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ham1lton · 5 months ago

Text

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

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liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

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“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

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EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

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r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

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view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

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[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

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liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

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— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

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foragerknits · 5 months ago

Text

Sometimes I think about how in order to be a writer today you cannot have internet privacy. I was reading an article in which a journalist recalls collaborating with Mary Oliver, who was notoriously private. Oliver refused to communicate with them through fax or email and said (through her publisher) that she would hand them written notes at an event she was doing in New York City. It struck me that Mary Oliver in 2024 would have almost no chance of becoming a successful poet. Writers today have to have a social media presence to have a built in audience so publishers can be assured that they will get sales and to bear the brunt of social media marketing. They have to be available and put themselves on the internet in every way possible.

More and more I read interviews from artists across many mediums talk about how if you cannot market on Tik Tok your chances of success diminish. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be an online influencer and I am surely not saying that the author-influencer is a new phenomenon, but it should not be a pre-requisite for being a successful writer. I love that writers like Mary Oliver, Elena Ferrante, and Donna Tart exist, and it is not talked enough about how they could not begin a career in 2024 and achieve the same amount of success unless they were well connected or extremely lucky. It makes me sad that this is the state of publishing.

#mary oliver #wild geese #influencer #capitalism #late stage capitalism

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k1mbe3rly · 3 months ago

Note

can you write a daeho smut where hes upset and gets hard while reader is comforting him then said reader makes him jerk off in front of her? then maybe after theres more smut with him as the sub? SORRY THIS IS MY FIRST REQUEST IDK IF IM DOIGN IT RIGHT

ngl this is so creative that i’m doing it right after writing hella 😈😈 lowkey seeing the image of it 😩

Comfort took a wrong turn (i had no idea what to name this😢)

warnings: Smut, sub!dae-ho, lowkey some reason getting turned on, gentle fucking, praising

You’ve been noticing Dae-ho flinching or getting nervous every single time he hears a gunshot, you knew he was an ex marine so maybe he had trauma? your not sure.

Whenever they were gonna go shoot the guards to get to the control room , Dae-ho decided to stay back, after awhile he had heard a ton gunshots, he covered his ears, shaking in his bed

You had went up to him and crawled next to him, you looked at him in a bit of concern, “I’m sorry! i’m so sorry.. i just can’t do this! the gunshots!” he whimpered out, his hands shaking still covering his ears as he shut his hair, “it’s gonna be okay..i promise, nothing is gonna happen to you if just stay here okay?” you said hugging him

Even tho his ears were covered he can still hear you but just a bit muffled, he finally put his hands down, still shaking he slowly wrapped his hands around you as well, “Y/n..it won’t stop! im sorry.” he whispered, you stroked his hair a bit, he leaned into your touch, allowing you to stroke his hair, “Shhh.. it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, do you trust me?” you say back to him

He looks up at you a nodded, you get a little bit closer your hands wrapped behind his neck and one hand still stroking his hair, your body was against him, he barely realized and his body begins feeling a bit hot, his cheeks were burning up as well as he looked down as your body, your boobs slightly pressed up against his shoulder

He begin feeling really hot and looks down and notices he has a bulge in his pants. He gulped as his adam’s apple bounced along his gulp, “It’s gonna be okay dae-ho, just don’t focus too much on the sounds okay? focus on me for now” you whispered as he nodded, he slightly moved you to be infront of him so kinda on his lap which you didn’t mind, you kept hugging him as he begin rubbing and down your back, he was thinking about many lewd thoughts about you. He shut his eyes as bucked his hips, you felt him did so, as you backed up a bit in confusion and looked down noticing he was hard

He quickly flushed in embarrassment and tried hiding his bulge, “i-i’m sorry! i couldn’t help it.. you were just so close to me and-“ he begin quickly explaining but you cut him off with a chuckle, “You got hard from me basically trying to comfort you?” you spoke, he nodded , “That’s..that’s kinda pathetic” you said while sitting on his lap on his bulge, he let out a whine “I-i know i’m sorry! i couldn’t help it i promise it won’t happen again!” he quickly said “Yea..make sure it doesn’t. But for now i want you to take off your pants okay?” you said rubbing his cheek as he quickly nodded

You got up sitting on his legs instead of his lap, he pushed down his pants to his knees, His boxers strained with a small wet spot, his cock slightly twitching in his wet boxers, you smirked at him, “Good boy.. now take those off as well”, he chuckled nervously at the praise but quickly listen shoving them down to his knee, his cock was spilling pre cum as the cold air that hit his cock made him shiver, “Stroke yourself for me” you said simply, he looks at you with puppy eyes, just like a puppy he quickly follows your orders

He begin stroking himself, his hands going up and down his cock, his breath hitched as he looked down at his cock than back at you, he kept going small whines falling out his mouth, you smirked at him as you bit your lip and continued watching, feeling your pussy slightly throbbing, your desire to make him moan out your name but you wanted to wait, he continued stroking himself as moans begin falling out

He went faster, his cock twitching a bit, you traveled your hands under your pants and slightly rubbed yourself at the sight of him, he made a small gasp when he saw you, he kept jerking himself off and while a loud whine he came, his cum spilling over his hand as he panted, he shut his eyes a bit before looking at you, you had took your hands out of pants, “Wow..what a performance you can put on” you said quietly, “C-can i fuck you? please? i-i wanna be inside you!” he said breathlessly, you chuckled a bit and got closer

“Are you able to handle it?” you questioned him, he quickly nodded, “Yes! yes please.. im able too!” he said looking like a puppy who’s tail is wagging, he slowly got on top of you placing you down on the bed gently

he begins taking off your pants and panties, he looks at your cunt which was soaking wet, he smiled a bit as he spread your, he then placed himself between your legs, grabbing his cock a bit and lining himself on your entrance, “Are.. are you okay with this?” he gently asked, you nodded, he then begin pushing his tip in as he moaned at the warmth feeling, he pushed in nice and slowly making sure he doesn’t hurt you, once his full length was inside you he gently asked you “Does it hurt?”, you shaked your head “No” you simply said as he nodded, “Okay ima start moving..” he said as he slowly pulled back and begin thrusting into you gently making sure not to go too rough or too fast

you moaned softly as he leaned over you, his face in your neck and his hands on each side of your head, he moved his hips nice and slowly, “Yea..just like that baby, nice and slowly” you spoke softly as he shivered, your hands went to his hair slightly gripping it as he kept pushing into you in and out, you kept moaning softly “A-am i doing good?” he questioned, “Mhm..your doing just good baby, so good, what a good boy..” you spoke softly as his cock twitched when you called him a good boy, he tried hiding his big smile against your neck as he kept thrusting into you, his cock hitting deep and into the spot that makes you cum, “Yea~ right there baby, keep going..” you moaned softly as he nodded and kept hitting that exact spot, your orgasm approached as he kept hitting your g spot, “Shit baby- i’m gonna cum~” you moaned out as he tried going a bit faster making you cum quickly, you moaned out as you cummed, a white ring line formed, he stopped and looked at you with pure love, even tho he barely knows you, you looked back at him and smiled warmly

“i-i think i’m in love with you..” he said blinking at you as you chuckled and shaked your head

#squid game #squid game smut #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game s2 #kang dae ho #kang dae ho x reader #kang dae ho smut #player 388 #player 388 smut #player 388 x reader

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ditzydoe444 · 1 month ago

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MDNI 18+

stalker and slightly perverted simon riley!

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ simon riley x reader ಿৎ

▐ mentions of: slight stalking, panty stealing, brief mention of age gap (i aged him up), masturbation

there was something about a pretty little thing like you, completely unaware of his dark desires and fantasies. recently, simon had just saved you from a rude encounter at the bar, though his actions may seem heroic, it really wasn’t. it was your first encounter with him, though he knew you long before.

you worked at the local diner, prancing around in the tiny uniform as you took orders with your usual beaming smile on your pretty glossed lips. though sadly, you weren’t the one serving him, but that didn’t matter as his gaze was on you the whole time. eventually he learnt your routine, you worked monday, thursday and fridays and finished at 11pm each shift. simon found himself outside the diner, the neon lights now forever engraved in his mind as he waited. it was wrong, waiting for a girl probably a good decade younger than him just to follow her home and well… do nothing.

it always ended the same way, him following you home in his truck. sometimes he felt frustrated with your lack of survival skills, completely unaware that the same truck was waiting outside of the diner for you and followed you home as well. the moment you drove back to the shabby apartment that looked like its seen better days, you would go straight back to your unit, leaving simon alone once again watching you from the tiny window.

this time however, your routine was different. he usually stayed for an hour after you walked through the doors, and well you never came out. this time however, it was different. you came out in a few minutes, a laundry basket in your hands as you walked down the staircase, simon’s eyes glued to your smaller figure before you went to the small room which he assumed was the unit’s laundromat.

however you didn’t stay there for long, leaving empty handed and going back up to your apartment. simon’s thoughts spiralled, the idea of your clothes in the wash just a few feet away was enough to have his cock straining against his pants. taking a small piece of clothing wouldn’t hurt… right?

as much as your lack of survival and critical thinking skills frustrated simon, he was extremely grateful for it at the same time. without it, he wouldn’t have your flimsy cotton panties in his hands. the moment he drove off he brought the material to his nose, sniffing it. somehow you had left it inside your basket, so he didn’t have to wait for the rest to finish washing. it also meant that it wasn’t clean.

he could imagine the way the material moulded to your pussy, the flimsy cotton barely doing nothing to conceal the outline of your pussy. the scent of it was enough to make his eyes roll back, with the slight remaining scent of your pussy and arousal he was going to come in his pants.

the moment he was in bed, all alone with the door locked he fucked his cock on your panties. tugging his briefs down before taking his heavy fat cock in his hand, the weight of it heavy in his hands. he dragged the material down his sensitive head that was leaking with pre-cum down to the base. “fuck,” he hissed as he spilled all over your panties, his hot sticky cone coating the material as shame filled his stomach as he stared at the cum stained material in his hands. he felt limp, his body shaking slightly. he’s never came this hard before, sweat dripping down his forehead, as his hand lazily rubs along his cock, heavy pants leaving his mills as his chest moves up and down. god he was a pervert.

though that didn’t stop him from sneakily breaking into your apartment to steal another pair.

#simon ghost riley #cod #simon riley #simon riley ghost fanfiction #simon riley smut #simon ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost smut #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley cod #simon riley x female reader #cod x reader

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blvdprn · 2 months ago

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VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL

# jjk men ; 柔術廻戦男 ) x domtop male reader

synopsis special day with your lovely boyfriend

ft. gojō, getō, nanami, tōji, & naoya

warnings non-specified nsfw, suguru’s part is shorter srry, slight homophobia & misogyny from naoya surprise surprise

wc not counted

It was your first ever Valentine’s Day with your boyfriend. Or rather, the first Valentine’s Day when neither of you was busy. Usually, one or the other had a job to do that day —seeing as work never rests— but today, finally, you were both free.

And you were pretty excited.

See, you’ve been planning a little something for a while. After a nice and romantic day filled with sexual tension and ending with a candle-lit dinner, a surprise was waiting for you and your boyfriend at home.

Your sex life wasn’t lacking per se, it was more so some things went unexplored because of an insufficient amount of time. Usually (and sadly), you guys had quickies. There was nothing special about it, it was just a way to relieve stress and show each other that yes you still find the other very appealing. I mean, how could you not? Living with an insanely attractive man and what’s that? Dating said, attractive man? Mmmm, yes, please.

Pushing the key into the lock after paying the bill and driving home, you were nearly shaking with anticipation for what was about to come. Opening the door to your shared house, you quickly pulled the man in, knowing damn well you’d get a noise complaint in the morning. Or at the very least, a nasty stink eye from your neighbours.

—GOJŌ SATORU ( 五条悟 ) : cock bondage

“Fuck!”

“Mm— what’s wrong Satoru? I thought you could take it?”

Right now he was spread out so beautifully for you, knees touching his shoulders and ankles near your shoulders as a result of you pushing his thighs upwards. You were fucking him deep and slow at the moment, making him see stars.

Oh, and how could you forget the pretty pink ribbon tied under and between his balls, reaching the base of his cute red dick and creating a small bow.

“I-I can! This is nothINGGGHH,” cried the man under you, moaning the last part of his sentence.

You laughed. “Doesn’t seem like nothing, sweetheart.”

Satoru blushed even harder, whether from you calling him out or the endearing pet name, you couldn’t tell. Pouting a little, he scratches the hands holding his thighs down. “Just take this thing off… I want to cum already and this stupid thing won’t let me!”

“Awe,” you coo. “Other than giving your cock a nice touch, that was the whole point of it.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Yeah, but you’re taking this dick though!”

“Man just shut up and— FUUUCK!”

Your hips switched pace, from slow to fast, but equally as deep. You should thank all those stupid times Satoru dragged you out on a run for the insane speed you currently held.

“S-shit,” you groaned. “Look at your cute little dick. Looks s-so pretty with the bow…” And although his length was perfect (just like him) and you were just teasing, it really did look pretty. The light pink of the satin ribbon contrasted nicely with the darker shade of him.

Satoru could barely respond, overwhelmed with both the feeling of needing to cum but not being able to, and feeling your cock touching his prostate with every thrust. Slight tears left his eyes, blurring his vision from fully seeing the way small amounts of pre cum ran down the satin around him.

You noticed this, and feeling pity for your pathetic boyfriend, you let one of his thighs go in order to untie the ribbon, knowing you were at your limit too. Immediately, he threw his head back, letting out a loud and whiny moan that would surely wake the neighbours if they weren’t already awake.

Muffling his moan with a kiss, you pulled out right on time, both of your hot fluids mixing together and on his stomach.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you mumbled against his lips. Only receiving a slight laugh in response.

When you were about to pull away, his legs slid down, wrapping themselves around your hips and waist with surprising strength from someone who was just shaking.

“Where do you think you’re going, babe? We’re not done here yet.” Satoru said, staring at your eyes darkly, and all you could do was gulp.

‘Oh, boy.’

—GETŌ SUGURU ( 夏油傑 ) : collaring

“Is this really necessary?”

“What?” you questioned. “You don’t like it?”

“Darling, it’s embarrassing.”

