AUTHOR’S NOTE ! — she’s backkkkk🤭 i’m so so sorry for how long it’s taken me to update this series, life’s just been getting CRAZY and is kicking my ass but i promise to start regularly again !!
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — handcuffs & restraint, bondage above head, manhandling, orgasm denial & forced edging, overstimulation, breath play/choking, jaw grip/forced eye contact, face-fucking & gag reflex play, spit play (spitting in mouth/body), forced self‑tasting, vibrator torture (remote control), rough lap sex, car sex, semi‑public sex/exhibitionism & voyeurism, window/rough surface grinding, degradation & possessive dirty talk/name‑calling, humiliation, crying kink/tears, spanking/impact play (ass & thigh slaps), hair pulling, nipple play/biting, rimming (anal oral), anal fingering/stretching, double‑stuffed fingers (both holes), ass slapping & spreading, throat grabbing while thrusting, creampie/cum play & dripping, squirting/fluid mess, bruising/grip marks, risk of marks on skin & clothing, fast/erratic pacing, power‑imbalance dom/sub dynamics. dubious consent tones (control play), risk of exposure in public, aggressive language, restrained movement, tears, choking/breath restriction, objectification, intense/erratic sex pacing.
The air in the car feels heavy before the windows even fog, a heat that comes from years of him teaching you what you didn’t know you wanted, from nights when you clawed his back raw and begged until your throat broke for mercy he never gave. Three years, long enough to be his, branded into your skin in fingerprints and bruises, short enough that you still wake up dazed that the boy who ruined everyone else chose to ruin you permanently. He was the name whispered through every dorm hall, the one with the body that made girls reckless and the mouth that left them wrecked, all sharp smirks and sweat-drenched sheets. You were the quiet virgin, tucked into corners with your books, too shy to hold eye contact, too easy a mark for someone like him. And yet you’re the one he never let go of, the one he corrupted until the girl you used to be blurred into something only he could create, his slut, his whore, his sweetest weakness and filthiest obsession, broken open on his cock night after night until you forgot what untouched ever felt like.
He made you into a cock-hungry whore who can’t sleep without the stretch of him splitting you, who begs to be used against every surface, bent over counters, stuffed full in locker rooms, gagging on his length in lecture halls just because he snapped his fingers. Your body runs on his rhythm, trained to arch and bounce and take every brutal thrust until you’re hoarse from screaming, until the slick between your thighs drips down your legs and stains the sheets he’ll ruin again hours later. He fucks you like you’re nothing and worships you like you’re everything in the same breath—fingers buried in your throat, tongue dragging over your clit until you’re convulsing, cock pounding into you so erratic you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure starts. Three years and every position, every filthy idea he’s dragged out of you has only made you needier, a perfect slut molded for him alone, the kind that cries if he withholds and falls apart the second he gives in.
Jeno drives like he fucks: one hand steady on the wheel, the other always claiming you. Tonight it’s on your thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you who it belongs to, thumb tracing higher each time you shift. The neon glow outside stains his profile in flashes of blue and red, jaw sharp, cheekbones carved, dark hair falling over eyes that cut when he glances at you. His lips are wet, swollen from where you couldn’t stop yourself earlier, and the hickeys on his neck are blooming proof of what he let you get away with before punishing you for it. Every muscle in his arm flexes as he grips the wheel, veins standing out against skin still heated from the gym, and your pulse stumbles watching the way his shirt clings to his chest. He looks dangerous and gorgeous and entirely yours, a vision that makes your thighs press together even as his hand spreads them apart with lazy authority. He drives with the calm of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, one hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy on your thigh, forcing it open a little wider every time you try to press them together.
The car hums with a low growl, the same kind of sound he makes when you ride him too slow, when he grabs your hips and pounds up into you until your cries echo off the walls. Every streetlight passing feels like a countdown, your body tuned to his even when he doesn’t say a word. This is how he always starts, calm, in control, letting you simmer until you’re wet and aching without him even touching where you need. His profile could be a sin in itself—sharp nose, jaw tightening as he flexes his grip on your thigh, lips twitching like he knows exactly how soaked you already are. He always knows. You stare and he smirks, dragging his thumb closer to the edge of your panties, and you realize you’re already undone just from the way he looks behind the wheel, the boy who turned you inside out now driving you toward another night you’ll barely survive.
Your thighs won’t stay still, no matter how hard you press them together, no matter how heavy his hand clamps down over them. The leather squeaks beneath you with every squirm, breath spilling out in shallow, shaky whines as you turn your face toward his profile, watching the perfect slope of his jaw flex, the wet shine of his lips, the dangerous calm in the way he keeps one hand on the wheel like nothing’s happening while your pulse stutters out of control. “Nono, I can’t wait,” you whisper, voice breaking, teeth dragging over your swollen bottom lip as your hand inches higher, curling over his wrist to drag his palm closer to where you ache. “Jeno, please—” the plea shatters into a whimper as you spread your thighs wider under his touch, desperate, shameless, panting into the hot space of the car.
You lean into him, lips grazing the edge of his ear, and your voice turns filthier, dripping with need. “You can’t make me wait three hours… not when I’m already soaked for you. Pull over, ruin me right here. I want your cock down my throat until I choke, I want to ride you until my thighs give out, I want you to use me until I’m crying all over your seat.” Your nails skim dangerously close to the bulge in his jeans, fingers ghosting over the hard line of him, and you giggle when he growls low in his throat, breath catching on your tongue like gasoline ready to ignite. “C’mon, baby, just let me taste—”
The brakes slam so hard your body jolts against the seatbelt, cuffs clinking violently as his hand shoots up to your jaw, grip bruising, forcing your lips apart in a helpless gasp. The car jerks to a stop on the side of the dark road, headlights spilling into the trees, and he finally turns, his face shadowed and sharp, a growl curling from his chest as his eyes pin you in place. The heat of his breath, the tension in his muscles, the sheer force of his presence makes your stomach twist tight with hunger and fear at once. “You really wanna play with me here?” he snarls, voice low and lethal, but his lips twitch in that half-smirk that tells you you’ve succeeded, that you’ve broken through the calm into the storm you were begging for. And god, he’s terrifying like this—terrifying and so fucking sexy your thighs quake, your mouth falling open around a desperate little gasp as you wait for him to tear you apart.
His grip on your jaw tightens, forcing your head back against the seat until your eyes lock on his, no escape from the weight of his stare. His voice is gravel when he speaks, low and vibrating through your bones, the kind of sound that makes your thighs tremble harder than his touch. “You think you can move my hands like that? You think you can beg and pout and act like a little whore in my car, on my road, when I told you to wait?” His words drip with venom, but his thumb presses against your lower lip until it pops free, your mouth open and panting, saliva catching the glow of the dash. “You don’t get to tell me when, you don’t get to tell me how. You’re mine, and you’ll take it when I decide.”
Your hips lift from the seat anyway, shameless and wild, wrists straining against the cuffs as you push your body into his hold. “Then decide now,” you whisper, voice wrecked with want, tongue darting out to lick at the tip of his thumb just to make him twitch. “Pull me out and fuck me until the windows shatter. I’ll scream for you, I’ll choke for you, I’ll make a mess all over your cock, Jeno—just let me have it.” You grind up into the seat, the slick sound obscene in the silence, and giggle through your gasp when his nostrils flare, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back a beast.
“God, look at you,” he growls, leaning closer, his breath hot against your cheek, his teeth flashing as he bares them in a grin that’s nothing short of feral. “Begging to get ruined by the side of the road, soaking my seat like a desperate slut, rubbing yourself raw because you can’t wait. You wanna be a cock-hungry whore for me so bad, don’t you?” He yanks your chin, forcing you to nod, forcing you to choke out a needy little yes even as your eyes roll back. “Say it,” he snaps, the word a command that burns straight through your spine.
“I’m your whore,” you gasp, shameless, your thighs spreading wider, your chest heaving. “I’m your cock-hungry slut, Jeno, please—please ruin me now.” The words drip from your mouth like sin, and you see the way his lips twitch, the darkness flooding his eyes as his growl deepens, the air in the car turning molten with the promise of what’s about to break loose.
Despite the dominance that drips from him in moments like this, Jeno has always been a sweet, giving boyfriend—three years of him spoiling you, taking care of you, balancing the filth with a tenderness that makes you ache even deeper. Tonight was meant to be different; he’d surprised you with a romantic staycation in a secluded cabin, a weekend meant for slow mornings, wine by the fire, and the kind of intimacy that wasn’t all bruises and cuffs. He’d rushed you when you were getting ready, muttering about check-in times and how he wanted to get there before midnight, and normally you would’ve crawled into his lap before leaving, riding his cock until you were sloppy and satisfied enough to handle the drive. But he didn’t let you, clamped his hand around your wrist, kissed you quick, and said you’d have to wait until you were there. Now the cruel irony sinks in: you’re going to be late anyway, because there’s no version of reality where the two of you can go hours without fucking. It’s not just lust, it’s a need, a hunger that burns both of you raw. You crave him the way lungs crave air, the way your body bends to him without thought, and he’s just as feral, obsessed with you to the point of madness, the kind of man who can’t stand the idea of anyone else hearing the sounds he rips out of you yet thrives on making you scream loud enough for the world to know you’re his. By the time the brakes screech and his growl rips through the car, you both know the truth—you’re never going to make it to that cabin without tearing each other apart first.
