he wanders in and out of his studio, has small interactions with his co-workers, and doodles ideas for tattoos down.

Throughout all of these things, your face is at the forefront of his mind. Your voice echoes in his head as he recalls every detail of the conversation you two shared. Then he starts smiling softly as he applauds himself for being so gutsily flirty with you… a stranger, just someone, who he probably won’t see again…

A girl with no name.

God, why was he so slow? He didn’t even ask for your name. Suguru groans.

Yes, he probably won’t see you again… not unless your friend brings you along for her next visit. How long does he have to wait? Weeks? Months? That’s insane.

Suguru stops doodling, stares at the scrap of paper, and then looks up at the wall displaying his works. He rubs his fingers back and forth across his mouth.

I gotta.

He looks over to his phone. He reaches for it, takes it into his veiny hand, unlocks it, and scrolls through his list of contacts.

And then he dials his client’s number. Shoko Ieri.

*****

Now, it’s been just under an hour since you and Shoko left the tattoo parlour. She’s complained three times about the pain because exactly three times she has leaned back on the seat – squishing the fresh ink wound against her chair. You just cruelly laugh at how her eyes twitch in pain and each time.

The two of you sit eating pizza.

“He liked you. Why don’t we go back and you ask him for his number?” she teases.

“No way… he’ll think I’m too forward.” You shake your head.

Then three minutes later, Shoko's phone goes off. She reaches into her backpack. She looks at the caller ID, then at you, then at the caller ID, then –

“… is that him?”

“It’s him.”

“What’s he calling for! Me?”

“Absolutely he’s calling for you – I can bet gold on that.”

It stops ringing. She tells you she’ll text him back but guess what? She doesn’t even need to, because he calls again.

“Relentless.” She giggles. “I’m answering.”

“Pretend I’m not here!”

She winks at you and answers, “Hey, Suguru, what’s up?”

The two of you lean in until your foreheads press together – it’s still hard to make out every word.

“Yo.” You hear his smooth voice coming from the other side, “Sorry to bother you… (muffled)… your friend (muffled)… so embarrassed, so don’t tell her that I’m calling… (muffled)… what was her name?”

You clap your hand over your mouth when you hear those snippets.

She gives you a devious look before saying, “Oh! Well, she’s right here with me, actually, so you can ask her yourself.”

Mouth full of pizza, you freak out and X your arms to signal a fat NO WAY SHOKO! and fall to pieces all with the taste of pepperoni on your tongue.

But she just hands the phone over to you anyways, then proceeds to silently laugh as you spit out your pizza before talking.

“Hehlooo?”

“H-hey.”

You get right to the point. “My name’s Yn…”

“Oh… I like that… I’m Suguru.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Suguru. Suguru Geto.” He raises his voice.

Cheek hot against the screen of his phone, Suguru is silently freaking out at the tense silence. He can feel his stomach starting to flip. His mind blanks.

“Anyways! Um, that’s all.”

No. That’s not all. He has a novel’s length worth of things to talk about with you.

At this point, Shoko rolls her eyes at the two of you being so awkward on the phone and decides that she needs to take matters into her own hands.

So she snatches the phone from you.

“ – Suguru? Say, you wouldn’t be free on Saturday, would ya? Yeah, I’m going on a date with this guy… and I’d love to make it a double date with you and Yn if you’d like to –”

You hear him stutter out a yes, absolutely before Shoko can even finish her sentence. She grins.

Suguru can sense that the two of you are smiling and giggling. He can predict that the two of you are probably going to gossip about him being the 'dork from the tattoo parlor that called not once, but twice for the name of a girl he just met' – but he doesn’t care. He’s been presented an opportunity and taken it.

To hell with seeming too eager.

When the call ends, Suguru blows out a breath through his lips. Then he promptly texts his best friend. Dark strands of hair slip out of his sloppy bun as he puts his face over the screen, thumbs swift and eager.

Toru 🤞😜 lol bravo... but i thought u said she was out of ur league??

Sugu i mean... yes. she's way too pretty and smart for me. but i'm not gonna pass up this opportunity

Toru 🤞😜 still can't believe u called ur client just to get her friend’s name... lol

Sugu you would understand if you met her ok

Toru 🤞😜 damn she must be something else

Yes, yes you are something else — Suguru can’t even begin to describe why. Translating his thoughts into words isn’t his thing; he translates them into art.

****

It's later in the day. You're lazing around Shoko's apartment.

She confirms the time and place of the double date, and cackles on her couch while kicking her feet, teasing you for being so crazy about a guy you just met – her tattoo artist.

You just couldn’t stop talking about Geto Suguru.

“Shiiit, should I even let you and a bad boy like him be alone in a room together?”

“I can control myself.” you assure her.

She slowly shakes her head at you.

“Yeah right… but can he? I don't trust neither of you... miss crazy and mister crazy... you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

You giggle to yourself, biting your thumb. “Maybe…”

“Oh girl…” she groans, causing you to giggle into yourself, “You’re gonna be licking the tail of his dragon tattoo by the end of the date tomorrow.”

“H-h-he has a what? And where?” you stuttered, lashes quivering.

She shakes her head at you. “God, you’re screwed…”

*****

It's Saturday night. The bar's more alive than ever.

You've learned that Geto Suguru does, in fact, have a dragon tattoo inked up his toned arm – and a tight-fitting black tank top that shows it off along with his martial artist’s physique, too.

He’s got a glint of the devil in his black eyes. Softly-delivered dirty jokes ready to roll off his pierced tongue. A habit of tilting his head and looking hungrily at your lips and neck.

“Martial arts, huh?” you ask with stars in your eyes.

“Mhm, I could teach you a few things.” He purrs in reply.

Your stomach starts squeezing and flipping – that’s got to be the flirtiest 'mhm' that you’ve ever heard in your whole life.

“You think so?” you purr back.

Now it’s his turn to feel that squeezy, flippy feeling in his stomach.

Fuckfuckfuck is all he could think when he looks into your eyes.

I’m gonna fall to pieces. You’re gonna be the death of me.

“Uh… do you two need some privacy?” Shoko teases.

