#HOW COULD YOU DO THIS. TO ME. TODAY OF ALL DAYS..

[kingkat12]

on the record (clark kent x reader)

WARNINGS: piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), banter, teasing, secret office romance, established relationship, sort of sex tape but not rlly cause it'd be an audio sex tape??, fluff, porn with plot, no spoilers!<3

summary: finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.

word count: 4,362

a/n: hey everyone!! I literally never write anything that isn't Bill Skarsgård related, but I saw the Superman movie today and couldn't help thinking how HOT David Corenswet was!!! so this fic goes out to my best friend who I saw this movie with, hope you like it you little gremlin (ily babes let's play starstable soon tihii) credits to @krayonimous for the gif!!<3

"Oh, come on,"

My words were whispered under my breath, dragged out by my annoyance at the sight of the front page of The Daily Planet today.

Superman Speaks: The Peace-Mission, by Clark Kent.

I pushed the paper away like it offended me, letting it slide crooked across my desk. The headline still stared up at me, taunting as ever, and I could practically hear his voice in it-- soft-spoken, heavy with concern, and full of just enough gravitas to make even the skeptics stop and feel something.

It was getting annoying, at this point-- every other week came another exclusive, and yet another quiet little masterstroke from Kent. Would it ever end?

Clark's desk was still empty, of course. The chair next to mine was untouched, his coat not draped over it yet, and I could feel my irritation fester. If that had been me, I'd have been fired a month ago. But because of these damn exclusive Superman interviews, he had secured himself a spot at the company, no matter what.

I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk-- once, twice, just to give myself something to do with the irritation.

And then, right on cue, the elevator dinged.

Voices rose-- someone greeted him before I saw him, and then there he was, walking in like he had just stepped off the cover of his own feature, glasses a little fogged from the humidity, tie not even pretending to be straight. Still, with perfectly tousled dark hair like that, and with eyes the shade of dreamy lagoons, it was impossible not to stare. He smiled, nodded, and offered a sheepish morning to the general hum of recognition around him for getting the front page. And then, just to top it off, someone clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on 'another one'.

... God.

He even had the nerve to look embarrassed about it.

I looked back at my screen like I was busy, like I wasn’t tracking the exact number of steps it took him to get from the elevator to his chair, like I didn’t hear the gentle thud of his bag hitting the floor next to mine--

“Morning,” Clark murmured, settling into his chair. 

“Barely,” I replied, eyes on my inbox-- if I allowed myself to look at him, I'd just think about how broad his shoulders were now that he was so close, and I couldn't do that to myself, not at work.

Clark didn’t respond right away; he just scooted his chair in with unnecessary force, trying to get my attention. I didn’t look over, but I knew he was smiling. “You saw the story?” he asked, all innocence.

"Impossible to miss,"

"What did you think?"

Inhaling sharply, I shrugged; "I think it's very convenient that you're always at the right place at the right time,"

Clark huffed a quiet laugh; “You didn’t like it,"

“Oh, I never said that,”

“You didn’t have to,"

I finally glanced at him, trying not to gawk at his beauty. Clark was already watching me, elbows on his desk, with that same irritating softness around his plush mouth that made him look more sincere than he had any right to be. His tie was really a disaster, though-- looped too tight, one side bunched like he had gotten distracted halfway through. 

Not that anyone but me would notice or care; it was sort of endearing on days when he didn't have a new front-page Superman interview, anyway. “It's just interesting, that's all," I said. "That Superman only talks to you. One could argue that you might be bribing him."

That only made Clark's boyish smirk widen. “Superman is a man of the law,” he murmured, teasing as always. “He would never accept bribes. I ask and he talks, that's all,”

“Mhm... Right,"

I turned back to my screen, biting down on a grin myself. I didn’t need to look at him to feel the air crackle between us. The buzz of it always gave me a high-- always. What had started out as office friction had turned into something sharper, something hotter, and now it sat between our desks like a huge elephant no one wanted to admit was there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark lean back and stretch slightly, his tight, white shirt stretching over his broad chest-- he had the balls to look smug about this, yet that slight rosy colour appearing in his cheeks contradicted his every move. He enjoyed this too, I was certain of it. “You know,” he murmured. “You could always pitch for the next one. Superman might be up to giving you an interview... Everyone knows you're the best writer in the office.”

I looked at him slowly, not yet impressed. “Oh, really now?”

Clark shrugged again, lifting his hands in faux surrender. “It’s not my fault he likes talking to me,”

I gave him a flat look, snorting. “You’re intolerable,"

“I think you should try,” he murmured, dragging a folder out of his bag as he disregarded my last words. “He might be up for it. On the record, and everything."

That was it-- my eyes rounded out. "On... the record?" 

That was new.

Clark's blue eyes practically shimmered as he put his earbuds in, casual as ever, yet his smirk betrayed him; "Who knows? You might get lucky tonight,"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The scent hit me before I even dropped my keys-- garlic, butter, and something rich and comforting I couldn't put my finger on. I stopped halfway through taking off my coat, catching sight of him in the kitchen; Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in my favourite pan like he had lived here for years.

I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. This was my favourite sight to come home to. 

I could already sense the smile in his voice without him having to turn to me; “Hey, you,” he murmured.

Oh, wow. “You made dinner,” I breathed, watching the way his white shirt stretched across his broad back-- finally, I could gawk at him now that we weren't at work.

“You were grumpy this morning,” Clark replied, unaware of the way I was looking at him right now; or was he? “I figured you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make you.”

Of course. Of course he'd do this after our back-and-forth banter this morning. "I wasn't grumpy," I put my coat away before finally approaching Clark, leaning against the kitchen counter as I tried to see what he was making. "But you know I can't be acting over the moon for you at the office. Everyone would catch on."

He hummed, still stirring. I watched him work, letting the silence stretch between us in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable. It never did with him-- not here, not like this. The air felt warmer than it should have, like the kitchen lights had dimmed a little just for the two of us. “Smells good,” I murmured, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as I turned, reaching up to brush a soft, black strand of his hair away from his forehead. 

“It’s your favourite,” He said it without looking up, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t planned this out from the moment he left the office. Sweet, sweet boy. 

I could only smile; I liked us when we were alone, when we didn't have to hide our feelings. No cape, no headlines, no rivalry-- just Clark in my kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking for me because he wanted to. Because underneath everything, he knew me, and I knew him.