The cuffs snap around your wrists before you can even process the sound of them, steel cold and tight, locking you against the headrest so you can’t move, can’t touch, can’t beg with your hands the way you want to. The clink echoes through the car every time you shift, a cruel reminder of your helplessness, and your chest burns with the humiliation of being trapped like this, half-naked under the wash of headlights spilling into the empty lot, nothing to cover you but the shadows painting your skin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, he sets you up like he’s done it a hundred times before, the cuffs cinched just right, your arms pulled tight until your shoulders ache, your body perfectly restrained for him to play with. You’re squirming, trembling, wetness spreading beneath you on the leather, but he doesn’t give you a drop of mercy.
The hum of the engine fills the silence, low and steady like the growl in his chest when you whine too loud. He leans back in his seat, one hand braced on the wheel just to look casual, the other running heavy up your thigh, spreading you wider until your panties stick to the slick between your folds. He knows what the cuffs do to you—knows you’ve loved them ever since the first time he locked you up in his dorm bed, when you were still too shy to admit you wanted to be helpless, when you cried from being edged for an hour while he whispered how pretty you looked begging with your wrists chained. That was the night he broke you open, the night you admitted you got off on being bound, and since then it’s been a sickness between you both. Tonight, parked and hidden but still so close to being seen, he knows you’ll lose your mind.
The cuffs are an old game, one he first slipped on you in his dorm room three years ago when you were still shy, still hesitant, when he wanted to prove how easy it was to make you unravel without giving you anything at all. What should have been a joke turned into a sickness neither of you could cure. Every time he’s chained you up since, you’ve come harder, faster, crying louder, begging filthier, the helplessness rewiring something inside you until you crave the steel bite of restraint as much as you crave his cock. Tonight he doesn’t even have to explain why—he knows you ache for it, knows your body won’t feel right until you’re shackled into place, knows you can’t fight the heat that floods you when you’re rendered helpless under him.
He tilts his seat back with a snap, leather groaning, and manhandles you where he wants you. The chain bites when he pulls your arms higher, locking them tight so your chest arches forward. Then he drags your legs up over the console, spreading you open indecently, your knees splayed wide under the dim glow of the dash. He doesn’t have to say why, he’s displaying you for himself, for the empty street outside, for the thrill of knowing anyone could pass and see you cuffed and dripping in the passenger seat. His palm clamps over your jaw, tilting your face until your mouth falls open like he’s trained you to, his thumb stroking your tongue just to hear the wet gag of your throat when he pushes deeper. “Better,” he tips his head, studying you like a painting he already owns, and there’s something cruel in the way his thumb presses to your tongue as if to remind you he can fill you however, whenever, wherever he wants.
“Keep your fucking eyes on me, slut. Don’t blink. Don’t you dare look away.” His voice is a weapon, deep and sharp, vibrating through your body as you squirm against the cuffs. Your thighs rub together despite the spread, desperate for friction, every nerve ending on fire as your pussy throbs just from the sound of his tone. You moan shamelessly around his fingers, drool spilling down your chin as he fucks them lazily into your mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. He pulls them out with a wet sound, smearing spit across your cheek with a satisfied smirk. The windows fog fast, every gasp and sob bouncing back at you until the car feels like a furnace. Your wrists ache, your shoulders strain, the cuffs clink with every useless pull you make, but none of it matters—not when you’re leaking through your panties, not when the humiliation of being bound, displayed, and denied only makes you wetter. He doesn’t touch where you need, doesn’t offer an ounce of relief, just lets you stew in it, bound and trembling and undone by the sheer weight of his control.
He leans into it, dragging this out, forcing you to understand what these cuffs mean, what they’ve always meant: no matter how bratty you get, no matter how desperate you are, you’re his to break apart when he wants, not before. He clamps your jaw tighter, shoving two fingers back past your lips, fucking them into your throat slow and deep while his eyes stay locked on the road. The humiliation is blinding, spit pouring down your chin, windows fogging with every choked gasp, but it makes your cunt gush harder, the slick squelch between your thighs obscene in the silence. “Pathetic little thing,” he mutters, and your eyes flutter, tears brimming as your body arches against the cuffs.
“Already dripping just because I put you in cuffs. You don’t even need my cock, do you? Just the chains and my voice are enough to make you fall apart.” His words scorch through you, your body jerking helplessly as the obscene wet squelch between your thighs echoes in the silence. You moan louder, shameless, and the smirk on his lips twists darker. He leans closer, breath hot against your ear as he keeps his hand heavy on your throat. “You love it, don’t you? You love being my little slut in cuffs. Love when I take away your hands, take away your choices, and leave you like this, helpless, needy, soaking my seat like a dumb whore.” His grip tightens, squeezing until your eyes roll, until your breath cuts off and your chest heaves, and you can’t even nod, can’t even answer, just choke on the pleasure burning you alive.
He releases you just enough to let you breathe, but his palm never leaves your throat, pressing heavy as his thumb traces over your fluttering pulse. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to be chained up, wanted me to make you cry all over my seat, wanted to be reminded that this is what you’re good for.” His words sink into you like heat, filthy and absolute, and you can’t deny it, not when your thighs are trembling wide open, not when the cuffs clink with every pathetic squirm. He doesn’t even give you a chance to answer before his hand slides lower again, hovering at the edge of your panties, so close you want to scream. He doesn’t touch, not yet. He just hovers, making you quake, making you beg with your whole body while the threat of his cock hangs in the air like a guillotine about to drop.
His hand hovers over your cunt like he’s teasing himself just as much as you, and the cuffs bite deeper when you jerk your wrists to try and close the distance. You’re sobbing out little pleas already, mouth wet and swollen from his fingers, and he just laughs, low and sharp, letting his knuckles brush the edge of your panties before pulling away. “So fucking needy. You love being chained up like this, don’t you? My dumb little whore, dripping just from the sound of the cuffs rattling.” His palm smacks the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting, then presses back down, grinding against the wet lace for two seconds—just enough to make your body seize—before he pulls away again, leaving you gasping. “Pathetic. Can’t even sit there without begging to be ruined.”
He drags his fingers under the band of your panties at last, slow and deliberate, and dips them into your folds, collecting the slick that’s already soaking through the seat. Instead of touching your clit, he pulls them out, holds them in front of your face, and shoves them between your lips. “Taste it. Swallow it all.” His voice is rough, but his eyes burn as he watches your throat work, spit and arousal mixing down your chin. He smears the rest across your mouth, rubbing it in with his thumb like he’s marking you, then grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, forcing you to look at him. “Look at you. You’re nothing but my filthy little mess. Can’t keep your mouth or your cunt empty for more than five minutes, can you?”
This time, when he slides his fingers back down, he doesn’t stop at your clit. He pushes two inside without warning, deep and rough, his palm grinding down against your swollen clit through the lace as he fucks them into you fast enough to make the cuffs rattle with every thrust. You choke on your own gasp, your thighs jerking, but he doesn’t let you ride it—he clamps his free hand over your throat and growls, “Stay still. You don’t come until I say.” His pace is brutal, fucking his fingers into you like he’s punishing you for every whimper, dragging your slick out loud enough to fill the car with obscene wet sounds. Then, just when you’re shaking, right on the edge, he pulls out and shoves the soaked fingers back into your mouth. “That’s yours. You eat every drop before you get anything else.”
And then he does something filthier, he shoves your thighs higher, knees pinned back against your chest, spreading you wide open against the seat while your wrists strain in the cuffs. With your body folded, your panties stretched tight over your clit, he spits directly onto the wet fabric, watching it darken before rubbing it in with two fingers until you’re convulsing under him. “Look at that. My slut cuffed up, crying, soaking in spit and slick. You look like a fucking porno right now.” He presses down hard, circling your clit through the spit-soaked lace, his eyes locked on your face. “Say it. Say you’re my whore. Say you’ll let me keep you cuffed like this forever.”
Your wrists ache from the cuffs, your body folded in on itself, knees shoved back against your chest, panties dark and clinging to you as his spit seeps through the fabric. You’re panting so hard the windows drip with fog, every sound in the car obscene—wet, messy, desperate. His fingers rub tight circles over your clit through the soaked lace, rough enough to make you thrash against the headrest. You can’t hold it in, the words spilling out high and shameless. “Jeno—fuck—please, baby, please. I need your cock. I need it so bad, I’ll take it anywhere, I don’t care, just, fuck me, ruin me.” Your voice breaks, frantic. “I’ll take it in my pussy, my ass, my throat, I don’t care, I just need you inside me.”