Oh. It’s a double date. How could you forget? Shoko is literally sitting beside you at the bar with her date. But for a second there, it really felt like it was just you 'n this deliciously tattooed bad boy.

“Maybe.” Suguru chuckles coyly.

“There’s a hotel just next door…”

“Shoko!” you scold, playfully shoving her arm.

She giggles into herself, sipping down her cocktail innocently as if she didn’t just electrify the air between you and Suguru. His throat’s tensing, foot’s tapping up and down on the bar stool – boy’s got long spider-legs, huh?

Now after that, Suguru grins wider – showing off his pretty canines – his posture assuming something self-soothing; he holds his elbows, arms squished against his ribcage, which just makes his biceps more pronounced. Oh why, why did he have to wear a tank top like that? Surely he’s aware of the effect it has on girls. Or maybe he’s oblivious…

Nah. He's not.

*****

“Did it hurt?” you ask, trying to blink out the tipsiness from your love-drunk eyes but you’ve got three cosmopolitans surging through your veins.

“Not really… I’ve got great pain tolerance.” Suguru replies.

“Oh really?” you blink up at him again and his mind goes blank.

“Look at that...” He murmurs softly, not breaking eye contact with you. Where’s your friend and her date? Who knows. It’s just you and him now – and that’s all he wanted.

“Hm?”

“Not every day I see eyes like that…”

You widen your lips into a smile, “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I? Sorry – see, this is what happens after you feed Suguru too much rum. I just can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s terrible… need someone to shut ya up?” you flirt.

He tilts his head at you, loose strands of hair shifting across his cheek. His left brow quirks up – he’s so taken aback by your forwardness but he falls right into it.

You just giggle flirtatiously after making that comment and pull the straw of your drink between your lips, sucking the remnants of a cosmopolitan into your mouth as sensually as you dare to in front of a bad boy who’s got bedroom eyes on you.

“I think I could do with some shutting up…” he admits.

“Mm,” you hum, “y’think by our third date you’re gonna snap and kiss me hard like we’re in a movie?”

Suguru smiles bashfully and looks down into his drink, swirling the melting ice cubes with a straw – slowly, round and round, they clink. Then he draws his gaze back to you, catching you with a sultry side-eye, and now it’s not just the ice cubes that are melting.

“Nah-uh…”

“Nah-uh?” you question.

“… I think it’s you who’s gonna snap first.” He says.

“Wanna bet?” you tease.

“Sure. What’ll be at stake?” he asks.

He keeps his sultry gaze on you as you look off to the side in thought for a moment. Your friend’s joke echoes in your mind.

“… you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

Then you look back to him – his heart throbs but he’s trying to keep it together here, pulling his straw to his lips to get a sip of whatever rum still exists in his glass.

“Loser gets a regrettable tattoo?” you suggest.

He looks at you with a little bit of disbelief at your boldness.

“How regrettable?” he questions, one eye squinting shut in suspicion. He's wondering just how wild you actually are.

“Like my name on you? Or vice versa.”

He covers his mouth and lets out a chuckle hearing this. “You want me to tattoo my name on ya skin?” he teases. “Sure, I’ll bet on that.”

You can’t believe that he’s matching your crazy.

You stutter, replying only after a lingering moment of hot eye contact, “… there’s no way I’m gonna snap first…” you say boldly, proceeding to pop the cherry of your drink into your mouth and eating it right in front of the poor boy’s eyes. “ ‘m gonna have you walkin’ around with my name on you.”

Eyes glued on your lips, his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah?”

Ooh, there it was. That feeling. That body singing electric songs feeling… that tummy-tightening, blood-rushing, skin-flushing feeling – it hit him all at once. He knows that if he were standing, his knees would have buckled now for sure, or at least he would have felt the tremor of your words under his feet.

He’s unsteady – smiling uncontrollably, looking dishevelled and softly drunk. Those rouge lips are begging to be kissed.

The bar grows quieter and quieter.

You’re hardly able to call each other anything more than strangers, and yet you’re leaning into him, closing the distance.

The tips of your noses are just inches apart now. You’re in each other’s air. He eyes out your lips, feels your hot, liquor-scented breath tickle his face.

But when you try and close the distance, he raises his hand and presses his thumb against your soft lips, stopping you.

“What happened to that bold statement, huh? Keep it together, baby; the bet’s on.” He feathers against your face.

*****

Tumbling into Shoko’s apartment after a night out drinking, you smile and giggle into the pillows of her bed.

She’s letting her hair down and swapping out her tight dress for jammies when she looks at you in your gleeful state.

“Someone’s in love.” She teases, coming over to tickle you.

“I’m not in love!”

“Oh, quit the act; I saw how the two of you said goodbye – you could barely hold yourself together. Drunk or not, I ain’t seen two adults giggling like that before.”

“Sh!” you swat her, “Not! In! Love!”

She takes a look into your eyes and observes your smile, then shakes her head. You're drowsy, so you make a dive into her bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

Shoko pulls a blanket over you, affectionately ruffling your hair.

“Madly in love, at the very least.”

#suguru #suguru geto #suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto x reader #x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #geto suguru x you #geto x you #suguru x you

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javierpena-inatacvest · 7 months ago

Text

Fever

Summary: You're ovulating- It's that time of month where you find yourself turning into an unspeakably horny monster with just one problem that Javi knows exactly how to help you fix.

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.7K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected p in v sex (do better, but also, who am I to say?) oral (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, paise kink, an unspeakably explicit breeding kink (I ain't sorry about it), creampie, cum play, talks of starting a family, calling Javi "Daddy" and meaning it (help), the sweetest softest sex, yet somehow the filthiest, nastiest sex at the same time??? god these two love each other so much it makes me SICK

A/N: ... If you know me, no you don't. I'm so sorry y'all, I am ovulating and absolutely FERAL, I am truly thinking that someone may need to come put me down at this point because.... yeah... raise your hand if you're surprised Madeline has yet another story with Javier Peña and a big, fat, nasty breeding kink?! Oh look!! It's no one!!! ANYWHO, don't mind me while I foam at the mouth for the next 24-48 hours, BYEEEEEEEEEE

Can be read as a standalone or as a part of the Never Too Late Series!