You huffed. “Which part? The leash or my name on it?”

“Both.” You could practically see him giving you a side eye from your question, even though his back was facing you.

“Well,” you hummed. “Just don’t think about it.”

“And how am I not supposed to do that?”

Expecting an answer, he didn’t imagine you would pull the leash back while giving a powerful thrust. Which is why he couldn’t control the loud and surprised moan that escaped from his lips.

“A-ah! A warning would’ve been n-nice.”

You shushed him. “Don’t think.”

“Mmh— this is going t-to make my throat sore…”

“Liar,” you tutted. “I’ve seen you swallow those curses. This is nothing for you, Suguru.”

He stayed silent, but not for long, because you started rapidly thrusting again with only one goal in mind.

“F-feels so good, darling!” He moaned, gripping the sheets below him, only being able to see your silhouette moving because of the small candles on each side of the bed. “Haaahh—”

Pulling the leash again, you lowered your body so your stomach was almost directly onto Suguru’s back and your face hooked onto his shoulder. In this position, his head was pulled back, and you were able to see the way the nameplate with your name on it moved with each of your thrusts.

Suguru moaned louder, somewhat liking how your name was engraved into something that was on him. He enjoyed the harsh feeling of the collar digging into his Adam’s apple. And he certainly savoured the sounds leaving your mouth that was directly behind his right ear.

Drool escaped his lips, having no choice but to let it fall out of his mouth because he wasn’t able to properly swallow it.

With one strong arm holding him up, he let the other grab your head, pulling you into a necessary and messy kiss. Gasping with every breath, his fingers tightened more and more on some of your longer strands, feeling himself about to cum.

“Darling— I’m ab-bout to—”

“It’s okay… You can cum more anyway.”

And with that, he knew the night was going to be long.

—NANAMI KENTO ( 七海建人 ) : wax play

Quiet pants slipped past your boyfriend’s lips. The heat of the wax on his skin was a great contrast to his cold body. It was embarrassing, how much he liked it. When you first brought it up, Kento was hesitant, never before trying something that was considered so… kinky (by his standards anyway, not yours).

“Ngh…” he moaned softly.

You smile at him, eyes bright with happiness. “It seems like you’re enjoying yourself, Kento.”

Pink dusted his cheeks, shamefully averting his eyes from your face. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

With amusement in your voice and a raised eyebrow, you ask, “Not as bad? But you’re making such cute noises.” Your teasing doesn’t stop there. “It’s bad to lie to the love of your life, you know, and on such a special day too.”

“Don’t tease. Fine, I like the warmth.”

“Of course you do, I knew you would.”

With that, you dipped the candle in your hand, hot wax falling and hitting the blonde man under you. His fit stomach clenched, abs pronounced more than normal as a result.

“By the way,” you muttered. “The wax turns into lotion.” To show him, you moved one of your fingers around some of the hardened wax, watching how it turned into liquid again, but this time it had a semi-cold watery texture. And to your enjoyment, you see the way his eyes watch and silently plea for your hands to move the wax somewhere else.

“That’s…” he begins, eyebrow twitching a bit. “Nice.”

“Very.”

Continuing to pour the hot wax down, down, down. You reach his naked thighs, seeing his pale skin slightly tremble. He wasn’t able to hold in the “hurry” that he covered by putting his hand over his mouth.

“S-shit!” Kento said, being muffled by his hand, letting out an uncharacteristic squeal the moment the blistering heat travelled to his inner thighs.

You chuckled, appreciating the almost once-in-a-lifetime view.

Closer and closer, all Kento was able to feel was a need that he never thought he’d have. A shameful and embarrassing thought rushed through his head, one that he wasn’t quite sure he could vocally tell you in fear that it was a little too much. But like always, you could read him like the back of your hand, so you knew exactly what he wanted.

“Fffffffuuuuuckk—” Was all he let out the moment the wax made contact with the base of his dick.

With an idea in your mind, you swiftly stained his cock with the red burning heat, hearing the desperate cries he let out for you to continue. Even louder moans reached your ears the moment your hand went into contact with it, sweetly massaging up and down so the now lotion wasn’t able to cool down quickly enough.

Kento unexpectedly reached down, grabbing onto your hand so the lotion could be spread everywhere. From his balls to his stomach and up his pecs, it didn’t seem like he knew what he was doing, only trying to feel the fire-like warmth from smearing all over him.

With his moans in the air and his senseless voice sounding in the quiet night, you knew this was just starting. After all, you guys hadn’t even fucked yet.

—FUSHIGURO TŌJI ( 伏黒甚爾 ) : riding crop

Never in your fucking life did you think he was actually going to let you do this? I mean sure, you’ve explored a little bit before but you thought this was going to be too excessive for him, that he was even going to be annoyed with you.

But that wasn’t the case at all.

Sure he looked a little ticked off at first, but after thinking about it for a bit he laughed and challenged you.

Which is what brought you to now.

Toji’s strong form was lying on the rose-covered bed, something he scoffed at but you were sure you saw a tiny dust of pink on his cheeks before he turned away. His back was to you, a rare sight, seeing as it made him feel like he had no control. Although you were certain it also made him feel exposed and embarrassed if his red-coloured ears were anything to go by.

You could see his muscular back flexing with any slight movement he did, his veiny arms twitching and big biceps tightening.

All in all, he looked delicious.

The crop tightened in your hand, its leather end glided down the curve of Toji’s spine. A perfect fit, touching every nook and cranny, leaving absolutely nothing unmarked.

An annoyed huff left his nose. “Would you hurry it up?”

You tsked, “Patience.”

“That’s something I don’t have right now and you know it. Unless you don’t know what you’re fucking doing?”

With a hum, you decided to give him what he wanted, knowing this was going to be the last time you did so tonight.

A harsh slap was heard when leather hit unblemished skin, turning it into a soft pink.

Toji’s shoulders stiffened, and you were sure he held in any sounds he was about to make.

“Hey,” you called out. “Don’t hold your noises in.”

“I’m not, you’re just weak.”

‘Right.’

Hit. Again.

This continued on until his back was covered in colour, yet nothing escaped his lips. Not until the leather hit his ass.

“Fu—”

Continuing your assault on his round ass, you never gave him enough time to complain. And even though it was embarrassing for him, he was glad you didn’t stop, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to say anything anyway, and it felt so good.

When you knew bruises were going to form, you stopped to turn Toji around, letting the crop trail from his giant pecs to his twitching dick. Only then did you notice that he had come already, but the look in his eyes was telling you to hit something else.

And who were you to deny? Guess he really had you wrapped around his finger.

—ZEN’IN NAOYA ( 禪院直哉 ) : feminisation

“What the fuck is this?” Were the only words to come out of your boyfriend when he saw the short red dress with a frilly skirt on your shared bed.

“A present.”

“It’s a fucking dress. Do I look like a damn woman to you?”

Ah yes, you decided this was going to be a slight punishment for all the times he’s said some dumb shit about women.

“You call women whores. Maybe I should treat you like one so you can know the difference, no?”

Naoya’s eyes screamed in rage, how dare you compare him to them? “It’s bad enough I’m with you —a man who can’t even give me an offspring— but now you want me to be a stupid woman?” His fists were clenched and ready to beat some sense into you (as if he could). “You fucking—”

And then suddenly his top half was leaning on the edge of the bed, wrists pinned behind his back by your hands, and his legs trying to keep himself up to not slide down and fall to the floor.

He hiccuped, not understanding how one minute he was about to launch a punch at you, then the next he had the stupid dress on with the skirt flipped up so as to not get in the way of your continuous thrusts.

“Awe,” you coo mockingly. “What happened to all the talking back? I thought you didn’t want to wear this, but look at you! Looking all pretty and taking me so well. Now aren’t you a doll?”

Naoya was so fucking embarrassed, both by your words and what he was wearing. Why did he like this?

“S-shut the fuck uP— NGHH!”

With only one of your hands pinning his wrists, the other slipped past the cloth of the dress on the chest area. Luckily, your arms were long enough, so there was no need to take your eyes off his hole swallowing your dick, just to pinch one of his nipples.

“I’m not a w-whore! Stop it!” He cried out, but really, he didn’t want you to stop.

“Really?” You pulled on his perky nipple, feeling the way he clenched around you. “But your pussy seems to like it when I play with your tits?”

He whined, slight sobs making his shoulders shake. “Not a pussy!”

You moaned, liking how his voice rose when he said that. “You’re so wet here though.” And with that, your other hand let go of his wrists, Naoya hastily having to grab the sheets under him.

Your hand slipped around his surprisingly slim waist, grabbing a handful of his nodding cock and tracing your thumb against the slit.

“See? You’re so sensitive when I touch your clit.”

Naoya’s mind went blank, everything around him went ignored except for your words and the pleasurable feeling you gave him everywhere your hands and dick touched. Before he knew it, he came, panting against the sheets stained with his drool.

But, oh, you weren’t done with him yet. You still hadn’t come after all.

notes: better late than nvr! i ws planning on writing for sukuna & choso too but ran out of time so 🤷

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venusincleo · 4 months ago

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Time. iii.

Part One [i]. ♡ Part Two [ii].

Warnings: MDNI • Explicit • Aaron Pierre x Black!Reader, smoking, a lil angst, a lil fluff, teasing, p in v, creampie, slight overstimulation, pet names, DDLG kink, BDSM themes, Soft!Aaron, omniscient POV and more...

BKG/Summary: As you and Aaron maintain your budding love in your long distance relationship, your respective careers continue to grow exponentially. Your writing has picked up wonderfully, and your newest work is to hit local shelves with pre-orders out for delivery. When there is a snag in production and they print the wrong cover, fans are rightfully mad but have no one to blame but you. To help cope with the stress, you call Aaron, hoping that he can talk you down but as he's busy himself, all you get is solutions. To make up for his lack of sensitivity to a moment that may very well be formative to your career, he gets a one way flight to see you.

Word Count: 3.8k❣

A/N: ✴︎Happy New Year!✴︎ Tell me how you liked this one 💗🫶🏾

• • •

right now i need your loving, one way flight ain't nothin'... - NYL by Phabo

Light smoke billowed from your lips, taking the color of the bronze sky as you blew it out of your large window. Your eyes low and your mind clear, you gazed into the horizon, thanking God for the beauty He had painted ions ago. You gazed along the limited foliage and bustling street underneath your apartment building, and couldn’t help giggling at the fact that everything seemed to be orange under the filter of the sunset.

As your mind was numbed from any of the day's events, you thought back to the person you would have loved to share this moment with. Earlier in your hectic day, you had called him for some relief from life’s unexpected symptoms but you did not get the reaction you desired. Wise but stern motivations took the place of the gentle words you thought you were sure to receive.

Then, your yearning tone turned defensive, and that was not pretty. Before you knew it, you and Aaron had had a small spat about his tone, and then you were hanging up in his face.

It wasn’t like you needed him to make things better, but you at least hoped that he would love on you enough for you to see the solution for yourself. Instead, he made it seem like he was too busy to handle your emotions in the moment, like he was unable to make the time. Though, two short minutes of affirmations would have sufficed, no doubt.

Now, you were okay with not speaking to him for the rest of the day. You wanted to feel your high for as long as humanly possible.

With a levitating sway of your hips, you allowed your bare feet to usher you back into your living room, your patterned maxi dress flowing behind you as you turned up your speaker. As Jhene Aiko’s voice heightened in volume, you rolled your body to her sensual lyrics, joint in the air.

'Let’s go half on a son, how far do you wanna go? Ohhhhh…'

Just as you brought your herb back to your lips to take in a long puff, your phone rang, interrupting the music. Breathing out the smoke quickly, you rush to your phone, ready to decline the call when you see the contact photo. Aaron.

A deep sigh rushes past your lips as you press the green button, taking a drag from your j as you see the call connecting. Distracted by nothing in particular, Aaron’s eyes take a moment to focus on your face through the screen, but once he does, he scoffs in near disbelief.

“I see you found an outlet.” His deep voice is littered with droplets of venom, and you roll your eyes as you breathe out the smoke you were holding.

“I would much rather have something else for that but, here I am.” You are involuntarily calm, your logical mind wanting to give him back what he was dishing. But physically, the effects of the weed wouldn’t even allow you to be phased. You were just…there.

“Anyways, did you call for something or what? Cause I’m busy…” You bend down to your coffee table to ash your joint in your pretty glass tray, and then your red eyes meet Aaron’s on your FaceTime. He hears a hint of reciprocation of the energy he gave you this morning, and his eyes soften, his natural pout a bit more defined.

“Uh, yeah…I’m outside.” Without much thought to his words, you smack your teeth, and look at your j, examining the neatly rolled herb inside.

“Okay, nigga.” All he can do is chuckle at your reaction, and you look at your screen to see what’s so funny.

“No, I’m really,” He begins, and then you hear three knocks echoing on either side of your phone. “Outside.”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you set your joint down in your tray and go to your front door. A quick glance through your peephole is all it takes to see Aaron’s large frame waiting right on the other side, and you instantly hang up the phone. After unlocking it, you swing your door open and meet Aaron’s eyes.

Every feeling that you had been avoiding bubbled up quickly, like seeing him was the last straw. Shit. You cursed yourself internally. You didn’t want to fold under his intense blue eyes, but as his softened demeanor waits to be welcomed in, tears sting at the sides of your eyes. Blinking to try and keep the waterworks at bay, you step aside and allow a space for him to make his entrance, looking off into the distance of your apartment.

Once he steps in, and waits for you to close your door, he watches you turn on your heel to face him. Soft steps in your direction lead him to the space right in front of you, and he leans his head down to be face to face with you.

“Come here.” His English accent sticks to his deep voice, and he places his hands on your hips to pull you in closer. You almost allow him to hug you, but as he begins to nestle his face in your neck, you reach your hands up to push him away from you.

“No. You hurt me, Aaron.” He keeps his stature, silently flexing his strength over you, but he moves back a little to try and respect your wishes. The tears continue to flood your eyes, but at this point, you don’t care anymore. You want him to see how he made you feel, you need him to.

Seeing you so upset with him makes Aaron’s chest tighten with worry. It wasn’t his intention to make you cry, it never was. But he couldn’t help but notice the tears threatening to spill over your lower lid at any moment.

