THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 you find yourself featuring a driver in your newest music video.
♫ starring: yuki tsunoda x rockstar!reader.
♫ social media au.
♫ includes: romance, humor. profanity. face claim: beabadoobee. @lilypat requested rockstar by lisa.
♫ commentary box: whenever i get a yuki request, an angel grows its wings 🙂↕️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
yourusername • 22m
♫ Oasis - Don't Look Back In Anger
Liked by yukitsunoda0511, sabrinacarpenter, and others
yourusername PUERTO RICOOO U WERE INSANE 🇵🇷 thanks for comin out to jam with me despite the weather!!! a little bit of rain never scared us anyway 🤘 #YOUtopiaTour
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user1 just one (1) chance pls
user2 PH STOP WHENNNNN?!
user3 Ayo what is yukitsunoda0511 doing here...
⤷ user4 Yuki Tsunoda indie rock enjoyer YUPPP!!! 🙂↕️
user5 hey yukitsunoda0511 what's your favorite yourusername song
user6 Come to Brazil before you head to your next stop :(
yourusername • 15m
♫ Vaundy - 踊り子
Liked by yukitsunoda0511, laufey, and others
yourusername pit stop (badum-tsss) at são paulo 🐂 it was... how do u say it? simply lovely ;))
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user7 HELLOOOOOOOOO WHAT THEH ELLL
user8 The crossover we never knew we needed.
user9 omfg a RB hat.. like FIGHT BACKKK yukitsunoda0511 ?
⤷ yukitsunoda0511 for the record, i tried
⤷ user10 yukitsunoda0511 WHAT
⤷ user11 WDYM YUKI REPLIED
user12 Is yourusername the newest WAG on the grid??? Did I miss a chapter or something 😮💨
yukitsunoda0511 vcarb hat next time
⤷ user13 RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY SALAD??!????!
⤷ user14 What is happening what what what
⤷ yourusername yukitsunoda0511 is there gonna be a next time
⤷ user15 get a room y'all 💀 yukitsunoda0511 yourusername
tracksidetea • 3h
Liked by isackhadjar, danielricciardo, and others
tracksidetea SPOTTED: yukitsunoda0511 went dune bashing in Dubai... the same time as rock sensation yourusername? 👀 No photos of the two of them together, but these sand-filled snaps were posted a couple of days apart. 🏜️ Coincidence or something more? Discuss!
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user16 i mean yourusername did have a dubai stop for her tour sooo lol
user17 Oh they FUCKING fucking
user18 Why did Isack & Danny like this 😭😭😭 Messy afff,,
⤷ user19 LIKEEEE. what do u guys know that we don't
user20 p sure this doesn't mean a thing. a couple of comments on each other's instagram ≠ dating e/o
⤷ user21 Yuki's not going to date you for saying this btw! Hope that helps! xx
yukitsunoda0511 • 22h
♫ beabadoobee - Real Man
Liked by visacashapprb, jackdoohan, and others
yukitsunoda0511 officially ticked "starring in a music video" off the bucket list
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user22 THE SCREAM I JUST SCRUMPTTTT
visacashapprb STREAM yourusername !!!
lando wtf me when
⤷ user23 pls don't i might actually die
⤷ user24 lando x yourusername would go HARD
user25 YUKI ACTOR ERA 🗣🗣🗣
user26 Ok but their chemistry was really soooo???
yourusername wow ok pic choice 🖕
⤷ user27 ah young love <3...
⤷ user28 Day 812 of trying to get a reply from yourusername
⤷ yukitsunoda0511 mb mb
⤷ yourusername yukitsunoda0511 ❌
⤷ user28 now KISS yukitsunoda0511 yourusername
yourusername • 6h
Liked by yukitsunoda0511, oliviarodrigo, and others
yourusername day 1 of #YOUtopiaTour in japan!!! much luvvv どうもありがとう 🍣 but i think i might be needing a japanese teacher. got any suggestions ? 👋
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user29 The way we are not even being SUBTLE anymore......
user30 EVERYBODY SCROLL TO THE LAST SLIDE LIKE WDYM YOU BURIED THAT IN A 20-PHOTO DUMP
visacashapprb 👀
⤷ user31 ADMIN TOO?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
⤷ user32 is there another music video in the works. admin blink twice if yes
yukitsunoda0511 はい, はい
⤷ user33 Okay sirrr GET THE GIRL
⤷ user34 🍿🍿🍿
⤷ user35 my fav friendship!!
⤷ user36 user35 denial is a river in egypt. your driver got BITCHES
yukitsunoda0511 posted a story
yourusername • 22h
♫ RM - Tokyo
Liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly, and others
yourusername oh we doing hard launches now? i can fuck with that
pierregasly finally
⤷ yukitsunoda0511 🤝
isackhadjar I did NOT know how much longer I could keep my mouth shut. Joyeux anniversaire!
yukitsunoda0511 gee thanks
⤷ yourusername happy anniversary baby u know i had to do it to 'em 🙏
yourmanager ???????????????????????????
LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson
ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K
ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love
ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !
send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ
Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.
It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.
You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.
You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.
He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.
He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.
But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.
Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.
He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.
❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀
The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.
Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.
He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.
He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.
The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.
Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.
Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.
By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.
You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.
But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.
❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀
The clouds break with no warning.
One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.
You don’t even flinch.
Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.
When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.
You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.
“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.
“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.
There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.
He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.
That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.
Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.
❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀
The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.
Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.
Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.
Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.
When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.
You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.
He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.
“I was an ass,” he says.
“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”
He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.
Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.
It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.
Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.
Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.
You never notice.
Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.
what would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy, anyway?
ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader.
ꔮ word count: 5.4k.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. profanity, mention of food, death (as a joke), flying-induced anxiety, reader is studying something statistics-adjacent. isack makes an appearance. loosely inspired by the statistical probability of love at first sight.
ꔮ commentary box: tsunoda debut on tsunodaradio RAAAH 🦅🇯🇵 this is shamelessly inspired by the 2024 video of yuki flying economy. ilysb, my environmentally friendly king (lol). 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
♫ kaiju no hanauta, vaundy. good company, sos. make a move, lawrence. shut up, greyson chance. drive safe, rich brian. call me up, daydreamers.
“You know, statistically, there’s a 0.10 fatality rate in commercial aviation.”
On the other end of the phone, your best friend sighs. It’s not particularly reassuring.
“This isn’t a joke,” you hiss, panic rising in the back of your throat like bile. You weave through the LAX with your boarding pass clenched in your free hand. “What if this is one of those flights?”
“It won’t be.” Your best friend’s tone is firm and no-nonsense. You would be appeased, but then, she goes on to give the most terrible platitude known to man: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
The answer to that question turns out to be a seat transfer.
You’re standing to the side of the plane aisle, red-faced and mortified over a mishap that was beyond your control to begin with. Your seat— the one you spent an absurd amount of time picking out— was broken.
In your head, you’re already cussing out United Airlines and whichever higher power has it out for you. Outwardly, though, you stay perfectly calm as the flight attendant tries to find you a comparable seat.