He growls, low and dangerous, pressing his palm harder until your back arches. “Listen to yourself,” he snaps, dragging his hand down to slap your pussy hard through the lace. The sound cracks through the car, and you scream, your body jerking. “Begging to be stuffed in every hole like a fucking cock-hungry slut. You want it that bad?” He smirks, spreading your folds with two fingers just to watch you twitch. “Say it again. Say you’ll take me in your pussy and your ass, that you’ll choke on my cock until you’re crying.”
Tears burn your eyes, your mouth wet with spit and his slick, your voice cracking but still loud, shameless. “Yes! Yes, fuck, I’ll take it, all of it, I’ll take your cock anywhere you want. Please, Jeno, use me, I’m your slut, your filthy, cuffed-up whore, please just give it to me!” Your words collapse into sobs, your thighs trembling violently. “Fuck my ass, fuck my pussy, fuck my throat, I don’t care, I just need to feel you. I can’t wait, I can’t—please, baby, I’ll scream for you, I’ll do anything.”
He grabs your jaw, squeezing until your mouth pops open, spitting inside and watching you swallow before shoving two fingers back down your throat. “That’s all you are, huh?” he snarls, his hips shifting forward so the thick outline of his cock grinds against your bare ass where you’re pressed up against the seat. “A cock-hungry toy. My slut who begs to be filled everywhere until you’re dripping and crying. You want my cock in your ass too? You want me to stretch you open right here, cuffs rattling, windows fogged, anyone who walks past watching you scream for it?” His voice is so dark it makes you clench, and he smirks when he feels the way your body answers for you.
His fingers fuck you open mercilessly, one hand working your pussy until it gushes, the other stretching your ass with rough, deliberate thrusts. The cuffs clink violently with every jerk of your body, your screams bouncing back at you in the fogged glass. He leans in close, voice a gravelled snarl, “You’re dripping everywhere, slut. Both your holes stretched on my fingers like you were made for it. You can’t stop, can you? You’ll take anything I give you.” He slams his fingers in deep, curling them until your back bows off the seat, the wet squelch filling the car louder than your begging.
Your mouth falls open, drool spilling down your chin as you choke out, “Yes—fuck—please, Jeno, cock, I need your cock, I’ll do anything, please!”
With one final thrust he rips his fingers out, leaving both your holes empty and twitching. The sudden absence makes you cry out, a broken, guttural sound, your whole body shuddering as if you’ve been abandoned on the edge of an orgasm that never comes. He smirks cruelly at the sight, your thighs shaking, your ass slick, cuffs rattling in desperate protest. “Pathetic,” he mutters, wiping your wetness over your stomach before grabbing your chin in his fist. “You’re gonna ride me cuffed, you’re gonna bounce until your thighs give out, and you’re gonna cry like the filthy whore you are for cock. That’s the only way you get what you want.”
He shifts back in his seat, spreading his legs, belt buckle rattling loudly in the cramped silence. The sound is deliberate, a taunt, the promise of what you’re begging for, but he doesn’t free himself yet. He watches your eyes lock onto his hands as he loosens the leather, your breathing turning into ragged sobs when he tugs the strap open only to leave his cock trapped behind his jeans. “Strip,” he orders, voice flat, lethal. “Every last thing. I want you naked, cuffed, dripping in my passenger seat while I’m still fully dressed.” The humiliation burns hot across your skin, your body arching against the cuffs as you whine, but you obey, tugging and writhing until your clothes are stripped away, leaving you bare and shaking while he sprawls back in his shirt and jeans, cool and untouched.
He doesn’t rush. His hand hovers over you, the heat of his palm taunting, fingers brushing your clit oncex just once, before pulling away, leaving your body convulsing. Then he produces a small remote from his pocket, clicks it on, and the hum of a vibrator tucked against your folds makes your eyes fly wide. He presses it there with his palm, letting the buzz tear through you until your mouth drops open in a scream, and then clicks it off, ripping the sensation away. The silence that follows is deafening, the wet sound of your cunt twitching against nothing obscene in the empty night. You sob, tears streaming, and he clicks it on again, this time barely pressing it against your swollen clit before pulling back once more, smirking when you thrash.
“Look at this mess,” he snarls, dragging the toy down through your slick folds before pulling it away again, your body jerking violently at every second of denial. “Drenching my seat like a whore, hands locked up, legs wide open just because I said so. Anyone could walk by and see you cuffed, naked, begging for cock. Is that what you want? You want the world to see you’re nothing but my slut?” You scream through your tears, nodding frantically, your thighs slapping against the leather in erratic, empty movements as you chase the phantom friction. The sound of your wet skin against the seat fills the car, louder than your sobbing.
He clamps his hand around your throat, squeezing until your cries turn to choked gasps. His lips curl in a cruel grin, voice dropping even lower. “You come when I tell you. Not before. You’re mine, and you’re gonna prove it.” His grip tightens, your pulse hammering under his thumb as your eyes roll, the cuffs rattling helplessly above your head. You’re delirious now, your teeth digging into your swollen lip, thighs thrashing against the seat, but he doesn’t waver, doesn’t break, just holds the toy near your clit without pressing it, letting the hum taunt you with every pulse.
“Beg,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “Beg loud enough that the whole fucking street hears you. Tell me what you are, tell me what you need.” His hand squeezes tighter as your body writhes, desperation bleeding out of you in incoherent sobs.
“Please—I’m your whore, your slut, I’ll take it anywhere, I’ll take it in my ass, in my pussy, in my throat—just fuck me, please, please, please!” you scream, voice cracked and raw. The sound echoes into the night, into the empty lot, into the air thick with the smell of sex, and he groans low, the noise dark and satisfied, finally starting to press the vibrator down again with brutal force.
The vibrator torture breaks you down until you’re sobbing in the seat, wrists raw from fighting the cuffs, thighs soaked from your own slick and spit. He keeps you on the edge over and over, pressing the buzzing toy hard against your clit until your body jerks and convulses, then ripping it away just before you can let go, laughing at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “Look at you,” he mutters, smearing his spit over your face with the back of his hand, “my little toy, cuffed and useless, crying for cock like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.” You scream through the denial, hips rutting against air, every sound a filthy chorus of desperation, and it finally tips him over the edge of his restraint.
Without warning he snaps, grabbing your throat in one hand and your waist in the other, dragging you across the console with brute force. Your wrists yank against the cuffs, steel biting deeper as he manhandles you onto his lap, still bound, still crying. His jeans are shoved down just enough, cock springing free, thick and heavy against your stomach before he slams you down on it in one brutal thrust. You scream, the sound raw and unholy, as he fills you in one stroke, no build-up, no warning. The car rocks violently with the impact, leather squealing beneath you, every bounce making the cuffs clatter above your head.
His hand never leaves your throat, fingers digging in, forcing your eyes wide open and locked on his. “Look at me,” he snarls, voice vibrating against your skin as your body convulses around him. “Don’t you dare look away while I ruin you.” His other hand fists into your hair, yanking your head back, spit dripping from your swollen lips as you gasp for air. He slams up into you with bruising force, pace relentless and erratic, the slap of your ass against his thighs obscene in the fogged-up car. Each thrust drives your knees into the dashboard, leaving angry bruises while his cock splits you open raw.
“Bounce,” he growls, slapping your pussy hard with his free hand before gripping your hips and forcing you down. “Faster. Don’t stop until your thighs give out.” You try to obey, riding him messy and desperate, cuffs rattling as you use what little strength you have to push yourself up and down, but his cock is too thick, too deep, tearing you apart. Every movement makes wet sounds echo through the cabin, your slick drenching his lap and the seat, dripping down his jeans. “Look at this fucking mess,” he snarls, thrusting up hard enough to make your breath stutter. “Drenching my lap like a whore, hands locked up, legs wide open just because I said so.”
Your orgasm rips out of you before you can stop it, a scream torn from your chest as your body locks up around him, cunt clenching in convulsions that leave you shaking violently. He doesn’t slow—he slams through it, fucking you harder, overstimulating until your screams turn into sobs, spit and mascara smeared all over your face. He spits into your mouth, snarling, “Open. Choke on it. Good girl. Take it all,” before shoving his fingers between your lips again, fucking them down your throat while his cock punishes your cunt. You gag around his fingers, tears streaming, your body shaking as another orgasm crashes through you, and another, until you’re sobbing into his palm.
His pace is nothing short of unholy now, every thrust shaking the car, leather groaning beneath you as the cuffs clink louder and louder. He pulls one hand from your throat just to spank your ass hard, the crack echoing in the cabin before his palm grips the sting, spreading you wider. “You love this, don’t you? My cock in your pussy, my fingers in your throat, my hand on your ass—stuffed full like the dumb slut you are.” You cry into his palm, choking on your moans, and he laughs, the sound cruel and aroused. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk out of this car. Until your throat is raw and your cunt is ruined.”
Your body breaks again, orgasm after orgasm flooding you until you’re incoherent, babbling his name and begging for more even as your muscles give out. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a second—his cock pistons into you like a weapon, bruising your insides, while his other hand drags your face back to his with your hair. He spits straight into your open mouth again, snarling, “Swallow it, slut. Every drop. Every sound you make belongs to me.” He fucks you through the tears, through the shakes, through the screams, until you’re nothing but a wrecked, sobbing mess in his lap, your wrists rattling in the cuffs with every brutal slam.