... More than anyone.

“Clark,” I murmured softly, dreading my next words. "I'm worried someone's going to find out that you're getting these Superman interviews because... well, you are Superman. I wouldn't want you to blow your own cover."

Clark didn't answer anything at first-- then, his brows furrowed into that look I knew too well. "Is that why you were so grumpy this morning?"

"I wasn't grumpy," I mumbled, tracing a line down his broad shoulder to his hand. "Just concerned."

Clark finally set the spoon down, resting it carefully on the edge of the pan before turning to face me fully. His blue eyes were unreadable, and it made my anxiety bubble.  “I appreciate you worrying,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep the lines separate.”

I searched his face, and the way his jaw flexed as he chose his words carefully. I scanned the quiet certainty in his posture, how even now (smelling like garlic and city air) he held himself like someone who had the world to carry. “I know you do,” I admitted. “But... still. Every time someone jokes about how close you are with Superman, I feel like I’m holding my breath.”

At that, Clark snorted, cracking up into a smile; "You're the one that makes the most jokes about that,"

"Yeah, but that's because!--"

"If anything, you're the instigator of those rumours,"

"I'm not, I just-- Clark, do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Muting his laughter, he let his shoulders slouch, showing that he was backing down. "I do have a solution, though," he murmured. "I wasn't joking about what I said earlier."

I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes shot out a spark or two. "Me interviewing you?"

"Yes,"

"As Superman?"

"Yes,"

"That sounds... fair," I mumbled. "Finally, you won't know the questions beforehand. It's actually much more ethically sourced than how you do it, if we're taking media laws into account."

Clark huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the counter before stepping just a little closer to me. “Ethically sourced?” he echoed. “You’re going to cite journalism codes of conduct now?”

“I might,” I said, chin lifted. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

His hand found my waist-- light, familiar, and grounding. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. “This will be a legitimate, recorded interview with Superman. Questions unapproved. No edits. No off-the-record pauses.”

“Exactly,” I nodded once, hoping to bite down my smirk. “Full transparency.”

He tilted his head, black hair kissing his forehead, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind his glasses-- “Will you go soft on him?”

“No,” came my answer, instant as ever. “I’m going to grill him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Clark grinned, all teeth this time. “I’d expect nothing less,”

The space between us thinned again, shrinking in that way it always did when we weren’t pretending. His thumb rubbed a slow, absent circle at the small of my back, and the scent of garlic and butter and whatever else he’d conjured tonight clung to the warmth around us like something domestic we were still getting used to.

“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said, a little breathless, more off-guard than I meant to sound.

“You’ve wanted to get him in the hot seat for months,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, and if it keeps people from asking too many questions, then yeah, Let’s do it. On the record.”

I held my breath, feeling my heartbeat soar. "Now?"

"Sure," Clark shrugged. He pulled me closer like it was no big deal, like he didn't know that every touch from him set me on fire-- "But if we're doing this, then we're going to do it my way."

"... What?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Oh, I should've known.

I should've known that Clark would do something like this, that cheeky bastard.

My attitude this morning could've set this off too, I had no idea-- all I knew was that I had to keep quiet if I wanted this audio to be able to go on the record. 

Still, it was impossible not to squirm as Clark's big hands greedily grabbed at my hips, long fingers caressing my skin as his tongue swirled my right hip-bone; holy fuck. He reached for my underwear, tugging it upward to get better access, to get me twitching harder against my duvet. "You've-- You've got a lot of heat on social media lately," I started, stumbling through my questions whilst running my hands through Clark's thick locks as he continued to make me weak. 

He hummed against my skin, leaving wet kisses up along my stomach. "I don't read that stuff," he murmured. "Superman doesn't have time for selfies."

I rolled my eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. How could he be so composed, even now? Even after he somehow managed to get me out of my clothes with all of his intact and on? "You're gonna-- You're gonna refer to yourself in third person?" I glanced at the audio recording device I had propped on the bed, swallowing hard as Clark's kisses started darting down again, his lips brushing against the hem of my dampening underwear. 

"Hm?" he answered, mind clearly wandering. 

"This is on the record-- Superman,"

"And what about it?"

"Doesn't it sound a bit--" My breath hitched as Clark's hands left my hips, now grabbing at the underside of my thighs to spread my legs. I glanced down at how he had situated himself between them, comfortable and cocky as ever, blue eyes darkening with want. My voice was barely a squeak; "Pompous?"

At that, Clark raised a brow at me, clearly amused. "Really, now? Pompous?"

I decided not to push it-- I had other things to focus on, now that I really had Superman here...

Between my legs. 

"Today, the-- the secretary of defence said he was going to--" Before I could stop it, my breath hitched once again, watching Clark press open-mouthed kisses against my clothed clit. Was he trying to make this impossible? Totally. This interview would be deemed impossible by any other interviewer, surely, but me? Nu-uh. I was going to prevail, no matter how hard he made this for me. "Look into your actions," I continued. "He's going to-- look into them."

At that, Clark laughed; I could feel the rumble of his chest vibrate the bed, with how big he was compared to me. 

"That's funny?" I snapped, trying to gain some leverage.

Clark raised himself a bit, blinking up at me with that classic, cocky, all-American boy smile like he had done nothing wrong. "My actions?" he echoed, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "I stopped a war."

I shrugged, hoping to act as normal; "Maybe,"

"Not maybe," he huffed, peeling my panties down my thighs. "I did."

"Well, you did illegally enter a country?--"

"For the sake of peace," Clark was getting snappy now; if I hadn't heard it in his voice, I would've pieced it together with how he tossed away my underwear, settling between my legs once again. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" I mumbled.

"Like that,"

Before I could pry more, before I could say anything proper, my body betrayed me-- my back arched against the feeling of his warm breath falling against my soaked sex, and I held back a whimper that I certainly didn't want on my recording machine. 

"Be nice," Clark said, before gently wrapping his lips around my clit without warning, suckling me softly.

My hands practically flew into his dark, thick hair as I tried to cushion my moans into my pillow, but to no avail-- a quiet moan left me, and I could feel Clark smile against me. Still, I knew I had to keep my brain sharp, knew I couldn't give in this easily; "Did you-- consult with the president? Before trespassing?"

