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megumimania · 5 days ago

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RUMOR HAS IT

summary: Everyone knows the frat sweetheart is off-limits. But that rule didn’t exactly don’t stop the rumors. Some swear it’s Rafe. Others say Art. A few gossips led to Bob. Maybe it’s all three. And now? Patrick’s name is in the mix too. No one can decide who you are really with… but if secrets keep piling up, don’t be surprised when your name shows up on the campus gossip page.

pairings: frat president!rafe cameron ⧘ frat vice president!art donaldson ⧘ frat treasurer!bob reynolds ⧘ frat!patrick zweig ᙮ frat sweetheart!reader

warnings: 16.4k words. mature themes. alcohol use. smoking. unprotected p in v. fingering. oral sex (m!receiving & f!receiving). group sex. semi-public sex. voyeurism. exhibitionism. internal ejaculation. clit stimulation. spit play. dumbification undertones. filming / photography. degradation & humiliation. rough sex. breast play. belly bulge. breeding kink. overstimulation. brat-taming undertones. cuckolding. d/s dynamics. dubcon undertones. size kink. read & consume responsibly.

note: This is something I just randomly started writing since last week. So if it feels messy, please bear with me because I didn’t write it in one sitting because I am so busy with uni. (I just write it during breaks between studying, classes, and resting) But I hope people will like it hehe.

A girl like you doesn’t end up as a frat sweetheart without people talking. That house doesn’t hand it out to just anyone. Sweethearts are chosen. Special. Protected. Kept close. The rumors don’t line up. One says you’re fucking Rafe. Another swears it’s Bob, or maybe Art. Then someone else said it’s all three. You don’t say anything, so they keep guessing. And the boys- your boys- (or the frat as a whole) they don’t talk. If they’ve seen anything, they’re not saying. If they’ve heard anything, they’re not snitching. Loyalty runs deep in that house, and whatever’s going on behind closed doors isn’t anyone’s business but theirs- and yours.

You have the title. Obviously and officially. Voted in at the start of the semester. So now you wear their color and represent them. You help with their philanthropy and sometimes you’re their spokesperson. Most of the time you help them encourage other female students to attend fraternity events. And one of your favorites is helping decorate for their events and making it look better with your artistic ideas. You know the handshake. You know the rules. And one of the rules is: no fucking the sweetheart. Which is why no one can agree on which of them got to you first.

Some say it had to be Rafe. That he vouched for you when the boys were still deciding. That he told them you had the qualities and the face they’re looking to represent them. That he’d break anyone’s jaw if they disagreed with his suggestion. Of course, he laughed after but they knew he was not joking. He didn’t say much back then at first. Just watched. Always looking even though there’s a girl is on his lap during parties but his eyes just focus on you when you interact with people.

Someone swears he started fights over you. That he punched a pledge for making a joke if he got one of the benefits when he got accepted. The benefit: you. But the worst just always happens around Rafe. He almost got kicked out for dragging someone down the stairs after they grabbed your waist. That you were the one who calmed him down. Held his face. Said something private. That he only listens when it’s you.

But the others swore it was Art. That he was the first one you actually let close. It started with something small. He started staying late to help you paint banners, offered to carry your supplies after meetings, and once fixed the broken tape dispenser on your desk like it was a deadline for university activities. People always see him get ready to help you clean up after a party when no one else stays to do the same. That he kept finding reasons to be around you. Editing for flyers. Holding the ladder while you put fairy lights for the dinner that the frat is hosting.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t try. That he’s planning out everything before doing anything. Just watches you with this look, like he’s memorizing what you need before you even say it. But there’s a rumor he walked you home one night and didn’t come back until morning. It was one of the party nights at the chapter and you were already tipsy when you left with him to go back to your dorm. That he left his hoodie in your room and it’s the same one you wore to the chapter meeting the next day. But the others say he wouldn’t risk it. That he’s too smart to break a rule that big. Too good at hiding it if he did. Which might be worse.

And then there was Bob. No one really noticed it at first. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Not the kind that likes to stand out like Rafe. Not like Art who easily caught people’s attention. Not the type anyone expected to be involved and the kind that hung back, always careful, always polite. Not flirty. Just… considerate. The type that made it hard to tell if he liked you or just couldn’t help being nice. You never sat on his lap like girls do with Rafe. Never left with him after parties the way they say you did with Art. But somehow Bob was the one to notice when you needed out of a conversation. He was the first to cut in when a guy got too close, smiling as he offered you a drink and making it look casual while his hand brushed your lower back.

But people swore they saw something on the bonfire night. When someone gets too drunk and tries to grind on you by the speaker and you look uncomfortable. There are a few who saw how fast Bob moved. How he didn’t even yell. Didn’t swing. Just stepped between you like it was instinct. But Bob covered it up fast. Smiled through it. Denied it so well that it made people second-guess what they saw. He still calls you “dude” sometimes. Still gets flustered when you touch his arm. Still acts like nothing’s going on.

And just like that, no one can agree. No one knows who you’re really with. Maybe it’s one of them. Maybe it’s all three. Who even really knows, right? It’s all speculation what they can give right now since the four of you are not opening your mouths to say something because if one of you does? It’s surely the effect will be more likely towards you, not them. But everyone agrees on one thing: That house doesn’t protect someone like you unless there’s something they don’t want anyone else to touch. Which is why it gets messy when you show up in someone’s territory.

You only went to the party because it was easier than saying no. That’s the thing since you are also representing the whole of them, what you say will matter. One wrong thing will lead people to whisper. It started when someone handed you a flyer earlier that week. You opened the rolled and stuffed flyer from the pocket of your tote bag and you didn’t even realize it was there until two days later. But when you pulled it out to smooth the crumpled paper flat, and read the name of the house. Curiosity climbed up your neck like heat.

They weren’t supposed to be your crowd. Everyone knows those two houses don’t mix. Not because of some deep rivalry, but because of something worse and shallow at the same time. It’s pettiness, ego, pride, and history. They play in the same league. They aim for the same trophies. They chase the same sorority girls. When that much testosterone and money are stacked side by side for too long. It curdles. It turns into something. Tolerating each other outside. Definitely talking shit at each other’s backs. That's what the boys do. They talk behind people like it’s some job they get paid for.

You weren’t supposed to go. Not alone. Not without a reason. And definitely not without one of them. But you didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t owe anyone anything. Not when you walked there just after ten, a jacket slung over your body to cover the sluttiest top you’re wearing with a short skirt. A small sling bag is lazy over one shoulder. Not when someone at the door clocked your face and let you in without asking for a name. Not even when the bass rolled under your shoes the second you stepped inside and felt eyes on your back- curious, cautious, trying to figure out if you were lost.

You weren’t. The house was louder than yours. Smaller with lower ceilings and LED strips pulsing red and purple along the corners. The floor smelled like beer. This feels more owned compared to your house. At least they let your opinions be heard about the interior. Here? It’s messy. There’s the big “EAT SHIT PHI!!!!!” banner in the middle which made you laugh. You don’t even know who invited you. But somehow the flyer ends up in your bag like they know it’s yours. Now you are here standing while other people are looking at you and wondering why you are alone. The heat is clinging to your skin, and people are pressed close in every corner. Shoulders brushing that made you feel irritated but you can’t blame them since the place is small.

The music’s loud enough to blur thoughts, and someone already passed you a red cup near the entrance. It’s half full with something sugary and strong. It’s the usual cheap shit drink every frat serves. You didn’t drink it. Why would you? It might be drugged, oh hell no. Not that stupid, thank you very much. There’s a boy leaning against the stair railing when you turn the corner. Tall, athletic build under a striped button-down with the sleeves rolled. He’s holding a beer and looking at you like he already knows who you are and he’s familiar but you can’t pinpoint who he is. You already saw him before- just… can’t remember where.

“Hey,” he says with lips pulling into a smirk as he straightens up. The word makes your spine prickle. His voice is smooth, casual, and too confident. “I’m Patrick,” he adds, then offers you the bottle in his hand. “Try this. Not roofied, I swear.” You take it. It smells strong and something sweet. “You from around here?” His voice is low. Not quiet, just low. Measured. Calculated like he’s testing the waters what he will do. “You’re asking like I’m lost,” you answer and a little laugh slips out. “I’m asking because I know you don’t belong to this house.” He answers with a straight face before he takes a sip of his own drink while his eyes are still on yours. “But everyone’s looking at you like they’ve seen you before.”

You take a drink after he said that- the feeling burns, but not too much. Though the burns either come from the drink or these words that feel like every corner of the campus is waiting for you to fuck up. His gaze stuck with the way your mouth and throat move after you swallow. “I’ve seen you before.” Of course he has. It's almost like half of the students here already seen you before but he says it like it’s something that should feel like a compliment. Your shoulder leans against the counter. You don’t say anything. Patrick doesn’t either. Not for a minute. His drink’s half gone before he speaks again. “You know they hate when girls like you come here.”

That gets your attention. “Girls like me?” you ask with your eyebrows knitting together. He hums before tilting his head to the side. It almost looks like he’s thinking about whether he should say the next word that will come out of his mouth. “The ones they keep close.” You don’t confirm or deny it but you know what he means by that. You just lift the drink to your lips again and watch him over the rim of the cup. That answer is good enough for him. “What’s your name again?” he asked even though you could tell he already knew. You gave it to him anyway. He repeated it once, slow, almost testing it out. You didn’t correct him. The bass from the music can feel more in the corner and even the floor is vibrating under your shoes.

“Cute name,” he said. “Too cute for those assholes.” He meant the boys. Your boys. He said it casually and maybe almost hatefully like it was funny and ironic to him. But the way he watched your reaction meant it wasn’t. You didn’t reply because you know that you didn’t have to and both of you just walk towards the kitchen when the drinks are emptied. Patrick just handed you the same cup he refilled while both of you kept standing there while sipping slowly and listening to whatever he said next. His shoulder brushed yours when someone passed behind him. He didn’t step away.

“What do they give you?” he asked. “To keep you there.” The question wasn’t loud. Just quiet enough to press into your skin. To know what he meant by that. You laughed a little like it’s stupid to hear that, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Nothing.” That made him smile. “So you give it to them for free?” His voice wasn’t mocking. It didn’t need to be. It’s more like he’s gauging you for something. Information maybe? To know something? Too curious? That grin told you everything. He was already pulling at the strings, trying to see which ones would break you first.

Across the room, someone pulled out their phone. They didn’t know you, not personally. But they knew enough. Knew who you were, what house you belonged to, and who would want to know if you were here. The text went out and hit Rafe’s phone while he was still at the house. He was halfway through a drink and leaned back on the couch with his jaw tight. Didn’t read it right away. Just glanced at the screen. Then looked again: “You see her? Short skirt. Black top. She's at the party. With them.”

There was no name attached. Just someone who owed him. One of those faces that smiled nervously like they’re scared and stayed out of the way. Rafe didn’t respond. Just stood up too fast, tossed the drink on the table, and walked out the front door. Art was already outside smoking. He saw the way Rafe moved and didn’t ask. “What happened?” Rafe didn’t answer and he just kept walking. Art stubbed the cigarette out and followed. Bob didn’t say anything either when he got walked past the porch. Just grabbed his keys and left before anyone asked questions. They didn’t speak in the car. They never needed to.

The house was loud when they got there. Lights spilled through the front windows. Bass thumped against the street. Rafe walked in first, pushing through the crowd like he already knew where to go. Art peeled off near the stairs, watching faces, and scanning rooms. Bob stayed close to the hall with his eyes moving slowly. It didn’t take long before Rafe saw you before either of them did. Through the open space between the fridge and the kitchen wall. Your back was turned. Patrick was close. He had his arm on the counter, leaning in, and his mouth tilted toward your ear. You weren’t pulling away, just letting him do it.

Rafe didn’t move, at least not right away. His hand clenched once at his side, then again. The sound around him faded. It’s like the music is low under the noise building in his chest. Someone tried to hand him a drink. He took it without looking but he didn’t drink it. His brain is frying like it doesn’t know how to work ever since he saw you there. Art found him less than a minute later and he glanced into the kitchen. He followed Rafe’s stare like he was stabbing someone, and saw what he was looking at. “That him?” he asked, calm like he didn’t already know the answer despite Rafe remaining silent.

Bob caught up seconds after. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. Patrick’s hand touched your waist. Not for long, but long enough to send a bolt of heat through Rafe’s body that made his fingers twitch against the plastic cup. You didn’t even notice because you were still talking, still smiling, and still standing too close. Then you were gone. All three of them saw it. Saw you left. Maybe they didn't even see you exactly because people keep walking in front of the view. The kitchen was empty the next time someone looked. The cup you were holding sat near the edge of the counter. Patrick was gone. So were you.

None of them said anything. They didn’t have to. The silence between the three of them is already too loud. Rafe’s jaw locked tight as he stared at the empty space where you had been. It looks like he’s ready to pick up a fight with anyone but doesn’t since they’re in another house. Art leaned against the wall and tilted his drink like it didn’t matter. But oh, it does. He’s just trying to look composed as he always does. Bob stayed near the edge of the hallway. His eyes are down but his shoulders are tense so. No one moved. “Don’t do anything,” Bob warns Rafe but he doesn't answer. “Relax,” Art said under his breath. It looks like it’s for both of them. “They probably just went to talk,” Art breathes out when he watches the side profile of Rafe who’s scarily quiet right now. “I’m serious,” Bob added. “Don’t make a scene. Not here.”

They all knew what it meant. The moment you walk away where people can see you, it’s already imposing something. It’s giving people a message because why would you leave with him? Just the two of you. Because Patrick fucking Zweig wasn’t the type to just “talk.” People know it. A guy like him doesn’t just pull girls alone just to talk about film, food, university, or whatever casual bullshit people talk about. Rafe looked toward the back hall with his jaw grinding and his fingers twitching at his side. It almost feels like he’s in a horror movie with how the walls feel like they’re closing in and going to squish people who are standing there. Art sighs before saying, “We’ll look around. Subtle.” Bob didn’t move, but his voice followed: “You go left. I’ll take upstairs.” But no one offered to check the laundry door. No one is smart enough to go inside. Or to think you’re there with Patrick.

Inside the laundry room smelled like detergent and dust. The typical room where people just stay there for a few minutes to wash their dirty clothes and forget that room exists. The lights flickered once when the door clicked shut behind you. Patrick’s hand is still loosely around your wrist. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t pull. He just looked at you like he was already laughing at something you hadn’t said yet. You were halfway into a smile when he let go. “Sit,” he said, nodding toward the washer. “What?” His hands were already on your waist. Not rough- just sure. “You heard me.”

You made a noise like you might protest, but he was already lifting you. “You’re crazy.” Hands full of your hips. He’s lifting you easily like you weighed nothing, and then your thighs bumped the metal and you gasped a little when your ass landed on the cool lid. “Little bit.” He reached past you and pressed a button. The machine clicked, then started to vibrate under you. It’s low and slow. It’s not even intense, just right. The vibration is climbing up your thighs. Your legs shifted with it. You tried to keep a straight face but it didn’t work. Patrick watched you smile, then leaned forward until his chest brushed your knees. “See?” he said. “I knew I could make you laugh.”

“You’re such an asshole.” You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. It’s like you are trying to stop yourself from smiling more because you know he will be smug about it. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I made you laugh.” Your knees touched his sides now while the machine buzzed louder beneath you. A soft, steady rhythm that made your body bounce just slightly every few seconds. Nothing hard. Nothing too much. Just enough to make it obvious. He stepped closer. And you didn’t stop him, especially when he pressed his lips against yours. Mouths moving together like both of you are figuring out how to kiss each other. It keeps shifting from slow, sloppy, messy, and steady before he slips his tongue inside.

His body pressed to you and he’s flicking his tongue inside your mouth like he needs to taste the whole of you. The alcohol you both drink, the bubblegum you chew earlier, and the cigarettes he smoked before the party are mixing together the flavor in both of your mouths. Making out with him feels like one of the songs you like. It’s like playing on your head while you are sucking his tongue and he’s letting you before taking back from you to catch a breath a little by opening his mouth. It actually didn’t take long and he’s already wrapping his lips around your bottom lip like he wants it to be popped out more once this is done.

The vibrations grew heavier when the cycle shifted. A deeper shiver rolled up your spine and made your hips twitch where they sat, caught between movement and pressure. His mouth didn’t leave yours. It only pushed harder like he was trying to taste every sound you couldn’t hold back. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb dragging near the corner of your mouth. The other slipped lower. His fingers hooked under your panties to pull them to the side. The action is done slowly and easy like he had all the time in the world. He can feel the wet material of it as the fabric stays stretched and held there by his knuckles. Cold air licked across the wet skin he’d uncovered, and he smiled into your mouth when he felt your body jolt.

He didn’t look down. Just watched your face as two fingers slid into the mess between your folds. The pads rubbed once over your clit before dipping down, gliding through the slick that had already soaked past the cotton. The way your thighs tensed made him groan. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” The vibration under you didn’t stop. It kept rolling through your lower back and into your thighs, syncing with the rhythm of his hand as he moved it between your legs. He didn’t even have to try. The machine did half the work for him. All he did was push in.

Two fingers sank inside. The stretch made your legs twitch around his hips, but he didn’t pull back. He stayed close before kissing you again. It’s rougher this time. You gasped into his mouth when he curled his fingers and found the right spot on the first try. Wet sounds echoed under the buzz of the machine. Your pussy closed around his fingers like you couldn’t help but to suck him in and make it stay in place. It’s like your body is begging him to continue and don’t stop and he doesn’t. Patrick keeps pushing his fingers inside of you- it’s so sloppy and the only thing stopping his movement from being smooth is your pussy clenching from time to time.