“These are the only remaining options,” the attendant notes, perfectly apologetic as she leads you further down the row.
An aisle and middle seat in a row of three. Your fingers flex around the straps of your hand-carry duffel bag. You’re already mentally drafting the strongly-worded review you’ll be writing for United.
“I’ll take the aisle,” you say stiffly. “Thank you.”
The attendant gives you a pitiful smile and promises you extra snacks later. It pales in comparison to the window seat you had originally booked, but you’ll take the small concession.
You settle into your new seat with a heavy exhale. The nonstop flight is 12 hours long— barring any hitches— and so the only thing you can pray for is that whoever sits adjacent to you doesn’t have a crying baby or anything of that sort.
The Universe gives you that, at least.
“22T?”
You look up. The stranger isn’t talking to you, you realize; he’s more of mumbling to himself. You can appreciate that he’s dressed for comfort. A black sweatshirt with the Red Bull logo and a pair of washed out denim jeans. He has a headset hanging around his neck, too, indicating a readiness to spend the entire flight dead to the world around him.
You must stare for too long, because you end up meeting the stranger’s gaze. He looks like he’s around your age, which is the exact type of story that would have your best friend squealing in your ear.
It’s not that type of story. At least that’s what you want to believe.
You give the stranger a tight-lipped smile. He nods in acknowledgement as he takes his seat. You turn back to your personal television, silently grateful that there’s an empty seat between the two of you.
And it could end there, could just be your run-of-the-mill long-haul that’s largely uneventful, but you’re so obvious.
You thought you weren’t. You thought you were blending in, acting completely normal. You’re not quite sure what gives it away, though it can be anything from the mindless nail-biting to your knee bouncing up and down.
It takes everything in you not to jump in your seat when the stranger addresses you. “First time?” he asks, the amusement evident underneath his heavily accented English.
A sheepish grin tugs at your lips. You force your knee to still, your eyes flicking around the plane that’s slowly filling up.
“Yeah,” you admit. “You?”
It’s a stupid question, you realize later. Everything about the stranger showed that he was prepared for this— his easy countenance, the neck pillow he had in his hand. At the moment, though, he takes your query in stride.
“Nah,” he says. “I’ve traveled quite a bit.”
You nod absentmindedly; your attention is divided. The aisle is mostly clear by now with the exception of flight attendants marching up and down to check if everyone has their seatbelts on.
“Will it be your first time in Japan?”
You’re jolted to realize that the stranger is still conversing with you. He’s focused on his personal television, but he’s making small talk that would throw you off otherwise.
As it is, though, you’ll take any diversion you can get. “It will be,” you respond, “my first time in Japan, I mean.”
Although you can only see the side of the stranger’s face, you catch a hint of a smile. “It’s a very beautiful country. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he says benevolently.
A closer look at his features gives you some idea of his ethnicity. You take a gamble. “Where are you from in Japan?” you ask.
The stranger hums thoughtfully. It strikes you as odd, initially, until you realize he’s probably contemplating how much information he should give out. He caves anyway. “Sagamihara city, in Kanagawa prefecture.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve never heard of it, have you?”
“... Sorry.”
When the stranger laughs, you have a fleeting thought. He’s attractive, you think, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Didn’t expect you to know it,” he says. “It’s a pretty small place.”
You wish you could offer better conversation to this polite stranger. You really do.
But the plane’s engine has rumbled to life, and you feel the vibrations to your fingertips. The flight attendants are going through the standard safety procedures— no smoking, staying seated while the fasten seatbelt sign is on— and you listen like your life depends on it.
Even the demonstration demands all your attention. You watch like a hawk as an attendant shows off how to use the air masks and flotation devices. The attendant is bored because this is a routine she’s done hundreds of times before, and all the other passengers are disinterested as well. They ignore the attendant, shutting off their phones and examining the in-flight magazines.
You never look away. In your peripheral, you think the stranger might be shooting you bemused glances. You could be imagining it, though, so you don’t point it out.
When you grab the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of you— intent to review it, like there’s some kind of in-flight test to prepare for— the stranger actually has the audacity to laugh.
“Sorry,” he huffs when you glance at him. “I’ve never seen anyone actually read one of those things before.”
“Better safe than sorry,” you say dryly, but a corner of your lip has twitched into a smile.
The stranger leans over the empty seat between you, his seat belt straining against his middle. You resist the urge to nag him about sitting back.
“So,” he starts, “what’s your deal?”
“Excuse me?”
“I could have probably worded that better.”
“Probably.”
He shoots you a grin and amends, “Why are you heading to Tokyo?”
The plane is starting to push back from the gate. You feel your stomach lurch, and your hands instinctively wrap around the armrests.
There are numbers swimming in your head. 53% of aircraft accidents are attributed to pilot errors. There were 1,417 aviation crashes in 2024. 80% of all aviation accidents—
“Hey.”
The stranger’s voice is gentler, now.
“I asked you a question.” He’s teasing, but there’s something almost kind underneath the mischief. You could cry with how grateful you feel for him in that moment. The realization that he’s trying to distract you.
“An academic conference,” you manage. “I’m presenting something.”
He lets out a low, impressed whistle. The plane picks up speed, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise. You’re tipped back into your seat as momentum beats out gravity, but the stranger stays surprisingly steady.
His gaze on you stays, too. It encourages you to keep talking, to babble about your dissertation as the plane tilts backward.
The plane’s wheels give a final bounce. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize you’re aloft, the change in pressure making your ears pop.
The stranger, seeing the discomfort that crosses your expression, fishes for something in his pocket. “Should’ve offered this earlier,” he says, extending his hand to you.
A packet of chewing gum. You take one wordlessly, and the two of you simultaneously pop a stick into your mouths. The pressure in your ear clears surprisingly fast.
“Thanks—,” you start, faltering when you realize you don’t have a name to address the stranger by.
There’s a flicker of something on his expression. Something you can’t quite place. It’s a mix of surprise and suspicion, softened by what looks a lot like relief.
“Yuki,” he offers. “You can call me Yuki.”
to: bestie 🤞
connected to in-flight wifi! wahooo! no untoward incidents at takeoff (got transferred tho, will explain everything later) but it’s too soon to say shit. 11hrs to go. stop jinxing me pls.
from: bestie 🤞
LFGGG!!! Sorry you didn’t get your window seat bae ;( I hope you’re at least next to someone HAWT
to: bestie 🤞
ahahaha… about that…
from: bestie 🤞
DON’T PLAY WITH ME RN.
to: bestie 🤞
he’s okay looking. he looks about as old as me. he was nice during takeoff and he has juicy fruit gum. that’s it tho.
to: bestie 🤞
do NOT say anything about this being like an emily henry book.
from: bestie 🤞
THIS IS EXACLTY LIKE AN EMILY HENRY BOOK
to: bestie 🤞
what did i say???
from: bestie 🤞
🤷 Your message came in late!!
from: bestie 🤞
SOOOOO??? WHO IS HE
to: bestie 🤞
his name is yuki.
from: bestie 🤞
Yuki?????????????????????
from: bestie 🤞
What does he look like???????????????
to: bestie 🤞
japanese.
from: bestie 🤞
No SHIT Sherlock
to: bestie 🤞
why.
from: bestie 🤞
Can you ask him what he does for a living
to: bestie 🤞
why???
from: bestie 🤞
Do it for MEEE pls!!! This is life or death actually
from: bestie 🤞
And b let’s be real. I know you and I know you wanna know too 👀 Don’tcha
You do. Of course you do.