At that, Clark groaned against me, sending vibrations up along my spine that I had never felt before. "No," he mumbled against my sex, before grabbing my thighs harder, pushing them further against me like he wanted me to fold in half. I could only whimper as he then laved his tongue between my folds, circling my clit with the softest kitten-licks known to man-- he was trying to drive me nuts, wasn't he? 

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, so you?-- fuck--"

"Language," 

"-- Sorry," 

I could feel his smooth skin against my inner thighs, freshly shaven, and the sensation only added to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside me with every move. Clark's tongue moved in slow, teasing circles now, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against me, icy-blue eyes flicking up to watch my reaction every so often.

I wasn't going to let him win; he could have the front page for all that I cared, but not this. I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to finally let out a cohesive sentence; "Do you know why that-- looks bad?"

Clark didn't answer, too busy wrapping his lips around my clit again, a little firmer this time, which was enough to have me fighting the urge to clamp my legs around his head. 

"Superman," I tried, glancing at the recording device once more; was this footage even usable? Should I bother not calling him his real name? "It seemed like you were acting as a-- as a representative of the United States without having consulted the-- the government?"

Irked, Clark raised himself to properly look at me; with his big hands still gripping the underside of my thighs, plush mouth glistening with my slick, he suddenly didn't seem so happy to be answering my questions anymore. "I wasn't representing anybody except for me," 

"Did you not think about-- what it would look like?" Now that I wasn't getting the life sucked out of me, I could finally catch my breath. I propped myself up on my shaky elbows, meeting Clark's blue eyes with compassion. "I understand that you must've been under a lot of stress, but--"

"Oh, you have no idea,"

"But could you perhaps have considered the consequences?--"

"That wasn't as important as!--"

"What is more important than avoiding war, Superman?--"

"People were going to die!" 

At that, we both stilled. 

My mouth parted in shock at the fact that sweet, gentle Clark had raised his voice at me like that. I stared down at him, frozen. 

It didn't take long before he raised himself to his knees, visibly taken aback by how much my questions were affecting him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to recover, as his hands slowly lifted from my thighs, letting them naturally crease over his. 

None of us spoke until I dared-- "I'm sorry,"

Clark didn't move. Avoided my gaze. Didn't breathe either, as far as I could tell. 

With a sigh, I reached for the audio recording device, shutting it off; that was enough for now. The interview wasn't as important as what was happening in front of me. I didn't care that I was undressed. I didn't care. Carefully, I sat up, daring to gently cup his face; "Clark," I murmured. "You're a good man. You did what you thought was right. I don't hold that against you, no one does."

Clark's jaw was tight under my palm-- still warm, still damp from me, but set. “I know you don’t hold it against me,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, but rough. “But you still asked, like you wanted me to say it was wrong. Like you thought it was."

“I don’t want you to say it was wrong,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “I want to know that you at least thought about it, Clark... That you didn’t just act on instinct or impulse."

His eyes flicked up to mine at that, too fast, too sharp. 

There it was-- proof that Superman was human, in his own way. Impulsive. Rash. Passionate. Rattled with guilt. 

Clark exhaled like it hurt to admit his mistakes, even though he hadn't said them out loud. He knew that I knew. Carefully, he leaned into my touch, just barely, his hands now hovering over my legs, unsure if he was still allowed to touch me after raising his voice, like that one slip of temper meant he didn’t get softness anymore.

My fingers sank into his hair again, stroking through it slower now, calmer. "You saved the day, Superman," I murmured, a trying smile finding its way to my lips. "That's what's important, okay?"

"Okay," Clark echoed, his heavy blue gaze avoiding mine. 

Enough. I couldn't stand to look at that sad face anymore; "Let's forget the world for a moment, hm?" I pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth. "It's just you and me, now," Left. "And that wouldn't be possible without you, so come here and reap your reward."

Finally, Clark's eyes peeked up at me again, interest spiking. "What do you?--"

I didn't let him finish that sentence. 

It also didn't take long before my arms draped around his neck, pulling him down with me onto the bed with a heated kiss. Clark accepted, caging me with his broad shoulders, mouth moving against mine like he wanted to remember every curve, every push, every whimper; he let out a pleasured sigh and smiled into the kiss, melting my heart.

Clark's passion was all-taking-- he moved to softly nibble on my earlobe, licking a stripe up the shell, which he knew always got me giggling, as we got him out of his black jeans. I could feel the way our breaths clashed, how our chests pressed together in a moment of fire none of us could control, pure impulse, before his reassuring words came as always; "I've got you," he murmured, the soft head of his cock prodding at my entrance, his big, calloused hands once again gripping at my thighs.

"Need you," I breathed, nipping at his strong jaw. "Want you, Clark-- need you."

Clark hummed; "Bet," he teased, before rocking forward, just enough for the head to push inside. 

The whimpers that fell from my mouth were impossible to stop, and my hands gave his dark hair an involuntary tug. "Fuck,"

I knew he didn't like swearing, and I knew that'd be the key to getting what I wanted. With an annoyed huff, Clark pushed his cock into me, letting out a shaky sigh against my shoulder as I shuddered against him. Thankfully, he couldn't see my sheepish smile of victory; I had waited for this since the second I saw that front page article. This feeling. Him inside of me. Just us.

The first few thrusts were deeper than usual, probably fueled by our fiery interview and my affinity for cuss-words tonight, but I didn't mind-- being filled up by Clark was such heaven, that I didn't really care how it happened. I'd sell my soul for this, surely; for my fingers to burn with euphoria coursing through my veins. 

Clark pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, firmer this time, making my breath hitch as my nails left crescent moons into his broad back. "You feel so good," he murmured, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me melting into my duvets. "Missed you like this."

"Missed you too," I moaned, pressing a weak kiss to his shoulder. "Stop-- saving the world all the goddamn-- time."

At that, Clark could only laugh; "Cause this is more important, yeah?"

"Obviously,"

"Right," he purred, his slow, deep, dragging thrusts practically muting me from that point on. I could only clench around his thick length, suppressing my cries of pleasure against the muscular range of his shoulders. 

"Want me to stop saving everyone, hm?" Clark went on; "Want me to stay here and take care of you?"

I could only whimper-- yes, yes, yes. 