The door cracked open behind him. Light spilled in for a second, just enough to catch on the curve of your skirt where it had bunched up at your waist. You didn’t see it. Didn’t hear it. You were too busy moaning into his mouth with your hips rocking into every thrust of his hand like you couldn’t get full fast enough. Art stood in the gap, eyes locked on your thighs spread wide around Patrick’s body. His eyes focused on how Patrick’s hand moved in between them, how it pushed and pulled, and how you keep your thighs unsteady and can’t help to keep them close but only opened by him. His tongue pressed flat to the inside of his cheek but he didn’t say anything. Not even storming in to get you from inside.

Then the door shut again. You were still whining into Patrick’s mouth, grinding down on his fingers like the vibration wasn’t enough without him. You didn’t know someone else had seen. You didn’t care. What matters right now is how all you could feel is the steady movement of his fingers. How his thumb brushes against your clit to add pleasure to you. How it circles there when you shut your legs close. How the wet sound feels so filthy and the heat rising fast in your chest. “You gonna cum like this?” he whispered before dragging his teeth along your jaw. “Right here on this fucking machine?” His fingers pushed deeper.

The washer kept humming even after the door closed quietly behind Art. He didn’t even rush. Just dragged his thumb to the knob, then stepped outside of the house. Cooler air met his face as the patio door slid open. Bob was already standing there when he stood beside him. Art exhaled through his nose. Didn’t say anything at first. He let the silence hang long enough to be noticed. Then, like he’d only just decided to speak, he glanced toward Bob and tipped the rim of his cup he managed to get on the way here. “Found her,” he said simply.

Bob turned his head. “She’s with Patrick,” Art added, stretching the pause just enough to make it mean something. “Laundry room.” That made Bob blink. His jaw twitched like he didn’t want to ask, but he already knew what came next. Art gave him a look. Barely raised his brows and his mouth tilted at the corner. “She was on the washer. Skirt up. He had his fingers inside her.” Bob looked away. Art took another sip. He’s slow and relaxed like he hadn’t just said that out loud. His shoulders rolled once like he was still working it out. His voice dropped lower. “Think we should tell Rafe?”

Bob’s silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Didn’t meet Art’s eye. Art hummed like he was weighing it out, but his mind had already made the call. He was going to tell. Just not yet. Not while Rafe was wound so tight he might knock Patrick’s head through a wall. The timing had to be perfect. Still, it felt good to say it first. To drop the words right into Bob’s lap and watch him carry the weight. Bob looked like he was choking on it. Art stayed there while his eyes were calm. He was already two steps past this. Already watching how it would ripple.

Inside the door, the machine is still humming. The rhythm under your thighs stayed steady, but the pressure had changed. There was more heat now. More stretch. The fingers were gone. Something thicker pushed inside- slow at first, then all at once. The moment he bottomed out, your nails dug into his shoulders. You didn’t remember when he unzipped. It didn’t matter. Your panties were still pushed to the side. Your skirt is still bunched under your thighs. His cock filled every inch that his fingers had worked open, and the first thrust had your mouth falling open around a broken gasp.

“Fuck,” he whispered into your ear. “Tight little pussy, holy shit.” Your walls clenched around him so hard he couldn’t move for a second. His hand gripped the edge of the washer. The other cupped the back of your head as he kissed you again, rougher now, tongue pressing past your lips while he rocked his hips forward. The machine vibrated under both of you. It made every movement shake. Your body jolted with every pump of his cock, the edge of the machine squeaking under the push of his hips. He was all the way in. Thrust after thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filled the small room. Your cunt was soaked. Every movement dragged a wet squelch from deep inside you, louder each time he pulled out and pushed back in. He didn’t let up.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, mouth dragging open under his as your moans got higher, needier. The washer bucked once beneath your ass and made the angle hit deeper. Patrick grinned. “I asked if you were gonna cum on my fingers,” he said against your neck. “But I think I like this better.” His hips slammed forward. The breath left your lungs. You couldn’t even answer. Didn’t matter. He already knew. Could feel it in the way your thighs clenched, how your cunt caught around him tight and messy. You whined under your breath, then louder- until his hand came up again, fingers spreading over your mouth. “Mmmf- mmph.” He kissed your jaw, the side of your face. “Shh.” He kept fucking you like no one else mattered.

While outside, it’s still the same. Art left Bob with a dilemma with the question he threw at him. He doesn’t know what to do. Two parts of him are battling- to tell Rafe so he can find you or for you not to witness one of his outbursts again. Bob sits down with his elbows digging into his thighs and head tilted down like that will help him to solve the shit he’s in. The door was locked behind them. Art had told him- no one’s going back in. That part was settled. But nothing else felt like it was. Wind passed and kicked up a loose leaf, and dragged it across the floorboards. Bob stared after it like it had something to say. His knee bounced once, then again, and until it became repetitive. Art didn’t move. Still standing with his arms crossed, barely breathing, like he’d been carved into the porch.

“You should let this go,” Bob said quietly, voice even. “She’s not ours,” Bob said after a while, low. Art didn’t turn. “I mean it,” Bob muttered. “You know you’re not Rafe.” Art hummed. Didn’t look at him. “So don’t make it worse.” He meant it. Meant it more than he could say. They weren’t saints. He knew that. But something about the way it was happening- how easy it would be to set Rafe off, how close he was to breaking something without even being in the room- it made Bob feel sick. Not because he cared about Patrick. Not because he thought it was wrong. But because the second Rafe found out, something would snap. And when it did, they’d all be standing too close.

Art shifted, slowly. Like he’d been waiting for Bob to say it. “I’m not Rafe,” he said. “That’s why I’m not storming in there.” His hand rested on his thigh. Barely moved. But there was something sharp under his voice that made Bob’s teeth grit. He could feel it. The part Art wasn’t saying out loud. He wasn’t going to stop it. He wasn’t going to warn her. He wasn’t going to tell Rafe either- not yet. And that was the difference. Not about control. Not about rules. Art wanted to let it happen just to see what it would do. Just to see what Rafe would do. Just to see what you would do.

Bob exhaled and looked ahead, but his pulse hadn’t slowed. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve gone back and told you instead. Told you Patrick wasn’t a secret anymore. That it wouldn’t stay between you two. But the door had already shut. And even if it wasn’t locked, Art made it clear he’d closed it for a reason. Bob stayed still, tried to stop thinking about what was happening just down the hall, on top of a machine that had probably been broken for weeks.

Inside, Patrick kept your mouth covered. His hips barely faltered as he fucked up into you, pressed in so deep your legs shook against the dryer door. Your moans were buried in his palm, but he could feel every one. Could hear how high they pitched when his cock nudged your spot just right. His grin pushed into your skin again as he whispered it low, almost smug. “You like it better when they’re not the ones doing it, huh?”

You tried to beg again- just a whimper behind his palm- but your head fell back and he kissed your throat instead. “Feel that?” he whispered, cock driving slow and deep again. “Right here?” You nodded fast, body twitching. “Fuckin’- shit- you’re perfect.” His voice shook now. He couldn’t stop moving inside. He didn’t want to not when he’s a few thrusts inside you before finishing. “I get it,” he whispered like it was a secret just for you. But maybe it is, knowing the implications he’s putting in his words. “I get why none of them wanna let you go.”

It’s like his words are turning you on by just talking about them because it became your trigger point and you cum around his cock. Patrick fucks you through it and hands shaking before he spills it inside you not so long after. You barely had time to catch your breath when he pulled out of you. Your skirt still lifts up, pussy pulsing, thighs sticky and twitching, and head falling back. Your heart catches when the door opens. It is so close to jumping out of your flesh and ribs. And Patrick- he didn’t even look startled. Smug little smile on his face, like the whole damn thing had been timed. Like he heard the footsteps long before the knob even turned.

Bob didn’t speak right away. Just stood there with one hand still on the handle, gaze landing first on your legs, then at Patrick’s hands around your waist. Watching the way he’s helping you fix your skirt. You were lucky he even let you finish. Lucky he waited long enough not to rip you off mid orgasm. Lucky that he’s the one who is waiting for you. Lucky in the loosest and most humiliating sense of the word. “Jesus Christ.” Bob’s voice came flat and quiet like all the sound in his chest had dropped out.

Patrick only looked over his shoulder and tilted his head. He is not even bothering to pretend at least to panic that there’s another person inside. “Hope you don’t need to wash something.” That earned nothing from Bob. Not a laugh. Not a scowl. Not even a shift in his face. He just looked at you. Like you are the only one that matters. The one he gives a fuck about. Long enough that it made you press your knees together and sit up like it would somehow erase what just happened. Like folding your arms over your chest could block out the smell of it. The heat of it. The mess between your thighs that Patrick left like a signature.

“You done?” he asked. Not to Patrick. Just to you. You nodded, but it’s barely there and you jump down from where you are sitting. The room had already gone sour. Bob stepped back to give space. He’s not slamming the door but not exactly gentle either. Just pushed it halfway open and waited. You didn’t say anything, didn’t try to explain. What could you even say? Patrick looks like he was proud to be caught. Like he wanted it. Outside, the air hit hard in your skin and was cooler. You followed Bob down the short hallway, past the patio, past the corner where Art had been standing earlier. You are not even sure if your skirt is sitting right and you left Patrick there because Bob looks like he doesn’t have time for it. His spot was empty now, no sign of him, no trace- just the faint burn of his cologne still stuck in the wood railing where he must’ve leaned.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence is too loud but it doesn't feel like punishment. It doesn’t feel like he’s quiet to make you feel bad. Your shoes tapped low against the curb. Bob didn’t talk as you crossed campus. Didn’t ask if you wanted him there or if it was okay to walk you home. Just trailed a step behind like he knew better than to push. You didn’t stop him. The hallway outside your dorm smelled like cheap weed and knockoff perfume. Someone’s speaker rattled two doors down. Inside your room, the lights hummed softly and the window had been cracked open hours ago, so the air felt cool but stale.

Bob shut the door behind him without looking around. You peeled off your jacket. Stood near the edge of your bed for a moment before sitting there. He didn’t sit until you did. Bob settled on the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees like he didn’t know what else to do with them. Neither of you said anything for a while. “I didn’t hear anything.” You blinked, startled. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. “Outside. I didn’t hear you,” he added. “I was already there just right when you two are done, but… I didn’t hear anything before that.”

Your eyes are stuck with your shoes especially with the smear of dirt on the edge of them. His words didn’t feel like a relief. Just made it worse. “Art told me first,” he said. “I thought he was messing with me. Or being petty. He sounded like he wanted it to hurt. You know how he gets. But he didn’t show me shit. Just said it. Said he saw you.” Your jaw twitched, but you didn’t respond. “He looked like he was gonna throw up.” Bob let out a small laugh that didn’t reach anywhere.

His fingers shut tight like he needed something to grip or else he’d start yelling. “I tried to talk to him. Told him not to make it a thing. That maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was. But he just-” Bob shook his head, eyes narrowing at the grass. “He already decided. Said he was gonna tell Rafe.” You flinched. Not hard, but enough that Bob noticed. “I told him not to. I told him it wasn’t his to say.” Bob gulps as he tries to keep his voice even although something is boiling under it. The room stayed frozen because there’s no other noise coming from either both of you besides the fan and the noise outside from the students outside of the room. You crossed the space and sat beside him. Not close. Just enough to let the mattress shift with your weight.

He let out a breath, something low that could’ve been frustration or something worse. “He looked like he wanted a reason to burn it all down. He doesn’t wanna process, he just wants to retaliate. And Rafe? He’s the only one Art can use to get to you.” You stayed quiet, throat tight. “I left him there. Didn’t argue. Just walked to the other side of the house and waited outside the laundry door.” His eyes finally met yours. Your fingers curled against your leg. The fabric under your nails was still warm.

“I didn’t want to see it. Wasn’t trying to catch you,” he said. “I really didn’t. I told myself it wasn’t my business. But when Art described it really well like he’s… provoking something, it makes me want to see it.” His head finally turned your way. Eyes steady, calm. “I didn’t want him to tell Rafe.” He repeats because that part never changed. You stared back, stomach twisting, mouth dry. Bob looked away first. “He’s gonna tell him,” he said. “You know that, right? Doesn’t matter what I say. He already made up his mind.”

You didn’t answer. There wasn’t one you could give him. He reached up to rub the back of his neck like the words were still crawling under his skin. It’s uncomfortable and he wants to take off his own skin to get rid of it. “I’m not saying what you did was right or wrong,” he said. “I’m not fuckin’ policing anything. But I do know Art sometimes can be petty and he knows Rafe can’t control his temper and he’s going to use it to mess everything up.” A pause hung there. He didn’t fill it. Just wait. You try to breathe through the pressure building in your throat as you sit straighter. He glanced over again and his face was softening. “I didn’t bring you here to lecture you,” he said. “I just didn’t want anyone else to get to you first. I know everything- between the four of us is fucked up.”

After that, Bob said you should take a bath. Something about washing off the night, about how you probably felt gross after everything, and yeah- maybe he had a point. You weren’t gonna argue with him. Not tonight. Not with how calm his voice was when he said it. Not with how heavy your limbs felt. Not after what happened, what didn’t happen, and whatever that was. You just nodded, slipped off the bed, and disappeared into the frat’s crusty bathroom with your phone buzzing like a gnat in your pocket.

He didn’t say much after that. Just looked down at his lap, brows pulled in, something unreadable crossing his face that you didn’t have the energy to name. By the time the door clicked behind you and steam started to curl around your knees, he was already fishing his phone out. A few texts came in right after. One from Art. Another from Rafe. Then a few more. Rapid. The kind of flood that made the phone feel like it had something to say. The screen lit up in bursts against his thigh, buzzing once, twice, then again, as if they knew you were there. As if they could smell it on him. On you.

He opened one. Then another. Didn’t reply. Just sat there with his thumb hovering over the keyboard, face blank. The words were short. Rafe’s messages always looked like they’d been typed with teeth clenched. Art felt messier. It's not like Rafe’s, but just as loaded. Both of them were asking where you were. Where he was. Asking if you were together. He knows the two of them are currently together but still blowing up both of your phones like they can’t wait like this is some kind of emergency that needs some urgent reply.

The water stopped running. It doesn’t take you long before you step out of it with a towel wrapped around your body while your hair is still dripping with water on your back. Something about how quiet the room had gotten made it feel like the walls were listening. You didn’t say anything and you just padded over to the scattered pile of shirts on the couch and grabbed the first one that smelled clean enough. It was big on you and covered the shorts you wear which also came from the pile of clothes. Hang off your frame like it didn’t belong. Might’ve been Bob’s. Might’ve been Art’s. Could’ve been Rafe’s. You didn’t bother to ask.

He looked up after you pulled it over your head. His eyes dragged down to your thighs where the hem barely touched. He blinked once, then set his phone face down. “They’re texting,” he said, voice low. “They’re on their way up.” And you were still toweling off the ends of your hair when the knock landed hard. No pause. No second tap. Just one loud, blunt slam of knuckles that made the whole door rattle in its frame. Bob didn’t move right away. He just looked at the door, then at you, slowly. His jaw clenched like he already knew what was coming.

Another knock followed. Then a voice, sharp and already pissed, even through the wood. “You fuckin’ serious right now?” It was Rafe. No doubt. That tone didn’t belong to anyone else. Bob stood, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered something under his breath that didn’t reach full words. You didn’t ask. The shirt you were wearing hung loose over your shorts, collar dipping low at the neck. You hadn’t thought about it until now. Until the way Bob was looking at the doorknob like it might explode.

“Open the door,” Rafe barked. “I swear to fucking god.” Bob got there before you could even twitch. He opened it halfway, bracing his arm against the doorframe. “You need to cool off,” he said, low and even. “Don’t fucking tell me to cool off,” Rafe snapped. “When you’re here playing what, babysitter?” Art was just behind him. Less loud. More still. Eyes fixed over Bob’s shoulder, straight at you. “She’s fine,” Bob answered, shoulders squaring. “I’m making sure no one does something stupid.”

“Is that mine?” he asked. You didn’t say anything. “You know what? No. Actually, don’t answer that.” He looked you up and down like the sight of you physically bothered him, jaw clenched so hard you could see it twitch. “I texted you ten times,” he said. “And you’re just here. You left the party with Bob,” he said. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The weight in your stomach was thick. Rafe managed to push through Bob who’s been covering the door for half of the conversation. He also came in first. He dragged over you again slow and full of heat, but not the kind that felt good. It burned, and it stayed.

His eyes hit your legs, the hem of the shirt, your bare thighs, the neckline stretched loose, and stayed there too long. His jaw was tight. Mouth set in that way he had when he was holding in too many things at once. Art followed after him. Shoulders tense, brows pulled in. He didn’t look at you right away. Just shut the door behind him and stood near it like he was guarding it. The air felt hotter. Heavier. Rafe scoffed. “This is what we’re doing now?” You didn’t say anything and were just biting your cheeks.

“You skip the party, disappear without saying a fuckin’ word, end up at the rival house-” He stepped further in. Boots hitting the floor harder than they needed to. “Rafe,” Bob warned, low. He ignored him. “-and let Patrick fucking Zweig put his hands on you?” His voice dropped near the end, tighter than before. “Or his dick. Whatever the fuck it was. You’re not gonna say anything about that?” His words came fast. Not shouted. Just laid out with venom. It’s obvious that he’s upset. It’s obvious with how his words are hard around the edges, how heavy it is, and how spiked it turned out to be. Rafe is very much trying not to snap more because he’s slowly can’t hold it in anymore.