“Y/N, please. I’m sorry.” His tone is soft, maybe the softest it’s been all day, and you find yourself looking up into his slightly upturned eyes. You want to kiss him so bad, just say ‘fuck it’ to all the points you had in mind to make to him. But you had to at least bring up the most pressing one, your mind wouldn’t allow you to forget it.

“Aaron, I-…” You begin, shaking your head as you try to form your words in a neutral way. A tear falls onto your cheek as you find just what you want to convey.

“You won’t always be able to pop up on me like this; phone calls are our primary form of communication right now. If you’re too busy for calls then maybe we should rethink this relationship.”

“I’m not too busy for your phone calls, Y/N. Today was just a bit stressful for me too but, I had no right to take that out on you.” His hands rub at your sides as he gazes into your eyes. “Truly, I apologize.”

A moment of quiet falls between the two of you, and you take in a deep breath, releasing it into the room.

“Thank you.” Your voice was near a whisper, as you took in his second apology. Comfortable now, that the two of you were on the same page, even if only for tonight, you reach your arms around Aaron’s neck, peering up into his pretty eyes yet again. Instantly, he pulls your body into his and brings his hand to your face to wipe your fallen tear.

A lush peck laces the lack of space between each of your lips, and then finally Aaron gets the hug that he yearned for. His strong arms squeeze around your body as he rests his head in the space of your shoulder and his large hands find their ways to the skin of your back. You feel his supple lips on your neck and you breathe in slowly, smelling the distinct scent of his luxury cologne mixed in with his pheromones. Your mouth nearly waters at the perfection of the warm, clean notes of his fragrance.

"I don't like seeing you cry, pretty girl." He rasps against your neck, sending tingles down your spine.

"I know." You run a dainty hand down his neck, along his shoulder and bicep, squeezing at the toned muscle. Mmm.

"Not unless Papa is making you feel that good." He trails his hands down your body, resting at your plump ass to give it a squeeze. Hearing your whispered gasp at his gesture, he brings his face back parallel to yours so he can see your expression.

Doe eyes stare up into his lowered ones, the energy in the room long past shifted, and waiting to be acted upon.

"You want me to make you feel good?" Your eyes flicker from his lowered gaze to his full pink lips, your vision shadowed by your long eyelashes.

“Yes.” As your vision is fixed on his pretty mouth, Aaron leans forward to seemingly give you what you want. But just when your lips get close, he pulls away, his intense glare demanding your attention.

Looking up into his eyes yet again, you press your body further into his, craving so desperately to feel his kiss. Instead of a kiss though, Aaron brings a strong hand to your shoulders, pushing your lovely black kinks out of his way. Sure enough, his tender hand wraps around your neck tautly, and he pulls your face right up to his.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” His chest rises and falls quicker as he watches your lips purse to reply to him.

“I want you to make love to me.” He closes in on your lips but when your eyes don’t leave his, he waits just a moment for your other requests.

“Start slow.” Your tone is breathy as you express just what you wanted and needed from your night. The ghost of a grin plays at Aaron’s lips, and then they finally connect with yours.

He parts his mouth almost instantly, the fulfilled desire of your tongue on his causing a soft moan to escape his lips. You aimlessly fight for balance, your tongues playing a tug of war you were okay with losing as long as it continued. Aaron’s hold on your neck stays firm for a few moments later, and then he slowly lets you go, bringing his strong hands to your ass through your flowing dress.

Your sure hands move to his shoulders to push his suit jacket off of his frame, and his arms leave your body to pull the tweed fabric off of him rather quickly. He throws his jacket to the side with no real regard for where it lands, and soon, his arms are back around you.

Aaron lifts you like you’re nothing, allowing your body to straddle his waist as he holds you up by your thighs. You don’t disconnect for any longer than a second, as you continue to press your needy kiss into his thick lips, feeling his hungry reciprocation. As you focus on the warm breath filling the space between your lips, and the secure hold you’re in, your body can’t help but react, your natural lubrication easing from between your thighs.

“Mm.” You grind your body against his, the friction of the clothes between you both being just enough to stimulate your throbbing clit. You whine against his lips, and he pulls away from the kiss to see your flustered face, as you bite your lip.

Seeing just how dire it is for you to feel something right now, Aaron carries you to your couch, where he lays you down softly. He lays over you as you keep your eyes locked on him, bringing a hand to your cheek as he presses his lips back into yours. As he delivers one of his slow, torturously enticing kisses, he rubs his hardened shaft against your heated core, grinding his hips against yours through your clothes.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel yourself get wetter because of his efforts, and energy rushes through your body.

“Fuck, baby.” You breathe out, nearly being overcome with the feeling of him grinding into you. A deep breath leaves Aaron’s vocal cords in a gruff, stuttered tone, and he rubs himself against you just once more, pulling back just slightly to reach up your dress for your panties. But, when he feels nothing but your plush skin, he blinks slowly as he tries to contain his excitement.

As he takes his time pushing your dress up your body to reveal your moisturized melanin, his eyes trail past your hips, your navel, your torso and your chest to meet your pretty brown eyes yet again. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you watch him intently, having a hint of an idea of what he’s about to do.

Gently, he tugs at the airy fabric of the dress you are barely wearing now, and his eyes turn stormy with desire.

“Take this off.”

You obey quickly, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it to the floor beside the couch. When your eyes meet his again, he lets a moment pass before he’s tugging his chocolate brown shirt off of his own body, revealing his soft, honey-toned skin and the rippled muscles under it. Your eyes instantly attach to the greek sculpture of his body, and you bite your lip absentmindedly as you caress his limbs with your gaze.

Under your longing specs, Aaron only leans himself forward, his body drawn to the thought of your willful and wanton touch. Catching on to his wants now, you sit up and allow your hands to grasp onto his waist, pulling him into you tenderly as your eyes flicker up to view his face.

Almost completely overtaken by the needs of your flesh, you place a series of supple kisses along Aaron’s abs. Your eyes don’t leave his stare as you decorate his skin with small pecks, teasing him just a little. But as his mind is dead set on how pretty your face is from this angle –and the tingles that erupt underneath his skin wherever your delicate hands are holding him– soft moans sneak through his lips.

Your skin heats at every moan, as they get more and more pronounced, and you get a bit sloppier with your technique. Instead of the innocent feather-light kisses you were delivering before, you part your lips to widen your kiss along his skin. Your wet kisses sound in the quiet room, ad-libbing over the music that had started back up on its own some time ago. The song you make is just enough to make Aaron even harder, and his whispered sounds of pleasure harmonize perfectly with your energy.

“Lay back.” He keeps his composure the best he can, his mind swirling with thoughts of you taking control of him and doing whatever you wanted. Yet, as you layed against the yielding cushions of your couch, luscious brown skin glistening underneath the dim light in your living room, all he knew is the only place he wanted to be, was with you. And he’d be damned if he messed it up over a phone call.

Slow hands reached for the button of his pants, and he took his time undoing the fastens that kept the fabric up on his hips. His movements sped up just a little as he got the pants off of his legs, and across the room, out of the way. The black breifs that once decorated his lower body are close behind, and then it’s just you and him.

Aaron’s kisses start at your feet, feather-light, gentle. He allows himself whatever pacing he found reasonable, for cherishing every piece of you. His lips trail up your calve, his large hand holding your leg in place as he nuzzles his nose in your skin to smell the luscious lotions you had put on hours earlier. As he gives the same amount of attention to your other leg, his kiss tender as ever as he memorizes every detail of your skin down to tracing scars, you can see just what his intentions are.

Your eyes water just a little as you watch him make a mental note of all of your details, goosebumps raising along your skin as he runs his strong hand along every inch. A gasp leaves your lips as the dopamine surging through your veins makes way for your skin to be even more heated, more pliable, more sensitive to his touch. He looks up for a moment to check in and when he sees your beautiful eyes staring back at him, a small grin raises on his lips.

The smile falls as he kisses up each of your thighs, the puddle between them worsening as he got closer. His lips fall onto the side of your thighs, traveling to your hips and the stretch marks that came with your grown woman weight. He caressed the skin adoringly, littering smaller kisses on each stripe of lighter skin he found. The breath caught in your throat as you thought of the implications of his doting actions, and the tears that had welled in your eyes were threatening to spill over.

“Aaron..” You called for him in a near-cry. Instantly, he brought his face right in front of yours, and you ran your hands along his shoulders, pulling him between your legs. His thick lips captured yours without any direction, and you kissed back eagerly, your manicured digits easing into the short curls on the back of his head. He drags the kiss on for a few more seconds, readying himself at your slick opening. When you feel his thick tip easing in just slightly, you wrap your legs around his waist tightly, trying to brace yourself for his length.

“You are so special to me, Y/N.” He mumbles against your lips before he pulls away to look you in the eyes. “I don’t ever want you to feel like I don’t care.” You reach your hand up to cup his cheek, as he continues to speak his heart to you.

“I love you, Y/N.” Aaron gives your lips a lush peck before he presses his forehead against yours, easing his throbbing cock into your wetness. You growl softly at the familiar feeling, a slight pressure reminding you of your first time together.

“Mmh, I love you too.” You whine, feeling him pull back out slowly, to thrust once again before he caught a swifter rhythm. All you can do is draw in more air, your exhales laced with high pitched exclamations of unexpected bliss.

“Daddy’s so sorry, princess.” He goes to nestle his face in the crook of your neck as he continues to make love to you a bit recklessly. Your breathing gets faster, your chest heaving up and down as you feel your climax rushing through your soma.

“Aghhh.” You squeal lightly, throwing your head back at the overwhelming feeling of his thickness going in and out, in and… out…in…and…out. Aaron recognizes your falsetto-esc moans, and leaves kisses on your ear before he whispers to you.

“Ugh, this alright?” He asks, his deep moans doing nothing but making it worse for you to concentrate on breathing right.

“Yes, baby… Shittttt…ugh y- so thick.” You almost hoped that he would take it easier on you, but Aaron had no such plans. His strong hands reached to your legs that were crossed behind his back, and pushed them up so that your knees touched your chest.

Carefully, he pulled out of you, staring down at your connection and the tracings of your pussy juices that decorated your folds, and his entire length. A gravelly moan leaves his vocal cords as he slides back into your opening, you welcoming him in with the tightest fit, and your eyebrows turn upward at such a fill.

“Fuckkk. I’m ‘bout to cum, baby.” Your whiny confession is followed by a hearty moan, and then you cover Aaron in your essence, dripping down your cunt to the couch beneath you, and circling his cock in the process. He slows down just a little bit, though he has no intentions of stopping, and leans toward you to give you the most silken kiss. Then, as he pulls away from your lips, gazing down into your eyes, he thrusts at this new, slower rhythm.

“Mmh, pussy so good.” A growl laced his mumbled words, as he fought the urge to pick up the pace even slightly. With rushed, panting breaths, he reached his hand up to your neck and grasped it just tight enough.

You feel a jump in the pit of your stomach as he works your core, effectively digging yet another nut out of you. As you feel just a little overstimulated, you reach up to his hand that is wrapped around your neck, and hold his wrist in place. You wouldn't dare tell him to stop. But it was so much, and he was so girthy... you didn't know how much more you could take.

Eyes glossy, you let in a deep breath, hoping to regulate yourself but instead, all you do is moan out loudly. You throw your head back yet again, this time unintelligible whimpers and mumbles leave your mouth, and a tear runs down the side of your face.

"A-Aaron." You croak quietly, grabbing at his hips with your free hand. You find yourself grasping at any flesh of his that is visible to your hazy eyes, and he just sighs in delight.

He bites his lip to try and stifle his own cries but moans slip through his teeth so eloquently, you can tell he's close. His strokes never falter; they just get sturdier, firmer. Soon, he's squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment to hold on for as long as he can.

With a few more thrusts and a couple more loud moans, he was releasing all of his gooey, warm elixir right inside of you.

“Ohh.” You breathe out tiredly, another wave rushing over you in your trembling climax.

Aaron pulls out of you tenderly now, hearing your combined moisture sound lewdly in the room. When he saw the mixture ease from your slightly stretched opening, he smiled boyishly and placed a kiss on your forehead and then your lips. You hum lovingly, revelling in the feeling of him giving you the soft Aaron you'd craved all day.

The two of you share a quiet beat, just trying to catch your breaths. And then a resolution pops into your head.

“I need this every day. Every once in a while ain’t cutting it.” You express, still catching your breath from your great session. He chuckles at your forwardness, and pecks your lips yet again as he thinks about how he could make such a request happen for you.

“Then maybe…I move closer…?” He ventures, just a bit unsure. With sparkling eyes, and a hand to his cheek you assure his suggestion with a bit of levity.

“Maybe you should.”

• • •

I do not condone any translations, replications or plagiarisms of my original work. Please do not repost as your own. Reblogs and comments/notes welcome. ♥︎

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months ago

Text

They were warned

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Truth is provisional! Sometimes, the things we understand to be true about the world change, and stuff we've "always done" has to change, too. There comes a day when the evidence against using radium suppositories is overwhelming, and then you really must dig that radium out of your colon and safely dispose of it:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/19/just-stop-putting-that-up-your-ass/#harm-reduction

So it's natural and right that in the world, there will be people who want to revisit the received wisdom and best practices for how we live our lives, regulate our economy, and organize our society. But not a license to simply throw out the systems we rely on. Sure, maybe they're outdated or unnecessary, but maybe not. That's where "Chesterton's Fence" comes in:

Let us say, for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across a road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, "I don't see the use of this; let us clear it away." To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer: "If you don't see the use of it, I certainly won't let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G._K._Chesterton#Chesterton's_fence

In other words, it's not enough to say, "This principle gets in the way of something I want to do, so let's throw it out because I'm pretty sure the inconvenience I'm experiencing is worse than the consequences of doing away with this principle." You need to have a theory of how you will prevent the harms the principle protects us from once you tear it down. That theory can be "the harms are imaginary" so it doesn't matter. Like, if you get rid of all the measures that defend us from hexes placed by evil witches, it's OK to say, "This is safe because evil witches aren't real and neither are hexes."