With a satisfactory hum, his plush lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over; he might as well have stamped a Superman-stamp on my neck. "I would if I could," Clark huffed, groaning against my skin; I felt his cock twitch inside of me at the intrigue of that thought, and it made me clutch him harder as he fucked me into the mattress, instincts taking over. "Would stay here-- make you feel good, make you cum, make you-- satisfied--"

I could hear it in the roughness of his voice that he was close, closer than he usually was at this point. Was it really our heated arguments today that had fried both our nerves? I couldn't tell. 

To delay just a moment more, to continue revelling in our wet union, Clark propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs again-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm circles, intent on getting me over the edge first. Fucking gentleman. 

I choked down another lewd moan, the pleasure building quicker than expected. "God, Clark, I-- I can't--"

"It's okay," he murmured, watching me with those big, blue, loving eyes I adored. "Want you to let go when you're close, okay? Could you-- Could you do that for me?"

"Anything," I breathed. "Anything for you."

Clark let out a hum of approval, warm as always, as my vision started going hazy; he continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl, making my breath catch, and I soon enough had to tell myself to breathe, chanting it over and over in my head. Without meaning to, in the midst of me fighting the building feeling in my whole body, I shifted my hips-- I didn't mean for it to angle Clark deeper, but it gave me the grandest of rewards.

Clark let out the filthiest groan, feeling his cock engulfed in wet, tight heat, and that did it for him. 

I didn't mean to, I��swear.

His right hand left my clit, and with both, he now gripped my hips tighter as his thrusts turned erratic, desperate, impulsive, but with awareness of his strength; it didn't take long before he buried himself inside of me with a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. His forehead dropped against mine as he spilled inside me, body trembling from the force of it, panting with the shock of his unexpected release.

I had no idea what came over me, or how it happened-- but with how Clark was angled, it didn't take more than two upward rolls of my hips, helped by his strong hands, to have my clit pressing against his body, and it was a sensation so light, so desperate, so chased and sought by all-taking arousal, that it shattered me even harder when I realized I was cumming from practically... nothing. My legs trembled as I felt my clit pulse, lashes fluttering shut at the intense rush.

Only Clark could have me falling apart like that, and only I could have Superman collapse like this on a Friday night.

He might not be a man-- but he surely fucked like one. 

[rotapathetic]

could you write something where rafe is streaming and reader needs him to open a pickle jar? lol thought it would be cute xx

૮ ⎙ㅤ userrotapathetic ა i just rediscovered my pickle obsession so thanks for this made two versions because i had two in mind :p

Ი version one 𐑼

꒱ user can you say hi becca?

rafe messed with his lip, scrolling through his downloaded games, and glanced at the chat. “hi, bethany. okay, the options for today are either an indie horror game, chilla’s art, or outlast. those are all scary, great.”

user indie horror!! those are always so good ꒰ user how about my ability to fall asleep tonight user outlast because i know you’ll be scared

rafe didn’t expect any less when reading that chat, “banning whoever just prayed on my downfall for a week. i’ll put up a poll really quickly so you guys can pick.”

user ha ha user i know the mods feel bad doing that ꒱ user can i be a mod?

“don’t need any more right now. . i’ll tell you guys about my day while you vote. don’t care if you didn’t ask. had an abomination for breakfast but i swear it was good. my pretty girl helped me go over this deal i have and we finalized that. so, something pretty cool is coming out soon. .” rafe trailed off when he heard your soft foot patters.

he took his headphones completely off, turning his entire chair towards you. he looked to the jar in your hand, “hey, baby, what’s up?”

you tapped on the lid, wondering if you should even ask. you’d been building up the courage for five minutes after spending about ten trying to open this pickle jar without asking rafe. you knew he was streaming and did all you can to make sure you didn’t interrupt, no matter how many times rafe tells you he doesn’t mind, even wants you to interrupt his streams.

but you wanted a pickle and this jar was getting open. you walked forward, holding out the jar so only your arm was showing in the camera. you didn’t want the viewers to put their attention on you, but instead focus on rafe. “could you open this?”

user are those pickles user open it now user was not expecting that

rafe smiled, taking the jar and opening it, then handed it back to you. “thank you.” you scurried off, letting rafe continue his stream.

his smile remained as he turned back to the camera. “yep, that’s me. boyfriend. . jar opener. . personal wallet.” rafe shrugged nonchalantly, “i love what i do. you guys are mad,” he pulled a mock sad face, checking the poll results.

꒰ user ? right

Ი version two 𐑼

rafe frowned, seeing that outlast won the poll. “fine, freaks.” he started up the game. “you guys suck.”

he was twenty minutes in, already having been jump scared three times. the game was scary by itself, but as promised every time he plays a horror, his lights were also off, only the glow of his monitor providing light.

rafe blew out a breath, having to do another scene over again because of his character being caught. “i don’t know if i can do this again, this isn’t funny.”

꒱ user not even joking who is that behind you user you guys see it too?? ꒰ user nah it’s too late for this

rafe wasn’t paying attention to his chat as you appeared behind him. you already felt bad having to ask, but felt worse seeing that rafe was playing a scary game. you bit your lip, hoping this wouldn’t be a bother.

rafe flinched at another jumpscare as you stepped closer to his chair. “why did i play this. why did i play this,” rafe repeated. and with a tap to his shoulder, rafe jumped, throwing his headphones off with a yelp. he rolled his chair back, bracing for what could be behind him, paranoid enough to think it was a monster and not just you.

you rose your hands in mock surrender, holding in a laugh. “i’m sorry!”

rafe let out a breath, head tossing back against his headrest. he let his heart rate come back down, grabbing the remote to turn on his lights, hand slightly shaking.

user bro how did i jump user you don’t know how fast i just clipped that ꒰ user stopppp

“hi, sweetheart, what’s up?” rafe spoke with a slight voice shake. you held out the jar, “could you open this? sorry, again.”

rafe shook his head with a brow furrow at your apology, grabbing the jar, “you’re fine,” he opened the jar, handing it back. he cleared his throat, scratching a brow and rotating his foot, glancing up at you hesitantly. “i think i pulled something.”

user nice

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

amortentia

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: He smells like trouble — and you’re violently allergic.

A/N: Just a cute lil drabble for us girlies with rhinitis lmfao

credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider!

Your friends and family could definitely attest to the fact that you weren’t a morning person. They knew just how much effort it took for you to drag yourself out of your comfortable bed and get ready for a day of classes.