“I didn’t plan any of this.” You crossed your arms even though the room wasn’t cold. “No?” His voice dropped. Not quieter, just lower. Like it burned. “You didn’t plan to go behind our backs and show up at a rival frat party, didn’t plan to let Patrick fucking Zweig get his hands on you, didn’t plan to walk out with Bob while Art and I were looking for you all night?” Bob moved before Rafe could say anything else. “You need to chill.” Rafe laughed but the four of you knew it wasn’t a real one. Just air through his nose, like something bitter caught in his chest. “Don’t talk to me about chilling. You’re the one who didn’t text back. Who didn’t tell us where you were.”

“Rafe.” His name said like a reminder or a warning- not really sure at this point, but Art’s tone is deep and low while he’s sitting on the edge of your desk chair. Elbows on his knees and his hands clasped like he was trying to hold the room steady. “What?” Rafe snapped. “You saw the same shit I did. She walked in wearing that guy’s scent. Let him touch her. Kiss her. What the fuck are we even doing here if we’re pretending that’s fine?” Art didn’t answer. He just looked at you. Oh, the silence that followed after Rafe’s words? It felt too thick to breathe in. It almost feels like there’s an airborne virus through it. Your fingers curling around the hem of the shirt like that could ground you. Rafe’s eyes dropped again to your thighs, then back to your face.

“I don’t even know who you belong to right now,” he said. That hit harder than yelling because how can he say that? Where did he get the audacity because you are about to slap the shit out of him. The room didn’t move. Not even Bob. Then Rafe stepped closer, slowly, measured. “But I’m about to find out.” Your eyes flicked up to meet him. It looks different now under the light. Heat coiled low in your skin. It’s not from the tension but from the weight of the silence pressing down. He stood too close. You just know that his voice earlier is low and thick like it wanted to grab your throat. Like it want to prove something without being smart about it. There’s part of you that never learned when to quit, a habit you learned from when you were younger and only got worse when you stayed at their house, it’s stirring behind your ribs now.

“Maybe I’m just exploring my options,” you said confidently. Like you know it will piss them more but you say it for the thrill of it or maybe just to get back at him a little. There’s a small smile forming at your lips but it disappeared fast enough. You didn’t back away when his eyes narrowed. Didn’t blink. Just leaned your weight into one hip and dragged the towel once more down the ends of your hair before tossing it over the back of your chair. Bob let out a low snort like he couldn’t help it. It broke through the quiet like glass cracking under a shoe. You know Bob has this same expression he has all night even when you are not looking at him. It’s the same tired expression. Not annoyed. Just resigned. Like knew this would happen.

Rafe’s jaw clenched so tight before he released a ‘whoosh’ sound from his mouth like he was trying to calm himself before he could truly snap. “You think this is funny?” His eyes didn’t leave yours, didn’t blink. “I already let you fuck around with Art. I didn’t say shit when it was Bob, either. But now Patrick fucking Zweig? You letting him taste you too?” The words scraped like they’d been dragged out of him. His hand lifted halfway like he might slam it against the wall just to have somewhere to put the feeling, but he didn’t. He just stood there, seething, taking in the way you leaned back against the desk, bare legs crossed, smile still tugging at your mouth like none of this bothered you.

“Didn’t realize I was dating any of you,” you said, lifting your brows. “Did I miss the talk?” Art moved before Rafe could. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. The only thing you noticed the most was that the way he looked at you had changed. Eyes serious but tired. His hands flexed once before settling again in his lap. “So none of it meant anything to you?” That softened something. For a second, the brat in your chest slipped. Not enough to kill it, but enough to let a pause settle before you spoke again. “Don’t twist it like that,” you muttered. “I never said that.” Your eyes glare at him and you are biting your cheeks because you know how Art and his words work sometimes. How can they easily get into your system without him even trying to be mean about it.

“You didn’t have to.” His tone wasn’t angry. Just quiet. Hurt in a way that stung more than yelling. His eyes dropped like he couldn’t hold yours anymore, fingers curling tighter between his knees. Bob finally leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “You know she’s pushing,” he said to no one in particular. His voice was low. You don’t even know what the point of his saying this is. Is this his way to save things? To calm it down a little? To make things easy for you? Because you can’t see the angle he’s going for with it. But his voice is patient like he was the only one who remembered how you were when you wanted to pick a fight. “She does this when she’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you shot back, faster than you meant to. He didn’t argue. Just looked at you, steady, and let the silence answer for him. Rafe stepped in close again, close enough to feel his breath when he spoke. “You’re not scared?” His mouth brushed near your ear, not soft. “Mmh.” The sound rumbled low in his throat. “Figured.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even look at the others. But you felt it shift behind you. The quiet presence of Bob was somewhere near the far wall. Art standing farther off, shoulder resting against something solid. But he’s still watching.

They’re not opening their mouths because they know they didn’t have to. This wasn’t about them, not yet, and they can see what’s building here. It was about what you’d let Rafe drag out of you first. His hand moved now. Just two fingers. It’s slow, teasing, and sliding over your outer thigh, then pausing. “You’re wet already,” he murmured. Like he didn’t even have to touch it to know what the state of it was. “Don’t even need help with that part, do you?” Your breath hitched. The back of your throat went tight. He leaned closer until his nose brushed the shell of your ear. “Just wanna get used up.”

Rafe didn’t move his hand right away. It looks like he’s making it linger there to punish you. To make you feel like he knows how filthy you are. That he can feel how you’re literally heating up and this is not your normal body temperature while his thumb is still pressed gently to your thigh. You must be crazy for almost feeling the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts. His gaze stuck on your face long enough to feel like he was searching for something before he opened his mouth again. “You want this?” His voice was low but steady. The kind that didn’t leave room for confusion. “All of us?” The question landed heavier than the touch. It didn’t rush you.

A slow swallow moved down your throat. “Yeah.” He tilted his head slightly, still watching your face. “Say it again so they hear it.” You could feel the quiet weight of Bob somewhere near the far wall and Art leaning casually with his shoulder against the dresser. You close your eyes as you try not to brat about. Speaking things like this in front of others is not a very happy experience. It’s humiliating. It’s shameful. What could possibly go wrong once you said it…? Many things are entering your head but you just exhale and take some breath for courage before you open your mouth and let out the soft words. “I want it.”

Rafe’s mouth curled at the edge. He finally eased his fingers from your thigh, but only so he could step back half a pace and glance at the others. “Help me out, then. She’s overdressed.” Art was the first to move. The bed dipped under his knee as he climbed up beside you. The scent of his cologne brushes over your skin. His hands were warm when they caught the hem of the frat shirt. He’s lifting it until the loose cotton peels up past your ribs.

Bob came in from the other side, fingers brushing along your waist as he helped pull it over your head. The shirt slid free, leaving your bra straps snug against your shoulders. Cool air prickled over your skin where their hands had just been. Rafe stayed close enough to see everything. His belt was undone now, the sound of the buckle faint as his hand lingered at the waist of his jeans. “Bra next,” he said, but not to you- his eyes flicked to Bob.

The clasp gave way with one twist of Bob’s fingers. The straps slipped down your arms until the cups fell away completely. He dropped it to the floor, gaze lingering on the soft curve of your breasts before his thumb swept lightly under one. Art’s hand had already found the edge of your shorts. He hooked his fingers inside, tugging them down slowly enough for the fabric to catch on your thighs. The cotton brushed along your skin until it cleared your knees. He left them pooled at your ankles, fingertips drifting higher again to the waistband of your panties.

“Tell me,” Rafe murmured, stepping in close enough that his shadow cut over your bare chest. His eyes locked on yours. “Do you really still want this?” Your answer came out in a breath. “Yes.” Words are certain and sure like nothing can ever change your mind after that. The obvious twitch in the corner of his mouth is caught by yours and the tension in the room shifts like someone has opened the dam and water is breaking out. Your legs brushed the mattress. The bed creaked under your weight when you sat, then again when he pushed you further, until your shoulders sank into the thin pillow.

“Spread a little,” he said with a low but not rough voice. His palms rested heavily on your knees and opened them apart until the cool air reached the damp heat between your thighs. Bob stayed close at your side, the mattress dipping under his knee. He bent low, his mouth brushing the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around it, warm and wet. A soft pull drew the skin tight, his tongue sweeping over your nipple.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against you. The words were low enough that only you could hear. His hand smoothed up your side. “Don’t need to. We’ll take care of you.” Fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. Art didn’t yank them down. He tugged slowly, letting the fabric drag over your clit before peeling it past your hips. They joined the rest of their clothes on the floor. Bob’s free hand brushed the edge of your other breast, thumb circling lazily while his mouth worked over the first. You reached down without thinking, fingers finding the firm line of his thigh and you can feel the rough feel of his pants under your palm.

Rafe is sitting back in the desk chair on the other side of the room. His eyes are just focused on your body like it’s some canvas he’s watching to finish. When he leaned into it the wood creaked under his weight. He managed to work on his zipper and belt while the three of you are busy in the bed. One arm rested on the armrest while the other worked slow strokes over his cock. His gaze didn’t waver.

Art lowered himself between your thighs. His thumbs spread you open, the wet heat of your slit catching the light as he looked at you. “Still soft from earlier,” he muttered, not hiding the edge in his tone. You knew who he meant. Bob’s mouth left your breast with a quiet pop. His lips dragged lower to press a kiss just under it, the warmth of his breath sinking into your skin. “Ignore him,” he whispered, voice calm even while his fingers pinched your nipple lightly. “Right now it’s us. Just us.” Art leaned in, his breath ghosting over your clit before his tongue pressed flat against it, slow and steady.

Art’s tongue pressed firmer against your clit, drawing a slow circle before flicking the tip over it. Warmth rushed to your cheeks, the sound that slipped from you muffled against Bob’s shoulder when his mouth latched onto your other nipple. A low hum came from Art, the vibration making your thighs twitch against his arms. He dragged his tongue lower, flattening it to taste along your slit before dipping into you. The wet push of it sent your breath stuttering, hips shifting toward him without thinking.

Bob’s hand found the back of your neck, steadying you while his mouth worked over your chest. The movement was constant- gentle and teasing in a way he knows you will like. Teeth often grazed the nipple before using his tongue to soothe the bud. It just rotates in three actions: suck, bite, and lick. “That’s it,” he murmured into your skin with a low voice that was enough for Rafe not to hear from the other side of the room. “Don’t hold back on me.” Words feel hot in your skin when he says them.

Your palm moved over the hard line in Bob’s pants. Heat throbbed there under your touch and the fabric grew harder than he already is as you rubbed along his outline. His breath was held up in his throat for a moment when he felt your hand, but he didn't let that stop him from playing with your chest. The buckle of his belt remains cold against your hand as you try to work it open. Clinking sounds are obvious in the room but can be masked more by the wet sounds between your thighs.

Art pulls back just enough to stare at you before he looks down at your pussy to spit against your clit. He watches the clear and slippery slide down from your clit down to your ass before he goes back to putting his mouth around the bud. He kept his mouth sealed over and suck there until your toes curled into the thin bedding. Fingers find their way between between your folds- one slides into your pussy without any struggle. The first stretch makes the glide almost too smooth. A second joined quickly, curling up as his mouth kept working on you.

Bob’s zipper gave way under your hand, the teeth parting until you could slip inside. The heat of his cock under the thin cotton made your pulse jump. Your fingers curled around him to give him slow first strokes. His hips shift almost too quickly in your hand while his lips stay busy at your chest. Your hand moves in the same motion and pace the same way his tongue flicks lazily against your peaked nipple he’d trapped between his teeth. The pleasure is almost overwhelming. Mouths on your chest and cunt along with both of their hands moving too.

From the desk chair, Rafe remained glued there and didn’t move except for his hand that was moving to give his cock slow strokes. The open waistband of his pants hung loose on his hips and his shirt was already gone. His gaze didn’t leave the point where Art’s face was buried between your legs, but every now and then his eyes flicked up to watch your mouth fall open or the way your hand worked Bob harder. There was no rush in him. Just steady and quietly watching like he wanted every second to drag.

Art fucked his fingers into you faster now, his thumb grinding against your clit as his tongue moved lower to push into your cunt. The wet slide of it was matched by the stretch of his fingers, his other hand keeping your thigh pinned so you couldn’t close around his head. Art’s pace deepens when the third finger pushes in slowly until your walls flutter around him. His other hand spreads you open, thumb and forefinger pulling your folds apart so there’s nothing hidden from view.

“Look at that,” he mutters, eyes flicking up toward the others. The sudden cold drip of spit lands right on your clit, sliding down over his knuckles before his mouth covers you again. Wet heat surrounds the spot, tongue pressing tight while his fingers work in steady pumps. Your thigh catches the flex of his hips. The faint grind of his cock against your skin makes the muscles there twitch. Every roll is dragging over you as if he’s trying to take the edge off without stopping what he’s doing to you.

Above, Bob’s fingers slip past your lip and the pads brush your tongue as if he’s testing how far you’ll take him. “Keep that there,” he says quietly with his eyes narrowing when you try to breathe around him. The taste of skin and faint salt coats your tongue while his mouth stays at your chest. He’s sucking until the sting blooms under the area. His teeth catch your nipple before he lets go just enough to kiss it again. The pressure in his pants thickens under your palm. You keep stroking him through the fabric, feeling the twitch each time Art’s fingers push deeper.

Bob hums against your chest, his free hand pinching and rolling the other nipple while his fingers in your mouth flex just enough to make you gag lightly. A shadow moves from the desk. Rafe stands now with one hand already curled around himself. He’s stroking slowly as he looks down at you. The muscles in his stomach shift under the light, chest showing, and his belt still hanging open. When your eyes flick up to meet his- you can see the way his grip tightens and his thumb dragging over his tip.

When Bob finally pulls his fingers from your mouth, his touch glides down your jaw as he steps back to strip off his clothes. In the space he leaves, Rafe moves closer to replace him. His cockhead brushes the corner of your mouth just to tease and feel you. The slick is already dampening your lips. Bob’s palm hovers in front of your face. It’s steady despite the flicker in his eyes that looks like he’s going to shake. “Spit in my hand.” The warmth in your throat turns heavier as you lean in and let a thick string fall into his open palm. He doesn’t rush anything and he just watches it land.

He steps back into his spot before nudging Rafe out with a quiet, “Move.” A hum is the only response Rafe gave him with a slow grin forming in his mouth to show he’s not going to fight it. He takes a step back away from you while his thumb is dragging lazily over the underside of his cock while his eyes stay locked between your thighs and to Art who’s working there. Bob wipes the spit along his cock in slow and teasing strokes before letting it go to angle and turn your body into a side-lying position and especially he angled your hips enough to make your widespread and bent in half leg to touch against his stomach while you remain spread for Art.

The angle forces Art to hook his hands under your thighs to hold you open while his mouth drags over your clit. His jaw works steadily with his tongue flicking until your hips twitch, and the low sound he makes against you vibrates through every nerve. Rafe’s eyes linger on the side of the room while he lets the two have their fun first before he can take you later. “She’s not even looking at me,” he says with a flat voice but threaded out he’s sulking about not getting an ounce of your attention. “You’ll live,” Art mutters into you without pulling away.

While Bob doesn’t give them a flicker of his attention and just focuses on the shape of your mouth and the image he already created with his cock deep inside them. He watches the way your lips part open when you try to take a breath when Art spits again in your cunt. “You want to take me in your mouth how you want,” he says and his voice is low and calm. His eyes welcome yours when you look up at him before he speaks again, “or you want me to hold you still and fuck it?” He doesn’t move closer. Just waits, stroking himself slowly, patient, the tip of his cock flushed and wet. Heat pools in your chest as your gaze drifts over the three of them - Bob’s steady stare, Art’s dark eyes lifting briefly from between your legs, Rafe’s smirk twisting at the corner like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

Art takes the moment to peel off his shirt, then shoves down the rest. The shift of the air makes the heat from his skin hit you harder in a way that you didn’t even know where it came from. Muscles flex along his arms as he hooks them back under your thighs. He’s locking you open so your folds stay spread for his mouth. Your voice comes out softer than you expect. “I want you to fuck it.” A shadow crosses Bob’s face. It’s not quite a smile, but something dark curling at the edge. He steps in with one hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapped around his cock.

The blunt head presses to your lips heat radiating off him and the salty taste brushes your tongue as he pushes in. Hips roll slowly like he’s making you feel every inch that slides over your tongue. The weight of his cock fills your mouth and makes your mouth stretch wide enough for it to make you feel worked out already. The slow and steady movement of his cock that’s dragging in and out that made your jaw ache but it’s in the best way possible. His thumb rests under your chin, keeping you steady without forcing.

Art’s mouth leaves you to be replaced by the smooth glide of his cockhead rubbing over your slit. He drags it along your folds and circles your clit before pressing lower until it’s pushing right at your hole. “Fuck…” he breathes and his voice is heavy. “So warm.” After Art’s comment about how you feel, Rafe’s voice cuts in. Like you can’t tell if he’s fucking around Art’s head piss each other off like they always do or if he’s serious. “Where’s the condom?” Art doesn’t even look at him. His grin tilts slowly. “Don’t need one. I’m clean. Been fucking her for months.” He tilts his head toward you just to catch the way your eyes flick up. “You’re not telling me she doesn’t let you go raw?” Rafe’s smirk fades into something tighter. “You’re an asshole.”

“Maybe,” Art says while pushing the blunt head against you again until your hips twitch. “Still feels better like this.” Bob’s hand tightens in your hair at the sound you make- a muffled hum around his length. He pulls out halfway just to watch the wet stretch of your lips around him before sliding back in, slow enough to keep your eyes locked on his. “Focus on me,” he murmurs and his voice is rougher now. “He can wait his turn.” These three are assholes and as typical frat boys as they can ever be with the way their words are blurted out of their mouths.