But you'd better be sure! After all, some preventative measures work so well that no living person has experienced the harms they guard us against. It's easy to mistake these for imaginary or exaggerated. Think of the antivaxers who are ideologically committed to a world in which human beings do not have a shared destiny, meaning that no one has a moral claim over the choices you make. Motivated reasoning lets those people rationalize their way into imagining that measles – a deadly and ferociously contagious disease that was a scourge for millennia until we all but extinguished it – was no big deal:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Measles:_A_Dangerous_Illness

There's nothing wrong with asking whether longstanding health measures need to be carried on, or whether they can be sunset. But antivaxers' sloppy, reckless reasoning about contagious disease is inexcusable. They were warned, repeatedly, about the mass death and widespread lifelong disability that would follow from their pursuit of an ideological commitment to living as though their decisions have no effect on others. They pressed ahead anyway, inventing ever-more fanciful reasons why health is a purely private matter, and why "public health" was either a myth or a Communist conspiracy:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes/brief-vinay-prasad-pick-me-campaign

When RFK Jr kills your kids with measles or permanently disables them with polio, he doesn't get to say "I was just inquiring as to the efficacy of a longstanding measure, as is right and proper." He was told why the vaccine fence was there, and he came up with objectively very stupid reasons why that didn't matter, and then he killed your kids. He was warned.

Fuck that guy.

Or take Bill Clinton. From 1933 until 1999, American banks were regulated under the Glass-Steagall Act, which "structurally separated" them. Under structural separation, a "retail bank" – the bank that holds your savings and mortgage and provides you with a checkbook – could not be "investment bank." That meant it couldn't own or invest in businesses that competed with the businesses its depositors and borrowers ran. It couldn't get into other lines of business, either, like insurance underwriting.

Glass-Steagall was a fence that stood between retail banks and the casino economy. It was there for a fucking great reason: the failure to structurally separate banks allowed them to act like casinos, inflating a giant market bubble that popped on Black Friday in October 1929, kicking off the Great Depression. Congress built the structural separation fence to keep banks from doing it again.

In the 1990s, Bill Clinton agitated for getting rid of Glass-Steagall. He argued that new economic controls would allow the government to prevent another giant bubble and crash. This time, the banks would behave themselves. After all, hadn't they demonstrated their prudence for seven decades?

In fact, they hadn't. Every time banks figured out how to slip out of regulatory constraints they inflated another huge bubble, leading to another massive crash that made the rich obscenely richer and destroyed ordinary savers' lives. Clinton took office just as one of these finance-sector bombs – the S&L Crisis – was detonating. Clinton had no basis – apart from wishful thinking – to believe that deregulating banks would lead to anything but another gigantic crash.

But Clinton let his self interest – in presiding over a sugar-high economic expansion driven by deregulation – overrule his prudence (about the crash that would follow). Sure enough, in the last months of Clinton's presidency, the stock market imploded with the March 2000 dot-bomb. And because Congress learned nothing from the dot-com crash and declined to restore the Glass-Steagall fence, the crash led to another bubble, this time in subprime mortgages, and then, inevitably, we suffered the Great Financial Crisis.

Look: there's no virtue in having bank regulations for the sake of having them. It is conceptually possible for bank regulations to be useless or even harmful. There's nothing wrong with investigating whether the 70-year old Glass-Steagall Act was still needed in 1999. But Clinton was provided with a mountain of evidence about why Glass-Steagall was the only thing standing between Americans and economic chaos, including the evidence of the S&L Crisis, which was still underway when he took office, and he ignored all of them. If you lost everything – your home, your savings, your pension – in the dot-bomb or the Great Financial Crisis, Bill Clinton is to blame. He was warned. he ignored the warnings.

Fuck that guy.

No, seriously, fuck Bill Clinton. Deregulating banks wasn't Clinton's only passion. He also wanted to ban working cryptography. The cornerstone of Clinton's tech policy was the "Clipper Chip," a backdoored encryption chip that, by law, every technology was supposed to use. If Clipper had gone into effect, then cops, spooks, and anyone who could suborn, bribe, or trick a cop or a spook could break into any computer, server, mobile device, or embedded system in America.

When Clinton was told – over and over, in small, easy-to-understand words – that there was no way to make a security system that only worked when "bad guys" tried to break into it, but collapsed immediately if a "good guy" wanted to bypass it. We explained to him – oh, how we explained to him! – that working encryption would be all that stood between your pacemaker's firmware and a malicious update that killed you where you stood; all that stood between your antilock brakes' firmware and a malicious update that sent you careening off a cliff; all that stood between businesses and corporate espionage, all that stood between America and foreign state adversaries wanting to learn its secrets.

In response, Clinton said the same thing that all of his successors in the Crypto Wars have said: NERD HARDER! Just figure it out. Cops need to look at bad guys' phones, so you need to figure out how to make encryption that keeps teenagers safe from sextortionists, but melts away the second a cop tries to unlock a suspect's phone. Take Malcolm Turnbull, the former Australian Prime Minister. When he was told that the laws of mathematics dictated that it was impossible to build selectively effective encryption of the sort he was demanding, he replied, "The laws of mathematics are very commendable but the only law that applies in Australia is the law of Australia":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/07/australian-pm-calls-end-end-encryption-ban-says-laws-mathematics-dont-apply-down

Fuck that guy. Fuck Bill Clinton. Fuck a succession of UK Prime Ministers who have repeatedly attempted to ban working encryption. Fuck 'em all. The stakes here are obscenely high. They have been warned, and all they say in response is "NERD HARDER!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

Now, of course, "crypto means cryptography," but the other crypto – cryptocurrency – deserves a look-in here. Cryptocurrency proponents advocate for a system of deregulated money creation, AKA "wildcat currencies." They say, variously, that central banks are no longer needed; or that we never needed central banks to regulate the money supply. Let's take away that fence. Why not? It's not fit for purpose today, and maybe it never was.

Why do we have central banks? The Fed – which is far from a perfect institution and could use substantial reform or even replacement – was created because the age of wildcat currencies was a nightmare. Wildcat currencies created wild economic swings, massive booms and even bigger busts. Wildcat currencies are the reason that abandoned haunted mansions feature so heavily in the American imagination: American towns and cities were dotted with giant mansions built by financiers who'd grown rich as bubbles expanded, then lost it all after the crash.

Prudent management of the money supply didn't end those booms and busts, but it substantially dampened them, ending the so-called "business cycle" that once terrorized Americans, destroying their towns and livelihoods and wiping out their savings.

It shouldn't surprise us that a new wildcat money sector, flogging "decentralized" cryptocurrencies (that they are nevertheless weirdly anxious to swap for your gross, boring old "fiat" money) has created a series of massive booms and busts, with insiders getting richer and richer, and retail investors losing everything.

If there was ever any doubt about whether wildcat currencies could be made safe by putting them on a blockchain, it is gone. Wildcat currencies are as dangerous today as they were in the 18th and 19th century – only moreso, since this new bad paper relies on the endless consumption of whole rainforests' worth of carbon, endangering not just our economy, but also the habitability of the planet Earth.

And nevertheless, the Trump administration is promising a new crypto golden age (or, ahem, a Gilded Age). And there are plenty of Democrats who continue to throw in with the rotten, corrupt crypto industry, which flushed billions into the 2024 election to bring Trump to office. The result is absolutely going to be more massive bubbles and life-destroying implosions. Fuck those guys. They were warned, and they did it anyway.

Speaking of the climate emergency: greetings from smoky Los Angeles! My city's on fire. This was not an unforeseeable disaster. Malibu is the most on-fire place in the world:

https://longreads.com/2018/12/04/the-case-for-letting-malibu-burn/

Since 1919, the region has been managed on the basis of "total fire suppression." This policy continued long after science showed that this creates "fire debt" in the form of accumulated fuel. The longer you go between fires, the hotter and more destructive those fires become, and the relationship is nonlinear. A 50-year fire isn't 250% more intense than a 20-year fire: it's 50,000% more intense.

Despite this, California has invested peanuts in regular controlled burns, which has created biennial uncontrolled burns – wildfires that cost thousands of times more than any controlled burn.

Speaking of underinvestment: PG&E has spent decades extracting dividends for its investors and bonuses for its execs, while engaging in near-total neglect of maintenance of its high-voltage transmission lines. Even with normal winds, these lines routinely fall down and start blazes.

But we don't have normal winds. The climate emergency has been steadily worsening for decades. LA is just the latest place to be on fire, or under water, or under ice, or baking in wet bulb temperatures. Last week in southern California, we were warned to expect gusts of 120mph.

They were warned. #ExxonKnew: in the early 1970s, Exxon's own scientists warned them that fossil fuel consumption would kick off climate change so drastic that it would endanger human civilzation. Exxon responded by burying the reports and investing in climate denial:

https://exxonknew.org/

They were warned! Warned about fire debt. Warned about transmission lines. Warned about climate change. And specific, named people, who individually had the power to heed these warnings and stave off disaster, ignored the warnings. They didn't make honest mistakes, either: they ignored the warnings because doing so made them extraordinarily, disgustingly rich. They used this money to create dynastic fortunes, and have created entire lineages of ultra-wealthy princelings in $900,000 watches who owe it all to our suffering and impending dooml

Fuck those guys. Fuck 'em all.

We've had so many missed opportunities, chances to make good policy or at least not make bad policy. The enshitternet didn't happen on its own. It was the foreseeable result of choices – again, choices made by named individuals who became very wealthy by ignoring the warnings all around them.

Let's go back to Bill Clinton, because more than anyone else, Clinton presided over some terrible technology regulations. In 1998, Clinton signed the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, a bill championed by Barney Frank (fuck that guy, too). Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, it's a felony, punishable by a five year prison sentence, and a $500,000 fine, to tamper with a "digital lock."

That means that if HP uses a digital lock to prevent you from using third-party ink, it's a literal crime to bypass that lock. Which is why HP ink now costs $10,000/gallon, and why you print your shopping lists with colored water that costs more, ounce for ounce, than the sperm of a Kentucky Derby winner:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/30/life-finds-a-way/#ink-stained-wretches

Clinton was warned that DMCA 1201 would soon metastasize into every kind of device – not just the games consoles and DVD players where it was first used, but medical implants, tractors, cars, home appliances – anything you could put a microchip into (Jay Freeman calls this "felony contempt of business-model"):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

He ignored those warnings and signed the DMCA anyway (fuck that guy). Then, under Bush (fuck that guy), the US Trade Representative went all around the world demanding that America's trading partners adopt versions of this law (fuck that guy). In 2001, the European Parliament capitulated, enacting the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 is a copy-paste of DMCA 1201 (fuck all those people).

Fast forward 20 years, and boy is there a lot of shit with microchips that can be boobytrapped with rent-extracting logic bombs that are illegal to research, describe, or disable.

Like choo-choo trains.

Last year, the Polish hacking group Dragon Sector was contacted by a public sector train company whose Newag trains kept going out of service. The operator suspected that Newag had boobytrapped the trains to punish the train company for getting its maintenance from a third-party contractor. When Dragon Sector investigated, they discovered that Newag had indeed riddled the trains' firmware with boobytraps. Trains that were taken to locations known to have third-party maintenance workshops were immediately bricked (hilariously, this bomb would detonate if trains just passed through stations near to these workshops, which is why another train company had to remove all the GPSes from its trains – they kept slamming to a halt when they approached a station near a third-party workshop). But Newag's logic bombs would brick trains for all kinds of reasons – merely keeping a train stationary for too many days would result in its being bricked. Installing a third-party component in a locomotive would also trigger a bomb, bricking the train.

In their talk at last year's Chaos Communications Congress, the Dragon Sector folks describe how they have been legally terrorized by Newag, which has repeatedly sued them for violating its "intellectual property" by revealing its sleazy, corrupt business practices. They also note that Newag continues to sell lots of trains in Poland, despite the widespread knowledge of its dirty business model, because public train operators are bound by procurement rules, and as long as Newag is the cheapest bidder, they get the contract:

https://media.ccc.de/v/38c3-we-ve-not-been-trained-for-this-life-after-the-newag-drm-disclosure

The laws that let Newag make millions off a nakedly corrupt enterprise – and put the individuals who blew the whistle on it at risk of losing everything – were passed by Members of the European Parliament who were warned that this would happen, and they ignored those warnings, and now it's happening. Fuck those people, every one of 'em.

It's not just European parliamentarians who ignored warnings and did the bidding of the US Trade Representative, enacting laws that banned tampering with digital locks. In 2010, two Canadian Conservative Party ministers in the Stephen Harper government brought forward similar legislation. These ministers, Tony Clement (now a disgraced sex-pest and PPE grifter) and James Moore (today, a sleazeball white-shoe corporate lawyer), held a consultation on this proposal.

6, 138 people wrote in to say, "Don't do this, it will be hugely destructive." 54 respondents wrote in support of it. Clement and Moore threw out the 6,138 opposing comments. Moore explained why: these were the "babyish" responses of "radical extremists." The law passed in 2012.

Last year, the Canadian Parliament passed bills guaranteeing Canadians the Right to Repair and the right to interoperability. But Canadians can't act on either of these laws, because they would have to tamper with a digital lock to do so, and that's illegal, thanks to Tony Clement and James Moore. Who were warned. And who ignored those warnings. Fuck those guys:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

Back in the 1990s, Bill Clinton had a ton of proposals for regulating the internet, but nowhere among those proposals will you find a consumer privacy law. The last time an American president signed a consumer privacy law was 1988, when Reagan signed the Video Privacy Protection Act and ensured that Americans would never have to worry that video-store clerks where telling the newspapers what VHS cassettes they took home.

In the years since, Congress has enacted exactly zero consumer privacy laws. None. This has allowed the out-of-control, unregulated data broker sector to metastasize into a cancer on the American people. This is an industry that fuels stalkers, discriminatory financial and hiring algorithms, and an ad-tech sector that lets advertisers target categories like "teenagers with depression," "seniors with dementia" and "armed service personnel with gambling addictions."

When the people cry out for privacy protections, Congress – and the surveillance industry shills that fund them – say we don't need a privacy law. The market will solve this problem. People are selling their privacy willingly, and it would be an "undue interference in the market" if we took away your "freedom to contract" by barring companies from spying on you after you clicked the "I agree" button.