The end is a violent crescendo—his growl turns feral as his thrusts deepen, erratic and unstoppable, his cock hitting so deep your eyes roll back. He slams you down one final time, holding you there as he empties inside you, the heat spilling deep while his grip on your throat pins you to him. His voice is dark and final, words rasping against your ear as the windows drip with condensation. “That’s mine. Every sound, every drop, every twitch—mine.” Your body trembles violently, wrecked and spent, your cunt fluttering around him while the cuffs clink one last time, the only reminder that you were bound and owned the entire time.
Your body turns feral the moment he lets go, sanity snapping clean out of reach. You arch over to him and begin bouncing on his cock again like a woman possessed, reckless, insane, no rhythm, just pure animal need. The cuffs rattle violently with every drop of your weight, the chain clinking sharp against the headrest while you slam yourself down on him over and over, so hard it sounds like you’re trying to break his cock in half inside you. Cum squelches out of your wrecked cunt with each brutal descent, dripping down his thighs, soaking the seat, splattering onto the console with every slam. The car rocks on its shocks, leather squealing loud, dashboard rattling as your knees bruise against it again and again.
You’re sobbing but you don’t stop—won’t stop—your voice cracked and high as you choke on every bounce. “Fuck—fuck—oh my God—Jeno—fuck—can’t stop—need it—need your cock—” The words collapse into manic cries, drool and spit flying from your mouth as your head whips back with the force. Your tits are bouncing so hard they’re smacking his face, heavy and wet with sweat, nipples dragging across his mouth every time you drop. He groans into them, catching one in his teeth, sucking hard enough to bruise, spit dripping down your chest as he snarls into your skin. His hands grip your hips bruising tight, forcing you down even harder, snarling into your chest, “Wreck me. Fucking break me. Bounce till this cock splits you open.”
The windows are dripping with condensation, every slam fogging them harder. The sound of your ass slapping his thighs is obscene, thunderous, echoing with each brutal impact. Cum spills with every bounce, slick coating his cock, spraying out onto the seat below. The steering wheel trembles from the rocking, your cuffs rattling a sharp counter-rhythm to the wet slaps of your body on his. Your thighs burn, your ass stings, your lungs heave, but still you keep going, insane, mindless, a cock-drunk whore wrecking yourself until you’re nothing but sweat, spit, and cum dripping down onto him.
He snarls into your ear, teeth dragging down your throat as you slam onto him again and again, cock buried to the hilt. “Look at you. Lost your mind on my cock. You don’t even care where you are, don’t even care if someone walks past, just wanna bounce till you’re ruined. My fucking maniac slut.” You scream, head thrown back, your body convulsing, but still you ride him, reckless, erratic, the cuffs clattering above you like they’re about to break off the frame. Cum squirts out with every drop, dripping down your thighs, soaking his jeans, staining the seat forever.
The bounce turns rabid, your body snapping down on his cock so hard the whole car lurches, shocks squealing as if the frame itself is about to give. The cuffs clink like chains in a madhouse, steel biting into your wrists with every desperate slam of your hips. Sweat pours down your spine, tits flying, leather squealing beneath you until it feels like the seat itself is soaked with spit, cum, and heat. Then his grip shifts, one hand tearing at your throat, the other yanking you forward until your face is shoved down into the sticky leather of the passenger seat, cheek pressed flat against it, moaning into the smell of sweat and upholstery. Your ass is up high, bouncing wild in the dim glow of the dashboard, headlights painting the trees outside while the low growl of the still-running engine vibrates through the car.
“Stay the fuck down,” he snarls, choking you hard against the seat, his belt buckle rattling as it scrapes across your back when he adjusts himself, still half-dressed, broad and brutal, fully clothed while you’re naked, cuffed, and dripping. He holds you pinned there, your wrists jerking behind your headrest, your tits squashed beneath you, while your ass is left high and bouncing. The wet slap of your skin against the chair is loud, obscene, every thrust of your hips spraying slick across the seat, splattering onto the console. He smacks your ass hard, the crack echoing in the cabin, then spreads you open roughly, spit dripping from his lips straight onto your asshole.
The shock makes you scream into the seat, your voice muffled by the leather as he leans down, tongue dragging over the spit-slick rim of your ass. “Fuck, look at you, dripping, cuffed, face in the seat, begging to be eaten like the whore you are.” His tongue circles your ass, licking deep, obscene and filthy, alternating between slapping your cheeks raw and pushing his tongue inside until your legs shake violently. The car rocks sideways with the force of it, windows fogging so hard the glass drips, your fists pounding against the seat in mindless reflex as his growl vibrates against your ass.
Every sound is louder in the silence of the night, the obscene squelch of your arousal spilling out, the squeak of leather under your thighs as you writhe, the metallic clink of the cuffs above you. Your breath fogs the glass until it’s opaque, every gasp crashing into the windows, fists thudding against them as you lose control. You’re screaming into the seat, begging, sobbing, every word soaked in saliva and spit. “Jeno, please—oh my God—please fuck me—eat me, spank me, choke me—I’m your whore, do whatever you want!”
He pulls back just long enough to smack your ass again, harder, the sting making your whole body jolt forward against the console. His reflection glints off the window, ghosting over your sweat-slick skin as he growls, “Begging with your face in the fucking seat, ass up for me like a toy. You’ll ride nothing but air until I tell you.” His voice cuts through the obscene noise of your pussy dripping, the wet slap of your thighs against leather filling every inch of the car. He chokes you harder, pressing your face deeper into the seat until your scream is nothing but a muffled sob, then licks your ass again, rough and possessive, before shoving his cock back inside you in one brutal stroke that makes the entire car jolt sideways across the gravel.
The furnace heat inside is unbearable now, every window slick with condensation, every surface smeared with spit, cum, and sweat. The headlights glow against the trees like a warning, your body silhouetted in the raw blue-green glow of the dash. His cock slams into you from behind, erratic and violent, your face pinned in the seat, his belt buckle rattling as his jeans hang low, his breath snarling against your ear. The car rocks with every thrust, the steering wheel rattling, fists pounding the glass in time with the wet, reckless slap of your pussy drenching his cock.
He slams into you one last time from behind, choking you hard against the leather until you’re drooling across the seat, body convulsing, screaming incoherently into the upholstery. Then, abruptly, he yanks free, your cunt fluttering around nothing, slick pouring down your thighs before hauling you up by the cuffs like you weigh nothing. The door creaks open, cold night air slicing into your sweat-slick skin as he drags you out of the car, bare and dripping, wrists still bound. The engine growls behind you, headlights blazing into the dark trees, neon dashboard glow bleeding onto your body like a stage light.
You barely find your footing before he shoves you hard against the side of the car, your chest colliding with the fogged window so violently it shudders. Your cheek smears the condensation, breath fogging it again with every gasp, while your tits flatten against the cold glass. “Stay the fuck there,” he snarls, one hand knotting in your hair, the other dragging your hips back just enough to slam his cock into you from behind in one brutal stroke. The car rocks with the impact, windows rattling as his belt buckle clinks against your ass with every thrust.
You’re screaming, your voice echoing across the empty lot, half-sobbing, half-laughing, manic with cock-drunk need. The cuffs clatter against the roof as he pins your arms high, your ass bouncing back against his hips as the glass squeaks beneath your body. His hand smacks your ass raw, spit dripping down the curve before he rubs it into the sting, then shoves his fingers into your mouth when you try to cry out. “Open wider,” he snarls, cock slamming deep enough to make the glass tremble. “I want the whole street to hear my slut choking.”
The headlights blaze on your bodies, every thrust painting your reflection in the glass, your eyes rolled back, tits flattened and streaked with condensation, his broad frame clothed and brutal behind you, grinding you against the car like he’s trying to fuck you straight through the window. Your cum smears across the glass in filthy streaks, your breath painting it opaque as he pounds you harder, faster, erratic. The sound is manic: cuffs rattling, wet squelch of your pussy, the slap of skin on skin, your muffled screams into the glass.
“Look at you,” he growls into your ear, voice shaking with how hard he’s thrusting. “Naked, cuffed, fucked against the window with the headlights on—anyone could drive by right now and see you dripping down my cock. And you’d love it, wouldn’t you? You’d love them knowing you’re nothing but mine.” He bites down on your neck, sucking until you sob, his hips jackhammering into you, brutal, erratic, until your knees give and the only thing holding you up is his cock and his hand tangled in your hair.
You lose yourself completely, convulsing against the glass, your scream fogging it white as your body gives out, squirting mess down your thighs. He groans, snarling into your neck, his thrusts uneven, manic, before he buries himself to the hilt and empties inside you, hot and thick, cum dripping down your legs and streaking the car door. His voice is low and final, rasping against your ear as you tremble wrecked and cuffed against the glass: “That’s mine. Every scream, every mess, every filthy mark on this car—mine.”