But conversation with Yuki died a natural death when the seatbelt sign clicked off, forcing you to think of the perfect way to accomplish your best friend’s absurd request.
The snack trolley offers you an opportunity.
When the attendants go around peddling the vouchsafed flight snacks— a sad-looking bag of trail mix— Yuki catches the look on your face. He barks out a laugh as he tears into his own pack.
“This is one of the better ones,” he tells you, popping a handful of the granola and dried fruit into his mouth. He chews through them with impressive speed, waiting until his mouth is no longer full before he adds, “I was once on a flight where the only snack was cheese spread and crackers.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
Before Yuki can pop his headphones back on, your mind whirrs with potential segues. The words are past your lips before you can think of them.
“You said you travel quite a bit,” you blurt out.
Yuki’s eyebrows arch upward. “I said that over an hour ago.”
“Yeah, well,” you stammer, “you still said it, didn’t you?”
He snorts, the sound edged with amusement. For what it’s worth, he looks willing to indulge you. You push on, “What job do you have, then?”
There it is again. The expression you weren’t quite able to nail earlier. He seems doubtful of your intentions, but when you don’t waver, he bites.
“I drive,” he says, like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world.
You blink once. Twice. “You— drive?” you repeat.
“Yes.” Yuki almost smiles. It looks more like a smirk. “I’m a driver.”
“Like a chauffeur?”
Now that wipes the grin right off Yuki’s face. He stares at you like your words had been the equivalent of a record scratch, and then he laughs.
It’s interesting, just how much you can learn about a person in an hour. You file away this little fact, too. Yuki, who throws his head back when he’s really laughing, his body shaking with mirth. The sound isn’t loud, isn’t the type that might have the person in the next aisle complaining, but it still fills you with an odd sense of triumph.
“I guess you could say that,” he manages once his laughing fit has died down.
“In that case—” You gesture to his sweatshirt. “That makes sense.”
He glances down at the Red Bull logo. His lips twist into another barely-there simper as he prods you, “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. I always supposed drivers were one of Red Bull’s target audiences.”
“Really.”
“Really. 42% of energy drink consumers enjoy Red Bull. I’m not surprised you’re part of that.”
Yuki gives a slight shake of his head. You wince, as if realizing you’re doing it again— spewing out numbers unprompted, trying to get percentages to clarify something that doesn’t really demand an explanation.
Except he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t poke fun at the habit. In fact, he sounds a touch awed as he muses, “You really like your stats, huh?”
You raise your shoulders in a shrug. “Numbers are good.” The words sound weak even to you, so you double down. “They’re reliable and they give you a good picture of something.”
“Numbers don’t lie,” he says.
The statement is surprisingly profound. “Numbers don’t lie,” you echo, a pleased smile of your own beginning to break on your face.
Yuki watches it, watches you, before seeming to make a decision. “This is— this is a bit hard.”
You don’t have to wait too long to see what he means. In the next moment, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and half-standing in a jerky motion. He carefully maneuvers towards you, landing heavily on the empty seat that had separated the two of you for the past hour and a half.
Yuki doesn’t strap himself in yet. He just tilts his head to one side, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “I have questions about your dissertation.” His voice is surprisingly quieter even though he’s bridged the distance. You have to lean in a bit to hear him. “If you’ll entertain me, that is.”
Something in your chest lurches; it feels a lot like how the plane had bounced during takeoff. “It’s a lot of numbers,” you say lamely.
He looks unfazed. “What? You don’t think a chauffeur can handle data and statistics?” he teases as he absent mindedly toys with the buckle and retractor resting on his thigh.
This wasn’t the plan. You had hoped to spend your first ever plane ride watching a movie, maybe reading a book. Snapping photos of cumulonimbus clouds and complaining to your best friend the entire time about one thing or the other.
Instead, you find yourself telling Yuki, “Ask away, then.”
He clicks his seatbelt into place.
to: bestie 🤞
[Sent an image.]
to: bestie 🤞
meal time.
from: bestie 🤞
Yum yum yummm
from: bestie 🤞
Speaking of yum 🤤…
to: bestie 🤞
have some tact pls. he’s a chauffeur.
from: bestie 🤞
Oh.
to: bestie 🤞
oh?
from: bestie 🤞
Are you SURE that’s what he said
to: bestie 🤞
yes???
from: bestie 🤞
Okay okay I’ll stoppp
from: bestie 🤞
What would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy anyway LMAO
to: bestie 🤞
who?
from: bestie 🤞
Do you remember the tate mcrae tiktoks I sent u
to: bestie 🤞
ohhh. that lando guy.
from: bestie 🤞
My loml 🧡🧡🧡 but yes, there’s a yuki on the grid
to: bestie 🤞
you’re delusional.
from: bestie 🤞
I hope you choke on ur dry ass airplane food actually❤️Love ya!
“Have you been driving for long?”
Yuki pauses halfway into devouring his mid-flight sandwich. For the past two hours or so, the stream of conversation between the two of you has flowed rather easily. But it’s also mostly been about you— Yuki asking all the right questions to have you going on 15-minute rants.
Some of it tangented the moment that food started getting served. You find it hard to believe that you’re already hour four in the air.
Eight more hours to go.
You might as well try to get to know Yuki, too.
“About— four years, give or take?” he responds after a beat, as if he’d needed to do some mental math. “I started in 2021.”
“How did you get into it?”
“I always knew I wanted to.”
“Be a chauffeur?”
You realize immediately just how snooty you sound. “I’m sorry,” you say in the next breath, horrified at your indiscretion. “That was— uncalled for.”
Gracefully, Yuki doesn’t look offended. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face, like the blunder has amused him. He finishes off his sandwich before putting you out of your misery.
“Driving,” he clarifies. “I’ve always known I would do something with driving.”
You perk up a bit in your seat. “Why is that?”
He hesitates, his lips quirking to one side as he— once again— seems to contemplate just how honest he should be. You make a mental note to take his words with a grain of salt.
“Have you ever heard of kart racing?” he says.
There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you this, at least, won’t be a lie.
It’s his turn to talk. You don’t think he notices, but every so often he’ll use a Japanese word or phrase that you don’t understand. You make no effort to ask for clarification. It’s enough for you to see the sheer enthusiasm radiating off him as he tells you about karting as a child, and how he’d even done things under big names like Honda.
“I can’t believe you started karting at age four,” you say, half-teasing and half-awed.
He gives a vague hand gesture that attempts to communicate nonchalance, but he looks far too smug to pull it off. “Driving has always been a part of me,” he concludes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be without it.”