These people have been repeatedly warned about the severe dangers to the American public – as workers, as citizens, as community members, and as consumers – from the national privacy free-for-all, and have done nothing. Fuck them, every one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Now, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and not every one of Bill Clinton's internet policies was terrible. He had exactly one great policy, and, ironically, that's the one there's the most energy for dismantling. That policy is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (a law that was otherwise such a dumpster fire that the courts struck it down). Chances are, you have been systematically misled about the history, use, and language of Section 230, which is wild, because it's exactly 26 words long and fits in a single tweet:

No provider or user of an interactive computer service shall be treated as the publisher or speaker of any information provided by another information content provider.

Section 230 was passed because when companies were held liable for their users' speech, they "solved" this problem by just blocking every controversial thing a user said. Without Section 230, there would be no Black Lives Matter, no #MeToo – no online spaces where the powerful were held to account. Meanwhile, rich and powerful people would continue to enjoy online platforms where they and their bootlickers could pump out the most grotesque nonsense imaginable, either because they owned those platforms (ahem, Twitter and Truth Social) or because rich and powerful people can afford the professional advice needed to navigate the content-moderation bureaucracies of large systems.

We know exactly what the internet looks like when platforms are civilly liable for their users' speech: it's an internet where marginalized and powerless people are silenced, and where the people who've got a boot on their throats are the only voices you can hear:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

The evidence for this isn't limited to the era of AOL and Prodigy. In 2018, Trump signed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that held platforms liable for "sex trafficking." Advocates for this law – like Ashton Kutcher, who campaigns against sexual assault unless it involves one of his friends, in which case he petitions the judge for leniency – were warned that it would be used to shut down all consensual sex work online, making sex workers's lives much more dangerous. This warnings were immediately borne out, and they have been repeatedly borne out every month since. Killing CDA 230 for sex work brought back pimping, exposed sex workers to grave threats to their personal safety, and made them much poorer:

https://decriminalizesex.work/advocacy/sesta-fosta/what-is-sesta-fosta/

It also pushed sex trafficking and other nonconsensual sex into privateforums that are much harder for law enforcement to monitor and intervene in, making it that much harder to catch sex traffickers:

https://cdt.org/insights/its-all-downsides-hybrid-fosta-sesta-hinders-law-enforcement-hurts-victims-and-speakers/

This is exactly what SESTA/FOSTA's advocates were warned of. They were warned. They did it anyway. Fuck those people.

Maybe you have a theory about how platforms can be held civilly liable for their users' speech without harming marginalized people in exactly the way that SESTA/FOSTA, it had better amount to more than "platforms are evil monopolists and CDA 230 makes their lives easier." Yes, they're evil monopolists. Yes, 230 makes their lives easier. But without 230, small forums – private message boards, Mastodon servers, Bluesky, etc – couldn't possibly operate.

There's a reason Mark Zuckerberg wants to kill CDA 230, and it's not because he wants to send Facebook to the digital graveyard. Zuck knows that FB can operate in a post-230 world by automating the deletion of all controversial speech, and he knows that small services that might "disrupt" Facebook's hegemony would be immediately extinguished by eliminating 230:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/zuckerberg-calls-changes-techs-section-230-protections-rcna486

It's depressing to see so many comrades in the fight against Big Tech getting suckered into carrying water for Zuck, demanding the eradication of CDA 230. Please, I beg you: look at the evidence for what happens when you remove that fence. Heed the warnings. Don't be like Bill Clinton, or California fire suppression officials, or James Moore and Tony Clement, or the European Parliament, or the US Trade Rep, or cryptocurrency freaks, or Malcolm Turnbull.

Or Ashton fucking Kutcher.

Because, you know, fuck those guys.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/13/wanting-it-badly/#is-not-enough

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qsmprambling · 2 years ago

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@head-fullof-clouds

Yes indeed these are the custom tickets - Quackity's looks like it has some sort of flower on it, while Philza's has a black feather!

Ticket numbers and who they belong to (this will be updated, as not everyone has got a ticket/rolled the dice yet).

Bagi - #1

Carre - #2

BBH - #3

Aypierre - #4

Tina - #14

Fit - #16

Philza - #18

Pac - #21

Tubbo - #25

Felps - #26

Quackity - #27

It's also prominent to know that Phil and Quackity have custom tickets for some reason while the others don't and that these tickets are predetermined as well. Also that Bagi and Carre got there tickets from a roulette wheel while everyone else got theirs from rolling dice.

#It was clear from the start with Bad's round #where the books asked who would play and then selected him #and now with Tina playing twice. the custom tickets. and others getting tickets despite losing #that despite being presented as a game of chance this is 100% pre-planned and manipulated #the players have been selected but for some reason whoever is playing this game is pretending it is random - maybe just to cause confusion?#the first tickets were in order and just the new islanders - so people who had been on the island a long time?#but then Bad get's one and Aypierre too - does that mean they are old islanders too?#No the order may mean nothing - the game starts giving out tickets out of order now #But it is still a game of chance then? No people are getting tickets regardless of winning or losing #and those who lose are getting called again #the goal posts keep changing but it is clear there are set players for whatever this next game is #hmmmm #Edit: Also interesting that QSMP Global just posted a video about the tickets :O #Edit 2: Sorry OP @ the wrong person!

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 25 days ago

Note

Dear mr sex bat,

How much wear and tear is too much for a silicone dildo? I recently bought a brand new one but upon opening it I found some scratches and scuffs on the tip. Nothing huge, but definitely stuff that cut into the silicone at least a little. Is this a red flag, or just plain old "nothing comes off the assembly line in perfect shape"? I know that more nooks and crannies= more careful cleaning needed since bacteria like to nest in there, but do I just need to remember to boil this thing and go about my day or is this bad and I should look for a refund/better options? (Obviously no returns, since. Sex toy.) If details help, it's from Maia brand, bought from HappyBed, which is a retailer recommended by super smash cache, who in turn was obviously recommended by you. Which is a bit of a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend situation in regards to trustworthiness, but I digress. If it's not obvious, this was my first ever sex toy and I am hyperaware of all the possible ways it could go wrong.

Thank you for your advice and patience, hope you have a great day ❤️

(PS: in your faq, one of your questions is listed as "how do i remove YOUR pubic hair?" Based on your expressed opinions on both bush removal and strangers getting in your business, this seems like perhaps it might have been a typo.)

hi anon,

personally, in the name of caution, I wouldn't generally use anything that arrived visibly damaged. I've personally never seen any sex toys pre-scratched, whether I've ordered them online or encountered them in a store, and that's definitely not standard.

in addition to harboring bacteria, scratches in a toy create exposed edges that can in turn abrade the inside of a vagina or anus, creating microtears that can harbor bacteria. all sex comes with risk, sure, but that feels like an unnecessary one to me.

I recognize that's a huge bummer given that there's not returns, and I'm so sorry for whatever cost you sank into your first ever toy only to get a dud :(

#sex edventures 2025

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p0orbaby · 6 months ago

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Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

summary: your may or may not be in denial about your feelings for alexia

warnings: mention of smut, alcohol and drugs and nothing major

a/n: a whole lot of words based on this request. set after this but you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to

word count: 3k

part 1

You’ve been ignoring Alexia’s messages for weeks now, every one of them its own little bomb you’re too terrified to defuse. Every time her name pops up on your screen, your stomach flips, your breath catches, and you somehow experience the full spectrum of human emotion in a split second. But mostly there’s terror and something closer to shame than you’d like to admit.

It’s a game of avoidance that doesn’t come easily to you; after all, you’re usually the one with a glib reply or some devil-may-care response, the kind of person who thrives on chaos. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s something closer to shame nestled beneath the familiar terror, a sensation like a splinter lodged deep under the skin—small enough to ignore at first but persistent enough to drive you mad.

Your friends—of course, always your friends—keep bringing her up, as if they can somehow sense the crisis you’re trying to keep contained. It’s usually after a few cocktails too many, when your circle is gathered around a dimly lit table in some trendy restaurant or at a rooftop bar where the music is loud enough to drown out the awkward pauses but not loud enough to stifle their teasing. “She’s the best footballer in the world,” they slur with a kind of drunken reverence, like they’re invoking some untouchable deity rather than a woman who once had her strap buried inside you in a strangers bathroom. “You know she won the Ballon d’Or twice, right?” As if you haven’t been low-key stalking her career, watching those achievements pile up like monuments you’ll never come close to matching. “She’s beautiful and talented,” they declare, their words slurring into a familiar refrain, as though her accolades have somehow slipped your mind, as though you might have failed to notice her brilliance or her impossible grace.

But the clincher, the one they love to throw at you, is always: “And she’s Spanish”

There’s a certain relish with which they say it, that singsong tone like they’re divulging some magic spell or a punchline they know gets a laugh every time. It’s as if her nationality carries some kind of exotic allure, like there’s something intrinsically romantic or mysterious about being Spanish that you’re pre-programmed to fall for. Ridiculous, really, but your friends don’t care about nuance. They only remember the endless stories you told about summers in the Balearics—the drunken nights under hot stars, the hazy afternoons spent nursing hangovers and catching fragments of conversations in Spanish that you pretended to understand. “You love Spanish women,” they insist, as if your type is as predictable as your go-to drink order. Conveniently, they overlook the fact that your type mostly translates to ‘emotionally unavailable,’ as if that’s some universal trait of Iberian women.

It’s not that they’re entirely wrong, of course, but they’re oversimplifying. Your attraction to Alexia isn’t some exoticism or romantic fantasy you’ve spun out of nothing. It’s her unapologetic drive, her resilience, that hooked you—though God forbid you’d admit that to anyone. “She’s an athlete,” you shrug whenever the subject comes up, swirling the last melting ice cube in your Old Fashioned like it’s a magic eight ball that might give you a different answer this time. “They’re all players.” The line slips out with just the right amount of indifference, a practiced dismissal, as though you’ve been brutalised by every athlete from Cristiano Ronaldo to Wayne Gretzky. It’s a complete fabrication, of course. You’ve never actually dated a footballer, let alone the best in the world. But who can resist a good story, especially when it’s your own and you get to embellish the details?

It’s easier, you think, to act disinterested than to admit you’ve been replaying that night in the bathroom, the feel of her breath against your neck, every time you catch your reflection in some shiny surface. You thought you were done with all that—had filed her away in the mental drawer labelled ‘Temporary Distractions,’ right alongside the male model who could never quite remember your birthday and the painter who had the audacity to try to psychoanalyse you on the third date. One-night stands are supposed to be transient, fleeting, the kind of thing you can bring up in therapy one day with a detached air. “I think this is worth mentioning,” you’d say, as if it happened to someone else, “but it’s not really important.” Another plot point in the story of your life, never quite making it past the cutting room floor.

But Alexia doesn’t stay filed away. She starts turning up everywhere, not quite a haunting, but a presence you can’t shake no matter how you try. At first, it’s incidental—just a casual Instagram scroll, a stray click on some football gossip account that you don’t even remember following. There she is, grinning in some post-match group shot, looking too happy for someone who’s supposed to be just another fleeting chapter in your book. It’s the kind of unguarded joy that can’t be faked, not even for the camera, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s always this free, or if it’s something that only comes out when she’s on the pitch, away from people like you.

You hardly even realise it, but suddenly you’re following three different Barcelona fan accounts. Then, as if by some magnetic force you’re unwilling to acknowledge, things escalate. She likes one of your posts—a shot from the Venice Film Festival where you’re all decked out in head-to-toe Prada, looking expensively bored, like you couldn’t care less about anything in the world. She comments on one of your stories: just an emoji. A single fire emoji, to be precise. Harmless, you suppose. But the comments start getting specific—little in-jokes that only someone who’d had their mouth on your skin could know. There’s a familiarity in her tone that feels invasive, like she’s reminding you of things you’ve deliberately chosen to forget.

You don’t reply. Cowardice? Yes. Masochism? Possibly. The most crucial thing is that replying would imply there’s something worth talking about, and something always becomes complicated. You’ve already got enough complicated in your life: a demanding agent who keeps sending you scripts for roles that are ‘outside your comfort zone,’ a wardrobe full of designer clothes you’re required to wear for sponsorship deals you didn’t even negotiate, and an on-again, off-again affair with mindful meditation that never seems to stick. You’re in the middle of wrapping up a film that everyone assures you will ‘change the trajectory of your career,’ though they’ve said the same about the last three projects, and you still get recognised more for that face cream advert you did when you were twenty-one than for anything of substance.

The film’s an indie about a morally ambiguous antiheroine, a character so damaged and charmingly dysfunctional you’d think you were being typecast if the role didn’t feel like an emotional excavation. She’s got a drinking problem; you’ve always favoured substances that can be discreetly indulged in penthouse bathrooms, though you’re certainly not going to point that out to the director who keeps going on about ‘authenticity’ and ‘method acting.’ He seems to think you’ve got some untapped well of emotion just waiting to be accessed, as if there’s this depth beneath your flawless skin that’s going to pour out on cue. If only. Most of the time, you’re trying not to let your co-star notice the faint tremor in your hands that’s mostly a byproduct of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Then one day, while you’re lounging in your trailer, pretending to enjoy a green juice that tastes like the inside of a lawnmower—another post from Alexia. She’s on the pitch, holding some trophy aloft, her face flushed with victory. Her hair is slicked back, still damp with sweat, strands clinging to her skin in a way that seems impossibly intimate despite the vastness of the stadium behind her. That smile… Christ. It’s like she’s been sculpted out of bronze, an ancient statue come to life, as if she’s somehow timeless and ephemeral all at once. There’s something almost mythic about her, an enduring quality that makes your breath hitch in a way that feels both familiar and unnervingly new, like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome but you’re not quite ready to let go.

It’s moments like these when you notice how precariously you’re balancing on the line between fascination and obsession. You catch yourself humming the anthem of Barcelona’s football club, the tune woven so deeply into your subconscious that it startles you. You aren’t even sure where you picked it up, but it plays on a loop whenever your mind wanders, like a soundtrack you didn’t choose. Then there are the little things—reading the match reports in the sports section like you actually know what half the terms mean, or memorising obscure facts about the team’s history as if they’re somehow relevant to your life. You’ve started following the scores like they’re stock prices, pretending it’s just casual interest, though a part of you wonders why you keep needing to know how well she played, how many minutes she was on the pitch, whether she looked happy in the post-game interviews.