Your cheek squeaks against the fogged glass every time he slams forward, the window shaking with each brutal thrust. The cuffs bite into your wrists where he’s pinned them high above your head, metal rattling against the roof, and your moans smear the glass white with breath. His voice rasps into your ear, hot and feral, every word a knife. “Look at my slut, face fucked into the window, dripping down her thighs in front of the whole fucking world. You think anyone driving by wouldn’t know you’re mine?” He grinds deeper, the head of his cock hitting so hard you sob, the sound muffled against the condensation. “Say it. Say you love being my public whore.”
Your voice cracks, words spilling frantic against the glass. “I love it—I love it, Jeno—fuck—your whore, your slut—make me show everyone—I’ll spread for you anywhere—please, don’t stop, please!” Your thighs quiver, slick smearing down the car door, and he groans darkly, watching the mess streak shiny in the headlights. He spits on your back, a hot, wet smack, then rubs it into the curve of your ass before spanking it hard, the crack echoing into the night. “Good little slut. You’re gonna leave this car dripping with my cum so everyone knows who owns you.”
He fists your hair, yanking your head back so your face lifts just enough for your eyes to catch your reflection in the glass, mascara streaked, mouth open and drooling, tits smeared flat against the fog. “See that?” he snarls, rutting harder, the car rocking sideways on its shocks. “That’s what a cock-drunk whore looks like. That’s you. You think anyone would believe you’re anything else after seeing you beg like this?” His cock slams deep and raw, each thrust punctuated by the squeak of leather and the rattle of steel.
You choke on sobs but still scream it, shameless and loud, your breath fogging the glass with every word. “I’m your whore—I’m your cock-drunk whore—fuck, Jeno, I’m nothing without you, please keep fucking me, I need it, I need your cum, mark me, own me, ruin me!” The headlights blaze across your twisted reflection as his growl tears through the night, his hips snapping so hard the glass shudders.
He snarls into your hair, “You’ll get every drop. You’ll leak me down your legs all the way home. And tomorrow, when you’re still sore, you’ll remember everyone could’ve seen you taking it like a filthy little bitch.”
PAIRING ↬ na jaemin x fem!reader (feat. zhong chenle)
TAGS ↬ angst, romance, lots of feelings, queer, bisexual people exist, idol x idol kinda but not really, im queen of jaemle nation fight me, happy pride month (it's august but idc every day pride month), also written in jaemin pov bc i hate myself (i'm never doing it again.)
WARNINGS ↬ angst
SUMMARY ↬ his favorite color is yellow. in color theory yellow is often used as a way to describe platonic relationships. because that's all na jaemin will ever have. platonic love.
WORD COUNT ↬ 3.8k words
AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ just wanna let people know i do not hardcore ship idols, this is literally just a story and it's not a reflection of their actual selves. so like don't cancel me omfgjahds. i was so scared to post this, this fic has been in development hell for months but i promised @spacejip so....
PLAYLIST ↬ yellow - yoh jamiyama; boy bi - mad tsai; sofia - clario; sweater weather - the neighborhood; ghosting - mother mother; nobody - mitski
I ALWAYS KNEW I WAS DIFFERENT.
Even before I understood the words for it. I never settled, always switching between boy and girl, between friendship and longing for something deeper. Sometimes I’d catch my reflection in shop windows and wonder why my heart skipped when the boy with the crooked smile walked by, or when the girl with the sunflower dress laughed at my jokes.
I just couldn’t seem to decide, and well that was the problem I guess.
By the time I was nine, my mother had begun to notice my odd hesitations when asked about crushes and how I’d like to confess to a girl someday. One Saturday morning, as I dusted the trophies lining our mantel, she paused before me with a mug of coffee in hand “Jaemin,” she said, her voice soft, yet also nervous, “I think you like both boys and girls.”
Her words weren’t a question. She already knew the answer.
I nodded my head for confirmation. I’d never said it out loud before, but hearing her say it in that way made it real in a way that both terrified and relieved me. She set her mug down and reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “I love you,” she whispered, “and you’ll always be safe with me.”
But then her expression shifted, “The world isn’t ready for boys like you,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “So let’s keep this just between us for now.” I studied her face. Not once did she ever look disappointed, but instead always carried a worrying look upon her eyes. Outside our front door lay a world that might not understand, or worse, might judge.
I learned early on to tuck my truth into hidden places and whisper it only in dreams. In daylight, I became good at smiling along, at telling half-truths and nodding when I should. But at night, I was reminded that being different was both my curse and my gift.
Then came Zhong Chenle.
Or, as I liked to refer to him as: the human megaphone
And, unfortunately, also the boy who would go on to ruin my life.
But I didn’t know that at the time.
I first met Chenle when I was ten. He moved into the house next door with twelve suitcases, a dog louder than he was, and a zero respect for indoor voice etiquette. The first time we met, he rang our doorbell and introduced himself. I opened the door to a boy with a bowl cut, wide-gapped teeth, and this blinding grin that made me forget how to speak for a full five seconds.
“Hi! I’m Chenle. I’m from Shanghai. You’re my new best friend,” he declared.
I blinked. “Uh… what?”
“You have a trampoline. I saw it. Let’s go.”
And just like that, we were friends.
Chenle didn’t knock on doors. He burst through them. Literally. The first week he lived next door, he climbed in through my bedroom window because he “wanted to see if it worked like in the movies.”
It did not.
He got stuck halfway in and kicked over my desk lamp in the process. He still insists that it was my fault, somehow.
He was loud. He was nosy. He told me his favorite animal was a dolphin “because they’re smart and scream a lot, just like me.” (His words not mine.) He drank milk like it was a personality trait and claimed he’d become a millionaire when he was older. He didn’t need to ‘become’ one though, cause he was already a millionaire. His family was completely loaded.
And I loved him. God, did I love him.
I didn’t know it instantly. It wasn’t the kind of love you recognize, anyway. At first it was just the comfort of having someone close. We spent years growing up like two peas in a pod. We had a standing Friday night ritual of junk food and horror movies that neither of us had the guts to admit scared us. We'd stay up until 2AM pretending not to be terrified, jumping at every creak and then laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Sleepovers blurred into weekends, which blurred into seasons. We built forts in my living room. We argued over Mario Kart so loudly that my mom made a rule that “no one named Chenle is allowed to enter the house after 9PM on weekdays.
By the time we hit middle school, Chenle had taken to calling me his “number one.”
“My number one sidekick,” he’d announce dramatically, throwing his arm around my shoulders while we walked home.
I’d snort, shoving him off. “I’m not your sidekick. You’re my sidekick.”
“In your dreams. I’m the main character. You’re the tragic subplot.”
He’d always grin after saying that, oblivious. I’d grin too, although maybe less oblivious.
Because at some point, in the middle of all the chaos and teasing and sleep-deprived laughter, something shifted. I started noticing things I shouldn’t. Like how his laugh had changed. I started seeing it differently. Or how his hands had gotten bigger, and when I ruffled his hair, my heart would do this annoying flipping thing like it was trying to escape my chest and launch itself at him.
That’s when I realized my first real crush wasn’t some girl who brushed by me in the halls, or a senior who looked cool leaning against lockers.
It was Chenle.
My best friend.
The boy who once tried to convince me that bees were government spies.
I hated it.
Not because I didn’t like him, like I clearly did. I hated it because it changed the rules of everything. How could I sit next to someone during a movie knowing my fingers are twitching to hold theirs? How could I hear “you’re my number one” and not wonder if it could ever mean something else?
Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I just laughed. I shoved him harder. I hid behind sarcasm and jokes and really long sips of soda whenever he got too close. I buried it. Deep inside my soul.
Because if I told him, I might lose him. And losing Chenle? That wasn’t an option. Not then. Not ever.
So I kept the secret. I played my role. I smiled when he made dumb jokes and called me his “ride or die.”
But part of me kept whispering: I love him. And he’ll never know.
In terms of high school cliques, Chenle and I were placed somewhere between semi-popular and beloved chaotic pests. We weren’t the jocks, but we were the ones who people invited to parties just in case they needed some crazy shit to happen. Mostly Chenle. I was more of a corner-wallflower-watching-me-spontaneously-lick-someone’s-arm kind of guy.
So when the whispers started about a new transfer student, I barely cared at all.
“She’s from somewhere fancy,” someone whispered behind me in the homeroom.
“I heard she studied abroad in like, five countries, so her family is like rich rich.” said another.
“Bro. She wears strawberry clips in her hair.”
Chenle perked up. “Strawberry clips?” he repeated, spinning in his chair. “That's either peak fashion or someone trying to start a cult. Either way, I respect it.”
“Calm down,” I muttered, not bothering to look up.
“No. You don’t understand. This is important. Fashion statements mean she’s either really weird or really cool. I need to know which.”
“You say that like you don’t own a hoodie with a dolphin eating pizza on it.”
“And that hoodie changed lives,” he replied solemnly.
Naturally, we got our answer when the classroom door creaked open and you walked in.