It’s a commitment you recognize. You’re just about to ask something else about him being a racing kart kid when your conversation is interrupted.
“Yuki.”
Even if it’s just Yuki being called, you can’t help but glance as well. There’s a guy hovering on Yuki's side of the aisle, eyeing the two of you with mild interest.
“We figured out the seating problem,” the newcomer tells Yuki. His English is accented, too. You think it might be French. “You can move up to the front now, if you like.”
“It’s not the ‘front’, Hadjar,” Yuki shoots as he leans back into his seat. He addresses Hadjar with an easy air; you gleam that they’re probably friends. “It’s ‘first class’.”
“Front, first class, whatever.” Hadjar gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve got your seat.”
“Only took you four hours,” Yuki grumbles, and you laugh under your breath.
The soft sound seems to remind Yuki of your presence. His gaze flicks over to you, and he tenses a bit. A full second ticks by. And then another. And then—
Hadjar clears his throat. “Any time now, Yukino.”
You had seen how different it was in first class. More space, better seats. The food would probably be nicer, too. You busy yourself with your personal television, trying to keep at bay the slight swell of disappointment in your chest at losing your seatmate.
Except Yuki doesn’t move.
“I think I’m good, man,” Yuki says to Hadjar.
Yuki, too, is pointedly avoiding looking at you. He’s trying to be casual about passing up his first-class upgrade, about the way Hadjar is snickering.
You can’t ignore the way your pulse stutters. The way it damn near stops when Yuki says, his voice so deliberately even, “I’ve got pretty good company right here.”
to: bestie 🤞
okay, fine
from: bestie 🤞
???
to: bestie 🤞
he’s hot.
from: bestie 🤞
EXACTLYYYYYYY
from: bestie 🤞
I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THESE 🙏🙏🙏
to: bestie 🤞
be normal. i’m just appreciating him ok.
from: bestie 🤞
Wtvr you say LOVERGIRL
from: bestie 🤞
WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?!
to: bestie 🤞
? nothing. watching a movie
from: bestie 🤞
okayyyy movie date
from: bestie 🤞
mile high club 🔜
to: bestie 🤞
this conversation is over.
It occurs to you that you could probably just search it up.
If you really, really wanted to scratch the itch of whoever the hell ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ was— you could just Google it. The in-flight WiFi was working swimmingly. It’d take one search, and you’d confirm whether the guy to your left has been lying to you or not.
In the end, you find that you don’t really care.
The cabin lights have been dimmed. When you crane your neck to check the few windows, all you see is inky darkness.
“We’re probably still over the Pacific,” Yuki says.
He pitches his voice lower, probably out of respect for the snoozing passengers in the rows you’re sandwiched between. You’re left with no choice but to lean into his personal space.
Your knee presses into Yuki’s.
You don’t apologize.
He doesn’t pull away.
The warm overhead glow of the seatbelt sign is your only source of light. Yuki’s dark hair falls into his eyes, but you have a feeling he’s still watching you with that scrutinizing gaze of his. It’s like he’s holding his breath; for what, you’re not sure.
“How do you feel about the ocean?” you ask, because there’s five more hours before you’re in Tokyo and you never have to see this man ever again.
You figure you could be anyone you want to be. You could be honest; you could lie your ass off. You could ask all the hard-hitting questions and come away unscathed, knowing this was a one-off in a liminal space that barely even feels real.
Yuki’s lips quirk to one side. He seems to be thinking the same thing. This is a safe place to land, a one-act play.
“I hate it,” he answers without missing a beat. “Sharks.”
You have to tamp back a laugh. “Sharks?”
“They’re evil and scary.”
“There’s only a five-year average of six unprovoked, shark-related fatalities per year.”
“Like mooo,” you say solemnly. “Cows kill about 22 people per year in the United States alone.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right?”
“You’re—” Yuki falters with a shake of his head, as if he’s banishing the thought that had just come to his mind.
You can’t have that. Playfully, you knock your knee against Yuki’s. “Don’t back out on me now,” you jab. “I’m…?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. You see the moment he decides fuck it, the way his eyes flash and he just pushes out the words that’d been at the tip of his tongue.
“You’re cute,” he says, “when you talk numbers.”
This time, you can’t fight the laugh that escapes you. It’s a little too loud; the person in the seat in front of you actually twists around to glare at you. You mumble an apology and lean in closer to Yuki, who doesn’t protest the way you’re practically leaning on his arm rest.
“‘Cute’ isn’t usually the word people would use to describe my nerdiness,” you joke, even though your palms suddenly feel a lot more clammy than it did a couple of minutes ago.
Yuki shrugs, feigning coolness. “I was actually going to go for ‘hot’,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, “but I didn’t want to scare you off.”
It occurs to you that this is flirting. Yuki’s hitting on you, throwing the ball in your court, and it’s your turn to say something just as smooth.
But then the plane jolts, straining your seatbelt against your form. Your fingers immediately find purchase at your armrest as the overhead seatbelt light blinks on.
“Ah, fuck,” Yuki grunts as he sinks back into his seat. “Turbulence.”
You would consider it a bit of a saving grace, if it weren’t for the forceful jolts that make you feel like your heart is in your throat. You know it’s not something to worry about— the pilots are trained professionals, after all— but the numbers all still glaring in your mind, like neon signs in their own right.
A breathing exercise. You should do a breathing exercise, you think. Or think happy thoughts. You squeeze your eyes shut as the turbulence rocks the plane a little more forcefully, jostling everyone on this flight.
Think about your itinerary in Japan, about a little Yuki go-karting, about sharks and cows, about—
There’s a hand on top of yours.
The neon signs in your head fizzle out.
You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to.
Yuki doesn’t say anything either. He just carefully, slowly strokes your white-knuckled grip with his thumb. His palm is surprisingly warm, and it grounds you enough to remind you, Right. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
You don’t know how long the turbulence lasts. It ends, by the Universe’s grace. You hear it first— the seatbelt light switching off.
It’s your turn to hold your breath.
You’re scared to move, scared to open your eyes. You think that if you do either, you’ll have to face the gentleness of Yuki’s touch, the kindness you don’t know what to do with. You’re scared he’ll stop, pull away, if you look at him.
And so you keep your eyes closed, and you keep on doing your breathing exercises despite the steady rise and fall of your chest.
And Yuki keeps on holding your hand.
You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you do. It’s a fitful sort of rest borne from the crash and burn of adrenaline. You stir some two hours later with a crick in your neck, your hand still under Yuki’s, and your head lolling against his shoulder.
The moment you realize how closely you’d gravitated to him during your nap, you’re peeling away from his side. He rouses as you do, his hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
Yuki is heavy-lidded as he offers you a hint of a smile. “What for?” he prods, his voice raspy with sleep.
You’re not sure, you realize. You’re sorry for falling asleep on him. You’re sorry for letting him hold your hand.
You’re sorry this flight will have to end.
You shrug.
“Then don’t,” Yuki says with surprising firmness. “Don’t apologize.”
His fingers twitch like they’re itching to reach out again. But he doesn’t, and so you only nod in response.