It’s a form of self-deception that’s becoming harder to maintain. You’re drawn to her orbit, pulled in by a force that feels magnetic and entirely outside your control, as though your fascination is bleeding into the rest of your life, filling the gaps you didn’t even know existed.

You decide, in a moment of what can only be described as poor judgment, to attend one of her matches. It feels impulsive and reckless in the way most of your decisions do, a haphazard pairing of curiosity and a kind of dangerous longing. You book a front-row seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just ticking another item off some glamorous bucket list rather than treading into unfamiliar territory. Naturally, you show up dressed to the nines—your favourite Gucci sunglasses perched on your nose, an Alexander McQueen coat draped over your shoulders with that deliberate, careless grace that suggests you’re either oblivious to or entirely aware of its price tag. Your hair is styled in that kind of artful chaos that takes hours to perfect but is meant to look like you rolled out of bed effortlessly chic. You’re not here for the football. You’re here for her.

The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming, almost suffocating, a heady cocktail of chants, horns, and the sharp, greasy scent of fried food that turns your stomach. It’s a kind of chaos you’re unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fervor where the world narrows down to the pitch, to the twenty-two players moving with a purpose you can’t fully grasp. You understand about three percent of what’s happening on the field—just enough to know when the ball’s in play but not enough to follow the strategies unfolding before you. You’re mostly people-watching: the sea of jerseys, the faces contorted with passion, the rhythmic clapping that you can’t quite catch the beat of.

When Alexia scores, it catches you off guard. The stadium erupts, thousands of people leaping to their feet with a collective roar that vibrates through your bones. You react half a beat late, your applause more polite than enthusiastic, like you’re at a black-tie gala instead of a football match. You stand, clap along with the crowd, and try not to feel like an imposter. As the cheers die down, you catch her eyes from across the distance, just for a flicker of a moment. There’s something in her gaze—an awareness, a spark—that slices through the noise and zeroes in on you. It’s like she sees you, actually sees you, in the middle of this thrumming, chaotic mass of bodies, and for a split second, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the entire stadium.

After the game, you somehow find yourself swept into the exclusive VIP area, a place filled with the kind of people who can glide between worlds as easily as they switch languages. A flute of champagne appears in your hand almost before you’re aware you’ve been handed one, and you sip it absentmindedly as you let the buzz of conversation wash over you. You’re halfway through your second glass when she appears, slipping through the crowd with a kind of effortless poise, her hair still damp from the shower, the strands curling at the ends. She’s wearing a loose tracksuit, looking every bit the casual athlete, as though she hasn’t just been commanding the attention of thousands.

There’s an insufferable confidence in the way she moves towards you, that familiar swagger that borders on arrogance, as if she’s amused by the fact that you actually showed up, that you dared to step into her world. “I didn’t think you were a football fan,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her eyes betray something else—a darker, more searching intensity that you recognise all too well from that night in the bathroom, the one you keep trying and failing to forget.

“I can appreciate a good performance,” you reply, lifting your glass in a mock toast, your voice slipping into that arch tone you’ve perfected over years of industry parties and press tours. “I’ve seen Cats live on Broadway, you know.” It’s a flippant comment, the kind that’s designed to deflect, to distract, to keep the conversation light and meaningless.

She laughs, a rich sound that feels like an indulgence. It’s not so much at your joke but at the way you’re playing this little game, like she’s letting you have your moment, humouring you. “And did you enjoy the show?” she asks, her voice dropping just enough to suggest that her question has nothing to do with the theatre and everything to do with the performance she just gave on the pitch.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you say, holding her gaze longer than you probably should. There’s a challenge in the way you look at her, an unspoken dare, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll take the bait. Her lips curl into a small, devilish smile, a private expression that feels like a confession meant just for you.

The moment stretches, teeters precariously on the edge of something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. It feels monumental, like a line about to be crossed, but then she steps back, just a fraction, and the spell breaks. She turns away with a dismissive grace, leaving you standing there as if you’ve just been defeated in a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Good,” she says simply, and with that one word, she slips back into the crowd, leaving you with nothing but the faint taste of champagne on your lips and the lingering sense that you’ve been left wanting.

After that, you start to notice the divide. There’s Before Alexia and After Alexia, and it’s not a clean break but a jagged line that cuts through your life, shifting everything off balance. You used to think of yourself as someone in control, or at least someone who could fake it convincingly enough to fool everyone else. There was always an understanding that if you messed up, someone would be there to fix it—your agent, a publicist, some overworked assistant who could call in a favor to make the headlines disappear. But now, your phone has become an instrument of anxiety, vibrating with texts and notifications that you crave and dread in equal measure. It buzzes with messages from her that you read but don’t answer, with updates from your agent about the press tour you keep dodging, with reminders of responsibilities you keep pushing aside.

Even after filming there has finished, you start booking last-minute flights to Barcelona under the guise of ‘business,’ convincing yourself that it’s all perfectly legitimate. Your agent rolls his eyes and hounds you to schedule interviews and appearances, but you find yourself at the airport anyway, boarding another red-eye that will land you in some unfamiliar city just in time to catch her match. You’re finding yourself in strange places at ungodly hours, indulging in the kind of fan behavior you’d have found pathetic if you saw anyone else doing it. Ninety minutes of football passes in a trance, where the world narrows down to her figure gliding across the pitch, the fluid grace of her movements cutting through the static in your head like a hot knife through butter.

Afterwards, you’ll send her a coy, inconsequential text—“Not bad,” or “You could work on your footwork.” And she’ll reply with that maddening charm that dances the line between sincerity and sarcasm, always leaving you guessing. “Come and coach me, then,” she’ll say, as if she’s issuing a challenge, or perhaps an invitation.

There’s this one time, after too many drinks and not enough sleep, when you actually consider it. You catch yourself scrolling through Spanish real estate listings, as if browsing apartments for sale in Barcelona is a casual hobby rather than a subconscious form of planning. You tell yourself it’s just idle curiosity, a way to pass the time, yet you’re finding out the details—locations near the stadium, neighbourhoods with the best views, penthouses with terraces that would catch the Mediterranean breeze. You click on the photos of sun-drenched balconies and tiled kitchens, pretending you’re only fantasising about a different kind of life, one where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder for the next tabloid scandal or PR crisis.

But then you sober up. You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror of a five-star hotel suite in Madrid, taking in the disheveled hair, the dark circles under your eyes, and you remember who you are. You’re not the kind of person who throws away their life for someone else, certainly not for a woman you haven’t even kissed since that one stolen night, a night that’s become less real and more like a story you tell yourself to explain this unshakable obsession. Besides, you’d probably make a terrible coach.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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justarkive · 2 months ago

Text

TABLE 3 | JJK ch5

“For good service and cute waitresses”

pairing: pre military!jungkook x secret fuckbuddy!oc

contents: profanity, eventual smut, fluff, humour, celeb au, THEY FIX THINGS!, deep talks, jk talks about his life, alcohol consumption, nari!, oc has some inner conflict ar some points. JUNGKOOK AND OC GO ON DATE!! YAYAYYA

wc: idk yall but its long (im sry checking wc is so long)

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @dreamersparacosm @jenniebyrubies @darklove2020

a/n: lowk hate this chapter. enjoy though :) ALSO SMUT IS COMING IN THE NEXT 2 CHAPTERS PROBABLY! KEEP HOLDING ON GUYSS!!

masterlist < prev | next >

The apartment feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with its size. The walls stretch high, the corners dark, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. You curl deeper into the couch, knees tucked to your chest, as the words from earlier loop in your head. You lied to Nari about being busy tonight. Sometimes you just want to be alone, even though you know that being with her would make you forget about that whole… ordeal. But sometimes, it’s better to face things head-on.

“I mean, to be fair, you saw what happened last time. The whole social media thing? That was a mess. He’s probably trying to avoid another situation like that.”

Nari had said it so casually, as if it were obvious, as if it didn’t sting. As if it didn’t make your stomach tighten with something complicated and ugly.

Was that all it was?

Jungkook wasn’t cold because of you, because of whatever unspoken thing had been threading between you both for a while now. He was just—avoiding a mess. Dodging headlines, hashtags, speculation. And maybe you should feel relieved about that, but instead, it settles in your chest like a weight pressing down, down, down.

Because isn’t that worse?

If he had been upset with you, if you had done something wrong—though you can’t think of anything wrong other than leaving him on read—you could fix it. Apologize. Make it right. But this? How are you supposed to fight against something as intangible as his reluctance to be seen with you?

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead against your knees.

You replay the moment from earlier, the way he barely met your eyes, the way his words had been clipped and distant—like he had already decided you weren’t worth the trouble.

It shouldn’t matter this much.

And yet—

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, lighting up the dim room.

You don’t move at first. Just stare, watching the letters of the name glow on the screen. Unknown number.

He’s already called twice tonight. You let it ring both times, watching the screen dim until silence swallowed the room again.

But this time, your hand moves before you can stop yourself. A deep breath. Then, you swipe to accept the call, pressing the phone to your ear.

Silence.

The kind that stretches, thick and uncertain.

You swallow. “Hello?”

Still nothing. Only the faintest sound of his breathing on the other end.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “Jungkook?”

Then, finally— “I’m sorry.”

His voice was quiet, rough.

“I’m so, so sorry. I— I swear, it wasn’t what you think. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, I just—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” You cut in, frowning. “Slow down.”

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to get his thoughts in order.

“I— I should have explained. I should have just—fuck, I don’t know, said something. I didn’t mean to push you away, I just… I panicked. Everything felt like it was spiraling, and I—” He sighed. “I didn’t want it to turn into a thing.”

Your fingers curled around the blanket on your lap.

“I get it,” You murmured.

“You do?” His voice was hesitant, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“Yeah. If you had just told me in the moment, I would have understood. I wouldn’t have been upset. But instead, you just…” you let out a humorless laugh. “You just left me standing there.”

A long silence stretched between you both.

“I know,” he said finally, voice small. “I messed up.”

You closed your eyes. “Next time, just… tell me. Trust me enough to let me handle it. Okay?”

Another pause. Then, softer—

“Okay.”

For the first time since that night, your chest felt a little lighter.

And then—

“Wait, is that Nari?”

Faintly, through the speaker, You heard your best friend’s distinct voice snapping—

“Took you long enough, you absolute idiot.”

You blinked. “What the—”

Jungkook groaned. “She’s at work tonight. She saw me come in looking for you and started yelling at me.”

He looked for you? Your heart beats a little faster at that but you dont let it show.

“GOOD,” Nari called. “You deserve it.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. “I’m hanging up,” Jungkook muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Nari retorted.

You hear a muffled thunk—probably Jungkook dropping his head onto the diner table.

“This is what i have to deal with now,” he grumbled.

You shake your head, a small smile curling at your lips.

“Yeah, well… You kind of deserve it.”

The silence between you and Jungkook lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tighten around the phone. You don’t know what you’re expecting him to say next, or if he’s even going to say anything at all. Maybe this was a mistake—answering. But then, his voice, quieter this time, cuts through the static.

“I just… I- Can we meet?”

You blink. Meet? Your mind stumbles over the word, and suddenly, it feels like too much. The last time you saw him, he couldn’t even look at you properly. The last time you saw him, you stood there, waiting for some kind of explanation, while he brushed you off like it meant nothing. And now he wants to meet?

You hesitate, biting down on your lip. Your first instinct is to say no. Maybe not outright, but to come up with some excuse—I’m busy, I have work, I don’t think it’s a good idea. You have every reason to refuse, every right to tell him that he doesn’t get to just fix things on his own terms.

But then you exhale, and the anger—the frustration—doesn’t hold as tightly as it did before. Because the truth is, you do want to hear what he has to say. You want to know why he acted the way he did, why he’s calling you now, why his voice sounds the way it does, like he’s hoping you won’t say no.

Still, you hesitate a second too long, and that’s when Nari—who has been not-so-subtly eavesdropping this entire time—erupts into an excited squeal loud enough for you to hear.

“Oh my God, did you just ask to meet?!”

Your stomach drops. Yeah, you aren’t hearing the end of this from her.

There’s a quiet chuckle from the other end of the line—low, barely there, but unmistakable. It’s the first time you’ve heard Jungkook laugh in days, and for some reason, it makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.

You groan, tipping your head back. This is so embarrassing.

“You’re on a break right now, right?” Jungkook says after a moment, still amused. “Are you coming back to work tomorrow?”

“No,” you mumble. “I have a little time off right now.”

You don’t know why you tell him that. Maybe because part of you thinks he’s about to ask if you want to meet now, and you need to shut that down before it starts. But he doesn’t.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asks, quieter now. “Whenever you want. Just tell me where.”

There’s something careful about the way he says it, like he’s trying not to push. Like he’s letting you decide whether this happens at all.

You breathe in, pressing your fingers against the curve of your phone.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Tomorrow.”

There’s a beat of silence after you agree. Apart from Nari’s frantic squeals in the back, you’re sure your boss is absolutely not having this right now. Your own words settle in your chest, heavier than you expected. You’re really doing this. Meeting him. Letting him explain.

But then a different thought creeps in, one that makes your stomach twist.

“Wait,” you say suddenly, shifting the phone against your ear. “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if we get seen?”

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is different—lower, smoother, edged with something infuriatingly smug.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, slow and deliberate. “I’ll handle it.”

Your breath catches.

Heat prickles at your skin, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. He’s teasing you—you know he’s teasing you—but that doesn’t stop the way your stomach swoops, the way your grip tightens around your phone like it might steady you.

“Jungkook—”

“Mm?” He hums, all faux innocence, and you know he’s enjoying this.

You scowl, even as your face burns.

“Just—just text me the time,” you mutter before promptly hanging up, your heart pounding.

A cut off Nari-screech has you giggling at your phone before you freak out. You are actually meeting Jungkook outside of work. This time he isnt your customer, and you arent his waitress.

You groan, shoving your face into your hands.

Tomorrow is going to kill you, in a good way and a bad way.

——

Tomorrow comes faster than it should.