You weren’t like anyone I’d ever seen before. You didn’t just enter a room—you landed in it. Head held high, eyes scanning the class like you were appraising a room of overpriced art. Your uniform was regulation, sure, but somehow you made it look like it belonged on a fashion runway in Tokyo. And there, clipped into your hair on either side, were two fat, ridiculous plastic strawberries that glinted in the fluorescent light like they knew they were starting something.
I blinked. Chenle gaped.
You introduced yourself with a smile, and somehow your voice made the classroom feel warmer. It was terrifying. I immediately went back to pretending to read. Chenle, of course, did not.
“Hi! I’m Chenle,” he said as you passed our row. “Welcome to whatever level of academic purgatory this school is.”
You raised a brow. “Thanks? I think?”
“Don’t worry, I’m the unofficial welcoming committee,” he added, gesturing to himself. “And this guy next to me—” he kicked my foot under the desk, “—this is Jaemin. He’s cool, in a broody, possibly-vampire kind of way.”
I looked up. Just once.
You smiled at me. It was small, polite. You probably forgot it a second later.
I didn’t.
“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound like my throat had been replaced with sandpaper. “Nice clips.”
Your smile widened just enough to make me regret every life choice that led to this moment. “Thanks. They remind me not to take anything too seriously.”
Chenle clapped once, loudly. “See? ICONIC.”
You laughed. And just like that, you were in.
It was like watching magnets meet. You and Chenle clicked instantly. loud to loud, weird to weird, chaos to chaos. He made a joke, you added the punchline. You rolled your eyes, he rolled with it. If Chenle was a human sparkler, you were a box of matches, and every time the two of you talked, the hallway got a little brighter and a little more flammable.
“Have you ever tried wasabi KitKats?” he asked you once at lunch.
You didn’t even blink. “I ate three and hallucinated.”
Chenle gasped like he was witnessing true divinity. “I knew it wasn’t just me!”
That was day 5 of knowing you. On day 6, the three of us were grouped for a science project, and by day 7, Chenle had already given you a ridiculous nickname (I will not repeat it here on the grounds of secondhand embarrassment). You didn't even flinch. You just fired one back at him and kept walking like you'd been part of this dumb dance all along.
And me?
Well… I was there.
Reluctantly. At first.
See, I’ve never been good with change. New people throw off my rhythm. And you weren’t just new—you were disarming. The kind of person who could insult someone and still have them thank you afterward. You took up space, not in a loud way, but in a comfortable-in-your-own-skin way. The kind of confidence people fake. But with you, it was just… real.
So yeah, I held back. Answered your questions with shrugs. Laughed when it felt safe. You didn’t seem to notice. Or if you did, you didn’t push.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because then one afternoon we were all sitting on the floor of the library, fake-studying for a history test, and I realized I was laughing. Like, really laughing, because you’d just impersonated our history teacher’s monotone voice and Chenle’s laugh at the same time, and I genuinely thought I would choke on my own spit.
You looked at me like you’d just unlocked a new level. “See? He can laugh,” you said, triumphant.
And I hated how good that made me feel.
After that, it was just… us.
The three of us. A trio.
Lunch breaks became sacred rituals. You’d bring snacks, Chenle would bring gossip, and I’d pretend I wasn’t enjoying the way you both pulled me into your tornado of nonsense. We’d sit on the floor behind the gym building to escape the sun and the noise, passing chips and bad jokes like currency.
Group projects became borderline illegal. We got nothing done, but our PowerPoint slides had amazing content.
We had doodles on each other’s notebooks. Nicknames that made zero sense to anyone else. Inside jokes about pigeons and the government. You’d steal half my lunch without asking. Chenle would throw pencils at your head. I’d sigh and clean up after both of you.
It was fun. Too fun.
And yet, somewhere along the way, I started feeling like I was always walking a half-step behind you two.
It wasn’t anything either of you did. Not on purpose. But I’d notice the way you’d look at Chenle first when something funny happened. How he’d instinctively hand you the last piece of candy. How your conversations sometimes stretched on without me, like I was background noise to your main act.
And I hated that I noticed.
Because we were fine. We were good. I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t anything.
…I was just—
There. On the edge of something I didn’t want to name. Laughing when you both laughed, trailing behind when the hallway got too crowded, watching as the space between you two narrowed by the day.
It was easier not to think about it. Easier to ignore the tightness in my chest when Chenle called you by a nickname he hadn’t used on anyone else. Easier to smile, make jokes, and pretend I was still in control.
Because if I thought about it too long?
I might start realizing things I wasn’t ready to face.
It starts slow.
Like a leak in the ceiling you don’t notice until there’s a puddle on the floor.
One day I’m sitting across from you two at lunch, peeling the label off a juice box, and I catch Chenle looking at you.
Not the way he looks at spicy ramen or a sale at the convenience store. No. This was different.
He looked at you like you were something to be memorized.
And I froze. Juice box half-peeled. Air caught in my lungs like a glitch.
Because I’d seen that look before.
In bathroom mirrors. In stolen glances. In my own eyes.
I started seeing it everywhere after that.
The way he leaned closer when you spoke. The way he remembered little things about you — your favorite gum flavor, how you hated when your sleeves got wet, how you always liked cinnamon on hot cocoa.
I watched you laugh at something dumb he said and lean into his space like it was yours to take. And he let you. Of course he let you.
And the part that broke me wasn’t just that he liked you.
It was that I did too. I liked you both.
Then came the sleepover.
Chenle’s living room. Popcorn everywhere. A horror movie on mute. You were half-asleep, slouched on the floor pillow. I was curled up on one end of the couch, scrolling through my phone and trying not to acknowledge the emotional chaos ongoing in my brain.
Chenle flopped between us, laughing at something stupid, his arm brushing yours like it had done a hundred times before.
And then… he leaned over.
Rested his head on your shoulder.
Didn’t say a word.
Just rested.
You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. You just tilted your head a little, like it was normal, like it was okay, like this was something you both did now.
I couldn’t breathe.
I stared at the TV, pretending to watch, heart pounding. My mouth was dry. My skin felt too tight.
I don’t even know what I was jealous of. Him? You? The space between you?
Or maybe just the fact that I wasn’t there. That I couldn’t be.
That I was watching someone I wanted melt into someone else.
I stayed up that night after you both fell asleep.
Chenle was snoring like a lawn mower, limbs flung out like a starfish. You were curled up in a blanket on the floor, hair in your face, softly breathing. I sat in the dark with my knees to my chest and stared at the ceiling.
Because what do you do when the two people you love most are standing right next to each other, and you know you’ll never be enough for either?
I thought I was doing a good job.
Like pretending, keeping it together, or smiling when I was supposed to. Laughing when I had to. Memorizing the exact distance I could stand from you without feeling like my chest was going to cave in.
I told myself I could handle it. The trio dynamic, the shared jokes, the way you always seemed to look at Chenle a second longer than you did me. I’d made peace with being on the sidelines. Or at least, I thought I had.
And then you pulled out the gum. “Limited edition,” you said, grinning. “Spearmint. Only the cool people get a piece.”
“Guess I’m getting two,” Chenle announced, already reaching for one.
You swatted his hand. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” You handed out pieces one by one until the pack was nearly empty.
“Yo, toss me one?” I asked casually, too casually, already stepping forward.
You blinked, glanced down at the foil. Then your face shifted a little. “Oh,” you said, voice softening. “That was… the last one.”
It was in fact the end of the pack. Chenle was already unwrapping it, mid-chew, completely unaware of the tiny little earthquake that had just ruptured my insides.
“Wait,” Chenle said, catching the shift in the air. He turned to me, holding out the gum with a shrug and that easy, careless smile. “You want it?”
It should’ve been simple.
Say yes. Take the gum. Laugh it off.
But instead, I just… froze.
Because it wasn’t about the gum. It was never about the gum.
It was about how effortlessly he offered it to me. How kind he was without knowing it. How easy it all came to him with you, with everyone. And how suddenly, in that moment, I realized.
He’d always be the one who got the last piece.
Of everything.
Of you.
My mouth opened. Then closed. Then it opened again. I think I managed a smile. Or something that could’ve passed for one.
Then I turned around and walked away.
Didn’t explain. Didn’t joke. Didn’t look back.
Just left.
It started with a text.
[You]: lunch tmrw? chenle has music club. ur not allowed to say no. i’ll bring grape juice.
I stared at it longer than I should’ve.
Part of me wanted to ignore it. Part of me wanted to throw my phone into a river.
[Me]: if there’s no grape juice i’m suing
And that was that.
We met behind the gym, our usual spot. Same cracked tiles. Same half-broken bench. You were already sitting when I arrived, legs swinging slightly as you balanced a lunch tray in your lap. When you saw me, you raised a can in greeting. “Your gross purple sugar water, as promised.”
I sat beside you, trying not to let our knees touch. “Wow. A romantic.”
“Please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m a walking rom-com. But like… the low-budget kind.”
I snorted. “So self-aware. I’m proud of you.”