If there was one thing that you knew about Javi, it was that he was one of the most handsome, attractive men you had ever met.

His dark, curly hair.

His mustache.

His sweet brown puppy dog eyes.

His absolutely incomprehensible shoulder to waist ratio.

Your husband had it all. That, you knew for a fact.

Truth be told, there wasn’t really much that you ever thought Javi could do to be hotter than he already was.

That was until a few months ago, when you had recently stopped taking your birth control and you could quite literally feel yourself morph into the insatiably feral, horny mess that you became when you were ovulating.

And when that was the case, not only was he the hottest man you had ever laid eyes on in your entire life, you were quite literally ready to rip his clothes right off of him at every single opportunity possible.

You could practically feel the change in your body when you woke up this morning- the soft sunlight of Saturday morning spilling through your curtains as you rolled over to see Javi, mouth slightly agape as he snored, face buried in his pillow and messy brown curls flopping over his head.

God, does he always look this hot when he sleeps? You thought to yourself, slowly stirring awake, stretching your arms over your head before creeping out of bed to make yourself some coffee to bring back upstairs with you while you waited for Javi to wake up.

As the bittersweet aroma and quiet, rhythmic drip of the coffee hitting the bottom of the pot began to gently rouse you from your sleepy state, you couldn’t help but shake the warm, stirring sensation in your stomach from the image of Javi sleeping next to you in bed.

Elbows propped up against the counter, chin resting in your palms, you closed your eyes, picturing him- His sweet soft smile as you kissed his plush lips, the way his big hands roamed across your hips and back as he pulled you closer to his chest, the bulge of his cock pressed against your thigh before he-

“What are you doing up, cariño?” Javi’s soft and sleepy voice cooed as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his chest to your back as he planted a gentle kiss on your shoulder, his presence enough to snap you out of your daydream, but not enough to shake the dull ache that had been growing between your legs from the moment you woke up.

“I was just gonna make some coffee and bring it back up to bed. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, baby.” You sighed, a smirk growing between your cheeks as you turned around to face him, Javi now caging you between his body and the counter as his hands splayed planted on either side of you. He looked down at you with his half-awake gaze and sleepy smile, still in nothing but his boxers, his tanned skin and barely there freckles glowing in the morning sunlight creeping through your kitchen window.

“Don’t apologize, mi amor. Just wanted to know where my wife was. Glad I found her.” He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips, only pulling away to quietly whisper, “Good morning, hermosa.”

And while it was nothing but a simple good morning kiss, the way Javi’s lips met yours sent a spark off inside you, quickly leaning back to pull him closer to you as you draped his arms around his neck, a soft moan escaping from your parted mouth, feeling a grin growing across Javi’s face in response.

“Mhmmm, well, a very good morning to you then. My bedhead and morning breath really doin’ it for you, huh?” Javi smirked, lowering his hands to rest on your hips, gently toying with the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“Sorry, I uh- you just, God, you look really good this morning. Can we, um, ya know, maybe go back upstairs?” You stammered, so enamored with Javi’s presence that you could barely get a coherent thought out as you stared up at your husband, already feeling a damp patch beginning to grow in your underwear, stomach churning with arousal.

“Yeah? Mi esposa muy dulce (my sweet wife), you want me to-”

Ring, ring, ringggggg. Ring, ring, ringggggg. Ring, ring, ringggggg

“Who the fuck is calling me this early…”

Javi’s face scrunched in frustration at the sound of his cell phone ringing on the kitchen counter, reaching over you to see the expression in his face shift to concern as he read the caller ID, quickly opening up his phone to answer.

“Hey, Pops. What’s goin’ on? Everything okay? Again? Fuck… Yeah, just um- shit, yeah, I’ll be over in 30. Okay. Yup. Yeah, bye Pops.” Javi let out a deep sigh, running his hands over his face and through the sleep curled ends of his dark hair, his grumpy pout telling you that your morning was not going to go the way you thought it was 30 seconds ago. “The gate that Pops had installed last week fell down overnight and now all the cows are loose in the pasture… I gotta go over there and help him put it back up before it gets even worse. I’m so sorry, Hermosa.”

“It’s okay.” You shrugged, trying your best to mask your horny disappointment.

“It hopefully shouldn’t take that long. I should be back before lunchtime, okay? And when I get back, if you still want,” he paused, letting his palm slide along your jaw, cradling your cheek before pressing another soft kiss onto your lips, “We can pick up where we left off.”

“Promise?” You smirked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yo prometo (I promise).”

Wanting to give Javi any chance of leaving the house without trapping him in your bedroom, you tried your best to keep yourself busy while he quickly got ready and grabbed his things to head to the Peña Ranch, giving him a quick kiss goodbye before watching him back out of your driveway in his truck, the image of him with one hand behind the passenger seat at the other with his palm to the steering wheel making you just about drop to your knees for reasons you thought you couldn’t explain.

You hoped that with Javi gone, you could at least be a little productive in getting some things done around the house before he returned, but it seemed like with everything that you did and anywhere you went in your house, you couldn’t help but find more reasons to add to the insatiable desire building in your core.

While you were trying to make breakfast, you couldn’t help but stare at Javi’s favorite coffee mug, the Empire Strikes Back cup he had claimed as his at your apartment when you had first started dating. You couldn’t keep yourself from imagining the width of his huge hands wrapping around it, dwarfing the mug in his grasp, thinking about how good those same hands would feel all over you.

After that, came trying to do the laundry, where you caught yourself sniffing Javi’s shirts, the overpowering and familiar scent of his cologne and sweat seeping through the fabric, driving you absolutely crazy, wishing you could find a way to drown in his scent.

Finally, in your very valiant effort to try and make your bed, you found yourself laying face down in Javi’s pillow, somehow leaving the sheets and comforters tangled and tossed about worse than you had found them.