They just know they have to make it up to you big time by just saying shit like “waiting for his turn” because it looks like they’re insinuating that you’re a toy. Art laughs under his breath but doesn’t move away. His cockhead drags over your slit again, catching on the slick that’s already there, rubbing circles over your clit that make your throat tighten around Bob. A low sound rumbles from Bob’s chest at the way your mouth clenches. His hips push in deeper, the head of his cock nudging at the back of your throat for a moment before easing out. Rafe shifts his stance at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on where Art’s cock is sliding over you. “You’re doing that just to get under my skin.”

“You think?” Art presses a little harder. The head of his cock just started to sink inside before pulling back. “Nah. This is for her.” The heat between your legs burns more when his words hit, and Bob’s next thrust into your mouth comes slower. It’s heavier like he’s savoring the way you’re caught between them. Bob’s hand stayed steady at the back of your head, his cock sliding over your tongue in slow, heavy pushes. The blunt tip brushed the back of your throat once and he caught the sharp swallow you made, hips stalling. “Sorry,” he murmured quickly, even though his thumb still stroked along your jaw like he was picturing doing it again. The apology didn’t hide the faint hitch in his breath when you relaxed around him, letting him go deeper on the next pass.

Art worked into a slow pace between your thighs that makes it very pleasurable for you that he’s not just pounding. The head of his cock is kissing your cervix with every roll of his hips. His palm slid up to your belly to feel you and press his hand there to feel his cock bulging inside of you before he led it down so his fingers could circle your clit in tight and lazy strokes. “Told you,” he said and the words aimed at Rafe more than you. “She’s still warm from earlier. Can feel it grabbing me.” Rafe’s jaw flexed from where he leaned at the side as his eyes dragged over the way your lips stretched around Bob while Art rocked into you. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he said flatly.

Art’s laugh was low, but his tone stayed soft when he looked back down at you. “Relax, I’m not gonna break her.” But his actions say the opposite with the way his hips push deeper. It almost looks like he’s letting you feel the slow grind of his cockhead pressing inside before pulling back only to slide in again until your cunt clenches around him. The fingertips on your clit stayed there and he kept rubbing them while the motion picked up just enough to make your legs twitch.

Bob’s cock dragged out of your mouth with a slick sound before pushing back in, the weight of him forcing your lips wider. He groaned quietly when you swallowed around him. Hips shifting in a short thrust that made your throat tighten. “That’s it,” he breathed. It’s almost too soft to hear. He eased back an inch when he pushed his cock more deeply instinctively. “Didn’t mean to-” His words broke off when you sucked harder, and his grip at your nape tightened for a beat before he let out another low apology.

Your hips jerked when Art rolled his fingers tighter over your clit. The steady pulse of his cock hits deep enough to make your breath catch around Bob. “You hear that?” Art tilted his head toward Rafe without slowing. “She’s dripping down my balls, and you’re just standing there.” Rafe stepped in closer, knuckles brushing your hair as he looked down at you. “Keep talking, see what happens,” he muttered to Art, though his gaze didn’t leave your face.

“Move over when I’m done watching.” Art smirked but didn’t answer, pushing in deep enough to grind against you while his thumb worked faster. Bob’s pace in your mouth stayed slow and careful, though his eyes kept flicking to the way your throat worked around him like he wanted to push further. Heat curled low when his cock twitched against your tongue, his breath breaking in a rougher sound he didn’t bother to hide.

Bob adjusted his stance, one knee pressed to the mattress so he could angle you just where he wanted. The slow slide of his cock over your tongue grew heavier, your lips pulling tight around him as his hand guided your head in steady strokes. He didn’t speak now, only watching your eyes as he pushed a little deeper and felt the wet heat close in around him.

Art’s hips kept that deep and even tempo so his cock nudged the top of your cunt each time before dragging back through the slick mess he’d made. His other hand was never still- sliding up your side, catching the soft weight of your breast before rubbing your nipple with his thumb before gliding down to circle your clit again. “Gonna make you cum before he even gets his turn,” he murmured. It’s just loud enough for Rafe to hear.

The scrape of a drawer made you glance sideways. Rafe had moved to your desk to pull open the top until he found the pale blue polaroid camera he’d given you months ago. He popped it open and thumbed to check the film then lifted it to his eye. “Keep going,” he said. “Don’t stop just because I’m watching.” The click and whirr of the camera cut through the wet sounds in the room. A flash went off as white light caught you mid-motion with Bob’s cock deep in your mouth and your eyes tilted up through your lashes.

The photo slid out, and he waited a few seconds until the photo appeared with clear colors. “Perfect,” he said, voice low but still enough to hear. “Do that again.” Art’s thumb pressed harder against your clit and he drew a sharp sound from your throat that vibrated around Bob. The pulse of it made him groan under his breath. His hips pushed forward in a single rougher thrust before he reined it back in. His hand stayed warm at your nape and his thumb stroked once over your skin like it was instinct.

Rafe leaned closer with the camera, waiting until your lips looked stretched just right around Bob before snapping another shot. “Look at me,” he ordered and you did what he said. It was so fast because the second you lifted your gaze, there was already another flash that filled your vision. It’s bright enough to make your eyes sting. “That one’s going on my wall,” Bob said after Rafe took a photo of you. His words made your pussy clench around Art’s and it shows with the way he grunts at the action you just made. Bob’s cock slid free just enough for you to breathe. Your mouth was wet and open as a strand of spit clung to the tip. Art’s fingers never left your clit, his pace picking up until your hips twitched against him. “She’s close,” he said, smirking at Rafe without pausing.

“Want me to make her cum before you even touch her?” Rafe’s jaw tightened before the camera lowered slowly. He licks his lips and he watches the way Art keeps smirking like he’s enjoying making little comments because he’s the one inside of you right now. “You try, and I’ll make sure she’s still dripping when you’re done.” Art just grinned as his hips rolled deeper, and the way his fingers worked made it hard to focus on anything else. Bob’s cock was right there again. It’s sliding over your tongue in a smooth and heavy stroke as his breath grows shorter.

Art’s pace turned heavier while his hips pressed in deeper until the thick head of his cock kissed your cervix again and again. His fingers didn’t stop their rhythm on your clit. He keeps rubbing fast enough to make your thighs tighten against him. “Come on,” he urged and his eyes dragged up your body until they met yours. “Let me feel you cum on it.” The way he worked you left no room to think. Only the hot pull of release curls through your belly. The pulse started low, squeezing around Art’s cock in quick, wet spasms. His hand locked on your hip while the other kept circling your clit, drawing the orgasm out until your legs trembled.

It almost feels telepathic when Bob’s cock starts spurting his cum inside your mouth with that slow thrust of his. The weight and the way your mouth is filled in the back of your throat are making your eyes water. At this point, you don’t know if it’s because of your orgasm or because of his cumming in your mouth. He didn’t push it too hard to make you choke, almost too careful even. There’s this sound quiet sound he makes while he watches you swallow. His eyes stay locked on the way your throat moves and the twitch of your lips as you try to take it all down. Rafe’s camera clicked again and the flash burst as you moaned around Bob.

“Fuck- there it is,” Art gritted, feeling you squeeze around him. He rode the clutch of your cunt until the spasms slowed. A slick white ring clung to the base of his cock when he finally pulled back an inch. He caught Rafe’s eye and tilted his hips just enough to show it off. The look he gave wasn’t loud, but it said everything. Take the photo. Rafe didn’t hesitate. The click came sharp and the print slid free from the camera while Art’s smirk widened. “You’re gonna want that one,” Rafe muttered to him.

Bob’s cock slipped from your mouth for a moment, spit and cum glistening down your chin as you dragged in air. His hand brushed your cheek once before guiding you back onto him, the tip pressing past your lips. “Almost there,” he said low, his tone rougher now. He was still hard, still twitching, still using your throat even after spilling inside it. His hips pushed forward just enough to stretch you, then eased back so you could breathe before driving deeper again, chasing something sharper through the sensitivity.

Art stayed close, sliding back into you with a groan. The thrusts came quicker now, his grip tightening as his cock pushed deep into the mess you’d both made. “Gonna fill you up,” he rasped, voice edged with heat. “Bet you’ll still be dripping when Rafe gets in there.” The mention of his name made Rafe finally set the camera down, his eyes glued to the way Art’s cock disappeared inside you. “Move when you’re done,” he ordered, tone low and steady.

Art’s breath went heavier, pace turning almost sloppy as the tension coiled hard in his hips. The slap of skin echoed in the room, mixed with your muffled moans around Bob. With one last deep push, Art groaned and stilled, the heat of his cum spilling inside you in thick pulses. His fingers kept you open, letting every drop sink deep before he finally pulled back to watch it leak. “Fuck- look at that.” He lingered for a moment, spreading your folds with two fingers so the mess glistened in the low light. His smirk was sharp when he glanced up at Rafe. “See? She’s too tired for you.”

Rafe lowered the camera then, the strap slid from his hand as he set it on the nightstand. He stepped in where Art had been. It’s slow but sure. He crouches between your thighs. His hands hooked under your knees to spread you wider. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on you. The first drag of his tongue pulled a gasp from your chest, the wet heat licking up your slit to taste the mix of you and Art. “Messy little thing,” he muttered against you before sealing his mouth over your clit.

The shift of weight beside you drew your gaze up. Art had already reached for the camera again, angling it down to catch the new view- Rafe’s jaw tight, his tongue buried between your folds. The flash went off mid-lick, catching it all. Bob’s pace in your mouth turned firmer, his cock sliding until your lips brushed his base. The grip at your nape tightened, his groan rough. “Gonna finish again- fuck-” he warned, but didn’t pull out. The first hot spurt hit your tongue, then another, his hips jerking with each pulse. He was overstimulated, chasing it anyway, and the second orgasm ripped through him fast, leaving you swallowing all over again while his body shook.

The camera clicked again, capturing your cheeks hollowed and your mouth full, the shine of cum glistening on your lips before you swallowed it down. Rafe didn’t slow at the sound of it. His tongue flicked quickly over your clit before he dipped down to fuck into your pussy. He’s scooping every drop left inside. His grip on your thighs pinned you open, forcing you to take it until your hips started to jerk against his mouth. When Bob finally pulled free, strings of spit and cum clung from your lips to his tip. He stepped back from the bed, chest heaving, giving space for the others to close in.

Rafe finally wiped his chin with the back of his hand as he stood, eyes fixed on your pussy like it had been calling him all night. “Move her up,” he told Art before flickering his eyes at him. Art leaned down, sliding his arms under your shoulders. He lifted you just enough off the mattress, then climbed onto the bed himself, settling against the headboard. With you still in his hold, he shifted you higher until your head fit across his lap. The warmth of his thighs framed your temples, his fingers stroking lazily through your hair as though this was nothing new. “Better,” he murmured, gaze flicking toward Rafe. “Now you can watch him while I watch you.”

Bob lingered at the edge of the room. His chest still rising heavy as he watched Rafe between your thighs who just finished licking you off. His gaze grew heavier the longer he stood there until he finally pulled the desk chair forward and set it at the edge of the mattress. He sat down, knees spread, and his hand already reaching for you. His fingers brushed your clit in slow teasing circles. The pressure is light but enough to make your hips twitch. “She’s still soaked,” he murmured before his eyes met Rafe’s.

Rafe climbed onto the bed, settling between your legs. His cock brushed your thigh, already hard, the heat of it making you squirm. “Spread,” he ordered, his hands pushing your knees wider. When he lined up, the blunt head pressed against your entrance, catching for just a moment before he sank in. The stretch pulled a sound from your chest that made Art’s fingers thread through your hair. “You feel that?” he asked, looking down at you with a smirk. “Bet you can see it from here.”

Rafe’s hips pushed forward until he bottomed out, the thick length forcing your walls to stretch around him. He glanced down, watching the bulge form low in your belly with each small rock of his hips. “Look at that,” he said, pressing his palm over the rise. “You take it all, and it shows.” Bob’s thumb pressed a little harder on your clit, his other hand cupping your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers. “We’ve got budget approvals next week,” he said, glancing at Rafe as if the three of you weren’t tangled up in bed. “Gonna need you to sign off on the charity event.”

“You’re- hnn- asking me that now?” The absurdity made you let out a shaky laugh that broke into a moan when Rafe thrust again, deeper this time. “Why not?” Art’s tone was casual, his hand stroking along your throat before resting under your chin. “You’re the sweetheart. You have input.” Rafe’s thrusts stayed steady, his hand pressing down on your belly to feel himself move inside you. “Tell him you’ll be there,” he said, not breaking rhythm. “Y-yeah,” you managed, your voice catching when Bob’s fingers pinched your nipple. “Good,” Bob said simply, his eyes still on the way Rafe’s cock stretched you. Art leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear.

“We’ve also got recruitment coming up. Think you can charm the new girls after this?” The words made heat flood your face, your hips jerking when Rafe’s cock hit the spot deep inside again. “I- ahh- maybe-” You try to say but words not coming clearly “Maybe?” Rafe’s brows pulled together, his next thrust sharper. “You don’t sound too sure.” Bob’s hand moved faster on your clit, the sensation building hard under the constant push of Rafe’s cock. Art’s thighs tensed under your head, his fingers still in your hair. “She’ll do it,” he said for you. “She always does.”

Rafe’s thrusts stayed deep and unhurried. It looks like he’s savoring it after being on the sidelines. The weight of his cock pushing into you again and again while his hand pressed low on your stomach. He’s feeling the outline of it under his palm like he’s figuring out how deep he is. The heat from him burned through your skin, but his voice stayed almost casual when he spoke. “Have we ever heard back from Brent’s lawyer?” His tone made it sound like he was asking about ordering pizza, not pounding into you with enough force to make the bed shift.

Bob’s thumb swept across your clit in slow, lazy circles. “Yeah. Charges aren’t going anywhere. He called in a favor with that judge his family knows. Case is gone.” Art’s fingers traced over your ribs where your chest rose and fell. “That’s it? Just gone?” He asks while his fingers continue to trace your body. “Paper trail says the arrest never happened,” Bob said, eyes dropping briefly to watch Rafe’s cock slide in and out of you. “No record. Not even on campus.” Rafe grunted, hips rolling harder. “Kid’s a fuckin’ idiot. Getting caught with that much coke in his car during Greek Week? Might as well hang a banner off the balcony.”

A pulse ran through you at the way they said it so openly. They weren’t lowering their voices, weren’t glancing at you like you didn’t belong here. This wasn’t party gossip. It was something heavy, the kind of thing that should’ve been locked away in a back room with the door shut. “If that got out, nationals would’ve shut us down. Whole chapter gone in a month.” Art’s hand smoothed over your chest, his thumb flicking lazily over a nipple before resting on your collarbone. “That’s why it didn’t get out,” Bob said simply, thumb still circling your clit like he had all the time in the world. “Brent’s old man wrote the check. More than one.”

“Bet half the house would’ve turned on him if it meant keeping themselves clean.” Rafe’s palm pressed harder into your belly as he bottomed out, forcing a low sound from your throat. “They would,” Art agreed. His knee shifted under your head, tilting you so your eyes caught the sharp lines of his jaw. “Some of them have already tried. We handled it.” Bob’s eyes stayed on the spot where your body took Rafe to the hilt. “Handled it” meant something else entirely here, and none of them felt the need to explain.

“That pledge last year tried to leak it. Remember?” Rafe’s voice dropped lower, but not softer. “Yeah,” Bob said. “He’s not here anymore.” His thumb flicked your clit harder, sending another shiver up your spine. “Guess he figured out the hard way that loyalty’s not optional.” The room felt hotter. Not just from the way Rafe’s hips kept slamming into you, or how Art’s thumb brushed your lips like he was daring you to open them. It was the way they were talking - calm, controlled, like this was nothing. Like it didn’t matter you were naked under all of them, hearing every word.

Art leaned forward until his mouth brushed your ear. “You gonna keep that between us?” His voice was smooth, but the curl in it left no question that it wasn’t really a question. “Yeah.” Your breath came out shaky, the pulse at your clit tightening under Bob’s steady rhythm. “Good,” Rafe said, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before driving back in hard enough to make the mattress jolt. “Because if you didn’t…” His mouth brushed your jaw, the heat of his breath spilling over your skin. “We’d have to deal with you, too.”

Bob’s hand slipped higher, cupping your breast and rolling the nipple between his fingers while his other hand kept working your clit. “Don’t mind him. She’s smarter than that.” Art’s laugh was low in your ear. “She’s also wetter than that.” Rafe’s thrusts picked up, the sound of skin meeting skin sharper now, the pressure of him hitting deep enough to make your toes curl. “That’s ‘cause she likes it,” he said, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. “All of it.”

Rafe’s pace had gone from steady to relentless, hips driving into you with the kind of weight that made your whole body shift up the mattress. His hand stayed heavy on your stomach, pressing down so the shape of him inside you was impossible to miss. Every thrust dragged a sound out of you, high and shaky, and the bed creaked under the force of it. Bob’s thumb hadn’t left your clit, each circle rubbing tighter and wetter with every push from Rafe. His other hand gripped your thigh to keep you open, his knuckles brushing against Rafe’s hip as he worked you. “She’s close again,” he said, voice low but certain.

“She’s not the only one,” Rafe muttered, breathing heavier now. His gaze locked on the slick ring around his cock. “Fuck- look at that. Taking me like you were made for it.” Art’s palm rested on your jaw, tilting your face so you were looking at him instead of Rafe. “Think she’s even hearing you?” His thumb stroked over your bottom lip until it caught on the wetness there. “She’s too far gone.”