And just like that we slipped into the rhythm again. Jokes. Teasing. You flicked a crumb at me when I said your rice balls were lopsided. I mimed choking on your soda when you tried to psychoanalyze my favorite potato chips. It was easy. It was safe.
Almost.
Because in the quiet that came between bites and laughter, I caught myself looking at you. Not like I used to, but with something softer. Sadder. Like admiring a painting you know you'll never be able to take home.
Your hair caught the light just so. Your lips were curled in that kind of smile people don’t realize they’re wearing—the kind that comes from being at ease, from knowing you’re seen.
And in that moment, it hit me all at once:
You were happy.
Without Chenle here, without the noise and the banter, you were still you. Still bright. Still strange. Still lovely in that way that made my ribs feel too small.
And for a brief, flickering second—I imagined it.
Us.
Just us.
Me handing you the grape soda. You laughing at my dumb jokes. No triangle, no third, no half-steps behind.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it?
It wouldn’t be real. Because I’d still be thinking of him too.
Still catching myself looking for his reaction when you smiled. Still waiting for his voice to jump into the conversation with something wildly unhelpful but weirdly profound. It was never just one of you. It was always both.
And if I couldn’t love you without loving him… Then I couldn’t love either of you the way you deserved.
You nudged my arm, snapping me back. “You okay? You’ve got that ‘I just composed a sad indie ballad in my head’ look again.”
I chuckled. “Just full of bad poetry and spicy tteokbokki.”
“Tragic,” you said, mock solemnly. “At least you look pretty while suffering.”
That made me smile. And hurt. At the same time. I looked at you again and something inside me settled. Quietly. Like dust after a storm.
This would be the last time we’d do this—just us. You didn’t know that, but I did.
Because I’d made my decision.
I loved you. I loved Chenle.
And I couldn’t have either of you.
So I’d carry that love the way you carry an old photograph—worn, soft around the edges, a little blurred. Beautiful. Untouchable. But still carried with you.
You tossed me a napkin as I stood up to leave. “You’ve got sauce on your mouth, drama king.”
I wiped it without looking and grinned. “Thanks. I live to impress.”
You laughed. And it sounded like every version of goodbye I’d never have the courage to say out loud.
Weddings are funny.
Everyone says they’re about beginnings—the start of something new, something shared. But when you're standing on the outside, watching it all unfold from behind a wall of hydrangeas and polite distance, weddings feel more like endings.
And this one?
This one felt like the final chapter of a book I dog-eared years ago, hoping I'd someday be brave enough to finish.
The ceremony was beautiful. Of course it was. Chenle’s family did everything big. There were gold accents, string quartet, lots of laughter that bounced off the walls. Your side was smaller, but no less warm. You walked down the aisle with your head held high. Like you did once before.
Even now, you refused to blend in.
Even now, you stood out.
And Chenle looked like he belonged nowhere else but at the end of that aisle. Nervous smile, fingers twitching at his side, eyes locked on you like gravity had chosen a new north. He looked the same, somehow. But older. Softer. Better. Because of you.
I stood at the back. Far enough away that no one would notice if I slipped out early, close enough to hear the vows. I told myself I was only there because he asked. “My number one,” he’d said with a grin. “You better show up, or I’m taking you out of the group chat forever.” Classic Chenle logic.
I hadn’t known if I’d wanted to come. But here I was.
You reached him. Your hands found his. The whole world seemed to still.
And me? I smiled. A real one.
Because of course it was you two.
It was always going to be you two. And I was okay with that.
pairing: lando norris x rugby league player!reader
premise: lando and y/n have been friends for a little while. time only brings them closer, they spend summer break together. will the three months together bring them closer than they thought possible
themes: friends to lovers, fluff, layout is inspired by a yuta smau i read while back, but can’t remember for the life of me😭 not proof read
ynsdiary_
liked by lando, yuu_taa_1026 and 693,827 others
ynsdiary_ she’s 23 now, pls say happy birthday to me
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user1 happy birthday!
yuu_taa_1026 happy birthday gorgeous girl liked by author
ynsdiary_ mwah let me kiss u on the mouth
isackhadjar happy birth !! liked by author
ynsdiary_ oh em gee thank u son !!
lando happy birthday y/n 🧡 liked by author
ynsdiary_ thank u lannn 🧡
user2 HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY QUEEN
brisbanebroncos hbd y/n ! liked by author
user3 you better lose the next match
ynsdiary_ not with that attitude missy
kun11xd happy birthday y/n !!
ynsdiary_ thank u kunnie boy <3
user4 OMG Y/N AND YUTA ARE SO BACKKKK
yuu_taa_1026 we been back baby
user5 happy birthday
jordanriki hari huritau whanau ❤️ liked by author
ynsdiary_ thank u cousin <3
user6 HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N !!
user7 happy 23rd !!
user8 lando in her likes, i see u lando
user9 just smile and wave guys, smile and wave
user10 23 and still the prettiest girl ever liked by author
ynsdiary_ LET ME KISS YOU MWAH ILY
user10 OMG ILYT😭
lando
liked by oscarpiastri, ynsdiary_ and 1,277,127 others
lando MONACO BABYYYY
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carlossainz55 proud of you ❤️ liked by author
lando soy lago💧
user11 HE DID IT !!!
user12 HE WON MONACOOOO🧡
ynsdiary_ CONGRATULATIONS LAN 🧡 SO PROUD liked by author
lando thank you y/n ❤️
oscarpiastri deserved 💪🏼 liked by author
mclaren well deserved lando !!
user13 I TOLD Y’ALL THAT HE’D WIN
user14 shoulda listened to u fr
isackhadjar congratulations lando liked by author
user15 he shouldn’t have won
user16 stfu?
user15 it was the car not him that won
user17 that literally makes no sense?
user17 everyone knows that monaco is a track that is talent based not how fast/good a car is liked by author
user18 DESERVED 🙏🏼
lnfour only up from here !!
ynsdiary_
liked by jordanriki, brisbanebroncos and 828,027 others
ynsdiary_ we are so back this season🙂↕️
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jordanriki who’s that sexc hunk 😏
ynsdiary_ LEAVE PLEASE
user19 BODY TEA !!!
yuu_taa_1026 my fav league player
ynsdiary_ i’m the only league player u know😭
yuu_taa_1026 excuse me for wanting to support my bsf damn
brisbanebroncos can’t believe we got you again this season🥹 liked by author
nzwarriors come to us next season
storm no us !!
ynsdiary_ ladies! ladies! chill please! this isn’t who u are
user20 the clubs fighting over y/n😭
user21 that’s when you know she’s the IT player
liamlawson30 I KNEW I HAD SEEN YOU SOMEWHERE BEFORE
ynsdiary_ surprise whanau🙂↕️
user23 pretty !!
user24 love u girl
lando
liked by ynsdiary_, charles_leclerc and 1,294,127 others
lando surprise melbourne
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user25 was he at y/n’s game?
user26 this wasn’t on my 2025 bucket list at all
jordanriki was nice meeting u tonight liked by author
lando like wise🙏🏼
user27 HE MET JORDAN RIKI???
user27 AS IN Y/N’S COUSIN???
ynsdiary_ when they showed u on the big screen 🤣 liked by author
ynsdiary_ thank u for coming tonight to watch me lan🫶🏼
lando i only came for jordan
ynsdiary_ black listed
oscarpiastri bring me back some tim tams and vegemite
lando no. get them yourself
ynsdiary_ i’ll buy them for u osc!
oscarpiastri thank you y/n
user28 I WAS THERE TONIGHT TOO OMG😭
user29 oh?
user30 why is an f1 driver at an nrl game? shouldn’t you be practicing?
user17 shouldn’t u be minding ur own business rather than trying to be in someone else’s comments acting like u know them personally?
user17 lando is a grown ass man, he can do what he wants. ur not cool or funny trying to demean him for enjoying a game of nrl liked by author
mclaren come back soon we miss u king🥹 liked by author
jordanriki
liked by ynsdiary_, lando and 905,378 others
jordanriki he’s kinda good at what he does. mahi pai i tenei ra lando 🧡 tagged lando and ynsdiary_
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brisbanebroncos papaya looks good on you rik 👍🏼
user31 omg
user32 jordan 😍
ynsdiary_ it was sm fun watching w u cousin ❤️ liked by author
ynsdiary_ pls send me the photo of lando and i 😔🙏🏼 liked by author
lando me too please liked by author
jordanriki okay you two, calm down now
lando thank you for coming🧡 liked by author
user33 WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE Y/N LANDO HUG ITS SO CUTE😭😭😭😭
yuu_taa_1026 wished i could of made it
ynsdiary_ u were with us in spirit yuyu😔
user34 soft launch?
user35 don’t pmo
mclaren was amazing having you this weekend 🧡 liked by author
warning: basically everyone gets flamed in this chapter (especially mark, chenle, AND hyuck) but i promise they love each other guys 😭😭
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note: been exactly 5 months since a no idea update which is why the top three screenshots are so different from the rest... but that recent drabble had me revisiting and getting back on the grind! y/nhyuck is back, i've missed them sm!!!! LETS GOOOO (hyunjin stays ruining every happy moment BUT! at least the friend groups are finally merging :3)
Summary: Bang Chan loves making full use of his Stray Kids leader money—especially when it comes to her.