“What the fuck is wrong with me today…” You whispered to yourself, now sitting on the couch, mindlessly flipping through the channels on your TV, somehow still even hornier than you were when you woke up this morning. You let your gaze wander away from the TV, examining the walls of your family room until you landed on your wedding photos hung across your wall, smiling to yourself as you looked at the portraits, reliving the moments of the happiest day of your life.

It wasn’t until you glanced at one of the photos of you and Javi surrounded by your family in a candid moment where Javi had hoisted your niece on his hip to dance with her during your reception, the image making your stomach flip with an overwhelming need. After doing the quick math in your head, it hit you like a thousand pound ton of bricks why you had been so worked up all goddamn day.

You were ovulating, and you needed Javi to put a baby into you right now.

As if the universe had magically heard your prayers, you turned your head to hear your garage door opening and the familiar stomp of Javi’s boot covered footsteps trudging down the hallway. Like a moth to a flame, your heart began to race as you watched Javi’s broad body approach you, your jaw practically dropping at his appearance.

Javi was now glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his curls sticking to his damp forehead, and the sleeves of his button down shirt now rolled up past his elbows, the buttons once done up to near his neck before he left now trailing open to the middle of his chest, exposing the warm glow of his tanned skin underneath.

“Hey hermosa, I’m home! Ended up being a way easier fix than Pops thought and- Oh!”

Before Javi could even get out the rest of his sentence, you were trapping his words in your own mouth, feverishly bringing your lips to his as you grabbed fistfulls of his shirt, kissing him like every bone in your body depended on it.

Javi stood there for a moment, almost dumbfounded and frozen, wondering what had warranted such a greeting before leaning in to reciprocate, snaking his hands to your sides and grabbing your waist, pulling away only to try and understand the reason for his passionate welcome.

“H-hi baby. Everything okay?”

“Mhmmmmmm.”

“Not that I’m mad about it, but I feel like you’re greeting me like I’m coming home from war.” Javi laughed to himself quietly, looking down at you with a smirking suspicion.

“I missed you. I need you so bad, Javi.” You moaned, pressing up to lock your lips to his again, this time Javi matching your intensity as your mouths crashed into each other.

“Is this all from this morning?” Javi managed to ask between parted kisses, his grip tightening around you as he pulled you closer to his chest.

“This morning,” you paused, beginning to kiss him between each thought, “right now,” your hands began to roam up his chest, sneaking under the fabric of his shirt, “all the time,” fingers now working at frantically undoing the buttons, “fuck, everything about you. You’re so fucking sexy, Javi. Do you know that? God, I’m so lucky.” At this point, it felt like the words were flowing out of you in a horny and unstoppable stream of consciousness, babbling between desperate kisses pressed against Javi’s lips. “I need you so bad. I want you fuck me, Javi. Fuck, I- I want you to put a baby in me.”

Your last sentence had Javi frozen in place once again, pulling away just to make sure he had heard you correctly, even though the boyish grin growing ear to ear across his face seemed to be enough confirmation. The two of you had been trying ever since you had gotten back from your honeymoon, but now that you were to the point that your birth control was out of your system and your cycle was back to normal, it felt just a little more real to the both of you.

“You want me to put a baby in you, mi amor? That what you want?” Javi groaned, his voice rumbling low in his chest as a hungry glaze painted itself across his chocolate brown eyes, making your pussy throb at hearing him say it back to you.

“Mhmmmmm.” You nodded frantically, too caught up in your own desire to find any words to string together into a coherent sentence. “I think I’m ovulating, so it could really happen this time. Please, baby, I-”

This time, it was Javi’s turn to cut you off, his arms scooping below your legs to hoist you up around him, legs locking around his hips as he carried you down the hallway towards your bedroom, your bodies banging and bumping against the walls and door frames in a frantic race to your bed without any regard for spatial awareness.

As soon as you were close enough, Javi was tossing you on the bed, frantically stripping himself of his shirt and working his way down to his jeans before he realized you were sitting up, already toying with his button and zipper. You pushed his pants down his legs, followed by his boxers, revealing his cock, fully erect and weeping with precum at the tip. It wasn’t long until you were scrambling off the bed and dropping to your knees in front of him, licking the salty tang of spend off his tip before he could protest that he needed to take care of you first.

“Hermosa, I- Oh fuckkkk-” He groaned, feeling your jaw go slack as you took his length into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks until you could feel him in the back of your throat, pulling back to look up at him with batted lashes as you kissed him up and down his shaft.

“I wanna suck your dick, Javi. Wanna show you how much I love it. Wanna feel you down my throat before you fuck me.” You moaned, rubbing your legs together to try and ease the ache between your legs, your pussy so wet and puffy that slick and arousal were dripping from your cunt and coating the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck me…” Javi muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut to regain his composure before looking back down at you, slowly sucking at his tip, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridges of his cock. “Okay, baby. Show me how bad you need me before I put my dick in your tight little pussy, huh?”

Inch by inch, you took him back down your throat until you were brushing up against the curls at his base, the sweet and musky scent of him filling your nostrils as you inhaled. “Oh fuck, Osita. Holy shit.” His voice rasped, hitching in the back of his throat watching your mouth fill with his cock. His fingers ran through your hair, tugging a little tighter as your pace began to quicken, his grunts and moans becoming louder with each push and pull. “Fuck, such a good girl taking me so well. So fucking pretty when you suck my cock baby, holy fuck.”

For as much as Javi wanted you to keep going until he was spilling down your throat, he needed to save every last drop for when he came inside you, fucking you full of him until he knew it took. Feeling his balls begin to draw up into his stomach, he forced himself to pull you off him, panting to catch his breath before he spoke. “I don’t wanna cum yet, baby, and if you keep going like that I’m gonna bust. Fuck, you’re so good to me. Lay down on the bed, Hermosa. Let me take care of you. Need to taste you.”