“What should I eat when I get to Tokyo?” you ask for the lack of a better thing to start with, and Yuki lights up like it’s a question he was born to answer.
from: bestie 🤞
YOU’RE LANDING SOOOONNNNNN <333
from: bestie 🤞
Congratulations on surviving your first flight my darling dearest 🧑✈️
to: bestie 🤞
💋 love ya. going on airplane mode. i’ll text once i’m omw to my hotel.
from: bestie 🤞
Please do!!
from: bestie 🤞
Don’t forget to give your seatmate a little goodbye kiss :)
to: bestie 🤞
do you want to die.
from: bestie 🤞
💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋
Landing is infinitely worse than takeoff.
As the plane begins to descend, you fight down the vague brush of panic. Not so much for the landing itself, but for what begins and ends because of it. You wrap your hands back around your armrests, your gaze fixed firmly on the personal television charting the flight’s progress.
Yuki doesn’t say anything. You realize you don’t know what type of person he is, not really. Would he joke around with you, if you were more than just two people stuck next to each other on an eight hour flight? Would he comfort you; would he tease you?
You’re struck with a sudden thought. A question you’d been meaning to ask. Now or never, it seems.
“Why didn’t you move up to first class?” you ask suddenly.
Yuki lets out a sound— something between a chuckle and a groan. He answers your question with one of his own. “Have you been thinking of that this entire time?”
“Not the entire time,” you shoot back.
He clicks his tongue. For a moment, you’re sure he’ll field the question, but he gives in. What does he have to lose, anyway, when you’re landing in less than 15 minutes?
“You’re good company.” The way he says it— like it’s as certain as the numbers you keep count of.
It’s that. The same thing he told Hadjar.
Nothing more, nothing less.
There are worse ways for this story to end, you decide, as you give a low hum of approval and brace for impact.
“You were pretty good company, too,” you say.
You’re sure that the two of you haven’t been entirely honest with each other this flight— the illusion of choice, of reinvention, just a little too alluring to ignore— but you hope Yuki knows that much, that one, is true.
So many first-time fliers have had terror stories about their experience, about the people with them. This was not one such case.
You don’t want to be sappy about it. You don’t have to, really. Not when Yuki is fighting back a smile, his own hands resting at his arm rests.
Your elbows squeeze against each other as the plane’s wheels hit the ground, and you take it as the last ‘accidental’ touch you’ll ever get from this virtual stranger.
This funny, handsome, kind stranger.
You wish you were the type of person to ask for someone’s Instagram handle, to secure a phone number. Instead, you’re the type to duck your head and avoid Yuki’s gaze as he takes a suspiciously long amount of time packing up his own things.
He stands up to go as you linger in your own seat, middlingly tugging at the duffel bag underneath the seat in front of you.
Don’t say goodbye, you nearly say. I’m not good at those.
“Thank you for flying with Yuki Air,” he says instead, doing a poor imitation of the pilot. “We hope you enjoy your stay in Japan!”
You laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He tacks on something you don’t understand, something in Japanese— sabishiku narimasu ne— but you don’t have the time to ask for a translation.
“I’m going to go meet up with my friends.” He shoulders his backpack, eyeing the slow-moving aisle on his end. “Don’t forget my food advice.”
He had been particular about the must-get dishes. “Motsunabe and seafood pasta,” you say, and he nods with approval.
A final smile. That’s all he offers you as he starts to step away.
Yuki didn’t seem to like goodbyes much, either.
Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag.
“Hey, Yuki!”
He’s already a couple of paces away, but his head whips around to look back at you. There’s something on his expression; it looks a lot like hope. He’s stuck in the line, though, and you know you can’t stall for too long.
“Drive safe,” you blurt out, immediately feeling stupid about those being your parting words.
You have no idea. You have no idea just how perfect it is, how there’s no phrase that would have left a better impression.
“I will,” he says with that treacherous, treacherous smile.
And then he’s gone.
Approximately 27 minutes later, you’re in the back of a cab staring slack-jawed at a billboard for the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix. Front and center, the country’s home driver.
The boy you’d sat next to for 12 hours.
You do the only logical thing. You call your best friend to apologize and say she was, in fact, not delusional.
She’s screaming in your ear as you rummage through your duffel bag in search of your printed out hotel booking.
“I can’t believe you were next to Yuki fucking Tsunoda,” your best friend screeches, “and nothing came out of it!”
“Ha-ha,” you say dryly. “You know I’ve got, like, zero game, right?”
“Don’t give me that! You could totally pull if you tried!”
Your best friend is caught between extolling your virtues and catching you up on Yuki’s lore as a driver when you find your booking. You pull it out—
Except it’s not your booking. It’s one of the tissues from the in-flight meal. It’s a bit crumpled and torn at the edges, but your eyes focus on something else instead.
Handwriting. Scratchy and shaky, like the person who had been scribbling couldn’t do it properly. Maybe because they had a head on their shoulder.
There’s a string of numbers, and then a note:
What’s the statistical probability of me getting a text?
Jeonghan w/ “What do you want princess? My mouth, hands, or my cock? I can’t help you until you use words baby.”
tags: fratboy!jeonghan, goodgirl!reader, college!au, fwb!au, panties used as a gag, sex on a washing machine, everyone catches feelings and joshua is annoying
wc: 3k
[part one]
like the worst kind of habit, you're kissing yoon jeonghan again. it's almost like he only wants to fuck you at the worst possible moment; either he's horrible at time management or he likes humiliating you. although by now, you're confident it's the latter.
"i can't believe i didn't get an a on my stupid history exam," you had told him. you ran into him on campus earlier, a little frazzled and a lot ticked off, and you guess he took pity on you because he offered to walk you home. "studied all fucking week for it."
"oh, how tragic." but jeonghan had turned to look at you, like he really cared, even if he'd rolled his eyes at you. "absolutely devastating to your perfect gpa!"
and you pouted and smiled at him like you would a friend, someone that you don't fuck and then leave the next possible moment.
"it's serious," you whined. "stop being annoying." and then he told you he knew a good way to make you forget about the exam, and even though you knew exactly what he was talking about, you still cleared your schedule and told him you'd come to the party later that night.
now you’re here, dolled up on a friday night for a party you don’t care about, with a guy you hate.
"thought—," you breathe, unable to get a word in edgewise between the kisses he's pressing to your lips—controlled, he's taking his time, like he just wants to cut you off because he can, because you let him. "—thought we would actually go to the party?"
"what do you mean, sweetheart?" jeonghan asks, devious smile playing on his lips and fingers already at tugging at the zipper of your jacket. "we are at the party."
"upstairs, you fiend," you huff, but you offer him your arms so he can pull the jacket off (again, unceremoniously letting it fall to the ground), then tug you into yet another kiss. "not in your dingy, gross basement. you guys are nasty." you warily eye the remnants of what looks like a centuries old beer case as jeonghan realizes you are not going to shut up anytime soon, instead opting to squeeze your ass through your skin-tight dress.