“Not too far,” Rafe shot back, shoving deep enough to make you gasp. “She knows exactly who’s inside her right now.” The words hit with the same weight as his thrusts. Heat pulled low in your stomach, every nerve focused on the thick stretch of him inside you. Bob’s thumb rolled over your clit harder, faster, until the pleasure built sharp and tight. “Hnnnh-” The sound caught in your throat, your hips twitching against Rafe’s grip.

“Yeah,” Bob said, almost under his breath. “There it is.” Art leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Let him feel it.” The words been said are clear enough to catch that it wasn’t a suggestion. Rafe’s movement is slowly turning rougher and the noise from the skin slapping is loud enough to echo in the room. “Gonna fill you up,” he said, his voice deep and certain. “All of it. You’re gonna keep every drop.” Bob didn’t stop working your clit, even when your legs started to shake. “Hold her there,” he told Rafe.

“I’ve got her,” Rafe answered, his hands locking on your hips to pin you in place. Art’s thumb pressed harder against your jaw. “Eyes on me when he does it.” Your chest heaved, the orgasm hitting so fast it tore through you in a rush. Muscles clamped down around Rafe’s cock and it’s milking him with every pulse. It's almost like he’s sucking him inside and choking him around. The sound he made was rough and his hips were grinding deep as his cum surged hot inside you. He keeps pushing so it can be more deeper.

“Fuck-” His grip tightened, keeping you flush against him while the thick warmth spilled deep, each pulse marked by another low curse under his breath. “That’s it. Take all of it.” Bob’s thumb kept moving, dragging the orgasm out until you were trembling. His gaze stayed on the way Rafe’s cock disappeared into you, his tone unreadable. “Messy already.” Art smirked from above you. “Better not waste any.”

Rafe stayed buried inside until the last slow spurt, his chest rising and falling hard. Then his palm smoothed over your stomach again, pressing lightly as if to feel the heat he’d left inside. Rafe finally eased back, his cock sliding out slowly, the thick drip of his cum spilling hot between your thighs. His palm stayed pressed to your stomach for a beat like he wanted to feel it sitting deep before it leaked. Then he let go, dragging his hand down to smear the mess over your slit with a lazy stroke.

Bob’s fingers were already there, pushing some of it back inside without asking. “You’re not wasting this,” he said, watching every twitch of your hips as his knuckles worked between your folds. Art’s hand smoothed over your thigh, nails grazing your skin. “Look at her. Can’t even move.” His grin was sharp as he shifted closer, thumb brushing your lips until they parted. “Bet she’d let us start all over if we wanted.”

Before you could answer, Rafe’s phone went off on the nightstand. Then yours. Then Art’s. Then Bob’s. The vibration was constant, one buzz after another, until the sound filled the room. Rafe frowned, reaching for his phone with one hand while the other stayed heavy on your hip. The screen lit up with notifications stacked on top of each other. “What the fuck…” His eyes scanned, then narrowed. “You seeing this?”

Bob pulled his own phone from his pocket, his other hand still idly stroking your slit. “Oh, yeah. Everyone’s seeing this.” Art didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he unlocked his screen. “Well… guess the rumors weren’t just rumors anymore.” Bob’s thumb pressed deeper into your slit, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t random. Timing’s too perfect. Someone waited for this week for a reason.”

You leaned enough to catch a glimpse over Rafe’s arm. The font is too big so you already saw what’s in the campus gossip site where it says, “Rumor has it… The sweetheart privileges come with three special perks.” Rafe tossed his phone onto the bed with a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes like as if seeing that was an absurd idea. “Fucking cowards. Can’t even put their name on it.” Art kept scrolling, smirk still in place. “Probably someone who’s still pissed they couldn’t get her in their bed instead. Or someone who hates us enough to do this.”

“Then they’re gonna be real disappointed,” Rafe said, leaning back over you, his cock still hanging heavy against your thigh. “Because I’m not giving them what they want.” His gaze dropped to where Bob’s fingers were still working on you, then back to your face. “And neither are you.” Art’s palm slid down your chest, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “If anything, they just gave us another reason to make it obvious.” Bob’s voice was quiet but firm. “And another reason for you to stay right where you are.” Guess the whole campus will watch you more than ever.

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⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven

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#4 later!!

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megumimania · 12 days ago

Text

SAFEHOUSE ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.

after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.

✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡

Clark Kent was a very reserved man.

Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address.

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe.

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back.

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder.

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race.

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

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megumimania · 16 days ago

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sorry for party rocking!

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megumimania · 23 days ago

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wake up. good morning text from david corenswet. shower. he picks you up. brunch date. run into tom welling at the restaurant. challengers.

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megumimania · 25 days ago

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100 Dialogue Tags You Can Use Instead of “Said”

For the writers struggling to rid themselves of the classic ‘said’. Some are repeated in different categories since they fit multiple ones (but those are counted once so it adds up to 100 new words).

1. Neutral Tags

Straightforward and unobtrusive dialogue tags:

Added, Replied, Stated, Remarked, Responded, Observed, Acknowledged, Commented, Noted, Voiced, Expressed, Shared, Answered, Mentioned, Declared.

2. Questioning Tags

Curious, interrogative dialogue tags:

Asked, Queried, Wondered, Probed, Inquired, Requested, Pondered, Demanded, Challenged, Interjected, Investigated, Countered, Snapped, Pleaded, Insisted.

3. Emotive Tags

Emotional dialogue tags:

Exclaimed, Shouted, Sobbed, Whispered, Cried, Hissed, Gasped, Laughed, Screamed, Stammered, Wailed, Murmured, Snarled, Choked, Barked.

4. Descriptive Tags

Insightful, tonal dialogue tags:

Muttered, Mumbled, Yelled, Uttered, Roared, Bellowed, Drawled, Spoke, Shrieked, Boomed, Snapped, Groaned, Rasped, Purred, Croaked.

5. Action-Oriented Tags

Movement-based dialogue tags:

Announced, Admitted, Interrupted, Joked, Suggested, Offered, Explained, Repeated, Advised, Warned, Agreed, Confirmed, Ordered, Reassured, Stated.

6. Conflict Tags

Argumentative, defiant dialogue tags:

Argued, Snapped, Retorted, Rebuked, Disputed, Objected, Contested, Barked, Protested, Countered, Growled, Scoffed, Sneered, Challenged, Huffed.

7. Agreement Tags

Understanding, compliant dialogue tags:

Agreed, Assented, Nodded, Confirmed, Replied, Conceded, Acknowledged, Accepted, Affirmed, Yielded, Supported, Echoed, Consented, Promised, Concurred.

8. Disagreement Tags

Resistant, defiant dialogue tags:

Denied, Disagreed, Refused, Argued, Contradicted, Insisted, Protested, Objected, Rejected, Declined, Countered, Challenged, Snubbed, Dismissed, Rebuked.

9. Confused Tags

Hesitant, uncertain dialogue tags:

Stammered, Hesitated, Fumbled, Babbled, Mumbled, Faltered, Stumbled, Wondered, Pondered, Stuttered, Blurted, Doubted, Confessed, Vacillated.

10. Surprise Tags

Shock-inducing dialogue tags:

Gasped, Stunned, Exclaimed, Blurted, Wondered, Staggered, Marvelled, Breathed, Recoiled, Jumped, Yelped, Shrieked, Stammered.

Note: everyone is entitled to their own opinion. No I am NOT telling people to abandon said and use these. Yes I understand that said is often good enough, but sometimes you WANT to draw attention to how the character is speaking. If you think adding an action/movement to your dialogue is 'good enough' hate to break it to you but that ruins immersion much more than a casual 'mumbled'. And for the last time: this is just a resource list, CALM DOWN. Hope that covers all the annoyingly redundant replies :)

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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#resources!

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megumimania · 1 month ago

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buried treasure - s. gojo

ᯓ ✈︎ first class ticket to north carolina's outer banks 𓇼

𓇼 surfer!satoru gojo x f!reader [non-curse au]

𓇼 oneshot - part of @lily-bisque's summer bash collab

❝ you're back home for your last summer of college, and what could be a better way to pass the time than a treasure hunt? just one problem- your map is drawn in crayon, and your memory of the outer banks is lacking. luckily for you, there's a handsome surfer just waiting for any excuse to leave work for the day, and has there ever been a better excuse than a treasure hunt with a gorgeous woman? ❞

𓇼 cw ; strangers to lovers. slow burn. two sweethearts mutually pining for one another. satoru's a massive flirt but what's new? lowkey nerdjo. fluff, so much fluff. the slightest bit of hurt with the most comfort. big summer romance vibes.

𓇼 words ; 13.5k.

𓇼 a/n ; welcome to my collab with the lovely @lily-bisque, please show her all the love <33 get yourself a good summer drink and please enjoy the good vibes, comfort, and sweet little adventure these two go on!

main masterlist || bisque's summer bash masterlist || ao3 link

The tide washing over your feet is cool compared to the warmth of the sand beneath them. The refreshing chill of the early morning won’t last long, the sun will soon greet you and kiss your skin as it does every day in Dare County, but despite the heat, you thrill at the thought.

Being home for your last summer of college is a treat you weren’t sure you’d be able to afford this year, but you’re lucky enough that your parents were willing to pay to see their beloved daughter. It’s strange, to think that this might be your last summer off like this, but you look forward to the horizon of a new career and a change of pace, as terrifying as the thought is.

You tilt your head as a seagull lands a small distance away from you. Its feet pad across the sand quickly as it avoids the incoming tide, following it back down to the shoreline and waiting for some sort of mollusk or seaworm to rise from the sand for a moment too long. It pecks at the sand and comes up with some sort of worm when the tide washes over its feet again.

Squawking, it nearly drops the worm as it flaps its wings violently when some sort of bottle nearly barrels into it before it can take off. The worn glass bottle catches your attention as it topples over into the sand. Before the water can pull it back in, you jog over and pick it up, tilting it within your hands.

The glass is weathered by years of being at sea, but it doesn’t seem as old as you originally thought. It looks to be no older than twenty and you can just barely make out the silhouette of something rolled within. It takes a good amount of effort (and the help of a sharp shell from nearby) to pull the cork from the bottle and dump the contents into your palm.

Unfurling the paper reveals a map of sorts, if it can even be called that.

It’s not that it’s not a map, it is, but it was clearly drawn by a kid. There’s an approximate drawing of the Outer Banks in black crayon, with landmarks drawn to the best of the kid’s ability in blue, and a path marked in red, leading to an ‘X’ which seems to be somewhere just off the coast of the nearby town Kill Devil Hills.

With a lopsided smile, you read the poorly written scrawl across the side of the map.

“1. find key picture At Avlon beAch bridge 2. get A boAt by the key 3. go to boot islAnd 4. dig up prize!!!”

You can’t help but laugh at how sweet it is, though it’s mostly nonsense from what you can tell. You may not have been back to the Outer Banks in a year, but you don’t recall Avalon Beach having a bridge, or there being a Boot Island. That’s not even beginning to mention the fact that there’s no way the ‘key picture’ is still wherever the kid left it all those years ago.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to put the page away.

Your old friends are working throughout the week and you won’t see them for a couple of days, and Avalon Beach is a ten minute drive away. You could at least check out the beach, maybe see if something is tucked away somewhere far out of reach. Worst case scenario, you could use the time as an excuse to rent a kayak and relax with some serene time to yourself.

Sliding your thumb over the paper, you shrug to yourself decidedly.

Fuck it.

Hopping in your parents’ old car, you make your way in the direction of the beach, dropping by a surf shop on the way after grabbing a bite to eat.

A bell jingles overhead, signaling your arrival to the small shop. A tall man with dark hair pulled up into a bun lifts his head tiredly from the counter, shooting you his best smile, albeit a tired one. “Welcome,” he greets you.

Another employee is on the far side of the shop wiping down a surfboard. He’s tall too, a short-sleeve red button-up shirt with a palm tree pattern clinging to his broad shoulders, while a pair of black shorts hang loosely from his hips. He lifts his head, white hair falling in front of his startlingly blue eyes as you catch his attention. He greets you with a much more lively and awake smile.

And god your stomach flutters at the sight. He’s hotter than the goddamn sun on a summer day. Which says a lot around here.

“Anything I can help you with?” The white-haired man asks.

“Hey,” you greet, trotting up to him with a smile. “Do you do rentals?”

“Of course,” he grins. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“I’m thinking a kayak?” You hum to yourself, fiddling with the folded paper between your hands.

“Sure, is it for something in specific?” He queries with a tilt of his head.

“Uh-” you chuckle, unfolding the paper in your hands. “Yeah, actually. I found this map, I know it’s dumb and I probably can’t finish it, and I don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ or the Avalon Beach bridge is, but-” you shake your head, interrupting your own rambles as the surf shop employee peers over your shoulder at the map in your hands.

His expression flickers from intrigue to genuine shock, you assume because you’re following a map set out in crayon, before it settles into something softer. “Huh,” he chuckles, pushing a hand through his hair to better look at it. “Avalon Beach bridge is probably the pier,” he points out.

“Oh!” You peer up at him, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense. Still, I doubt I’ll find anything. It says there’s a picture there I think, but this looks pretty old. It’s probably long gone.”

The man hums in agreement.

“And I still don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ is supposed to be.”

“It’s, uh-” he pauses, scratching at the back of his head. “Actually, are you from around here?”

“Kinda,” you shrug. “My parents moved a bit south of here when I was in my teens, I’m just back for the summer.”

“Do you need a tour guide?”

You blink, somewhat taken aback, although something within you bubbles with excitement at the thought of having his company. You could use more friends around here, even if you’re only back for a bit.

“I mean, yeah! That would be great,” you grin. “But aren’t you working?”

“Yeah Satoru, aren’t you working?” The other employee chimes in with a lifted brow, looking unamused at Satoru’s near-immediate offer to leave. “Or did you forget?”

“C’mon, Suguru! It’s Wednesday, it’ll be slow today. I’ll owe you one,” he grins, wiggling his brow at his colleague.

With a forlorn sigh, Satoru’s co-worker, Suguru, slumps further over the counter and mutters out a ‘fine’, dropping his face into his crossed arms. “You owe me a full day, though,” he mumbles, muffled behind his arms.

Satoru grins. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushes his friend off with a grin, laying the surfboard he’s still clutching across a back counter and plopping the rag atop it. He jogs off into the back, coming back with two paddleboards and a single lifejacket.

“Are we sharing?” You quip, eyeing the only safety gear he’d deemed necessary.

“If you want,” he smirks. “I can swim, though. Figured you might need one since you’re not from around here.”

Rolling your eyes, you brush off both the flirting that makes your stomach flip with anticipation and the casual dig at your swimming skills. “I moved here when I was like sixteen, I can swim,” you retort, though you do grimace at the sight of the paddle boards over your much-preferred kayak.

“Just making sure,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t want a pretty girl like you to drown on my watch.”

You actually scoff at that. Okay he is hot, but maybe also a little annoying. He seems friendly enough, though, so you set aside his somewhat poor attempts at flirting in favor of shoving the map into his arms as well.

“In that case, you can hold this too.”

He pouts as he doesn’t get the reaction to what he wants, but bounces back quickly as you begin making your way towards his co-worker. “How much for the rental?”

The raven-haired employee casts a glance at his co-worker, some sort of silent exchange taking place between them, before he shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he sighs, leaning his cheek on his knuckles, propped up on the counter. “Now you doubly owe me though, Satoru.”

“Oh,” you turn towards Satoru. “Thank you!”

He hums, a boyish grin on his face that’s almost giddy in a way you can’t quite make sense of. He looks a little bit too excited to be following a map drawn in crayon.

“Alright, let’s head to Avalon Pier, then,” you grin, beckoning the surf-shop employee along with you. He walks in pace with you, an infectious pep to his step as he turns to silently thank Suguru.

As soon as you’ve loaded the paddle boards into your car, you hop in the driver’s seat with Satoru in tow.

“You know,” he starts as he buckles in, “I should probably get the name of the pretty girl who could kidnap me.”

You giggle at the realization that no formal introductions actually ever took place, pushing past the kidnapping point. In fact, you kind of just mindlessly said yes without knowing anything about him, either. You were too busy ogling the pretty aqua shine of his eyes. He’s hot. Unfairly so.

Reckless? Maybe. Fun? Definitely.

You introduce yourself with a sweet smile as you pull onto the road. “I’m visiting my parents for the summer. Next year is my last year of college.”

“Sounds fun! I’m Satoru,” he greets you in return. “My family moved here when I was two, the grumpy guy we left behind is my best friend.”

“In his defense, I’d be grumpy too if you left work to hang out with a girl.”

The snowy-haired man’s smirk widens. “Nah, he gets it. You don’t pass up the opportunity to go on a treasure hunt with the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.” He lounges back in the seat, staring out the window casually as he pulls a pair of dark shades from the pocket of his shorts. “When life gives you lemons, right?”

Heat rises up your neck, climbing to your cheeks as you giggle at his shameless flirting. “You know our map is written in crayon, right?”

“So?” He runs a hand through his hair, facing you in the passenger seat. “The real treasure is getting to join you, anyway.”

“Did you just hit me with ‘the real treasure is the friends we made along the way’?”

“Sure,” he shrugs one shoulder. It drops down to his side as he leans the other one on the seat. “I mean we’re either gonna find a lollipop or the One Piece or something, right? Win, win.”

“A lollipop? It would be at least ten years old by now,” you laugh, raising a brow as you pull into Avalon Pier’s parking lot.

“Still! Isn’t that every kid’s most prized possession?”

You can’t help but smile, Satoru’s energy is completely contagious. “My prized possession was a plush Octopus from the aquarium in Georgia.”

“Mine was a Digimon DVD. So, po-tay-to po-tah-to. Love the Octopus, though.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” you giggle as you hop out of the car. The sea breeze is refreshing against your cheeks, the smell of salt water hitting you the moment the door opens.