Warnings: Mentions of sex, blowjobs, handjobs (you know… all the jobs), lingerie, daddy kink
A/N: Other members were requested! Lmk which Member you desire next.
୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───
Bang Chan wasn’t just her boyfriend.
He was her provider. Her protector.
It didn’t matter that he was knee-deep in deadlines, producing tracks until sunrise, answering five calls at once, and coaching the younger members like a seasoned general—
────୨ৎ────
The fur coat was stunning. Hand-delivered from Milan.
Not just fur. Cruelty-free, custom dyed in her favorite shade, with a golden nameplate on the inside that read:
“For my queen. - BC”Real Fendi. Snow leopard print, soft as sin, the kind of thing only his girl could pull off. She hadn’t even asked for it—just sighed once at a photo on her phone—and now it was hanging in her closet like it had always belonged there.
“I just mentioned it once,” she breathed, stunned.
“You don’t mention things to me, baby,” Chan said with a lazy smirk from the doorway, sleeves rolled, veins prominent, eyes dark. “You make declarations. And Daddy listens.”
────୨ৎ────
He was at the studio when she sent him the mirror selfie. Her in the coat, nothing underneath but lace.
Chan nearly groaned aloud, biting his lip as he watched the photo load. It was late, everyone else had gone home, but he was still at the mixer, sleeves rolled up, chest heaving with the weight of his next verse.
And now? Now he was hard.
He called her immediately.
“You tryin’ to kill me, princess?” he murmured, voice already thick. “You really put that on while I’m here working?”
She giggled sweetly. “I missed you.”
Chan’s response was immediate. “Stay right there. Don’t take it off. I’ll be home in fifteen.”
When he got back, she was waiting.
She was lounging on their bed, that coat slipping off one shoulder, her lips glossy, eyes wide and waiting. Chan stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, watching her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks.
“Come here.”
She obeyed instantly, crawling to him on all fours, the coat dragging behind her like a queen’s train.
He caught her chin between his fingers when she reached him, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “You know what this coat means, don’t you?”
She nodded. “That I’m yours.”
“No, baby,” he corrected, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. “That you’re my only. And I take care of what’s mine.”
────୨ৎ────
There were perks to dating the leader of Stray Kids.
Like when she wanted a quiet date night, and Chan rented out an entire theater. Not just the movie—they projected a montage of her favorite K-dramas, edited together by a professional team he personally directed.
While she sat curled up in her fur, eating popcorn from a crystal bowl, Chan lounged beside her in joggers and a tight black tee, arm around her shoulder, legs spread like he owned the whole damn city.
Because he did. When it came to her—he did.
“Everyone should know what kind of taste my baby has,” he murmured against her temple. “And no one gets to enjoy it but me.”
────୨ৎ────
Her nails were fresh.
Long, almond-shaped, with crushed diamonds embedded in a sheer pink base. Chan had flown in a nail tech from Japan who only did private celebrity sessions. She didn’t even ask. He just made it happen.
He watched her trace a finger down his chest one night, those expensive nails glinting in the warm bedroom light.
“You like them?” she whispered.
Chan didn’t answer with words.
He grabbed her by the wrist, pressed her palm flat against his abs, and dragged it slowly lower until her hand was resting right over the hard bulge in his sweats.
“I paid for those hands,” he growled, voice thick. “Now put ‘em to work, princess.”
Her fingers twitched against the heavy outline in his sweats. He was already hard, aching, and she could feel the heat through the fabric—how thick he was, how much he needed her.
She didn’t rush.
Instead, she trailed her nails—slowly, teasingly—up his length, letting the crushed diamonds scrape softly through the cotton. Just enough to make him hiss.
Chan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play.”
But she only smiled, sinking to her knees between his legs, those glossy, dangerous nails curling under the waistband of his sweats and pulling them down with a drag so slow it felt like torture.
His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, leaking.
And her breath hitched at the sight.
All that for her.
She wrapped one manicured hand around him—delicate, expensive fingers closing around his base like they were sculpted for this. He groaned low, head falling back, and the sound made her clench.
She stroked him slow. Luxurious. Worshipful. Letting her rings clink softly with every glide. Her thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum with a practiced motion, her other hand resting light on his thigh, nails biting down with each twitch of his hips.
He looked down at her, eyes blazing.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Spoiled little thing… working Daddy’s cock like a fucking jewel thief.”
She grinned—wicked and proud—and twisted her wrist just how she knew he liked it. Grip just right. Pressure perfect. The way only she knew how to do.
And when his hips started to stutter, when he cursed under his breath in three different languages, she leaned in and whispered, sweet and smug:
“Wanna come for me, Daddy? All over the hands you bought?”
His groan broke in his throat.
And seconds later, he did.
────୨ৎ────
Studio nights weren’t quiet anymore.
Sometimes, she came barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies and nothing else, curling up on the sofa while he clicked through beats. Sometimes, she sprawled across his lap, thighs bare, pressing lazy kisses to his throat while he adjusted synth levels like it was just another Tuesday.
“Need to focus, sweetheart,” he’d murmur—but his hand would already be gripping her thigh, stroking slow circles, letting her know she was welcome anywhere he was.
She slid under the console like she belonged there, eyes glinting in the dim studio lights, lips already parted.
He didn’t say a word. Just let out a breath and leaned back slightly in the chair, the hand not working the mixer dropping to the side—to her.
She unzipped him slow. Silently. Pulled him out with both hands like unwrapping a gift she already knew by heart.
He was half-hard already. That changed the moment her warm breath ghosted over the tip.
She started with his balls—because she liked to tease. Wet, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin. Tongue tracing slow circles. Gentle sucks, one after the other, until his thighs twitched and his breath caught in the mic.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.
She giggled against him.
And then she moved up.
Took the tip between her lips. Swirled her tongue around it like candy. Then sank down in one long, greedy motion—until he hit the back of her throat.
Chan slammed his hand on the desk, pretending it was about a track beat.
In reality, he was struggling not to thrust into her mouth.
She set a rhythm—slow, wet, deliberate. Hands twisting at the base, spit dripping onto her fingers as she bobbed her head. Every time she hollowed her cheeks and moaned around him, his grip on the chair tightened.
“You’re insane,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m working—”
She pulled off with a pop. Whispered, “Then work, Daddy. I’ll just keep your stress levels down.”
And went right back down on him.
Deeper this time. No mercy. Her nails dug into his thighs while her tongue worked underneath, tip pressed into that sensitive spot beneath the head. She sucked like she was trying to milk him, and Chan was fucking losing it.
When she went back to his balls—licking, sucking, slurping—and stroked him at the same time?
That’s when he came. Hard. Into her mouth, into her throat, with his head thrown back and a low growl muffled by his sleeve.
She swallowed everything.
And when she came back up from under the desk, licking her lips like she’d just come back from brunch.
────୨ৎ────
When she missed him during tour, she didn’t cry. She waited—with full trust that he would make it up to her.
And oh, he did.
The moment he stepped through the door, he lifted her up, walked her straight to the bed, and unwrapped her like a present.
“My good girl,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes dark with hunger. “Waited so sweet for me.”
She moaned as his hands explored her body like it had been years, not weeks. His thrusts were punishing, praise spilling out between every deep stroke, his voice laced with so much heat and pride, it broke her open.
“Missed this pussy,” he growled. “Missed my perfect, spoiled baby.”
────୨ৎ────
Once, a stylist made the mistake of telling her she “looked expensive.”
Chan had overheard. And later that night, he chuckled as he kissed her bare shoulder and whispered:
“She is expensive. And I’m the only one who can afford her.”
────୨ৎ────
Chan knew she didn’t love him for the money. Not the furs, not the jewels, not the VIP service that followed her around like a shadow.
She loved him.
It was in the way she waited for him to get home, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, sleepy-eyed and soft. In the way she packed snacks for the studio because she knew he’d forget. In the soft kiss she left on his temple every morning before he woke up.
And God—when she showed up at the studio late at night, just to sit quietly and wait?
That did him in.
She’d curl up on the studio couch, that coat wrapped around her, half-asleep but still humming along to the beat he was mixing. No complaints. No demands. Just there for him.
That was why he spoiled her. That was why he had to.
this is a safe space for anyone and everyone, especially any minorities.
however i will NOT tolerate any hate towards lando/oscar, or any negative means towards the boys.
you're more than welcome to leave a request on here, the request can be any sort of work. there will be very certain topics i will not and never touch if they're ever requested.
i have no posting schedule, meaning i could post either continuously or on and off (especially with working and studying happening for me atm).
AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ sorry gang just trying to post while i cram through finals this week. i also like to imagine that sunoo shit talks and spreads tea at the great hours of midnight. also my first time doing enha texts don't kill me