"aw, frat guys aren't so bad." jeonghan's voice drips with fake sympathy as you let out something between a moan and a shaky exhale as he pinches your ass hard. "but i'm sure you know that." you can't even be mad because he's attached his lips to your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses from your jaw to the swell of your tits, right up to where your skin ends and your dress begins. "that exam sure made you upset, huh? but i do love this dress on you."
the music is loud upstairs, loud enough that it feels like the whole building is pulsing. but somehow his voice cuts through you and sends electricity right down your spine, makes you feel like you're the only two people in this house, even though you know any one of a hundred people could waltz down the stairs at any moment.
"i—" you can't even form a full sentence when you feel jeonghan's lips close around your collarbone, his teeth skimming, searing over your hot skin.
i hate you, you want to say, but with the arousal pooling in your underwear, it's a little difficult. somehow, jeonghan, the last person on earth you thought you would sleep with, has got you eating out of the palm of his hand. for months now.
and then, catastrophically, someone comes sauntering down the stairs, balled up dress shirt in his hands. you think his name is joshua, but you hate the idea of existing to anyone in jeonghan's circle. he's tried to introduce you multiple times, every time ending in you reminding him that you aren't in the best state for introductions, not with a ring of mascara on your under eyes and half a million hickies on your neck.
"can you guys at least try to not fuck in front of me?" joshua asks, scoffing a bit as he grabs a stray bottle of detergent and flips open the lid to the corner washing machine.
jeonghan makes no effort to separate himself from you. you feel him laugh against your skin as he presses a kiss underneath your ear. "this is why you don't get laid, shua. you're doing chores during a party." then another kiss to your jaw. it's almost tender, like he wants joshua to know you're together. you're in his arms like you've been married for a decade.
"not my fault mingyu spilled half a bottle of malibu on my laundry." joshua sounds irritated but he still takes his time to make sure he fills the cap with enough fabric softener, right to the line. "need this shirt for my interview tomorrow."
jeonghan's amused by his friend's antics—he's taking his sweet time, but all you want, no, need, is to have him fuck your brains out. you tell yourself there's no other reason why you're here, not to spend time with jeonghan, and absolutely not to meet his friends.
so, against your better judgment (although, to be fair, if you were in your right mind, you wouldn't even be here in the first place), you reach down to palm jeonghan over his sweats. to your pride, he's not only hard but he almost, just almost, leans right into your touch. but just as soon as he does, he's back in control, strong hand around your wrist as joshua agonizes over whether to use "quick wash" or "delicates."
"did that girl ever call you back?" jeonghan asks, looking for ways to prolong your suffering. he drags your hand, still trapped in his, to between your thighs, as if he's beckoning you to get yourself off. and then he slides up the front of your dress, just enough so he can press your own finger right to the wetness at the seam of your pussy. "you seemed to really like her."
"fuck you, jeonghan." joshua rolls his eyes and hits the start button on the machine. and then a sheepish pause as jeonghan smirks at him from over your shoulder. "no, but she will. she's just busy." your knees buckle as jeonghan's grip tightens around your hand again, and he grinds your own palm up to your cunt. it's barely enough contract to make you feel anything, and it makes you unspeakably pissed that he has you in such a chokehold, that you can't even struggle against him because you like when he's using your own hand to get you off, when his knee slots between your legs to part them further, when he plays you so easily in front of his friend.
"whatever. you guys can fuck now," joshua says, heading up the stairs. "just don't do it on the washer so i can get my shit later."
"your shirt is safe with us," jeonghan replies, and the look he gives you is so horrible that you would almost be more scared for your pussy than turned on, but alas, he wins this fight as well.
—
"you have a lot of opinions today," jeonghan murmurs. he places a strong hand on your back to press you down a little harder on the lid of the washer, relishing in how garbled your moans become as it rattles.
"j-just really want," you struggle, mind hazy as you feel the hard curve of his cock against your ass. "—want you to fuck me." it's pathetic, utterly and irrevocably so, but your hips begin to grind themselves backwards—even though all your clothes are still on, the pressure of his dick and the vibrations of the washing machine on your cunt give you just that little bit of pressure, enough to have you whimpering, hiccupping for him to just fuck you already.
it's largely unsuccessful because you have next to no leverage in this position, already wobbling on your little kitten heels as your entire upper body is flush against the lid and your knees knock against the front.
god, the motion of the machine makes you wonder why you haven't gotten off like this before, as jeonghan kindly pushes you even further down it. "nnngh, s-shit," you slur, as the buzzing hits your clit just right.
"feeling good, sweetheart?" jeonghan asks, leisurely pushing your dress over your ass to reveal your soaked-through underwear. the minimal teasing he'd done earlier had done a number on you, and now it clings to your skin, sucked into your crack and the folds of your pussy. "aww, so needy."
he laughs so, so cruelly as he prods your hole through the fabric. you clench so hard around nothing, he can see the twitch of your panties, and he pushes the digit further, as much as the fabric allows, before slapping your ass hard and letting the sting bring you back down to reality.
"f-fuck—," the machine feels good, but jeonghan just had to remind you that you could be stuffed full of his cock, he just chooses not to allow you that. "please," you whisper. "thought you brought me here to fuck me."
you know you've crossed a line because even jeonghan takes pause after hearing that.
"mmm, really have a smart mouth today, huh?" his cold hands come to rest on your hips, where they slowly push down the fabric of your panties.
there's nothing left to say, so you just whimper, feeling the kick of the machine and the cool air of the basement against your sticky, warm cunt.
"you wanna get fucked good, huh?" jeonghan says this slowly, mockingly. he dips a finger, just barely, into your heat, and you moan loud enough you think even the people upstairs could hear over their shitty dance music.
"mmmhm," you warble, stupidly pressing as hard as you can against the metal in search of more friction.
"after such a rough day... with your exam and everything." the tone of his voice is so chilling, you might just cum on the spot. he slides your underwear to your calves and tugs, a signal for you to lift your heels so he can pull the item right off.
you think he's about to do something cheeky with them, like keep them or something.
"so desperate, reaching for my cock in front of my friends," he continues, torturously. he presses your damp panties against the bare skin of your leg, trailing it all the way up your thigh, over your ass so you can feel how wet you are. "poor baby, even dripping on the ground."
you mewl as the heat simmers in your core from the vibrations of the machine, but your clenching hole betrays how unsatisfied you are.
"lemme help you relax. tell me what you want, sweetheart," he coos. "my mouth, hands, or my cock?"
you're about to answer all three or i might just die when, to your shock, his hand crawls up beside your face and shoves your panties between your lips, effectively gagging you as the taste of your own slick fills your mouth.
one of jeonghan's hands wraps around your wrist to pull your arm back. but he leaves your other hand free to pull the fabric out if you wanted—you had talked about using gags before, and you're surprised jeonghan had remembered some passing pillow talk from last month. instead, you brace yourself against the machine with your free hand, finding you quite like the way your voice comes out muffled, the strangle of your whines between the fabric and the rumble of the washer.