In fact, you loved sleep so much that you often skipped breakfast just to stay in bed a little longer. But on days like today, even that luxury had to be sacrificed. You had a double Potions lesson on these unfortunate mornings, and you knew that if Snape heard your stomach growl in the middle of class, he’d turn his greasy gaze on you in an instant. You didn’t need that kind of humiliation before 8 a.m.

So, just for those insipid Thursdays that cursed you with a front-row seat to Snape’s scowl, you forced yourself to have a full breakfast.

You were halfway through your meal when someone slid in beside you, your thigh pressing up against theirs due to the crowded table—but you paid it no mind. You were still drowsily chewing your croissant and washing it down with sips of coffee, half-awake and wholly uninterested in morning socialization.

But as it turned out, you didn’t even need to look up to recognize who had sat beside you. His scent drifted over immediately, invading all your senses.

Smoke. Menthol. Grass.

The offensive combination was a direct attack on your sinuses—an allergy trigger—and you sniffled, trying your hardest to suppress the inevitable.

"Achoo—!"

You barely managed to grab a tissue in time before a sneezing fit hit you, harsh and rapid, making your head pound and clogging your ears. It was like a full-body betrayal.

Finally, you lifted your head, eyes watery, and glared at Mattheo, who was watching your misery with far too much amusement.

“It’s six o’clock in the bloody morning. Why do you already smell like an ashtray?”

He chuckled, low and raspy—his signature brand of self-destruction. The sound made your stomach flip unpleasantly, “How else am I meant to survive double Potions this early?”

“Salazar, I’m about to sneeze up my lungs. You need to get away from me.” You groaned, digging through your bag with one hand while clutching a tissue to your nose with the other. You finally found your allergy potion, added a few drops to your water, and knocked it back like a shot. The relief was still a few minutes away, but your sinuses were already starting to throb.

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” Mattheo teased, leaning in closer with that infuriating smirk.

You had no idea how it was physically possible to trigger another sneezing fit when you couldn’t smell a damn thing—but somehow, he managed.

He winced this time, genuinely, and passed you another tissue as your nose turned an alarming shade of red and your chest began to burn from the exertion.

"You think this is funny?" You rasped, your voice nasally and sharp as you blew your nose yet again. Your eyes were watery and puffy now, and your headache was blooming behind them like an angry sun.

He shrugged and leaned in just a little closer, the glint of mischief in his eyes glimmering brighter when you instinctively leaned away to escape his scent, “You’re cute when you’re dying.”

You gave him a deadpan stare, unimpressed, “You think this is flirting?”

“Is it not working?”

You sneezed again in response, grabbing another tissue as your shoulders sagged from the force of it, “I hate you.”

Mattheo chuckled, clearly not offended in the slightest, “I’m growing on you.”

“Like mold.” you muttered, blowing your nose again.

The dungeons were even colder than usual.

You sat stiffly at your table, arms folded and a tissue still clutched in your sleeve just in case, glaring daggers at Mattheo, who had somehow managed to plant himself at the same workstation as you—again. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction, while you were trying to remember if it was possible to drown someone in a cauldron without magic.

Snape stood at the front, his voice as dry and lifeless as ever, “Today we will be brewing Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in existence. I’m aware that most of you have heard of it.” His eyes swept the class lazily, lingering on a few particularly chatty Hufflepuffs until they fell silent, “I do not need to warn you not to drink it. If you are foolish enough to do so, I suggest you be prepared to serve detention for the rest of the year.”

That certainly wiped the grins off a few faces.

Snape gestured toward a swirling silver potion that sat in the center of the classroom, steam curling up from its surface like silk threads, “Amortentia has a distinctive smell for each individual. It reflects what attracts you—your deepest desires.”

You already knew what was coming next.

Snape gave an exhausted sigh, “Yes, I will allow you to approach and smell it. No, I will not tolerate dramatics or extended monologues. State three scents. Then return to your seat.”

Of course, the class erupted into excited whispers, and students immediately began lining up like it was a trip to Honeydukes, a buzz of excitement threading through the usual tension. You ended up somewhere near the back of the line, still sniffling lightly but feeling mostly human again.

Mattheo turned toward you with a grin, “Wanna guess what I’ll smell?”

"I couldn't care less." You muttered, rubbing your nose.

One by one, your classmates stepped up and murmured their answers:

“Fresh parchment… ink… cedarwood.”

“Rain on concrete… treacle tart… and, um, lavender?”

When it was Mattheo’s turn, he moved to the front casually, hands in his pockets, and leaned over the potion with a laziness that was either theatrical or just him being annoying. Probably both. You saw his expression shift slightly—his mouth twitching, a flicker of surprise in his eyes—and then he smirked, catching your eye.

“Cinnamon,” He murmured, almost lazily, “Smoke… and something sweet. Like a cherry lip balm.”

You blinked. Your lip balm was cherry. But before you could even begin to convince yourself there was absolutely no way he was talking about you, it was your turn.

You stepped forward cautiously and leaned over the cauldron, letting the shimmering steam curl toward your face.

The scent hit you all at once.

Warm coffee in the morning. The crackling scent of firewood. The sharp sting of winter air. And— that godawful combination of cigarette smoke, grass, warm leather, and that absolutely striking menthol that jabbed you right in the back of your head.

Your entire body rejected the information at once.

"Achoo—!!"

It was so loud it echoed. Your eyes flew open, already brimming with tears as another round of sneezing overtook you—loud, rapid, unstoppable.

You barely managed to reach for your tissue as your chest tightened painfully, the sneezing fit threatening to overwhelm you.

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but his voice dropped just enough to be heard only by you, “You are excused. Go to the bathroom and handle this... nuisance.”

You nodded gratefully, gathering your things in a flurry and stumbling out of the dungeon. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had to stop by the hospital wing or take a stronger dose of your allergy potion.

Mattheo bloody Riddle.

Well, this was just great.

Later that afternoon, you found a quiet spot just outside the castle, where the sun filtered softly through the leaves and the cool breeze carried scents that—thankfully—didn’t assault your sinuses. You sank down onto the warm stone steps, closing your eyes and taking deep, deliberate breaths, willing your throat and chest to stop burning.

You barely had a moment to relax before you heard a familiar voice—smooth, teasing, and annoyingly persistent.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my biggest admirer.”