“I’ll have you know it’s very cool and fun of me,” he retorts, shutting the door as he leans over top of your vehicle while you laugh. He sets the map on the hood and spreads it out, his palms splaying over the surface as he looks it over. “Well, our instructions are pretty vague,” he comments.

You fall to his side, looking over the poorly drawn Outer Banks. “I told you this probably won’t lead anywhere. I mean, there’s no chance the picture is still here, anyway.”

“Why bother if you think there’s no chance?”

You shrug. “I just figured it was a fun thing to do to pass the time, even if ‘Boot Island’ doesn’t exist. It’s a fun story even if I find nothing, right?”

He tilts his head down at you, his bubbly attitude replaced with something softer, considering your words. “I like it,” he hums, his octave lowering a decibel.

“Yeah?” You peer up at him, your stomach erupting with a fluttering sensation at the tone of his voice.

“Yeah. It’s spontaneous. I dunno, I like that,” he shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.

You feel your cheeks warm again, averting your gaze. “Well, come on then. Time to-” you pause, glancing at the map, “find a key picture.”

“Aye aye,” he agrees with a salute, his grin returning as you lead the way to the pier. “So, you think it’s a photo that got tucked somewhere, then?”

“I think it probably was,” you shrug, staring out across the long pier as wind whips around you without the cover of the land. “Or a drawing, maybe. But there’s no way it’s still here.” You wave your hand out at the pier, where the wind has gotten rather dramatic now that you’re standing over the ocean. A couple of clouds hang high in the sky, though it’s otherwise clear, the sun now shining far above you.

Seagulls squawk and caw high overhead, floating in the currents of the wind, curiously eyeing you and your new companion as though you might conveniently drop their next meal. The wood creaks beneath your feet, worn from years upon years of heavy use. You can remember sitting at the edge of this pier with friends as a kid, at the very same spot where you now stand.

“There’s literally nowhere to hide a photo out here,” you mumble mostly to yourself, forgetting you have a companion until he moves into your peripherals.

With hands in his pockets, he shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “Maybe it’s not a photo.”

“I guess,” you hum in agreement, looking around the worn algae-covered wood. The waves are calm and steady right now, leaving a tall gap between the top of the pier where you stand and the calm flow of the ocean beneath you.

Satoru steps forward, sitting at the edge of the pier and watching the ebb and flow of the waves.

You join him at the edge, kicking your feet as you brace your hands at the edge of the wooden structure. “Why’d you join me?” You query curiously.

“Why not? It gets me outta work anyway.”

“I could be a murderer,” you point out.

He shoots you a disbelieving look. “Please. You’re following a crayon map.”

You click your tongue, staring out at the broad expanse of blue. “Touché,” you murmur, brushing his shoulder as you adjust where you’re seated. Chewing on your lip, you peer curiously over at Satoru. His white locks blow in the breeze, catching on the corners of his sunglasses. “Are you in school?” You ask to fill the air. It’s not uncomfortable by any means, but you’d like to get to know the man who dropped his job for some girl he’d never met and the promise of a very old lollipop.

“Yeah, I’m a business major,” he explains, leaning his head back to admire the blue skies and coasting birds overhead. “I’m supposed to take over the family business.”

You tilt your head as you examine the way his enthusiasm seems to drain. “I feel like I don’t know you well enough to say that you don’t seem too happy about it, but-” you shrug, “- I’m not really that type of girl. So, you don’t seem too happy about it.”

He snorts. “You’re fine, pretty,” he brushes off your concerns. The casual way with which he calls you ‘pretty’ keeping that fluttering in your chest alive. “I’m not. My major is business and my minor is marine biology.”

“You wanna do marine biology?” You confirm.

He nods, a sparkle catching in his irises that makes it mirror the waves out in front of you. “Yeah. I wanna study the animals out around the OBX,” he comments, referring to the Outer Banks by its local name.

“But… parents?” You ask casually.

“Parents,” he confirms.

“Well,” you kick your feet out, staring at the flower-patterned sandals adorning your feet. “I hope things work out for you.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, something soft in the way he regards you. “But hey, why don’t we check under the pier?”

“Under? There isn’t even anywhere to stand.” You peer down beneath the pier, but before you can even think twice, Satoru is twisting around and dropping down under the pier onto the ‘X’ shaped support beams below, balancing in the crossed portion. “Oh my god, no way. This is all you.” Shaking your head adamantly, you lean forward as far as you can to catch a glimpse of your fellow treasure-hunter, but he’s extending his hand out to you.

“C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, fall in, hit my head, sharks?”

“It’s an adventure, right? Live a little.”

“A kid couldn’t have gotten down there!” You protest.

“You never know,” Satoru shrugs.

“I would know if you would look for it and tell me,” you insist, peering warily down at the water that laps at the base of the beams crossed near Satoru’s feet.

He leans over a little more, his hand gently brushing your calf. “Trust me.”

“I just met you!”

“You put your faith in me as your guide!”

“Ugh, fine!” You groan, chewing on your lip as you hold yourself at the edge of the pier, grateful you chose to wear shorts today instead of a dress. “Oh god,” you breathe, arms somewhat shaky as you lower yourself carefully, eyeing the water below.

“I gotcha,” Satoru grunts as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you flush to him, tucking you into his extremely noticeably buff side. It’s not like you didn’t notice his veiny forearms or the way his shirt clings to his biceps, but still.

Your entire body heats up, pooling in the pit of your stomach with just how oddly sweet and attractive this is as a whole. You barely even know the guy, but-

Yeah, would.

You reach out, grabbing the support beam opposite you with one hand while clinging to his shoulder with the other, attempting to balance your feet on the top of the ‘X’ of the beams as well. There’s not a lot of space, sandwiched pretty firmly between Satoru’s built form and the beam.

“Thanks,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings and feel somewhat like you have a hold on where you are.

“You alright?”

“Mhm,” you nod, masking your doubts with the confidence of being stuck between two very sturdy supports. “Now,” you glance around, “see anything?”

Satoru hums, twisting to get a better view behind him. “I see a lot of dried seaweed,” he mumbles, his arm tightening around your middle as he leans back to get a better view of the bottom of the wooden planks. “What’s that?”

“The carving that says ‘T + L had sex right here’? Ew, by the way. I hope they used a blanket.”

Satoru snorts. “Not that. To the left,” he tries to explain, his hands too preoccupied to point at anything.

You lean in, feeling unusually safe within his grip. “Oh my god! I think it’s supposed to be a carving of a key!”

“Supposed to be?”

“I mean yeah, it kinda looks like one.”

For a split second he almost looks offended, but you brush it off as misreading his squinting expression.

Leaning in a bit further and grateful Satoru still has a strong grip on you, you’re just barely able to make it out. “Looks like it says ‘in hAymAn house bridge’.” Leaning back into Satoru’s grip and clinging to the support beam closest to you, you turn to peer up at him. “What in the world is that meant to be?”

“Uh-” he shrugs, glimmering blue eyes flickering around the pier as though in search of an answer. “The kid thinks piers are bridges, right?”

“A house pier, though?”

Satoru shrugs. “Dunno. I think there’s something slimy on my hand, though,” he states in distaste, casting a glance at the hand he’s got tightly gripping the support beam at his side. “Let’s head back up.”

Nodding, you attempt to adjust your grip on the man to be able to reach the top of the pier and pull yourself up, but with the way you’re both contorted into the crosssection of the beams, you can’t get a grip on the wood above. Even if you could, there’s no chance you could pull yourself up.

“I can’t reach,” you pout up at him as you fall back into his arm, though your stomach churns at the sight of the water below.

“Uh- shoot,” he mutters. He glances around, before making a decision. “I got it, here.” He shifts so that you can grab the beam he’s perched on, precariously balancing at your side.

“Oh, it is slimy.”

“Told ya,” he chuckles, sliding his foot out from under you. “Okay, I’m gonna jump, then I’ll catch you.”

“What- Wait-!” You gasp as Satoru pockets his sunglasses and plunges into the ocean below. The water splashes up to your shins, his impact causing the waves to lap and break around the beams supporting your figure. You nervously glance around the rocking tides until Satoru resurfaces, shaking his head of white hair like a dog and getting sea spray all over you. “God, you scared me!”

“Sorry!” He calls from a good few feet below. “It’s pretty warm today, though. Come on in, it’s nice!” He grins as he beckons you into the water.

You cling to the beam, peering below and chewing on your lip. “Um-”

“You can swim, right?” He confirms when you hesitate, a look of realization cast over his expression as it occurs to him you could have been lying earlier to save face.

“I can, I can!” You peer back down at the dark shadows that your new friend is wading in. “I’m just… Not a big fan of water,” you mutter with a wince.

Satoru blinks a couple of times. “Oh. Shit, okay. Uh, hold on.” He dips back under the gently lapping waves, though you can’t make out what he’s doing in the depths of the shadowy water beneath. He resurfaces and shakes his head again, sending more seaspray flying through the air. “No barracudas!” He confirms with a grin, as though a toothy fish was the reason behind your disdain for the ocean.

“That’s not-” you groan, throwing your head back, though something about his boyish smile and actions puts you a bit more at ease.

“It’s not that deep! Here,” he wades forward a bit. “I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

“There’s an awful lot of trust going on for someone I just met,” you mutter from your perch, though you do reposition to jump.

“I trusted you first, you could have murdered me,” he points out.

“You could murder me now!” You point out, glancing around, though there’s no one to see you right now. He really could.

He snorts. “Yeah, the marine biologist serial killer really has a ring to it.”

“Shut up,” you whine, readjusting your stance. “Ugh, and I’m wearing denim shorts,” you mutter at the thought of getting them wet as you mentally prepare yourself.

“We can go get changed, just trust me,” he holds his arms out again, just as you manage to work up the courage to take a leap. You don’t go plunging straight down into the water as you’d thought either as he manages to keep you mostly above water, using one arm to wade, while he holds you close with the other. “See? Like I promised,” he grins when your hands find purchase on his chest.

Your cheeks warm as he gives you a small reassuring squeeze. Glancing away, you nod. “Thanks, Satoru.”

“I gotcha,” he grins as he speaks, his eyes lit up behind the shades he’s still wearing as he looks towards the beach. “Can you swim back? Or do you need a big strong man to-”

“I got it,” you interrupt, making a point of splashing him with salt water as you do. He laughs heartily as he trails behind you, keeping a steady eye on you to make sure you reach the shore safely. As soon as your feet hit the sand, you let out a breath of relief and jog ashore, the sand sticking to your wet skin, warm under the late morning sun.

Satoru follows shortly behind you, pushing his hands through his hair before ringing out his soaking wet shirt. As it continues to drip on the sand below, he unbuttons it, revealing his unfair and frankly godly sculpted abs.

Catching you staring, Satoru raises a brow as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. “Like what you-”

“Don’t finish that,” you press a finger to his chest. God, he has an ego, but it’s the fact that he’s right that has your gaze narrowed as you stare at him. His eyes sparkle, his smirk growing into a grin that’s entirely too sly.

“Am I too-”

“Nope!” You interrupt, turning on your heel and heading towards the area where the grass and sand meet, still dripping wet but grateful for the warm sun.

Satoru snickers to himself behind you, pulling his shirt off to wring it dry as best as he can, not bothering with his shorts that seem to be some sort of swim trunks anyway. He slips his arms back into the sleeves of his wrinkly red shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He musses his hair with a hand as he comes up behind you, meeting you in the grass at the shore.

“God, my shorts,” you mutter, wringing out your tank top as the denim of your shorts clings uncomfortably to your thighs.

“Got a change of clothes?” Satoru queries genuinely with a tilt of his head.

“I’ve just got a hoodie,” you grimace.

“I think that’d give you heatstroke in this weather,” he chuckles. “My place is like a mile north, why don’t we drop by?”

“Oh-!” You blink at the offer, a kind one, but one that leaves you wary as you’re reminded that you really don’t know this guy. Then again, he had every opportunity to drown you and he didn’t, so- “Yeah, why not?”

He grins. “Great! I’ll give you directions.”

Thank god his place is as close as he says, because by the time you arrive, you feel like a sad wet cat. At least your makeup and hair isn’t too bad given that Satoru managed to catch you before you plunged under the surface fully, but your clothes are chilly and wet by the time you get out of your car, which is now equally soaked.

Satoru leads the way up to a small coastal shack, more or less, fishing a set of keys from his pockets and opening the door for you.

“Come on in,” he offers, stepping aside. “It’s a bit of a mess, sorry.”

‘A bit’ is an understatement, but there’s almost a sense of organization to the chaos. His interest in marine biology and the ocean is apparent in every piece of the mess, but it somehow adds to the seeming intention behind the disorder.

The shack is about as big as a studio apartment, littered with clothes and unwashed dishes, but there’s some sort of story behind each corner of the single-room home. There are dried corals and shells along the wall, posters of species of sharks and whales, and surfboards with a longboard pushed up against the wall. His bed is in a corner with an ocean blue blanket atop it and a pile of papers that Satoru must have been going through before work. There’s a desk littered in all sorts of textbooks and papers with pens scattered across the surface and a half-finished energy drink typical of any college student, while his kitchen has an odd mix of experiment-like specimen jars and food.

The pickles being beside a jar with a preserved squid in it has to be some sort of curse.

Why are the pickles on the counter in this heat anyway?

You shake your head and continue peering around, taking in the Digimon plush sitting atop a cabinet and a small stack of very old, very tattered, Yu-Gi-Oh cards. You wouldn’t have gathered from talking just how nerdy he is, but it’s pretty cute and the shack has a very homely feel once you move past the squid in a jar.

“I like it,” you smile, eyes settling on a photo of who you presume is likely a young Satoru in Scuba gear sitting on the back of a boat. You’re only reminded that you’re still dripping wet when Satoru opens the fridge near you and a cool breeze hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

“Thanks,” he grins, setting a couple of bottles of water on the counter. “Let’s get you something warmer.”

You nod, following close behind him as he makes his way to a dresser near his bed, pulling it open and digging through it. “I don’t think I have anything your size,” he mumbles, pulling out a plain red shirt and tossing it towards you. “Here,” he tosses a pair of shorts at you as well, shrugging. “These have a drawstring.”

You nod, thanking him as he strips his own shirt off to change. You turn away to head for the only door in the shack which you assume is the bathroom before you can get distracted by the muscles rippling along his back.

You quickly get changed, smoothing the wrinkled shirt down over your hips. Going commando isn’t ideal, but it’s better than being soaked. Maybe if you just leave your clothes in the back seat of your car they’ll dry faster in the sun.

You re-emerge from the washroom, feeling fresher, albeit a bit self-conscious in Satoru’s baggy clothes.

He looks up from where he was hunched over his laptop, strands of white hair falling into his vision as water drips down his cheek. His eyes widen slightly as he looks you over, eyes lingering on the way the oversized shirt hangs over your hips. “Looks good on you,” he murmurs genuinely, lightly drumming his fingers along the side of his computer.

“You think so?”

He smirks, but there’s something sincere within this that every sly grin he’s shot you today has otherwise lacked. “I know so.”

Your cheeks warm as you return his smile. The air grows tense with thoughts that neither of you need to read too far into in order to understand, and you’re increasingly glad you let this overly cocky man with a surprisingly genuine interest in your fun little activity join you for the day. You kind of hope this isn’t a one-time thing, honestly. You could see yourself spending a lot of time with him.

“So,” he grins. “The next pier.”

“Right,” you agree, averting your gaze from those gorgeous seas of blue within his irises. “It said Hayman, right?”

“Yeah, it must be near Hayman Boulevard. It’s a road a bit south of here. It ends at the shoreline, there’s probably a pier there.”

“Let’s do it.” You grab your keys from the pocket of the shorts Satoru had lent you, heading for his front door.

“I’m bringing towels just in case, this time. Oh! And a shovel.”

“Good call,” you chuckle.

As you begin to head to the south, the sun gets higher in the sky, growing hotter until your car air conditioner isn’t doing you any favors and you almost miss being cold and wet. The drive to the pier is also so short that you barely get to enjoy what coolness the pitiful A/C can provide, stepping out of your car again to face another pier, this one with a gazebo at the end.

“House bridge,” you breathe in understanding as the phrase clicks at the sight. You lead the way past a colorful trail marker and down the old pier, grimacing as some of the boards wobble beneath your sandals and creak when Satoru steps on them behind you. “So old,” you murmur to yourself as you stop at the end of the pier beneath the cover of the Gazebo roof.

Your white-haired companion agrees with a hum, reaching a hand beneath his shirt to scratch at his chest, revealing a portion of his abdomen. Before you know it, you’re caught up staring at the snail trail of pale white hair that curls beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. You blink to yourself when his shirt falls. God, how did he get blessed with everything? Good looks and an endearing personality, not to mention he’s sweet and funny- his only sin seems to be knowing that he’s a full package and having the ego to match.

Before he catches you getting hung up on him again, you begin circling the outer edge of the Gazebo. “This is kinda like geocaching, it’s fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, except for the fact that nothing can be above five feet since a kid hid the geocache.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?”

You lean down to look beneath the railings for the metallic glimmer of a key, though you can’t imagine it would remain hidden here all these years later. It’s fairly open and there’s way too many seagulls overhead to not see a shiny thing and plummet down to add it to a nest. Still, if nothing else, you’re just having a good time.

After circling a couple of times to no avail, you begin looking upwards to see if the kid climbed the railing, but you can’t find a hint of a key. “I think we’re SOL,” you sigh.

“Maybe we’re looking for another drawing?”

“You think?”

He shrugs with a lopsided smile. “Who knows?”