Instantly, Javi was pulling you up and sitting you on the bed, letting your back hit the mattress as he settled between your legs, tugging your bottoms off until they were in a crumpled pile on the floor. his hands slide down the inside of your thighs, pushing them apart to reveal the wet, slick, and puffy mess your pussy had already become without even being touched. Javi chuckled to himself, awestruck by the sight in front of him, kissing and nipping at the meat of your legs, teasing you with how dangerously close he was to your cunt and finally giving you what you needed.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, cariño.” Letting his hands shift down, his fingers ghosted across your core as his thumbs slid through the lips of your pussy, spreading it open even further, making you whimper in anticipation. “Goddamn, she’s so pretty. Prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Who’s pussy is this, baby girl?” He smirked, barely kissing your clit, driving you absolutely wild as you squirmed beneath his touch, desperate for him to do something, anything, to ease your ache.

“Y-yours, Javi. It’s all yours, baby. Only yours.” You whined, gazing down at him with a rampant need in your eyes, fisting at your bedsheets to find somewhere to try and release your tension.

“Fucking right it is.”

His head then dipped between your legs, arms draped across your stomach holding you in place as he began to eat you out like a man being served his last meal on this earth. Broad, flat strokes of his tongue slid between your folds, pressing against your clit with the perfect amount of pressure he knew would have you crumbling beneath him.

You couldn’t help but rithe under his touch, instinctively bucking your hips at his face, overwhelmed by the way Javi was relentlessly drinking you up, his fingers gripping tighter to the meat of your thighs to hold you in place as you could feel the tingle beginning to build at the base of your spine, your back arching in desperate anticipation.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Javi easily slipped two fingers inside you, curving in just the right way to bump against your g-spot, fucking in and out of you to fill the emptiness in your pussy he knew you craved.

“J-Javi, oh fuck- don’t stop baby, please, don’t stop.” You whimpered, your eyes nearly rolling in the back of your head as you felt your orgasm begin to build, cunt clenching tighter around Javi’s fingers and beginning to flutter while he sucked on your clit. You could feel his smug smirk pressed against your heat as your hand shot down between your legs, grabbing and tugging on fistfulls of his thick locks, your tell tale sign that it was only a few more moments before you were about to come undone.

“That’s it, hermosa. Say my name, baby girl. Let me hear you.”

And there you were, chanting his name like a prayer, over and over again until you reached your breaking point.

“Javi, Javi, Javi, J-Javi, J-aaaahhhhhh, oh fuck-”

In an instant, you could feel a wave of pleasure crashing through you in toe curling delight, your orgasming ripping through every inch of your body with undeniable intensity, your slick soaking Javi as he drank up every last drop of you, savoring the sweet taste of you on his tongue.

You sat there for a moment, back against the mattress as your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, blissed out of your mind as you sat propped up on your elbows, staring at Javi, proudly wiping the slick covering his face with the back of his hand.

“Javi, holy fuck, baby.” You gasped, swallowing hard as you watched Javi begin to hover over you, making his way up your body one slow, wet kiss at a time, nipping at the soft skin of your stomach before cupping your breasts, taking one in his mouth, sucking and flicking at your pebbled nipples with his tongue while he rolled the other between his fingers. The whimpers escaping from your lips were damn near pathetic, but considering how worked up you were, you could have probably cum again just from this alone.

“You still want me to fuck a baby into you, Hermosa?” Javi asked all too knowingly, tongue darting between the smirk of his parted lips, trailing languid kisses along your collarbone and up your neck.

“Y-yes. Fuck, yes.” You moaned, breath hitching at the back of your throat as Javi sucked at your pulse point.

“Tell me how badly you want it, pretty girl.” Javi whispered, his voice rumbling low in his throat as he nipped at your ear. “Tell me how much you want me to give you a baby.”

“F-fuck, so badly Javi. Please, baby. I want you to so bad. I want you to more than anything. I wanna make you a daddy, Javi.”

If Javi had any ounce of self composure left, that alone was enough to make him crumble, letting out an audible groan, his dick even harder than he already thought it could be.

“Fuck me…” Javi groaned, sucking you in for another electric kiss. “Turn around, baby.”

Scooching yourself further up the mattress, you laid with your stomach to the bed as Javi climbed behind you, swiping his cock through your folds before sinking into your heat, bottoming out against your cervix and whimpering at the sweet sting of his stretch, sucking him in with your warm, velvety walls.

Slowly, Javi began to thrust in and out of you, taking his time with each stroke as he laid his chest against your back, interlocking his fingers with yours outstretched above your head on the bedspread, head buried in the crook of your neck.

Each push and pull of his hips elicited more lewd sounds than the last- you were practically dripping at this point from how worked up you were, and could hear the wetness pooling in your pussy, filling the room with obscenely filthy sounds.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. You hear that, Momma? You hear how wet you are for me? Hear how badly your tight little pussy wants me to fill her up? Pump her full of me?” Javi moaned, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper, his grip around your hands even tighter than before, biting down on your shoulder trying his best to keep from falling apart at just how good you felt around him, coating every inch of his length in your arousal.

“I want you to cum so deep inside me, Javi. P-please, baby.” You begged, craning your neck behind you just enough to see the wrecked expression painted across Javi’s face that mirrored yours.

Suddenly, you could feel Javi grabbing your hips, flipping you over as your back bounced against the mattress, now staring up at him. He ran his hands up the back of your thighs until your knees were against your stomach, spread open as wide as you could be for him.

As he sunk back in your heat, he caged himself over you, devouring you in a desperate and hungry kiss of mangled tongue and teeth, catching your moans in his mouth as he bottomed out inside you.

“Need to see that beautiful face when you cum for me, cariño. Wanna see you when you soak my cock, w-watch, oh fuck- you when I fuck you so full of me, I’ll knock you up tonight.” Javi moaned between kisses.

The new angle had Javi pounding into you in the way that had your jaw going slack and your cunt beginning to clench tighter and tighter around his length, once again feeling the knot in your stomach beginning to tighten with arousal.

“P-please, Javi. F-fuck- You feel so good, don’t stop, baby.” You whimpered, your eyes locking with his, your heart racing as you stared into the deep chocolate brown of his gaze.

“I won’t stop, hermosa. Won’t stop until I fill this perfect pussy up. Fuck you so full of me, I’ll be dripping out of you for days. Won’t stop until I fuck a baby into you, get you pregnant, watch you give us a family- Jesus, fuck- Fuck, I love you so much.”