You’re pacing your apartment, stomach in knots, while Nari lounges on your couch with her legs crossed, watching you spiral like it’s her favorite pastime. For once, she’s at your place instead of the other way around—probably because she knew you’d need the support. You tug at the hem of your sweater, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror near the door, then groaning as you grab a different one.

“Are you seriously changing again?” Nari deadpans. “Babe, it’s a casual date. Casual. You know what that means?”

You shoot her a glare through the mirror. “I know what it means, Nari.”

“Then why the fuck do you have, like, six different outfits lined up like you’re about to walk a runway?” She shakes her head, biting back a smirk. “You could show up in a garbage bag and he’d still drool.”

Your stomach flips at the thought, but you try to play it cool. “It’s not a date.”

Nari snorts. “You’re meeting up with a guy who has been acting like a human pretzel of regret for the past 24 hours, and he made sure to find the most secluded restaurant possible so you guys wouldn’t be interrupted. Babe, it’s a date.”

You don’t argue, because—well, yeah.

Still, the nerves are relentless. You fuss with your hair while Nari leans forward, propping her chin on her palm. She watches you carefully, something unreadable in her expression.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally settled on a simple yet flattering outfit- A denim skirt, which you’ve managed to dress down with a white crewneck hoodie and some tights since it’s cold. Nari helped with your hair and makeup, which turned into an oddly sentimental moment.

“You know,” she murmured as she curled a piece of your hair, “he was really freaking out about you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That night at the restaurant.” She hesitated for a second before meeting your eyes in the mirror. “When he called you, I’ve never seen him like that. He looked—panicked. Like, genuinely scared he’d fucked up for good.”

Your heart squeezed.

Nari put the curler down and turned you to face her. “I promise you, you have nothing to worry about.”

Her words settled something in you, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, something she wasn’t saying.

Because what she didn’t tell you—what she kept to herself—was what Jungkook had admitted that night.

I think I like her.

She didn’t say it because it wasn’t her place. But as she looked at you now, biting your lip, filled with doubt you shouldn’t have, she wished you knew.

A buzz interrupted the moment.

Your head snaps to it, but you don’t move immediately. It’s only when Nari gives you a pointed look that you snatch it up, thumb unlocking the screen.

[ iMessage ]

Jungkook [10 mins ago]: I’m outside. Take your time :)

And yes, you did change his name.

You stare at the message, a flush creeping up your neck. You hadn’t even noticed.

Nari peers over. “Ohhh. He didn’t want to rush you. What a gentleman,” she teases, bumping her shoulder against yours.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the little tug in your chest. Instead of texting back, you call him. The phone rings once before he picks up.

“Hey,” you say. “I—wait, are you seriously just sitting out there?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, hesitantly, he says, “I… don’t know if I should come to the door.”

Nari snatches the phone before you can react. “You will fucking come to the door,” she says, voice dripping with authority. “Okay?”

You can hear Jungkook stammering on the other end. “I just—if someone sees—”

“Oh my god,” Nari groans, exasperated. “Her neighborhood is literally filled with old people. None of them care, trust me. Get your ass out of the car, Jungkook.”

You reclaim your phone, shaking your head. “You don’t have to,” you say, voice quieter now. “If you really don’t want to”- A pause.

Then, a deep breath. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I’ll come.”

The moment you hang up, Nari smirks. “See? Easy.”

When the knock finally comes, it’s softer than you expect—hesitant, almost.

You pull the door open before you can think twice.

And—

Jungkook is standing there, bathed in the soft glow of the hallway light, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. His hood is pulled up, shielding most of his face, but it does nothing to hide the way his eyes widen slightly when he sees you. The way his lips part—just the smallest bit, like he’s forgotten how to speak.

He’s staring.

Like he wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t allow himself to want.

His gaze moves—slow, almost unwilling—from the curve of your jaw to the slope of your shoulders, to the way your sweater hangs loosely, bunching slightly at your wrists where your fingers are curled into the fabric. And then, finally, back up to your face, lingering on your lips before flicking to your eyes.

“You look…” He swallows thickly, fiddling with his lip ring, his voice lower than usual. “Really pretty.”

You weren’t prepared for this.

You can feel the warmth creeping up your neck, your pulse thrumming under your skin. “Oh. Uh-. Thanks, you too.”

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe himself. He glances away for a second, rubbing at the back of his neck, and you notice the way his fingers tense slightly—like he’s trying to ground himself.

Behind you, there’s a not-so-quiet shuffle.

You don’t have to turn around to know Nari is still there, probably grinning like she’s witnessing the climax of a rom-com.

You grab your bag and throw on your high top converse, about to step outside when—

A hand clamps down on Jungkook’s shoulder.

He startles.

“Listen up, buddy.”

Nari’s voice is saccharine sweet, but there’s an edge to it. She leans in slightly, tilting her head with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you fuck this up, I will personally remove your balls, okay?”

Jungkook blinks.

She pats his shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly for emphasis. “Good talk.”

And then, just as quickly, she’s beaming at you. Giving you a hug and pressing a peck to your cheek, “Have fun, babe!”

You’re mortified.

Jungkook looks like he’s just had a near-death experience. He clears his throat, jaw working like he’s trying not to laugh. “Remind me never to piss her off.”

“That’s probably for the best,” you mutter, shutting the door behind you.

You glance up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are, the way the night air carries the faintest trace of his cologne—something warm and clean and a little bit dangerous.

Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then offers his hand.

“You ready?”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, warmth bleeding into your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go.”

You step out onto the quiet street, the night air crisp against your skin. The neighborhood is still, the only sound the distant hum of a car passing a few blocks away. Jungkook’s hand is still wrapped around yours, his grip firm but not forceful, like he’s giving you the option to pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

But as you both start walking toward his car, you can feel it—his hesitation. The slight way his fingers tighten around yours. The way his pace slows, just barely.

And then he speaks.

“Listen,” he starts, voice quieter now, like he’s trying to measure his words carefully. “I think I know what’s going through your head right now.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. His jaw is tense, his brows furrowed like he’s fighting an internal battle.

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair before gripping yours again, firmer this time. “I promise you, I won’t get you into that mess again, hopefully no-one in this neighborhood gives a shit about me. And if they do—” he hesitates, lips pressing together before sighing, “if this is really messing with you, I can just… act like I don’t know you until we get to the car or whatever.”

That makes you stop.

Your grip on his hand slackens slightly, and Jungkook notices immediately, his head snapping toward you. His expression flickers—something uncertain, something almost pained—before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says quickly, like he’s realizing his own mistake. “No, fuck that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to make you feel like that, not again.”

You swallow, unsure of what to say.

“I just—” he exhales sharply, glancing up at the darkened windows of the houses around you before lowering his gaze back to you. His voice is firm now, determined. “Fuck what they think. I’m a grown-ass man, what the fuck am I even doing? Ah sorry-“

But you can hear it—the frustration in his voice, not toward you, but toward himself. And that’s when it starts to creep in—guilt, twisting low in your stomach.

Because it’s not about you.

Not really.

It’s about whatever past shit he’s been through, whatever weight he’s been carrying for so long that even something as simple as holding someone’s hand in public makes him hesitate.

You shift slightly, voice softer now. “Jungkook…”

He looks at you then, properly, his gaze locking onto yours like he’s bracing for whatever you’re about to say.

And when you don’t speak right away, he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I promise you, it’s not you,” he says, more certain this time. “It’s just—” he pauses, shaking his head slightly. “All this shit… the rumors, the speculation… it fucks with you. After a while, it’s like—you stop seeing yourself as a person and more like some kind of… public spectacle, and- I don’t want you to feel the way I do.”

Your chest tightens.

He exhales, dropping his gaze. “I really don’t want to fuck this up again.”

There’s something so raw about the way he says it—like he’s already afraid he’s ruined whatever this is before it’s even started.

And maybe that’s why, without thinking, you squeeze his hand.

Jungkook blinks, looking down at where your fingers are intertwined. Then he looks back up at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

“We’re fine,” you say, voice steadier than you expected. “I promise.”

Something in his shoulders loosens, just slightly.

And then, finally, you reach his car.

Jungkook hesitates for only a second before letting go of your hand, moving around to open the passenger side door for you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Chivalry.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he gestures for you to get in. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”

But when you settle into your seat and glance at him through the window, you catch it—that small, barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

And somehow, you think—maybe he needed this moment just as much as you did.

You settle into the plush leather seat, fingers instinctively grazing over the sleek, expensive interior. The door clicks shut beside you, the faintest scent of cologne and something warm, something distinctly him, wrapping around you.

And then it really hits you.

This car—this wasn’t just any car.

This was luxury. The kind of car that had no business looking this pristine, no business existing outside of some overproduced commercial where men in tailored suits sipped whiskey and talked stocks. It was sleek, powerful, effortlessly expensive—more than you could even begin to guess.

And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of just how different your worlds really are.

You exhale, glancing around before letting out a quiet, half-disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath.

Jungkook smirks from the driver’s seat, one hand draped over the wheel, the other adjusting something on the console. “What?”

You gesture vaguely, sinking back into the seat. “Nothing. Just… I think I’m sitting in, like, ten years of my salary right now.”

His grin deepens, amusement flickering in his eyes. And then, without warning, he revs the engine, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through your bones in a way that makes you jolt slightly in surprise.

He glances at you, smug. “You like it?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Don’t get too flattered. Just a little.”

Jungkook hums, clearly pleased with himself, as he shifts the car into drive, easing out of your neighborhood with a smoothness that shouldn’t be possible.

The streets pass in a blur of soft yellow streetlights and quiet suburban houses. The city in the distance glows faintly, a promise of movement, of something bigger just beyond reach.

For a while, it’s silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional swish of passing cars. Then, Jungkook shifts slightly, one hand drumming against the wheel.

“Are you gonna tell me more about yourself?” he asks, glancing at you briefly. “Because, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t really know much about you.”

You blink, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation.

Then you narrow your eyes. “That’s kind of your fault, isn’t it?”

His lips quirk up, amused. “Okay, fair. But still. I feel like I should know more about you by now.”

You tilt your head, considering. “We can save that for later.”

Jungkook exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Fine. Later.”

The traffic light ahead flickers red, and the car slows to a smooth stop. It’s only then that you feel it—the weight of his gaze on you.

You glance over, catching him just as he looks away, jaw tightening slightly like he’s been caught. But then, after a beat, he lets himself look again, this time unabashed, his voice softer.

“You really do look pretty tonight.”

Something stirs low in your stomach, a warmth creeping up your neck. You look away quickly, staring out the windshield. “Shut up.”

Jungkook grins, tilting his head slightly. “What? I can’t compliment you now?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You’re—”

But before you can finish, a familiar melody drifts through the speakers, low and smooth, a gentle jazz tune filling the space between you. It’s old—something timeless, the kind of song that lingers even if you can’t name it.

And then—softly, almost unconsciously—you hear him.

Jungkook hums the melody under his breath, tapping his fingers against the wheel, voice so natural, so effortless, that you almost don’t catch it at first.

But when you do, your brows lift in surprise.

“You know this song?”

He glances at you, brow arching. “You do?”

You nod, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. My dad used to play this kind of stuff all the time.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts—just slightly, but you catch it. A flicker of something more than just casual conversation. Something familiar.

“My mom, actually,” he admits, voice quieter now. “She loved this kind of music.”

And just like that, the air changes.

It’s not just flirtation anymore.

It’s something else—something warm, something real, something shared.

And as the city lights blur past the window, the song plays on, filling the spaces between words that don’t need to be spoken.

After a few more laughs, some teasing remarks, and an effortless flow of conversation, the car finally pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant.

And suddenly, you don’t want to get out.

Not because you don’t want to go inside, but because—this? Sitting here, just talking with Jungkook, letting the city hum around you, the low music still playing in the background—this feels like enough.

Like maybe you could stay in this moment just a little longer.

But then, he unbuckles his seatbelt, and you shake the thought away. You reach for your own, but before you can move, Jungkook’s already opening his door, stepping out into the night.

You turn slightly, glancing over—

And immediately regret it.

His shirt lifts slightly as he stretches, just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin, the faintest hint of defined abs underneath.

Your brain betrays you in an instant.

Heat rushes to your face, mortifying and all-consuming.

You snap your gaze away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, eyes darting straight ahead, willing your thoughts to shut the hell up.

But then, before you can spiral further, the passenger door opens beside you.

Jungkook stands there, one hand gripping the top of the car, the other extended towards you. His dark eyes flicker with amusement, but he says nothing, just watches as you blink up at him.

“Are you gonna sit there all night?” His voice is low, teasing.

You clear your throat, taking his hand before your own hesitation betrays you. “Shut up,” you mutter, letting him help you out.

The cool night air does nothing to ease the warmth in your face, but thankfully, Jungkook doesn’t press further. Instead, his fingers tighten slightly around yours as you start toward the restaurant.

It’s a Korean barbecue grill, sleek and modern, but still cozy. The scent of sizzling meat and rich spices wafts through the air as you step inside, immediately wrapping around you.

Jungkook sighs dramatically. “I could die happy here.”

You snort. “It’s that serious?”

“You don’t get it,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Korean barbecue is life. I’d probably combust without it.”

You roll your eyes. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Jungkook grins, pulling you a little closer as a waiter approaches. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

And then—before you can even process it—he squeezes your hand, just briefly, just enough for you to feel it.

Your stomach flips.

This man is going to ruin you.

The waiter, a young girl with a bright smile, greets you both and starts leading you toward a table near the back. It’s a secluded booth, dimly lit, with a grill built into the center. The perfect spot to disappear from prying eyes.

Jungkook lets you slide in first before settling across from you.

And then, suddenly—

It hits you.

Because now, there’s nothing else. No car ride to distract you, no outside world pulling at your attention. Just Jungkook. Just the space between you. Just—

Him.

And somehow, this is worse.

Because now, you can see him properly.

His face—sharp jaw, dark lashes, lips that should not look that good just existing—somehow looks even better up close, even better than anything you’ve seen online.

Which is unfair.

It’s criminal, actually.

Your eyes flicker down to the table, to the menu, to literally anywhere else.

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, watching you.

And then—slowly—he smirks.

“You’re staring,” he says.

Your head snaps up. “I am not.”

His smirk deepens. “You totally were.”

Your eyes narrow. “Maybe your ego needs to be checked.”