Something in the way he says it makes you narrow your eyes for a moment, but you brush it off and begin searching for a somewhat key-shaped carving again, when something catches your eye. “What’s that?”

Satoru follows the line of where you’re pointing at the beams above, where there’s something colorful shoved between two beams. He jumps and grabs the beams, lifting himself up just enough that he can grab it.

You’re too busy ogling his biceps to really notice that he’s holding it out to you.

“You alright?” He grins.

Snatching the item from his outstretched hand, you ignore him and unravel it. It’s an old piece of paper that’s been taped with masking tape in order to attempt to preserve it, though water has still managed to seep through it and cause the markers used on this to bleed. The outside of the roll of paper has blue, yellow, orange, and red, while the inside has another drawn photo of a key, but that’s it. No words, and no other clues.

“It’s just a drawing,” you hum, flipping the paper over a number of times.

“Did the water get rid of words, maybe?”

“I don’t think so,” you mutter as Satoru leans over you, the heat of his body causing you to shiver at such a close distance despite the sweltering warmth of the day. You turn back towards him, holding the paper between you as you contemplate what it could mean. “Maybe the colors mean something?” You posit.

Something sparkles behind his eyes as he shrugs. “Maybe.”

How unhelpful. Given Satoru’s lack of insight, you take a look around the Gazebo, but this rolled paper is the only evidence of anything colorful within the gazebo itself, so it has to be- Your brow raises, lips pursing as your gaze lands on the trail marker you passed earlier that has matching colors.

“What about that?” You point towards the pole, flipping the paper to hold it up.

“Well, shit.” Satoru compares the two, nodding. “Come on, then!” He grins as he grabs your hand, dragging you along with him as he jogs down the worn pier. Boards creak beneath your feet, but you’re caught up on the way his hand envelops yours, connecting like pieces that just fit. Like maybe they even belong. Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you giggle when Satoru comes to a halt at the grassy shoreline, looking the trail marker post up and down. Just like the paper, the pole has a stripe of blue at the bottom, then yellow, orange, and red.

“I told you it’s like geocaching.”

“I just can’t believe all this stuff is still here,” Satoru comments, his hand remaining clasped around yours. His skin is calloused, but his grip on you is soft, almost gentle. “You said the map looks old, right?”

You nod, separating your grip from him to circle the pole. “Do you see a key?”

He hums in thought as you poke around the pole, kneeling down and sticking your fingers into a small opening cut into the metal. “Not up here,” he frowns, watching what you’re up to.

You can’t see what you’re doing, but can feel something against your fingers and just barely manage to get a hold on a piece of tape, pulling out a piece of masking tape attached to a small key. “Found it!” You exclaim, a thrilled smile taking over.

Grinning, Satoru tugs you close to him, squeezing your shoulders. “We’re having better luck than I thought with this.”

You twist your head to get a better view of the handsome man, the sun gleaming on his snowy locks. “We are,” you agree as your cheeks warm with the way he’s looking at you. You can’t deny just how hot Satoru really is. It’s not just his stunning looks, either. Between his charm and cheesy jokes and just how easy he is to talk to, you could see yourself getting close to him. Hell, there’s an itch in the back of your mind that his lips look kissable and honestly? It takes you a moment to convince yourself that now’s not the time.

Turning your attention back to the key, you hold the small piece of metal with a string of tape attached closer to yourself to get a better view of it. It’s smaller than even a mail key and the teeth on it are surprisingly uncomplicated, as though whatever it’s guarding isn’t all that secure.

In fact, it might be made out of a flimsy metal, or maybe even a sturdy plastic. Either way, it looks… like a toy.

You suppose it’s fitting of your crayon map.

“This looks like it’s from an old jewelry box I had when I was a kid. It had a little dancing ballerina in it and played music when it was open.”

Satoru nods. “I think I know what you mean. My mom had one.”

You smile softly up at him, something about the little bits and pieces of his life that he divulges as the day goes on gradually warming you up to him.

“Alright, well I guess that just leaves us with ‘Boot Island’,” you state, pulling the map from the pocket of the shorts you’d borrowed from Satoru. “It’s supposed to be here,” you point to the spot on the unfolded map where a red ‘X’ is scrawled, “but honestly based on the map, that could be anywhere off the coast of Kill Devil Hills,” you sigh.

“Well, it’s probably shaped like a boot, right?”

“There’s like four boot-shaped islands,” you point out. “And I don’t know how we’d even find it when we get there. There’s no instructions after that.”

Satoru reaches around you to pull the map from your hands, pulling out his phone to compare it to a real map of the area. “The last two spots we went to on the map were pretty close together, the kid couldn’t have gone far, right?” Satoru observes, pointing between Avalon Beach and the Gazebo you’re standing in front of. He zooms out on his phone and lo and behold, the closest island is… sort of boot-shaped. “Voila,” he grins. “We head to West 5th, then we can paddleboard from there.”

You hum in agreement, though you aren’t sure what you’re meant to do past that. By all means, it’s a small island, but you’ll still be digging all day just to find this thing with so little instruction.

Satoru seems even more determined than you though, his happy-go-lucky attitude and boyish grin lighting the way back to your car as though the sun above wasn’t already doing it for you. It seems that’s just the kind of guy he is, never too worried about anything and just enjoying whatever life throws at him, even if it’s business school.

“So, why do your parents want you to take over their business?” You ask as you hop back in your car and buckle your seatbelt.

“It’s like my dad’s one big expectation,” he sighs, a forlorn expression settling over his features that dulls the very light you were just admiring.

“What business is it?”

“He owns the airport here.”

“Oh, which one?” You tilt your head as you turn down a road.

“All of them,” he shrugs. “As well as like… everything… else,” he mumbles the last part, grimacing as he stares out the window.

“Everything else?” You query, unsure exactly what that’s even meant to mean.

He sighs. “Yeah, he uh…” He waves his hand dramatically. “He bought out most of the OBX commercial property,” he explains. “So yeah, everything. Pretty much,” he mutters, pulling his sunglasses back out from his pocket to block his eyes as though he suddenly remembered they exist again.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you offer as you pull up to the end of the cul-de-sac he’d directed you to, although there doesn’t appear to be any public areas to reach the water, so you’re not sure what he’s planning.

“No, I-” He sighs, lifting his glasses up for a moment to rub at his eyes before dropping them back down to the bridge of his nose. “It’s just tough, I guess. Being expected to take over the whole ‘Gojo’ name around here.”

Gojo? Even you’ve heard the name and you moved here pretty late into your teens, only to move away for school. “Could you not do both? Business and marine biology?”

He laughs dryly. “I appreciate it, but nah. My dad’s never around, he’s always busy. I won’t have time to surf, or dive, or anything really.”

You frown at the genuine disheartenment that he exudes. “I’m sorry, Satoru.”

He flashes you a smile as thanks, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, maybe I can at least swap some of the businesses over to more ocean-friendly waste or something, right?” He states as though it’s a sort of silver lining, though his tone remains dejected.

“Maybe,” you agree with a tight-lipped smile.

He pats your shoulder gently. “C’mon.”

You nod, hopping from the driver’s seat and staring out at the water. A fence blocks the shoreline, which you can just barely make out through the houses along the street. “Satoru, we can’t just trespass.”

“It’s fine,” he brushes you off, waving his hand through the air. “I know the people that live here,” he explains as he pulls the paddleboards from your car. He tosses them into the grass over the fence before hopping it himself.

“I really don’t think-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grins, “just grab the shovel.”

You hesitate as your gaze flickers between the overly confident surfer, the shovel in your back seat that makes it look like you’re about to commit a crime, and the paddleboards you aren’t all that confident in.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures you again, “I promise.”

You examine his gaze for a moment before giving in, taking the shovel and locking your car behind you. Satoru offers you a hand as you hop over the fence, making sure you don’t hurt yourself before grabbing both paddleboards and the paddles and tucking them under his arms as he makes his way into the backyard of the house you’re closest to.

He navigates the yard as though he’s been here before as he mentions for you to watch your step, leading the way to a narrow dock that looks to have been built somewhat recently.

“Have you been here before?”

“My dad’s friend,” he explains vaguely as he points a thumb over his shoulder to the house behind you both. “He won’t mind.”

You’re not sure why he didn’t start with that, or why you had to trespass in that case, but it does ease your worries. Satoru sets either board down at the edge of the dock, sitting and dipping his feet in as he waits for you to join him.

You approach the water with a bit less confidence, comfortable to dip your feet in, though you wish you’d pushed for the kayak you originally wanted, rather than settling for a paddleboard. Still, it can’t be that hard, right? You know how to longboard, after all.

Satoru turns his attention to you as you realize he’s attached a cable of some sort to his ankle. “You done this before?”

You shake your head.

“No worries, it’s super easy. These are SUP boards so you stand on them, they’re really steady so don’t worry about balance.”

You nod, grateful that it seems your worries are for naught.

Then again, the island is far.

“Just attach this to your ankle,” he explains, handing you the cable attached to your board, “then you’re gonna kneel down on the board and stand up. You’ll want one foot on either side of the logo to keep your balance,” he explains, doing so himself to demonstrate. He uses the paddle to keep himself in place as he watches you shakily do the same. Once you’re standing, it actually doesn’t feel so bad, though. “There you gol!” He grins. “Now just adjust your paddle and you’re good to go.”

Once you’ve got yourself set and you’re feeling a bit more confident, you use the paddle to move forward a bit and slowly begin to relax into the motion. Aside from drips coming from the paddle itself, you aren’t even getting wet and the waves are calm today. It’s actually kind of fun.

You smile over at Satoru as you get the hang of it. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

“You’re doing great!” He grins, beckoning you to follow him. You manage to paddle up to him, keeping steady on the board as you glide along the water in his direction.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get there?” You query.

He hums in thought. “Fifteen minutes, maybe?” He replies, setting a steady pace.

You nod. “What’s on this island, anyway? Have you been?”

“Uh-” he pauses, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses as he considers your question. “It’s probably just a reserve, or somethin’. I don’t think there’s anyone there.” He shrugs, pushing himself forward with the paddle.

“Have you been?” You ask again.

“Once or twice,” he shrugs. “It’s been a bit. It’s nice, though. You’ll love the beach, it’s pretty untouched.”

You smile at the thought, hoping to have some time to enjoy the sights while you’re there. “So, no trespassing?”

“We weren’t trespassing, I swear!” He chuckles. “Have I led you wrong yet?”

“I guess not,” you admit with a small smile, rolling your eyes for the sake of dramatics.

“Well, there you go.”

Shaking your head with a smile, you focus on the expanse of open water ahead, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin. It’s a bit too warm as you feel perspiration running down your back, particularly now that you’re in baggy and oversized clothes, but the breeze hitting you from the side offsets the heat enough that it’s still enjoyable. On top of that, it’s just plain gorgeous and you’re forever grateful that your family decided to settle in North Carolina.

“Do you think we’re around halfway?” You ask with a pause to glance back at the dock you’d pushed off from a few minutes ago. As nice as it is, you’re getting eager to be back on land as the sea opens up beneath you the further out you get.

“Going too slow for you?” Satoru teases, using his paddle to splash some water up at your bare legs. It catches you off-guard and you just barely manage to catch yourself, blood roaring in your ears as you stare at the deep water below.

Trying to brush off your uncertainty, you tear your gaze from the waves lapping at your board which wobbles beneath you. “I was just curious,” you murmur in an effort to cover your uncertainty.

He chuckles as he pushes his board towards yours in an effort to tease you more easily. “I can speed up if you want, just say the word,” he grins with a sly smirk as his board collides with yours. He has no intention of throwing you off quite as much as it does, but his board knocks yours with enough force that you’re thrown off balance and just about off the board, too.

“Satoru!” You gasp, trying to catch yourself but the motion only causes your board to rock into his again. You stare down at the murky water below, fear jolting straight up your spine at the thought of being caught in the deep water. “Stop, please stop!”

His eyes widen as he senses your genuine distress and quickly reaches out to steady you with a hold on your arm. It sends him a bit off-balance as well, so he lowers you both until you’re kneeling shakily on the board, staring down at the sea beneath you. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you shift to sit down with your knees beneath you, keeping yourself completely out of the water.

Satoru sits on the edge of his own board, his feet and shins dipping into the warm ocean waves. He keeps a grip on your board to keep it even and to keep you next to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he scrambles, his eyes flickering across your face. “I forgot you don’t like water, I didn’t…” he trails off, regret swimming in the depths of his shimmering irises. “God, I’m a dumbass, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” you shake your head, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I should have told you back at the shop that I’m afraid, that's why I wanted a kayak. It’s just… deep water.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize, I’m the dumbass here. I wasn’t thinking.”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay, really. It happens. I only told you I don’t like water, I didn’t tell you I’m afraid.”

Still, he sits there with a regretful frown on his lips, looking you over as one hand hovers in the air uncertainly while the other clutches your board. He isn’t quite sure how to comfort you, or what to do in this case. He doesn’t know you all that well, but he’s sure he doesn’t want this incident to muddle your thoughts on the day, or him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he breathes again, his hand rising as he seems to contemplate offering you comfort, though he isn’t quite sure how to do it.

You reach out and take his hand, grateful for his support and understanding as he attempts to rectify the situation. “I didn’t fall in or anything, anyway,” you point out.

“I would have saved you, if you did,” he’s quick to add.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you chuckle as your heart begins to calm within your chest, no longer pumping in your ears. “Good thing I didn’t, though,” you point out in a more lighthearted tone. “You would have felt so bad.”

“Oh, I would’ve felt terrible,” he agrees. “You have no idea.”

You giggle, feeling a bit more comfortable with Satoru’s firm grip on your hand and the board. As you begin to relax again, his thumb works small circles into the skin of the back of your hand. He watches and keeps you steady as you shift to sit in the same position as him, your legs settling between his within the water.

“Can I ask why?”

“Why I’m afraid of water?”

He nods.

You chew on your lip, nodding as you stare down at the spot where your hands are joined. “My parents had me take swimming lessons before we moved here for-” you make a motion towards your surroundings, “- obvious reasons.” Chuckling, you shake your head. “It was fun and I liked it, but I slipped on the diving board and I almost drowned,” you explain ashamedly, shaking your head. “It’s stupid, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts. “It happens.”

You lift your head, examining his expression. His brow is knit at the center of his face, a serious pout on his pretty lips. “Thanks, Satoru.”

He nods, squeezing your hand. “Shit, sorry I dragged you into the water at the pier earlier, too.”

“It’s fine,” you brush it off. “I do like water, it’s just…”

“It can be a lot,” he fills in the blanks.

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Is paddleboarding okay for you, then?”

You nod again. “It’s fun once you get the hang of it.”

He cracks a sweet smile, before his eyes light up as an idea pops into his mind. “Would you wanna sit on the front of my board? We can hook yours to mine and I’ll just tow it, but it’ll be pretty steady.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Might take a bit longer to get there, though.”

You nod slowly, grateful for his accommodation of your fears and willingness to bounce back so quickly. He’s pretty sweet, in spite of his teasing. “That sounds like fun, yeah,” you agree, letting him help you detach your board from your ankle so he can hook it to the back of his board before helping you shift to sit in front of him.

It is slower on his board and the drag from yours is pretty severe, but he doesn’t complain. He’s completely content watching you drag your hand through the water as you sit cross-legged at the front of his board, sharing light conversation on the way there. You learn quickly that Satoru absolutely loves sea creatures, but he particularly loves shrimp and would keep a tank of them himself if he had more time.

He also goes on a very long tangent to explain the unique way that Pipa frogs give birth (through their back, ew), which was not on your bingo card of things you would find out this summer, but you certainly did.

In fact, you’re not sure anyone would have that on their bingo card.

Either way, you shake the thought as you near the island. With a shove of his paddle into the sand, Satoru pushes the board ashore and offers his hand to help you up from your seated position. He pulls both boards further up the sandy beach to make sure they won’t wash away before stretching his arms up over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a sheen of sweat over the ridges and valleys of his abs.

You smile to yourself as his shirt lowers once more, raising your gaze to find him watching you with a smug smirk. Your cheeks warm as you avert your gaze, immediately making your way further ashore before he can confront you, or say a word.

The island is fairly small, all things considered. Maybe about four blocks total, which is more than easily explored in less than an hour, except that you have to assume your treasure is buried. There’s no way you can dig up every square inch of the island in search of an old music box. Even with company, that sounds like it would take forever.

Tossing the shovel over his shoulder, Satoru takes a look around, as well. It looks like he was right about the island having no one on it. It doesn’t even seem like many people step foot on it at this point, most of the sand and trees going untouched. The shrubbery thickens to the center of the island, though the thin ‘L’ shape of the island doesn’t allow much space for the greenery to truly flourish. It seems as though it’s primarily mollusks and birds that have found their way out here, along with some palms and shrubs.

“You’re right, it’s gorgeous out here,” you comment, rolling the sleeves of the oversized tee you’re wearing up to your shoulders as the sun beats down on you. “It’s kinda nice being somewhere so quiet.”

There’s no sounds of engines, no chatter of the outside world. It’s a far reach from what you’re used to at college, letting you take a breath of fresh air without the reminder of civilisation and responsibility.

Satoru nods, glancing to either side of the island. “That’s the best part about the ocean and these little islands,” he agrees, making the executive decision to lead the way towards one of the far ends of the island. He turns back towards you, a sort of bittersweet smile spread across his lips as he walks backwards. “No one owns them.”

There’s a pang in your chest at the implication, but you follow after Satoru regardless, taking in the sights of the small island. A pair of seagulls peek their drowsy eyes open at the sound of approaching footsteps, though neither move as you continue to keep your distance. A smaller bird with long legs, an orange beak, and a stout build follows the tide as it comes in, doing quick pecks at the sand as the tide recesses back to the ocean.