You opened your eyes to find Mattheo leaning casually against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a smug grin playing on his lips. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Riddle. I’m literally allergic to you. Now, if you could kindly leave, I just managed to get over the allergic reaction. I don’t need you triggering another one.”

But, of course, he didn’t listen as usual. Instead, he sat down beside you again. But instead of being suffocated by his usual scent, you were welcomed by the smell of fabric softener and soap. You sighed in relief, glad you weren’t about to send yourself into your third allergic fit of the day.

“I showered and put on clean clothes,” He explained, nudging your shoulder with his, “Didn’t want the girl I fancy to have a near-death experience every time I’m around her.”

You breathed in deeply and exhaled, “So, I suppose the cherry lip balm you smelled was mine.”

He nodded. “And your shampoo. And,” he laughed at this, “your allergy potion.”

Your eyes snapped open, “So you’re saying the scent you associate me with is the bloody allergy potion?”

Mattheo smirked, clearly enjoying your shocked expression, “Well, it’s... memorable. Besides, it reminds me that I’m capable of stealing your breath away.”

You raised an eyebrow, “That’s supposed to be romantic?”

Mattheo’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Maybe not traditionally romantic, but definitely effective.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile, “You’re impossible.”

Mattheo’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as he shifted closer, eyes locked on yours, “So… how about this? Let me take you out sometime. A proper date.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. Your heart did a little skip.

“Okay,” you said easily, without hesitation.

Mattheo blinked, caught off guard. “Okay? Just like that? No lecture? No conditions?”

You grinned. “Nope. I’m just going to wear the strongest, most suffocating perfume I own and cuddle up to you all day. Then you’ll know what I’ve been living through every time you light a cigarette.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “If you’re cuddled up to me, I think I’d die happy—no matter how sneezy and snotty I get.”

You couldn’t help but smile, cheeks warming as you looked at him. “Guess we’ll test that theory soon.”

Mattheo reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face with an unexpected tenderness, “Looking forward to it.”

The sun dipped a little lower, casting a golden glow over the two of you—and suddenly, the world felt a lot brighter.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

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[hrtwayne]

'tis the damn season || Alexia Putellas

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Goalkeeper!Reader

Summary: Where an Achilles tendon rupture takes you off the field for the rest of the season. Your teammates kept saying everything would be okay—but your insecurities refused to believe them.

Note: English is not my first language.

Warning: Mention of Achilles tendon rupture!

Woso Masterlist

The stadium was silent. A heavy, unnatural silence for a place that used to vibrate with the roar of the crowd, the sound of kicks against the ball, and exuberant celebrations. But now, all that could be heard was the agonizing echo of a scream— your scream. 

The field, once your sacred territory, had become the stage of your worst nightmare. 

A cross, a mistimed tackle, and then… nothing. The pain came like lightning, slicing through your muscles like a knife. 

Alexia was the first to reach you. Her eyes, usually so full of fire and determination, were dark with worry. 

"Don’t move! Don’t fucking move!" she shouted at the girl who had taken you down, her voice hoarse with urgency. 

You tried to get up, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your right leg felt like dead weight—a betrayal. Someone was already calling for the medics, but you didn’t even need a diagnosis to know. That kind of pain doesn’t lie. 

"You’re gonna be okay," Alexia murmured, more to herself than to you, gripping your hand with almost desperate strength. 

But you weren’t listening. All you could think about was time. The months of physical therapy ahead. The games that would go on without you. The suffocating, irrational fear that maybe… maybe you’d never be the same again. 

⚽️ 

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair. You hated that smell. 

The surgery had been a success, they said. "You’ll come back stronger." Well-meaning lies—you knew better. No one came back stronger from an injury like this. At best, you’d come back the same—and even that would be a miracle. 

Visits were constant in the first few days. Your teammates brought flowers, chocolates, funny locker-room stories to cheer you up. But as the weeks passed, the stream dwindled. The team’s life went on—training, matches, victories. And you? You were stuck at home, immobile, watching everything from afar like an unwanted spectator. 

Alexia seemed to be the only one who understood the storm inside you. She didn’t fill the silence with empty words. Sometimes, she just sat beside you on the couch, an arm around your shoulders, letting you rest your head on her lap while her fingers ran through your hair. 

"No need to rush," she’d whisper. "I’m here, no matter how long it takes." 

But you were in a rush. You hated yourself for feeling so… fragile. 

⚽️ 

It happened on a rainy night, weeks after the surgery. You were frustrated, in pain, and that day’s physical therapy had been especially brutal. 

Alexia came home after training, still in her Barcelona kit, her face lit by that smile you loved so much. 

"Hey, love. How was your day?"

You didn’t answer. You were sitting in the chair, staring at your immobilized leg, your knuckles white from gripping the armrests. 

"Hey…" She knelt in front of you, trying to lift your chin. "Talk to me, amor…" 

"What is there to say, Alexia?" Your voice came out harsher than you intended. "That I almost cried today trying to flex my foot? That I can’t even go to the bathroom by myself? That you’re out there, beautiful, strong, playing, while I—"

You cut yourself off, but it was too late. Alexia’s expression shifted, her eyes darkening with concern. 

"While you… what?" she asked, soft but firm. 

"While I’m useless!" you exploded, the tears finally breaking free. "I don’t want your pity, Alexia! I don’t want you staying with me just because I’m broken!"

The silence that followed was sharp. Alexia took a deep breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

"Do you really think it’s pity?" Her voice was cold—not with anger, but with hurt. "After everything we’ve been through, you think I’d stay out of obligation?"

You didn’t answer. The weight of your words was sinking into your chest. 

Alexia stood up, but she didn’t walk away. Instead, she grabbed your crutches and threw them on the floor beside you. 

"Get up."

"What?" 

"Get up. Come on."

"Alexia, I can’t." 

"You can," she held out her hand. "And I’ll prove I’m not here out of pity. I’m here because I love you. And because I know you’ll come back—not for me, not for the team, but for yourself." 

You hesitated. But then, gritting your teeth, you took her hand and pulled yourself up, leaning on the player’s shoulders. 

Alexia smiled—a small, genuine smile. 

"See? Not all is lost."

And for the first time since the injury, you allowed yourself to believe—just a little—that maybe she was right. 