"i can’t help you until you use your words, baby," jeonghan says, gently, like he cares. it makes you feel lightheaded, but you blame it on how delirious you feel with how over, yet, understimulated you are.
you try to choke out a word, any word. but it all comes out like a pitiful whimpering moan, and you just close your eyes and slump against the machine, resigning your fate to whatever jeonghan was going to give you. (not that you were in any way upset by this).
normally, jeonghan would be mean. you know this, having spent nights with his cock so far down your throat you could swear you felt its shape the next day when you swallowed. and you prepare yourself for the inevitable "none of the above," but instead he says, "guess i'll have to give you all three."
if you could pinch yourself, you would, but jeonghan doesn't really give you a chance. instead he squeezes your hips and tugs you off of the washer so you can stand up straight. "sit on the washer," he tells you, and you nod.
your skin still feels like it's buzzing, but the sensation of the washer now underneath your cunt makes your eyelids heavy with pleasure. your legs part in anticipation, orgasm winding up in your stomach again.
part of you wonders if he gagged you because he wanted to give you all three, and it makes your stomach twist in a funny way.
"look so pretty with your mouth full, huh?" jeonghan says, running a thumb over your trembling lips. "is this ok?" he asks, this time more softly, and you nod again.
"fuck, gonna fuck you so good." and even hearing that makes you teary-eyed.
the visual is so filthy; you, a straight-A honor roll student with lipstick-smeared panties in your mouth, grinding against some washing machine in a basement, small hands gripping on jeonghan's shoulders for dear life. but it feels so good, and when his fingers are in you, you swear you've never felt better.
you bite on the lace, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the tips of his fingers hook right into your g-spot every time. your arousal leaks out from between his fingers and pools on the lid; you sound so fucking messy but you don't care, over the swell of the music and the clamor of the party are just you and him and his lips on your neck. his palm kisses your clit every time he enters deep, and that combined with the vibrations of the machine send you over the edge embarrassingly quickly, sobbing around the fabric in your mouth.
you're bleary-eyed with pleasure, nodding dumbly when jeonghan asks if he can take the panties out so he can kiss you. he's never kissed you as many times as he has today, and you let him, swollen lips parting so he can pull the fabric out of your mouth and replace it with his tongue. and then he bottoms out, the fat head of his cock snug against your g-spot, and your cry is so loud and clear that it even surprises you.
"o-oh my god," you babble, tossing your head back as your walls squeeze him in. you're not sure why today feels so different, maybe it's because of all the pent-up frustration from the week but something tells you it has more to do with how jeonghan's brows knit together when you say his name, how he's telling you i've got you, how he pulls you flush to his body.
you cum once on his cock, your shaking legs wound tight around him as you tell him more, more, and so kindly, he obliges you, fucking you rough and deep and rolling your swollen clit between his fingers just as you like. he doesn't say it but as much as he likes hearing you choke on your panties, he'd much prefer seeing you as you are now, cheeks flushed and jaw hanging open, little ahs and pleases falling out of your mouth every time he stuffed you good.
and then you cum again, so hard you arch your trembling body right into him, muscles turning to mush. "th-thank," you start to say, but he presses his lips to yours again and you melt right into him.
what the fuck are you doing melting into yoon jeonghan? you briefly think to yourself, but the way he tips your chin up to wipe your tears makes you forget any of the animosity you had. you'd almost regret it, but you think you like being in his arms—maybe it has something to do with his cum spilling out onto the lid of the washer as he pulls out, but you're starting to doubt it.
and almost perfectly timed, the machine stops.
"fucking joshua," jeonghan groans, but you're quickly coming to and realize if you came one more time on his tongue you would positively shatter into a million pieces on this dirty concrete floor. "you ok?"
"y-yeah." you breathe deep and slow as you come down from your high, centering yourself on the cool of the metal and the steadiness of jeonghan's gaze. "fuck," you whisper to yourself, still feeling your hole flutter with the remnants of your orgasm.
"i can tell joshua to come down for his shit later," jeonghan says, letting you gather your bearings as he retrieves your jacket from the floor.
"no, no, i should really start walking home." he looks at you with a raised eyebrow. "what? i can walk!" and you'd never thought you'd ever see him smile as you talked back to him, but he does, and you like it.
you clamber off the machine, and as soon as your heels hit the ground, it feels like there's no ground at all. maybe how nice he's being made you forget the force that he fucked into you with, definitely hard enough to bruise.
but there's no told you so when jeonghan catches you, though, just the annoying familiarity of his laugh as he wraps an arm around you.
"stay the night," he says, and you never stay the night, not if you can help it. but tonight you want to.
"okay."
"you guys done now?" joshua's petulant voice floats down the staircase, accompanied by the background music of a terrible kendrick lamar remix.
you laugh, a warm one that's swallowed up by jeonghan's lips on yours for the umpteenth time that night. you're kissing yoon jeonghan, really kissing him, and for once, you don't seem to mind.
frat boy jeonghan and fucking in between classes OH M YFUCK making you suck on his fingers to keep you quiet
[part two]
your phone buzzes on the desk, abandoned with your backpack and your favorite shirt, which jeonghan had so unceremoniously stripped off you the moment the door to the classroom closed.
how'd you know i love flowers? he had said, before promptly bending you over the front desk.
didn't know you were such a romantic, yoon jeonghan.
only for you, sweetheart.
now, with his dick so far up you, it's hard for you to think, nevertheless be upset, no, humiliated, jeonghan was able to easily convince you to fuck in an empty classroom, in the middle of the day, with your skirt flipped up and your tits pushed out of your bra for the world to see. plus, your goddamn phone is so loud in the quiet room, and it seems to amplify the sounds of the table rattling, your labored breathing, the slick of your cunt sucking him in.
"fuck, it-it's my roommate," you manage, eyes watering from pleasure. "was s'posed to — fuck — lend her my— " your train of thought leaves the station when he pulls out and uses the head of his cock to slap your clit a few times. your eyes wrench shut, a pitiful moan replacing the end of your sentence.
"will you shut up and let me fuck you?"
"m-my calculator," you sputter, feeling helpless to the waves of pleasure overtaking you. he bottoms out again, and your head goes positively blank. "oooh, fuck, right there."
just then, you hear the chatter of students passing by the classroom.
is this where they moved class?
soonyoung, does this look like room 354 to you?
jeonghan immediately slaps a hand over your mouth, which is currently (embarrassingly) hanging wide open in a silent moan, and he stills his hips long enough to have you whimpering against his long fingers.
your phone buzzes one last time, as if right on cue.
"you want them to hear how good i'm fucking you? want your pretty pussy on display for the whole school to see?"
you tearfully shake your head, wanting desperately for him to start moving. instead, he kicks his hips up into you even further; the fat head of his dick digs so well into your sweet spot that you don't think you've ever felt anything as good as this. not even close.