“That’s a plover,” Satoru explains as he catches you watching the small creature’s movements. “They eat worms and little crustaceans.”

“Do they not like water?” You query as the bird curiously backs up anytime the water nears it.

“They don’t mind it,” he states, “but they don’t swim.”

“Amen,” you mutter, earning a genuine laugh from your white-haired counterpart.

You grin in response, continuing to follow him further along the shore. The resplendent rays of the sun sparkle along the waves and tidepools at the edge of the island. A variety of mollusks and small insects send bubbles to the surface of the still pools, gleaming a beautiful sun-kissed golden color.

“I could stay here forever,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. Satoru still catches your words, his eyes softening as they crinkle at the corners. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he follows your line of sight out to the horizon.

“Yeah. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be out here, you know?”

You nod along. “I’m glad I got to hang out for a couple of years before leaving for college.”

“Do you think you’d come back?”

You shrug. “The world is my oyster.” You flash him a cheesy grin, knowing he’ll eat up your cheap marine life joke as he perks up at the mere mention of sealife. “But yeah, I could. Depends on what job I can get out of school. So, maybe.”

He nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mulls something over. Setting the thought aside, he drops the tip of the shovel into the sand, leaning on it. “Alright, let’s get to work.”

You lift a brow at his optimism. “What, are you gonna start here and dig up the whole island?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “Though it doesn’t sound like too bad of a day with you,” he offers, his tone shifting to put more meaning behind his words as you feel that familiar tension crackle between you.

You teasingly scoff, brushing him off. “You use that on everyone you flirt with?”

“Nah, just the ones that put up with my frog facts.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles in the back of your throat. “Yeah, I’m sure that one always goes over well.”

“Give me a couple more hours, then we’ll see,” he grins, running a hand through his hair in an effort to move it from his line of sight and get a better view of your laugh as you shake your head at the cheesy man standing in front of you.

“Alright, alright,” you shake your hands between you both as you come down from your giggles. “How do you think we tackle this?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs honestly. “Figured we’d just look around.”

“Satoru, there’s gotta be-” you pause, looking back the way you came, “like a mile of ground to cover just on the shores alone. There’s no way we can just look around.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” He leans towards you with a knowing smirk as your expression falls.

“No.”

“Well, let’s start walking, then.” He leads the way down the shore, scrutinizing every little detail of each tree, rock, or lump on the ground in an effort to discern if it could maybe be your treasure.

You follow shortly behind with the map in-hand, but you can’t make out even what side of the island the treasure is buried on based solely off of the shaky crayon drawing. As far as you can tell, if the treasure is still here at all, you’re on your own. Folding it back up and shoving it in the pockets of the shorts that Satoru lent you, you look over every tree or bump in the ground in hopes of finding some sort of clue, or sign.

“Do you think it’s that?” You ask, pointing to a small gathering of dirt near a tree.

“Maybe?” Satoru tilts his head, throwing the shovel into the dirt without question and beginning to dig. He declines any offers for help, but after a good few piles of dirt and sand stack up, he sticks the shovel upright in the sand again. “Or, maybe not,” he sighs, a sheen of sweat gathered on his biceps.

Lifting your gaze from the distraction of his veiny forearms, you sigh. “I guess maybe we should take a look at the whole island before we dig up every bump in the ground.”

Satoru’s grin is a little bit too knowing of your distracted stare as he hums in agreement. “Lead the way, pretty girl.”

Fighting your bashful smile, you cast a glance up at him, unable to help the way your lips quirk up at the corners and a quiet giggle bubbles up in your chest. Funny to think that somewhere between the constant flirting and the quiet genuine moments shared between you, his flirting started working.

Like, a lot.

Throwing the shovel back over his shoulder, Satoru proceeds to fall in step with you, asking questions about your life. Anything from what you study, to where you’d like to work, your bucket list vacations, and the music you listen to.

After rattling off a list of your favorite musicians and bands, you repeat the question back to him, but his mind seems to be elsewhere, distracted by something in the tidepools at the edge of the island. Mindlessly, he makes his way towards a bright orange blemish in an otherwise natural landscape, where he kneels down to take a closer look.

You follow suit, kneeling beside him as you get a better look at what caught his eye. Doing what it can to hide from the snowy-haired man’s presence is a small hermit crab, attempting to hide in what seems to be a bright orange thimble. Satoru carefully sets the shovel at his side, using both hands to gently nudge the creature onto his palms.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, running a thumb over the orange plastic it’s trying to take cover in, though it can’t hide well in the man-made shell.

“Could we find a new shell for it?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “but this…” he pauses, tilting his head to take a look at the crab, “this girl won’t last long out here anyway.”

“Why not?” You query, curious as to how he figured out so quickly that the crab is a girl.

“She’s not native to the OBX. This is someone’s pet that was dumped here.”

“Oh,” you pout, looking around the edge of the beach and picking up a shell to check if it’s occupied. Satisfied that it isn’t, you set it in Satoru’s palms with the crab. “Well, one problem at a time, right?”

He blinks at you, a gleam in his eye that you don’t recognize. “Right,” he quietly agrees, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“What kind of crab is it?” You ask as you push to your feet and begin doing loops of the surrounding beach in search of more shells.

Satoru’s eyes swim with elation at the question. “It’s a Caribbean Hermit Crab.”

“Far from home!” You comment as you pick up a small dark brown shell.

“A bit,” he agrees. “They also get called Purple Pinchers because they turn a bit purple as they get older, especially on their claws.”

With three shells now in your hands, you step back towards Satoru and the crab, leaning down until you can get a better look at the little creature peering up at you. Sure enough, she has just a hint of purple on her bigger claw. “She’s cute!” You comment as you set the three additional shells around her.

He nods as you jog back to the edge of the shore in search of more unoccupied shells. “She’s probably still a baby. Younger than ten.”

“Ten? How old do they live?”

He shrugs. “Twenty to thirty years with proper care.”

“What? Really?”

He smiles at your gaping reaction. “They’re hearty little crabs.”

“Oh my god, I had no idea,” you gasp as you head back to drop another shell into Satoru’s palms.

He chuckles, flashing you a toothy grin before setting the crab and all of the shells down a short distance from the both of you, allowing her the space to be comfortable while she tries out her new home options.

You take a seat beside Satoru under the shade of an overhead palm, wrapping your arms around your knees as you both watch the little crab come out of her hiding spot. The surfer leans back on his palms, adjusting so that his arm is just a bit behind you, allowing his side to brush yours. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed as you shoot him a smile.

“You’re really passionate about this, huh?”

There’s a quiet contemplation to Satoru’s words as he replies, like a sort of resignation that it’ll only ever be a passion, not a pursuit. “Yeah, I am.” Vulnerability weaves its way between the three words as though it’s a plague to him, something he’ll need to shed.

“Listen, I know we just met and I don’t know you that well, but I think you should go for it.”

“For… marine biology?”

“Yeah, I mean look at you!” You point out, waving a hand between both him and the little crab who’s wiggling into her second shell option. “The world would be missing out.”

He chuckles, somewhat wryly. “I dunno.”

“What do you have to lose, Satoru?”

He tilts his head to look at you. Really look at you. The blue oceans of his irises swim with wonder, questions, intrigue, and uncertainty. Doubts glide like sharks preying on his own passion through his mind. While he fights some sort of mental battle, you don’t back down, staring back at him with a determined intensity, one that threatens to melt under the intensity of his handsome gaze.

You can’t be sure if he finds what he’s looking for, but he sighs and throws his head back, staring up at the palm overhead. His hair falls back over his toned shoulders, blowing aside in the light breeze of the incoming evening. “I guess I could think about it,” he finally agrees. “But I’d definitely lose my job.”

“Is that because your dad owns the shop?”

“Yup,” he nods, popping the ‘P’.

“You really think he’d make them fire you?”

He taps his fingers along the sand in thought. “I wanna say no, but since I’m their only child and he wants this whole thing to be a family business, kinda, yeah.” He stares back out at the ocean, briefly checking on the crab. “I definitely can’t tell him until I’m done college,” he chuckles wryly again. “But… yeah. Maybe,” he shrugs with a lighter expression, as though it’s something he hasn’t even considered until this moment.

“I think it’s worth at least thinking about,” you offer, pointing a finger towards the little crab beginning to scuttle away in her new shell.

Satoru hums in acknowledgement, both to the crab on the run and your statement as he pushes to his feet. He pockets the plastic thimble to recycle later and scoops the crab back up.

“What’s your plan for her?”

“Dunno. Guess I could keep her,” he shrugs, unsure of what to do with her now that he has her delicately within his palms.

“That would be so cute,” you coo with a sweet little pout.

As though your pout is the icing on top that breaks his resolve, he smiles. “Yeah, I’ll keep her.” He scratches at the back of his head as he tries to figure out what to do with the hermit crab so that he can make sure it doesn’t die out here, while simultaneously not stressing it out in his hands. “Uh, do you remember if your paddleboard had one of those bag attachments on it?”

“It did!”

“Great, let’s head back to those, then.”

Luckily, the island isn’t too big and you’d only made it about halfway up the island when you found the little crab, so you're pretty close to where you started anyway. As the paddleboards come into sight, you cautiously drag yours further ashore and grab the bag attachment, pulling it off the board and sliding a small cooler from it.

“That's perfect,” Satoru hums, scooping some damp sand into the bottom of the cooler with a piece of driftwood before setting the crab inside. No longer being handled, she peers back up at the both of you from within the gorgeous pale beige shell she chose.

“How long can we leave her in there?”

“Probably not too long,” Satoru hums as he sets the cooler down under some shade. “I don't want her to overheat, and who knows how long it’s been since she last ate.”

“Maybe we should just head back, we probably won’t find anything out here anyway,” you shrug, throwing a hand through the air in an effort to make your point, when something catches your eye. You carefully rub at your eyes, ensuring you don't smudge your makeup while simultaneously making sure you aren't just seeing things in the heat. “What's that?”

The surfer follows your gaze as you squint at the trees. Hidden within the trees a short distance from where you're standing, something is catching on the low rays of the evening sun as it sets, casting a gleam of brilliant green in your direction each time it tilts just right.

Satoru leans on the shovel at his hip. “Let’s go take a look,” he urges with a sort of simpering smile that makes you cock your head just the slightest bit.

He isn't far behind as you slip into the cover of the trees, the sounds of bugs and birds shuffling in the brush serving as the only soundtrack to your adventure as the waves and wind are dulled by the cover. As you near the gleaming object, you can't help but laugh.

“Oh my god, we found it!” You grin as you turn back towards Satoru, whose eyes are alight with anticipation.

He jogs up beside you with a grin to match yours, his arm wrapping around your shoulders and squeezing. “No fuckin’ way,” he laughs in a giddy tone.

Before you, unceremoniously nailed to the bark on a palm tree, is a holographic green Yu-Gi-Oh card. Well, most of it, anyway. It’s been taped in an effort to laminate it, but even then the harsh weather has gotten the best of it, and something seems to have nibbled the corners, sending water damage straight up the center of the art.

“Green Gadget…” you read the card out, laughing to yourself as you recall seeing a stack of the very same cards on Satoru’s desk. “Do you know much about Yu-Gi-Oh? Was this some kid’s prized possession?”

Satoru shrugs. “I had cards-”

“Have cards,” you cut in, correcting him.

He playfully clicks his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, I have cards, but I dunno much about them anymore. I’m a Digimon guy.”

You nod, staring down at the base of the tree. “Try digging here!” You exclaim excitedly.

The shovel is in the sand before you can finish your sentence, hitting something almost immediately.

“No way this is all still here,” you shake your head in disbelief as Satoru digs around a small music box, just as you had predicted. Pulling the key from the pocket of Satoru’s shorts you’re still wearing, you kneel down to the spot where he sets the box, which you can only imagine was once a beautiful oak, now worn and weathered over the years of being buried beneath the surface of the island. Setting the shovel aside, Satoru takes a seat beside you, watching with a giddy grin that's far too excited for something so silly.

As the key clicks within the box, you take a second to smile at your treasure hunting companion. He shares the moment too, his breath warm on your face as he sits comfortably at your side. His grin widens as his eyes flicker to your lips for a moment.

“Go for it,” he urges in a low tone. You chew your lower lip softly before flipping the lid open.

Hidden within are a number of cheap plastic toys. Some old fake gold pirate coins, some of those Mardi Gras style bead necklaces that used to be everywhere, a water-logged paper crown that practically dissolves in your hand, and…

Your eyes widen as the final item in the box comes into sight. “You’re kidding,” you gasp, your mouth agape in an ‘O’ as you shoot Satoru a disbelieving stare.

A Digimon DVD.

He bursts into genuine, unadulterated laughter, falling back onto the sand as he covers his face while he laughs.

“You made this map?” you gasp as giggles bubble in the back of your throat, his laughter completely contagious.

“Yeah, when I was like ten,” he manages between fits of laughter.

Laughing along with him warms your heart as you throw your head back in disbelief, laughing over the treasure hunt that you’ve been following while unknowingly being nudged along by the very creator himself.

As Satoru finally catches his breath and finds the space to talk, he rubs his face as though the smile physically hurts. “I thought that map was looong lost,” he explains, shaking his head. “Or that someone had thrown it out or something,” he shrugs, unable to stop beaming at you. “So imagine my shock when the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen comes into the shop with my stupid map,” he explains, waving a hand towards the Digimon DVD.

“I can’t believe this was yours,” you breathe as heat rises from the base of your neck up to your cheeks.

“I can’t believe it’s seeing the light of day and not because of me-” he pauses, “- well, mostly not.” Shrugging, he continues. “I was already planning on seeing if I could get your number, but a whole day chasing my own treasure map?” He shakes his head. “I mean, what more could a guy ask for?”

He shakes his head again, choosing to leave out the fact that he damn-near thought you had to be his soulmate and that this was a sign from some higher authority when you actually flirted back.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you knew where it was the whole time!” You laugh, shoving his chest as your heart stutters over his increasingly sweet and heartwarming words. He chuckles, dramatically falling back against the sand as though your playful shove did damage.

“Where’s the mystery in telling you?” he shrugs, sitting back up and reaching into the box within your palms to pull the Digimon DVD out. The art is completely faded from the water seeping into the box over the years, but when he opens the case, the DVD itself seems alright. He grins to himself, turning towards you. “Your treasure, my dear.” He presents the DVD while putting on his best goofy voice.

You can’t help your grin, turning your head to try to hide it from him. Satoru pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes softening as he sits just a short distance from you. One hand still holds the DVD out to you, while his other hand hovers near you.

Slowly, his hand raises to your chin, his fingers gliding along the line of your jaw, tilting your head back towards him. Your eyes are gleaming with elation as they flicker between his own bright blue irises, down to his lips. His smile twitches upwards just slightly before he closes the distance, sending your heart soaring.

His lips are softer than you expected, unmoving at first as though testing the waters. He pulls back just slightly, blinking to look at you. Somewhat dazed, you smile against his lips as they brush yours again. You don’t have time to think before he’s kissing you more intently. His hand slides up to cup your cheek as he tilts your head up to kiss you more passionately.

When he pulls back, you both have kiss-swollen lips, parted as you reach out to grab his shirt. “Shit…” he chuckles, averting his gaze for a moment as though all that flirty confidence has converted to nerves. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“I’m glad you did,” you admit, sliding your hand down his toned chest.

He leans back just enough to give you both space to breathe from the tension that’s sparked between you. “How long did you say you’re here for? The summer?”

“Yeah, about two months.”

“I can work with that,” he hums to himself, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on your lips. “You busy tonight?”

“You tell me,” you hum slyly. A lopsided and incredibly charming smile befalls Satoru as he hops to his feet, offering his hand to help you up. Tossing the DVD inside the box and shutting it, you take his hand and fall into step beside him as he intertwines your fingers.

“I know a great little diner,” he beams, “you’ll love it. But uh, first-” he chuckles, “- quick pitstop at the pet store?”

You gasp. “Oh right! What are you gonna name her?”

“Dunno. Gadget maybe?”

“After the Yu-Gi-Oh card?” You giggle.

“Seems fitting,” he shrugs one shoulder, giving your hand a playful shake. “You have no idea how excited ten-year-old me would be to know that the dumb map I put together got me a pet and a girl.”

You can’t help but laugh at that remark. As silly as it is, as silly as he is, he’s right, and Gadget is a pretty cute name for the little crab. You scoop her up into your arms in the cooler bag as Satoru prepares the paddleboards, readying a spot for you and his Hermit Crab on the front of his board while he tucks the old music box of treasure into the paddleboard bag and secures it.

“Hey, before we leave-” Satoru leans down before pushing off, pressing his lips to yours again. You can feel the curve of his smile moments before he pulls away. When you look up at him with a mirror of his grin, he just shrugs. “Needed my fix.”

You shake your head with a sweet giggle as he pushes the board off from the sand. You keep Gadget close to your chest, carefully watching over her as you traverse the small expanse of water between the ‘Boot Island’ and the Outer Banks. Someday, several years into the future after Satoru’s first official day as a marine biologist, that very same little Hermit Crab will watch over you as Satoru gets down on one knee under gorgeous pink and orange sunset rays and asks you to be his treasure.

main masterlist || bisque's summer bash masterlist

𓇼 a/n ; i had so much fun with this sweet little oneshot, thank you bisque for the collab <33 i hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

the next chapter of my series wyk is my next priority now that i'm starting to recover from sickness, but i'll still need a bit, so bear with me :) thank you for all the love and well wishes, though, i appreciate it so much <33

#for later #bookmarked!#jjk x reader

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