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe you’re just bad at hiding things.”

You glare. He grins.

The tension between you is charged, playful, but undeniably thick. And you hate that he knows it. That he’s revelling in it.

You’re about to throw back another remark when the waiter reappears, notepad in hand.

And immediately, you notice.

The shift in her posture, the slight batting of her lashes. The way her voice is just a touch softer when she turns to Jungkook.

“And what can I get for you?” she asks, lips curving.

It’s not aggressive. Not rude.

But it’s obvious.

And maybe—just maybe—you hate that you notice.

Jungkook, however, doesn’t seem to care. He barely looks at her, just gives his order in the same easy tone he used before. No extra charm. No effortless flirting. Just—normal.

And that’s what catches you off guard. Because you remember how he was when you were his waitress.

The way he had teased, the way he had looked at you, the way he had lingered just long enough to make you question everything.

And now—now it’s different.

It’s different with her.

And that means something.

You just don’t know what.

The dim light overhead casts shadows across Jungkook’s face, making every sharp line and curve even more defined. His jaw—sculpted, almost unreal—tightens slightly as he shifts in his seat, dark eyes flickering over the menu before landing back on you.

His features are striking up close. Strong brows, slightly furrowed in thought. A straight nose, perfectly proportioned. And his lips—plump, slightly parted as he exhales. It’s frustrating how effortless it is for him to look like this, like he was crafted with too much attention to detail, like the universe took its time with him.

And the worst part?

He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

The way he watches you, eyes gleaming with something teasing, something unreadable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to look at him again, waiting for you to fall right into whatever spell he’s weaving.

You refuse.

Mostly.

The drinks arrive before either of you can say anything else, the waiter setting them down with a small bow before retreating.

Jungkook reaches for his glass, swirling the liquid slightly before taking a sip. He hums in approval, then leans back in his seat, his gaze finding yours again.

“So,” he starts, tilting his head slightly. “Are you gonna tell me more about yourself?”

You arch a brow. “What do you mean?”

He sets his drink down, resting an arm on the table. “I mean, I don’t actually know that much about you.” His lips twitch slightly. “Apart from the fact that you make a mean iced Americano and that you secretly like my music.”

You scoff. “I never said I liked it.”

Jungkook smirks. “You didn’t have to.”

Your face warms, but before you can argue, he exhales deeply, his expression softening. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs. “I wanna know more.”

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “My life isn’t that interesting.”

“Try me.”

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek. “Only if you go first.”

Jungkook raises a brow, but then, surprisingly, he nods. “Alright.”

You swirl the straw in your drink, watching the ice spin lazily. Then, with a teasing lilt in your voice, you glance up at Jungkook.

“So,” you start, lips quirking up. “What’s it like being Mr. Famous?”

Jungkook looks at you, amused. “Mr. Famous?”

You shrug. “Yeah. You know, world tours, flashing cameras, private jets. What’s it like?”

You expect him to smirk, to lean into the playful banter, maybe say something cocky like Oh, you know, just the usual—waking up to millions of people screaming my name.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales, rolling his glass between his fingers. “It’s… complicated.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting.

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “At first, it was everything I wanted,” he continues. “The music, the performances, the fans—it was exciting. It still is, in a lot of ways.” He pauses, eyes lowering to his drink. “But sometimes…”

His voice trails off, and his fingers tighten around the glass.

“Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t Jungkook.”

Your stomach twists.

Jungkook lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I know it sounds ungrateful. I have everything—fame, success, money, whatever. But it’s like… I don’t even know who I am outside of all of that. Outside of what people expect from me.”

His words hang between you, heavy. You don’t say anything—just listen.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Then, “No,” he says. “But sometimes, I wonder who I would’ve been if I never did it.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you reach for your own drink, taking a slow sip before speaking.

“Well,” you murmur. “My life is a lot different from yours.”

Jungkook huffs a small chuckle. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s… simple. Maybe even boring to someone like you.” You swirl the straw in your drink again. “But I don’t think I’d change it. I like the little things—the slow mornings, the quiet nights. I like having my regulars at the diner, knowing exactly how they like their coffee. I like walking home and seeing the same old couple sitting on their porch every evening.”

Jungkook watches you intently, his eyes searching yours.

You glance at him. “I think if I lost all of that, I wouldn’t know who I was either.”

He stays quiet for a moment. Then—

“I envy you.”

Your breath catches.

Jungkook leans back slightly, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I envy how content you are with what you have.” He tilts his head, eyes dark and unreadable. “You don’t need the world to know you to feel like you exist.”

The air between you shifts.

Heavy. Intimate.

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything.

Jungkook doesn’t either.

He just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s seeing you the way you just saw him—like he’s not just looking at you, but through you. Like maybe, somehow, you’re exactly what he’s been missing.

The silence lingers until— “Your food is ready.” The waiter’s voice snaps you both out of it, and just like that, the moment is gone.

Jungkook clears his throat, blinking as he straightens up. You quickly reach for your drink again, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your hands shake slightly. But when you glance up, he’s still looking at you. And somehow, you know— That moment wasn’t nothing.

He uses his barbecue skills and cooks your meat for you, and for a while, you eat in comfortable silence.

There’s something about it—the soft clinking of chopsticks against plates, the occasional glance exchanged between you, the faint hum of the restaurant around you—that feels… nice. Like there’s no rush to fill the space with words, no pressure to entertain.

Just being here, just sharing a meal with him, feels enough. Until

Jungkook interrupts it.

“I think we need drinks.”

You glance up, chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Oh?”

He nods, already flagging down the waiter. “Yeah. Beer. We’re getting beer.”

You squint at him, amused. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.” He leans forward slightly, grinning. “You weren’t gonna drink tonight, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Not particularly.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “And yet, I have a feeling you’re about to.”

“You aren’t driving?”

“Nah. i’ll get someone to pick us up.”

You scoff, shaking your head. But when the waiter comes over, Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “Two beers, please.”

And the funniest thing happens.

“Can I see your ID?” the waiter asks.

You freeze, eyes widening as a slow, wicked smile stretches across your lips. Jungkook blinks, then lets out a small breath of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

The waiter just nods, waiting expectantly.

“Oh, my God,” you murmur, biting back laughter. “I remember when you asked me to ID you at the restaurant.”

Jungkook groans, pulling out his wallet. “I can’t escape this.”

“No, you absolutely cannot.”

You watch as he slides his ID over, sighing dramatically. The waiter glances at it, then hands it back with a small bow. “Thank you, sir.”

Jungkook mutters something under his breath, and you can’t help but giggle. “This is amazing,” you say.

He gives you a flat look. “Laugh it up.”

“Oh, I will.”

The beers arrive a moment later, and you clink glasses before taking a sip. It’s cold, crisp, a little too easy to drink.

Jungkook smirks at you over the rim of his glass. “Not so bad, huh?”

You shrug. “Don’t get cocky.”

And then, somehow, the conversation turns playful again. You tease him about his ID mishap, he teases you about how you nearly choked on your drink earlier, and the laughter between you is effortless, bubbling up naturally like you’ve known each other for years.

At one point, Jungkook does an impression of a particularly dramatic customer from your restaurant, and you nearly spit out your beer. “Stop,” you gasp between laughs, pressing a hand to your stomach.

He grins, eyes crinkling. “What? It’s accurate.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. But there’s warmth in your chest, a lightness in your limbs. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s him.

By the time you finish eating, there’s a pleasant buzz in your head, and judging by the way Jungkook’s leaning back in his seat, grinning lazily, you think he’s feeling it too.

Neither of you move to leave.

It’s time to go, you know that. The plates are empty, the drinks are nearly gone. But you can’t will yourself to get up. Not until he does.

And for some reason, he doesn’t seem in any rush either.

Eventually, though, he sighs, stretching his arms above his head. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s go outside for a bit before we head out.”

You nod, following him as he weaves through the tables, out the front doors, and toward the small smoking area near the sidewalk.

And then, Jungkook pulls out a cigarette.

You don’t know why it makes something inside your lower stomach to flutter. Maybe it’s the way his fingers move, the effortless familiarity of it as he places it between his lips. Maybe it’s the way he tilts his head slightly when he flicks the lighter, the flame illuminating the sharp line of his jaw for a brief second.

Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that, for some reason, watching him smoke is insanely attractive.

He exhales slowly, the smoke curling in the air around him. And all you can do is watch.

Jungkook notices.

His lips twitch. “Something wrong?”

You blink, tearing your gaze away. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right.”

You sit down on the ledge of the sidewalk, and after a moment, he joins you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The street is quiet, only a few people passing by, the occasional car rolling past. It’s peaceful in a way you weren’t expecting.

Jungkook doesn’t talk right away, his expression unreadable, but his gaze drops to his hands, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the napkin in front of him. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” he says quietly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “… With you, it just feels different. I feel like I can be myself.”

Your heart skips a beat. You blink, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “Be yourself?”

He nods, lifting his gaze back to you, the hint of vulnerability creeping into his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t feel like I have to put up any kind of front. Not with you.”

“You know,” you murmur, “behind all of the celebrity stuff… I think you’re just a regular person.”

Jungkook glances at you.

You shrug, staring ahead. “I mean, yeah, you’re famous. People see you as larger than life. But at the end of the day, you’re just… you.” You turn to him then, meeting his gaze. “You’re just Jungkook to me.”

Something flickers in his expression.

You don’t know what it is—something vulnerable, something almost startled—but it makes your chest tighten.

Jungkook exhales, tapping his cigarette against the concrete. “You’re doing something to me, you know that?”

Your breath catches.

And then—

He looks at you, something unreadable in his gaze. “You’re really something different, Y/N.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But somehow, you know that whatever he means, it’s deeper than the words themselves.

So you don’t say anything at all.

You just lean your head against his shoulder, basking in eachothers company.

And for a long, long time, neither of you move.

Until—

Your phone buzzes, and it’s a message from Nari.

You quickly text her back, asking her to pick you guys up, considering you feel Jungkook’s already done more than enough tonight. It’s not like she’d mind, she’d never mind. And you have a feeling this debrief is gonna be interesting- in a good way.

It’s been a few minutes. Jungkook’s cig is long gone, yet he’s still holding on to the tip of it, you figure its cause he wants something to do with his hands, but you don’t question it.

You’re equally as nervous as he is, though it’s not as extreme as it may have been a few hours ago, you feel better- reassured.

His speech is slightly slurred when he looks over at you, your head still resting on his shoulder, and he cant help but smile, “Did you really not know who I was? You know- Not to sound cocky, but my band is pretty big.” He winks, and you laugh.

“Nah, i’ve never really gotten into K-pop too much, sure- ive heard of BTS, Who hasn’t? But Nari- God Nari- she’s the one to talk to- I mean she likes that one band- What is it? Stray kids? Something like that- Yeah she loves them. She told me all about you when she first showed up, you should’ve seen the look on her face when I told her ‘Whats the big deal?”

“Ah- That’s cool, so what kind of music are you into anyway? Have you checked out any of my songs before? If you want i-“ He hesitates, but continues anyway. “I can play some for you, you can come to my studio, and i’ll sing for you.”

He begins to protest,and you forget he can’t see your face, considering you have the fattest smile on it right now. “If you want- You don’t have to-“

“No, I’d love to.” You look up at him, and your breath catches in his throat. You don’t need to say much more, you know you don’t.

You look at each other for a little longer, ignoring the nervous flutter in your stomach from the eye contact, until a car horn beeps at you.

You look up, Nari’s here.

As soon as you slide into the car, Nari throws you a look. It’s not full-on dramatic, but it’s enough to say, “Ohhh, I see what’s going on here.”

She doesn’t freak out, though—just snorts as she pulls away from the curb. “You two spent the whole night staring at each other or what?”

Jungkook just grins, stretching out in the backseat beside you, his knee knocking against yours. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrays you. “Shut up.”

The car fills with easy laughter, and for a while, the conversation is just…nothing. Nari’s talking about some drama at work, you’re chiming in with sarcastic remarks, and Jungkook?

Jungkook is just looking at you.

Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable—far from it. He’s got that lazy, lopsided smile, eyes half-lidded from the buzz of the night, and every time you meet his gaze, he just smiles wider.

And God, you’re not even really talking, but somehow, you are. Just in the way he nudges your foot with his, or how his fingers drum lazily against his knee like he’s trying to match the rhythm of the car radio.

Nari catches it in the rearview mirror, the way you two keep exchanging these quiet, tipsy little looks, and she just shakes her head, smiling to herself. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

Jungkook’s apartment building is ridiculous.

That’s the first thing Nari says when she pulls up to the entrance, eyes sweeping over the sleek, modern exterior, the kind of place that probably has a concierge that greets you by name and a lobby that smells like wealth.

“Damn,” she whistles, leaning forward over the steering wheel. “I knew you were rich, but this? You really live like this?”

Jungkook just huffs a tired laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not that crazy.”

“You probably have a fridge that talks to you.”

“…Okay, maybe.”

You snort, glancing over at him, but your stomach twists a little when you realize this is where the night ends.

Nari shifts into park and turns to you. “Go walk him, come on.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything, but when you look at him, you see it—that flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense just slightly. He doesn’t want to tell you no. You can tell.

And then it hits you.

Of course, he doesn’t want to be seen with you out there, right in front of his building. It’s not about you—it’s about them. The people who actually know where he lives. The ones who would take one picture and turn it into something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

So you shake your head, offering him a small smile. “It’s okay. I’ll stay here.”

Jungkook looks at you for a second longer, and then—there it is. That quiet, relieved smile, like he didn’t even need to explain himself, like you just get it.

“…Okay,” he says softly.

But neither of you move.

You’re both sitting there, waiting, stretching the moment out just a little longer, even though you know it has to end. Your hands twitch in your lap. His fingers flex against his jeans. You don’t know what you want to say, and maybe you don’t need to say anything, but—

“Jungkook,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He looks at you, tired and warm and so beautiful, and you swear he’s about to say something too, but then—

Knock knock.

You both startle.

Nari, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. “Are you getting out or are you moving in?”

Jungkook laughs under his breath, but when he turns back to you, it’s not the same easy teasing smile as before. It’s something softer, something you can’t quite name.

“I’ll see you soon?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And finally, he opens the door.

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