Snaking his hand between your bodies, he reached between your legs to rub at your clit, rhythmically circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, eliciting a pathetic whimper from you, knowing at this rate, you weren’t going to last much longer, and that meant neither was he.

“I love you too, Javi. More than anything.”

Each thrust of his hips sending you closer to the brink of collapse than the last, the noises of your wanton moans, skin slapping against each other and the wetness of Javi’s cock sloppily pumping in and out of your cunt had the room sounding borderline pornographic. You could feel your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head as the coil in your belly was about to reach a breaking point until the firm grasp of Javi’s palm around your jaw forced your gaze up at him once again.

“Eyes on me, baby. Eyes on me when you cum. Need to see you when I fuck a baby into you, Momma.”

That was all you needed to finally send you over the edge, your body exploding with pleasure as your orgasm overtook you, your thighs shaking and voice trembling with wrecked pleas of Javi’s over and over.

“J-Javi, Javi, Javiiiii, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, oh God, fuck, baby, fuck!”

As you gushed around his cock, your pussy gripped him like a vice as you came. Javi’s hips began to stutter, his pace now becoming frantic and sloppy knowing how close he was to following suit, losing all inhibitions as you sobbed out in ecstasy.

“That’s it, baby. Mierda- Fuck, I’m close. Gonna fill this pussy up- oh shit- so full it’ll f-fucking take. I know it will. I p-promise, I- oh fuck!”

With one final stammer of his hips, Javi’s orgasm consumed him, his spend coating every inch of your walls as he spilled into you, milking himself of every last drop as he came. His body slumped into yours, chests rising and falling in sync as both of you laid in post-orgasmic bliss, completely lost in the sensation of each other.

After a moment, Javi finally pulled out his softening cock, making you whine at the loss. Sitting back on his haunches, he couldn't help but admire the absolute mess between your legs- your pussy so puffy and swollen, covered in your shiny slick, and dripping with his cum. A satisfied smirk spread across his face as he watched his spend begin to leak out of you, knowing that you were overflowing with him.

His fingers traced down your thighs, dragging his cum back to your cunt, making sure a single drop didn't go to waste. You couldn't help but sob as his curved fingers push back inside your pussy, making sure you stay stuffed full of him so he knew it took, because God, did want it more than anything to take.

Gently pulling back out, Javi couldn’t help but lean down to kiss you again, grabbing your face as he peppers you with kisses, making you squeal in a ticklish delight.

“I love you so much, mi amor.” Javi cooed, his forehead resting against yours as he softly stroked your face, your heart swelling with joy and excitement at the man you hoped from 9 months from now, would be the father to your child.

“I love you too, Jav. You’re gonna be such a good Daddy.” You smirked, teasing him just enough to make him let out a sigh, biting down on his lip.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me with that one. You know that?”

“Well it’s true!” You laughed, giving him a playful nudge, running your hand through the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. “You think this one will be the one?”

“I hope so. If not, guess we’re just gonna have to keep trying every day till it is, huh?”

“If you keep fucking me like that, we’re gonna have 12 kids before you know it.”

“I mean… wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” Javi grinned, rasing his eyebrows at you with a boyish glow.

“Javi! We are not having 12 kids!” You protested, rolling your eyes at your husband.

“Osita, if you keep coming on to me like you did today, we may not have a fucking choice.”

Taglist:

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper r @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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barnacles34 · 1 month ago

Text

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Karina x Male Reader

9k words

18+ smut

'I expected you to have...'

'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess—ancient and decrepit?'

'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.

'Get that more than you'd think.'

'Can't imagine why.'

'Sure you can't.'

She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'

'Did you have something specific in mind?'

'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'

'I am prepared.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.

She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'

'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]

'That's comforting.'

'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'

'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'

'If only you knew.'

'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me—we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'

'Quick study.'

'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.

'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'

'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'

You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'

'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'

'I have what I need.'

'Meaning?'

'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]

'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.

'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.

'Enlighten me.'

'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'

You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'

'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'

'The interesting ones do.'

'And the boring ones?'

You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'

'Which I didn't.'

'Yet.'

She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'

'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'

'Because?'

'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'

'Maybe I just like wasting time.'

'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'

'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'

'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.

'Tell me about your sister.'

Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'

'Would you prefer those?'

'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'

'Close?'

'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'

'Why's that?'

'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'

'Still prefer corners?'

'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'

'What do you read?'

'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'

You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'

'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'

'Speaking from experience?'

She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.

'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.

'Do what?'

'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'

She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'

'Bad one.'

'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'

'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'

'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.

You wait.

'You're good at this,' she says quietly.

'At what?'

'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'

'Most people aren't trying to understand.'

She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'

'Would that be so terrible?'

'No,' she says.

'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'

'What's that?'

'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'

She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'

'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'

'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'

'Green tea.'

'Pretentious.'

'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'

'It's barely spring.'

'Case in point.'

The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'

'I'm consistent.'

'Boring.'

'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'

'Sneaky.'

'Professional.'

'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'

'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'

'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'

'That's oddly specific.'

'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'

'Does that work?'

'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'

'You could always run.'

'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'

'Of Croatia specifically?'

'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'

'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'

'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.

'Walt Whitman now?'

'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'

You make a show of writing something down.

You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'

'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'

'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'

She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'

'Been to a few.'

'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'

'Most people want to be found.'

'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'

'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'

'I haven't been—' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'

'Progress. Again.'

'You're keeping score?'

'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'

'And how am I doing?'

'In being honest or deflecting?'

'Both.'

'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'

'Generous scoring.'

'Strategic encouragement.'

'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'

'Are you not?'

'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'

'Your routine?'

'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'

'Would you like me to ask?'

'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'

'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'

'And who am I?'

'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'

She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'

'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'

'Like what?'

'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'

She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'

'What do you mean?'

'You spend so many years modulating everything—your voice, your laugh, your reactions—until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'

'And that bothers you.'

'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'

'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'

'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'

'Including your voice.'

'Including my entire existence.'

'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'

—

[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.

[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.

—

She blinks. 'What?'