"thought so." you can't see him with your cheek flush to the mahogany like that, but the grit in his voice makes you wonder if he, too, is as affected as you are.
you know if any of your friends caught wind of this, it would all be over for you, the man-hating, honor roll student who said she wanted nothing to do with frat boys. but you just had to meet yoon jeonghan, who had poor you under his spell the night he ate you out at that cursed stoplight party.
pity you don't have anything red, he had said, spitting on your throbbing clit. how're they gonna know who made you cum so hard? and all you could do was grind on his tongue, begging for him to do it all over again.
he punches up into your ass again, and you gasp, muffled by his hand, which normally seems so small and unassuming but is relentless against your lips, almost like he wants it to hurt. fuck, you're trying so hard to keep quiet, keep an ounce of your dignity, but he fills you up so well, it's like you can't, won't, want anything else but for him to make sure you can't walk to your next class.
before you can make another sound, you feel jeonghan's other hand connect with your upper thigh, the slap dull and muted as you keen against him. "am i fucking you too good, sweetheart? can't keep it down?"
and, being the wicked person he is, he pushes your lips open with his thumb, then promptly shoves god knows how many fingers into your hot, wet mouth. maybe it's how his cock has your eyes rolling to the back of your head or how his fingertips are coated in your slick, but you instinctively, pathetically start sucking on them. your moans thread out to tiny little whimpers as you tongue the digits, the action somehow grounding you as you feel like your mind is floating out somewhere in space.
"so fucking cute, should have my fingers in your mouth all the time," he coos, but however sweet you might want it to be, it doesn't last long, because he slides his fingers in that much deeper so you gag around them, presses on your tongue like he doesn't want the taste of his skin to leave your mouth.
what a foul man, you think. but that thought doesn't last long either, because before you know it, you're fluttering around his cock, moaning around his fingers as your body gets impossibly tense, and you feel like your soul leaves your body for a split second before you're brought back by the feeling of his hot cum on your ass, still sore from how he was squeezing it earlier.
"god, jeonghan, didn't i tell you to keep your cum to yourself?" you whine. "fuck, i have class in 3 minutes."
it is almost ironic how tenderly he wipes his cum off your skin with the kleenex he stole from a desk drawer and flips your skirt down, smoothing his palm over your aching ass to cop a feel.
"same time next week?"
once, twice, shame on him, but three times makes you the fool, and you definitely feel like it as you nod yes, yes please, yet again.
and jeonghan, intoxicatingly, plants a kiss on your exposed shoulder, then slings his bag over his shoulders. "prof hates when we're late," he says. "hope your roommate gets whatever the fuck she needs from you."
and just like that, he's gone, leaving you breathless and cum-soaked. you're not even mad, and that's the worst part, you think, as you pull your bra back down and make a mental note to call in sick for your class next week.
“w-we have to finish your study guide,” wonwoo says, pushing up his glasses by the bridge.
you sigh, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder. wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat and his entire body goes stiff. your hand on his thigh doesn’t move any higher. instead you tease him, squeezing where it’s currently resting just above his knee.
“but it’s hard,” you whine.
it isn’t the only thing that’s hard and you’re well aware of that fact. the crease between your brows eases when wonwoo groans in defeat. you smirk to yourself, knowing you’ve won. wonwoo clears his throat and stares down at the paper on the desk in front of you.
“just do… one more problem,” he tries, practically pleading.
to his relief, you seem to perk up. “if i do it, will i be rewarded?”
“rewarded?” he asks. you nod. “how so?”
“i can think of a few options,” you muse.
“such as?”
“a kiss?”
oh, that’s it? wonwoo could work with that. as much as he wanted to do more, he wasn’t sure that he could handle it. he didn’t have much experience when it came to… that stuff— whereas it seemed like you did. he doesn’t want to embarrass himself or be too forward so he simply nods, trying to appear confident.
“i can work with that. but just one and only if you get it right.”
he watches as you lean over the desk and begin solving the next statistics problem, chuckling to himself. it’s the most diligent you’ve been all day and wonwoo thinks he should’ve done this sooner if it was going to get you to work this hard.
you announce that you’re done less than a minute later, pulling wonwoo from his thoughts. you eye him as he checks your work, eagerly awaiting the verdict.
“good job,” he says finally.
“it’s right?!”
“you didn’t write down one of the steps because you did it in your head again but yeah, it’s right.”
“sooo do i get my reward?”
“um, yes…” he swallows nervously.
how should he go about this? a gentle peck? a full on kiss? should he use tongue?
“can i kiss you now?” you ask.
wonwoo hadn’t expected you to be the one to kiss him but he’s sort of glad that’s what’s happening because it takes the pressure off of him.
“go ahead.”
you lean forward and wonwoo closes his eyes in preparation. he jumps when he feels your lips on the side of his neck, realizing immediately that you never specified where you would kiss him. wonwoo was already hard, this wasn’t going to help at all.
you set a hand on the other side of his neck to hold him in place while you kiss him and he’s sure you can feel his pulse beneath your lips, beneath your fingertips, but that’s the least of his worries. you already know the effect you have on him. the erection in his pants is far more damning than any other stupid physical reaction he might have to you.
your tongue swipes across his skin suddenly, followed by the graze of your teeth and wonwoo can’t help but moan quietly. he feels you smile against him before you straighten back up.
series synopsis : people say that you’ll experience three kinds of love in your lifetime. the first is an idealistic love, the kind that feels straight out of a fairy tale. the second is the hard love, the kind that will leave you with lessons about yourself and the love you want and need to experience. finally, the love you never see coming. this is the story of your three loves.
pairing : svt 97 line x gn!reader
genre/s : non-idol au, coming of age, angst, fluff, my attempts at humor
act one : the idealistic love ➤ part 06 : safe skies
after three years of being in a relationship, and even more of knowing each other, it was supposed to be yn and seokmin forever. yn and seokmin until the end. what changed? how did all their plans for the future become more and more uncertain with each passing day?
previous ➤ act one, part five
next ➤ act one, part seven
growing pains ➤ masterlist
from reese, with love <3
the amount of seokmin airport photos i went through for this update ?? uncountable ;-; thank you sm for reading ! as always, id love to know what you think :)) hope you are all doing well and taking care of yourselves :))
pairing: jeonghan x reader
wordcount: 5.2k
summary: you can never, have never, will never get along with Yoon Jeonghan, but unfortunately you have a chemistry that is simply undeniable. no strings attached is perfect, except when those pesky feelings and that new girl decide to pop up unannounced.
genre/themes: smut, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, emotional constipation, reader is in denial. chaotic seungkwan.
a/n: OKKK! this is filthy so i hope you enjoy it :)
You sighed deeply as you looked at Jeonghan across the office. You’d thought that, maybe, after hooking up with him your strong feeling of anger towards this man would dissipate. No such luck. It seemed that the only time you could stand him was when you were in the midst of intercourse with him. Even shortly before and after, you found yourself bickering.
“If you plan to kill him, please do it off of company property,” your HR manager and friend, Minghao, joked as he took a seat beside you.
“Of course, Hao, I would never force you to do that paperwork,” you laughed heartily.
“Thank you,” he nodded at you prudently.
“I know I’m not supposed to know in an official capacity, but…?” Hao shot a meaningful look at you.