[rafeslvbug]

NEIGHBOURHOOD WARS

content: ex-husband!neighbour!rafe and reader engage in petty wars over the neighbourhood groupchat, leading to a fateful night

warnings: some smut (not heavy) towards the bottom!

joining the neighbourhood watch was more like a chore. you hadn’t wanted to do it, yet this community somehow seemed so close knit, and the looks you got from the speed walking grandmas on the way to work definitely made you feel more forced. god knows why rafe moved to this place.

your phone lights up with a notification, the moment you set it down to go to sleep. scrolling through the messages, half-asleep, something compels you to respond.

MONDAY NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC:

11:47PM karen:

karen: anyone else see these little trash goblins near the johnsons’ mailbox these past few nights?

⤷ you: dw, it’s probably just rafe.

your phone buzzes. immediately.

⤷ ⤷ rafe: bold talk for someone whose dog keeps running through my begonias.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ you: bold assumption that your landscaping counts as property.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ ⤷ rafe: tell that to our dog, he seems pretty territorial.

you toss your phone face-down onto the sheets next to you. you’re not doing this. you’re not. but then it buzzes again. of course it does.

MONDAY NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC:

11:59PM barbara: well just a reminder to bring in your bins! they look like they’re going at the trash too!!

⤷ you: someone should tell rafe, then, his recycling’s been on the curb since monday

⤷ ⤷ rafe: sorry i was busy taking our dog for a walk today after he ran from you

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ you: give him a day, he’ll realise how insufferable you are and he’ll leave you too.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ ⤷ paul: woah.

satisfied, you finally put your phone down, going to sleep. the hell you just started? you had no idea of it.

WEDNESDAY NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC:

9:04AM kendra: hey anyone here hear some loud music last night?

⤷ you: the shitty pop songs? oh that was just rafe “expressing himself”

⤷ ⤷ rafe: it was our old playlist, you made for me. sorry, forgot you deleted your taste in music after the divorce.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ you: i deleted a lot of mistakes after the divorce. the biggest being your contact!!

karen: i’m just here for the drama 🍿

climbing up the stairs to your bedroom, you shove open the balcony doors and lean over the edge. “rafe!”

“yes?” he groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and exiting onto the adjacent balcony.

“delete that playlist!” you order, loud enough that you’re sure paul walking his dog outside your houses could probably hear the yelling from the other side.

he grins. “not a chance.”

THURSDAY NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC:

7:36PM joanne: whose laundry ended up in the community dryer again?

⤷ you: not mine. i own fitted sheets.

⤷ ⤷ rafe: laundering skills aren’t everything, sweetheart.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ you: tell that to your emotional baggage. that shit’s still dirty.

⤷ barbara: i just wanted to talk about towels

“that’s just rude!” rafe yells across the fence you both share in your backyard. his bottom half’s submerged in his pool, facing you as he scrolls through your message on the groupchat.

“it’s the truth, baby,” you sigh, sipping your lemonade on the sun chair next to your pool. in a way, it’s like you could be sharing the same area, you sunbathing, rafe swimming if only you were sharing the same house. but you aren’t. just adopting the same habits, and activities you usually did while married but separated..by a white fence, and papers rafe found meaningless anyways.

NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC (WITHOUT THE CAMERONS):

paul: i thought the camerons were divorced?

⤷ joanne: they are. for a few months maybe?? about seven?

karen: i saw them arguing the other day but it looked a lot more like flirting.

⤷ kendra: heard some “baby”’s being tossed around!

⤷ ⤷ barbara: forget that! i live next door to them– they’re bickering right now! she just called him baby, i think. they’re not quiet at ALL.

paul: wait backtrack: if they’re divorced why are they still “the camerons”?

⤷ karen: because she hasn’t changed her last name!!

⤷ ⤷ luis: i don’t think they’ll be divorced for much longer.

⤷ ⤷ ⤷ kendra: oh i think we all agree they won’t.

barbara: he turned down the niece i tried to set him up with last week!

⤷ joanne: well obviously because he still likes y/n!

FRIDAY NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH GC:

10:02PM you: to whoever left the full bottle of whiskey on my front porch– not funny.

⤷ rafe: it wasn’t a joke. you looked like you had a long day.

kendra: wait are you guys…

⤷ you: NO.

⤷ rafe: …maybe

night breeze blowing against your hair, whiskey bottle in hand, you venture out into your backyard, not surprised to see him standing there. leaning against the shared fence, forearms on it, watching you walk out the door and closer to where he is.

“why did you get me this?” your voice is a whisper, holding the bottle up as you get closer to the fence.

“you looked stressed..” he shrugs. he doesn’t mention how he knows, how he checked when you came home late, or how he heard you cursing under your shared carport. how he had the stash of your favourite whiskey just in case.

“so?” you ask, hand finding the fence, fingers running along it. stopping before you reach rafe.

“so i thought i’d help..i know you don’t want my help– thought i’d try anyways.”

you bite your lip, look down at the full bottle. “i don’t drink a lot..share with me?” it seems such a dangerous request, one you know rafe’ll jump at. the soft smile that spreads across his face makes it obvious enough that he was waiting for you to ask that.

“come on over?” he raises his eyebrows.

“what? hop the fence?” you ask, not bothered to walk all the way around the house. he nods, taking the bottle from your hand and extending his other to help you over. you sigh, but accept it, climbing up the first rung of the fence and jumping over.

into his arms.

his hand’s firmly holding yours, the one with the whiskey pressing against your waist. your breaths brush against each other. rafe’s eyes rake down to your lips.

“are we gonna drink..?” you whisper, not noticing how you shift closer to him. your fingers curl around his biceps, grounding yourself further.

he sets the drink down. “maybe..we could..” his voice is low, eyes fixed on yours, then your mouth. a constant flickering. the only thing he cares about. “or we could do it later.”

“yeah,” you say breathlessly, immediately.

his hand drops yours, thumb moving to your cheek and pulling you closer by his fingers on the back of your neck. his lips crash against yours, everything you’ve not said, but wanted to, pouring down in the one moment of pure lust..or maybe something more.

craving each other. missing each other.

you bite back moans with each heated kiss, the swirl of his tongue in your mouth and the tangle of yours with his. your nails dig into his bicep, your other hand moving up to his hair, scratching at his scalp from the lack of grip. “missed this,” rafe mumbles between kisses, barely pulling apart before he’s on you again, kissing you like it might be the last time.