'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'

'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'

'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'

A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'

The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap—more habit than disguise.

'Left or right?' you ask.

'You're the one who lives here.'

'Technically, I've been here three days.'

'And you already know where to get gelato?'

'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'

'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'

'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'

'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'

'For what? Smuggling library books?'

'That's... oddly specific.'

'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'

You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.

'Due?' she asks.

'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'

She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'

'Professional or personal answer?'

'There's a difference?'

'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'

She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'

'Really?'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'

'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'

Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.

'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?”

'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'

She complains, ‘self-respecting people would’ve walked a long time ago.’

‘And let me guess-’

‘Correct. Take a picture if you want.’

'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'

'You're still on that?'

'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'

'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'

'That's the worst deflection yet.'

'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'

You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'

'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'

'And now?'

'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'

'Terrible. But honest.'

'You and your honesty fetish.'

'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'

She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way—'

'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer”. I can see it already'

She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'

'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'

'I did not cry over—' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]

The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.

'Your sister know about the sharks?'

'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'

'Recent ones?'

'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'

'Interesting timing?'

'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'

'Subtle.'

'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'

'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'

'Still blue?'

'Devastatingly so.'

She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'

'Crisis?'

'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'

'Half-green?'

'Not going in the book.'

'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'

She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'

'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'

'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'

'Nice?'

'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'

'Are you?'

'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'

'Now who's deflecting?'

And she pauses again, caught.

She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'

'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'

That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'

'You're terrible at your job.'

'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'

'Is that the measure of success?'

'For this chapter? Absolutely.'

The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.

'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.

'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though—my Italian's terrible.'

'Better or worse than your interview skills?'

'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'

'Useful life skill.'

'More useful than relating to sharks.'

She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'

You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.

'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)

'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista'

(‘Worse. Journalist.’)

He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.

‘He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.’

‘Oh trust me—he wasn’t. He just wanted to be nice. That’s all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.’

‘Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista—.'

You grin at her cute prod.

'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.

'Got lost my first night here––five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'

'And?'

'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'

She laughs. 'That bad?'

'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'

The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.

'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.

'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.

—

[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.

[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).

—

'Speaking of bad decisions—'

'We weren't.'

'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'

'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'

'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'

'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'

'I'll trade you.'

'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'

'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'

'The plot thickens.'

'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'

She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'

'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'

'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'

'Deal.'

'And no taking notes.'

'Now that's just cruel.'

'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'

The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'

'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements—fountain, nuns, and police—you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'

'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'

Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'

'The one you just reacted to.'

'That's... that's actually impressive.'

'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'

She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'

'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it’s the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That’s like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.’

She nods along. 'Of course you did.'

'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'

Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'

She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat—'

'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'

'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'

'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'

'Can I have one more drink first?'

'For courage?'

'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'

'Desperate times.'

'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'

'No.'

'Don't.'

'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'

'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'

'Screams?'

'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'

'Let me guess. DIY job?'

'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'

'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.

'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'

'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'

'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]

'So what happened?'

'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'

'Did it work?'

'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'

'The fans never found out?'

'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'

'Mostly?'

'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'

'Effective.'

'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'

'Besides this one?'

She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'

'You're something, all right.'

Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late – the old bartender shoots them an amused look.

'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.

'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'

'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'

'Let me guess – there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'

'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh—'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'

'A what now?'

'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'

'You're making this up.'

She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'

You stare at her. She stares back.

'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.

'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'

'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'

'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'

'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'

'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'

'It's called character development.'

'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.'

'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'

'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy—'

'Oh my god.'

'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident—'

'I'm starting to regret everything.'

'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa’s Karina—'

'I hate you.'

'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore—'

'That was you! That was literally your story!'

'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'

She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.

'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.

'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.

'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'

'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'And yet...'

'And yet?'

'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'

'Blame it on the altitude.'

'We're at sea level.'

'Blame it on the sea level.'

'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'

'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'

'Gravitas is overrated.'

'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'

'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'

'Prove it.'

She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.

'That was horrifying.'

'That was three hours of professional training.'

'I'm concerned about your profession.'

'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'

The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.

'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is—'

'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'

'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'

'I read your book.'

'Which one?'

'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'

'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'

'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'

'Because?'

'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'

'As opposed to?'

'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'

'Ah. That.'

'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'

'Any of what?'

'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The—'

'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'

She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'

'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'

'And what's the truth?'

'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer’s ears off.'

She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'

'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'

'I knew it! You are using it!'

'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'

She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'

'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'

'I'm never living that down, am I?'

'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'

The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.

You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.

'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.

'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'

'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'

'How do you know where my hotel is?' You’re not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.

'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'

'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'

'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'

'Professional hazard.'

'You really need new catchphrases.'

The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city—all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.

'Don't even think about it,' she says.

'About what?'

'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'

'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'

'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'

You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.

'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'

'Professionally catastrophic?'

'I was going to say enlightening.'

'That too.'

The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.

'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'

'Is this a cry for help with appliances?'

'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'

'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'

'Then what's this?'

‘Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.’

‘Haha. Very funny.’

'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'

'Complicated.'

'Professional hazard.'

'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'

'With or without the triangle?'

She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'

'Now who's the impossible one?'

The doors start to close. She holds them.

'Coming?'

You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'

'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'

Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.

'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'

'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.

'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'

The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.

'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'

She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'

'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'

'Terms?'

'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'

She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'

'Everybody knows that.'

'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'

'And?'

'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'

She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'

'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at—' you check your watch, '—one in the morning.'

'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'

'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'

'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'

'My tongue is still kind of blue.'

She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'

'Better?'

'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'

'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'

'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'

'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'

'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'

'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'

She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's—'

'The five Aperol Spritzes?'

'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'

'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'

'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'

'Is it?'

'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'

'You really did read my books.'

'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'

'My pattern?'

'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say brave.'

'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'

She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'

'Professional—'

'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'

'That would be...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'

She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'

'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'

She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'

You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.

—

[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice’s ability to change colors.

—

The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet—probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.

She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'

'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'

'Thoroughly inadvisable.'

'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'

She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.

'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'

'That's Paris.'

'Now who's deflecting?'

'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'

She laughs, soft and real—definitely not triangle-approved—and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'

'What do you think?'

'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'

She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after—'

'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'

'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'

'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.

Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, ‘Gosh, you’re such a player.’

‘Flirting has never come so easily before.’ You whisper against her mouth.

'Oh really?'

'Obviously.'

'Which was?'

'Stare at that blue tongue some more.’'

She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'

'And yet.'

'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city—'

'Please don't.'

'—with golden light catching on ancient stones—'

'I'm begging you to stop.'

'—as two souls find each other under the Roman sky—'

She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'

You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'

'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'

'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'

'Worried about your reputation?'

'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'

'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'

'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.’

'Good.' She holds out her hand.

The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.

'What happened to room service?' you murmur.

'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'

This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it’s the softest you’ve ever felt a woman.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.

'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.

You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume—something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.

Because that’s what Karina deserves.

Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.

Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses—deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.

Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back—when did that happen?—and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.

Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone––hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.

‘Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?’ she whispers, breathless.

Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.

Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. ‘We should probably—’

‘Go inside?’ Your lips find the curve of her neck again.

‘I was going to say breathe.’ But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. ‘Though inside works too.’

You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.

‘What?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘How this definitely isn't going in the book.’

Her smile turns mischievous. ‘No?’ Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. ‘Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I—’

‘Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.’

‘Wow. You’re bad. Like, real bad.’

‘You have no idea.’

You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.

‘Inside,’ she murmurs against your mouth. ‘Before we really give Rome something to talk about.’

You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere—your hair, your chest, your face – like she's trying to read you by touch alone.

‘Wait,’ you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. ‘What about—’

‘If you mention room service right now,’ she warns, ‘I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.’

‘I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?'’

She pulls back, eyes dancing. ‘Oh, that?’ Her lips brush yours, teasing. ‘I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.’

"Professional hazard?"

"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.

She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.

You trail kisses down her neck, learning her— the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.

Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss—how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.

"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.

You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.

Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."

‘Take it as whatever you want.’ Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. ‘I stopped thinking about the book long ago.’

She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. ‘Good.’ Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. ‘Because I have a confession.’

‘Another one?’

Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.

‘That wasn't a confession,’ you murmur against her lips.

‘No?’ Her teeth graze your earlobe. ‘I thought I was being pretty clear.’

Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.

‘Jimin,’ you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.

Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling—the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.

The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.

‘What?’ you ask, voice rough.

‘I'm trying to decide something.’

"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past—"

She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.

‘No—,’ she moans when you break apart for air. ‘I'm trying to decide if this is real.’

Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.

‘Feels real enough,’ you murmur against her skin.

Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. ‘I meant—’ She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘I meant this. Us. This whole night.’

You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.

‘If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you’re clearly missing something.’

‘A gear in the head?’

‘Definitely—’

‘Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?’

‘Because it’s me.’

‘You’re a player.’

‘Only for you.’ You catch her lips, even more wanting—and she forfeits it all.

You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.

‘You’re really roughing up Prada’s global ambassador.’

‘And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions—couldn’t care less.’’

She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.

You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there’s truly no way of going back.

‘Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.’ She’s referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.

‘It was dark. Might’ve even been a lion.’

‘Mm. Heroic. Come here.’

Now, who could ever resist that?

You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.

‘That was expensive, by the way.’

‘I’ve got a payment plan on course.’

‘Mm. Enlighten me.’

You pull her panties to the side.

She’s dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should’ve. She’s red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat.

The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can’t even replicate, and of course, you oblige.

Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she’s orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust.

‘Oh~fuck—’

Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in—rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.

‘Ohmygod! Imcumming!’ Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.

You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.

‘Good. Right?’

And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.

Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.

‘Fuck. You’re so good for me.’

She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.

Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree.

‘It goes without saying.’

‘That I’m head over heels for you?’

You grin, ‘Well, that too, but you’re hopeless.’

‘Maybe if we weren’t so compatible.’

You grab a breast, palming it, ‘Well that, that too, goes without saying.’

She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face––the sort of smile you’d never forget, and the sort of smile you’d want to wake up to… forever.

Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there’s no greater pleasure––because really, there’s nothing else.

Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.

Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion—all of it processing how good you fuck her.

‘Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?”

‘Chapter 12—’

She cuts you off, ‘Something along the lines of: “Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut”’

‘I don’t tolerate Karina disrespect.’ You say, truthfully.

‘Even if it’s by myself?’

‘Especially for that case, sweetheart.’

‘Oh… you’re too good.’

‘You’re blind.’

Most popular idol in the world, and… she’s hopelessly down bad for you.

‘If I’m blind. Then you don’t have eyes—complete darkness.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I’m your biggest fan.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I love you.’

‘You have a way with words, Karina.’ You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.

‘You’ve inspired me.’

And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears—it was all just… heaven.

There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she’s cumming again was no coincidence.

‘Oh. My. Fucking. God!’ Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life.

‘If I knew anything that felt like this… I’d be doing it constantly.’

‘Well—’

‘That’s right,’ Karina gives a soft peck, ‘I have you now.’

You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse—it’s just heaven at this point.

‘Are you trying to convince me to follow you?’

‘2 years, finest in New York.’

‘Deal. Though you overbid a little.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Means anything you want, dear.’

The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.’

‘Is this like a sugar mommy situation?’

‘Two words I never expected you to say.’ You both share a laugh.

‘I mean that’s what it is right?’

‘A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.’

‘Well. You’re right. But—’

You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps—music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.

This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all.

Her mouth’s agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.

She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She’s absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day’s fatigue along your jaw and temple.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I didn’t hear.’

You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. ‘I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I’m about to cum.’

Karina sniffled, ‘God, I was about to cry and then you say that.’ She softly smacks your shoulder, ‘just cum inside me and let’s cuddle.’

You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moans so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.

‘We can worry about this tomorrow.’ She palmed your jaw.

‘Of course.’ You fall onto her, cuddling her.

Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluids spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.

A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)

#smut #kpop smut #fanfic #male reader #kpop #aespa #aespa smut #karina smut #aespa karina

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