“what? the tension?” you mutter, pushing yourself further into his hold.

“your mouth,” he grins, diving back in. his hand falls from your waist, enough to loosen his joggers. pushing you against the fence, his fingers slip under your silk nightgown, pulling your panties aside with one swift motion. he grips your face tighter just as he thrusts himself into you, delighting in the soft gasp that escapes your mouth. a sound he’s dreamed of since the divorce, one he won’t stop replaying from this day forward.

he grips your waist again, keeping himself rooted, and simultaneously pushing himself deeper to see the way your features pinch together softly. the night’s filled with your moans and his grunts, breathless panting consumed by kisses and the fence shaking to the point you fear it might break. but he doesn’t stop. when you clench around him, gasping his name over and over, and begging him to keep going, he does exactly that, holding you closer, kissing you harder when your toe-curling peaks both crash down over you.

it’s all he’s thought of. this, you, having you again. in his arms, kissing you. and he knows it’s just a stress reliever– you’re going to ignore him tomorrow.

but he won’t forget it. and the neighbourhood? well they won’t forget the sound of it either.

[cryptic-doe]

𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗲 ❦

wc: 4,164

summary: life changes and more feelings arise, but that doesn't change you and sam

warnings: cursing, smut (mdni), heavy make out, dry humping, coming in pants, sub sam, just horny and in love teens

when you woke the next morning, sam was still asleep beside you. your thoughts drifted to his quiet admission of love to you last night, but you didn’t dwell on it for too long. fear that if you did, or even worse, asked him about it, it would only scare him away again. so, instead, you admired him as he slept, taking in all of him. he was so… beautiful. there was no other way for you to describe it, it was just a simple fact. he may have been as large as a moose, but he had the grace and beauty of a deer. you remembered that’s what you compared him to when you first met him. eyes as large and wide as a baby deer. it seems that aging a couple years didn’t take that from him. you hoped it never would. your eyes then dropped down to his lips that are slightly parted, soft breaths falling between them. while sam was gone, you never kissed another boy. didn’t let another boy touch you. to be fair, sam never touched you, either. at least, not the way you wanted him to. slowly, sam began to shift around in your bed, stirring awake. his head turned towards you, searching for your eyes. “good morning,” he said, voice laced with sleep. “morning,” you replied in a whisper. he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying his best to stretch in your small bed. “what do you wanna do today? celebrate your birthday early?” he questioned, pulling you closer. “today…? what about your dad? don’t you have to go back to him with dean?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

the boy just shrugged, as if not worried about the situation. “dean already knows about me staying with you for the day. besides, my dad doesn’t matter right now, bug. today’s all about you,” he said simply. “but-” you began, but he cut you off with a finger pressed against your lips. “no ‘buts’, okay? lemme do this for you. i wanna have at least today with you. and if he gets mad, fuck him.” his words make you smile, so similar to the ones marie had said to you all those months ago. his hazel eyes dance across your face, watching as you smile. “you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he muttered. you blush, hiding your head in his chest. “shut up.”

he laughs softly, running his fingers through your hair. “no, i’m serious. i didn’t think it was even possible, considering how pretty you looked when we were younger.” if you had told your fourteen year old self that sam winchester would be in her bed, complimenting her, and holding her close, she definitely would’ve looked at you like you were insane. you stayed close to his chest, breathing him in. he smelled like cinnamon and cedarwood, with just a hint of gunpowder. he tapped you on the shoulder. “c’mon, pretty girl. let’s go get some breakfast, yeah?” you nodded and sat up on your bed, stretching your limbs as he pulled you to stand.

he didn’t let go of your hand while the two of you walked down the stairs and to the kitchen. bobby sat at the table eyeing the two of you, but mostly sam. “you want cereal, bug?” sam asked. you just nodded, not straying far from him.

“you two didn’t do anything up there last night, did ya?” bobby suddenly asked. your eyes widened at his question, and sam nearly dropped the carton of milk. “bobby!” you exclaimed, but the older man just shrugged. “no, we went to you with a stern, but soft look in his eyes. “you doing okay?” he mouthed. you nodded, sending him a soft smile. “i’m okay. promise.”

you could tell he was still a bit wary, but some of his tension melted away. sam placed the cereal bowl in front of you, taking the seat beside you. bobby turned his attention from you to sam, sending him that stern, fatherly look. “i wanna talk to you, boy,” he said, standing up from his seat. sam knew better than to try and argue, so he stood and followed bobby out to the living room. they were just far enough that you couldn't hear much of their conversation.

“i could slap you upside your head, boy,” bobby muttered at sam. despite sam being over a head taller than the man, he felt like a little kid being scolded, again. “i can't believe that stunt you pulled. leaving her for nearly a whole damn year?”

“yeah, i… i know, bobby. i’m sorry,” sam said.

“what could have even possessed you to do something like that?”

sam then explained what he told you the night before. everything having to do with his dad, and him not allowing sam to call you anymore. by the end, bobby couldn’t wait until he would see the winchester father face to face to share some words. “if that ever happens again, sam, you call me. understand that? without you… she nearly lost herself. i can't see her like that again.”

sam nodded, jaw set and firm. “it won’t, bobby, i promise.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

after breakfast, sam told you to get yourself ready. when you asked why, he just kissed your cheek and said that it was a surprise. you thumbed through all the clothes in your closet twice. nothing seemed to really call your name. until your eyes landed on the brown dress you bought last year. you hit a growth spurt since then, so you weren’t even sure if it would still fit you, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

it fell just above your knees, so you slipped on a pair of low rise jeans under it. you recently saw on tv that it was the new fashion trend. you then quickly curled your hair and put on some mascara before grabbing your messenger bag and slipping on your converse. when you walked down the stairs, sam’s back was turned towards you, and you could see that he was wearing an old suit that bobby must've given him. bobby was muttering something about a “stupid tie” and how he “hasn’t done this in years. the sight caused you to stifle a small giggle, which made sam’s head turn towards you.

“wow…” he whispered, eyes wide as he watched you walk down the stairs. you blushed, ducking your head. he bent his head, trying to catch your eyes. “you ready to go?” you nodded. he headed towards the front door, opening it for you. before you followed, you turned to bobby, hugging him. he hugged you back, before pulling you away to look at you. “just like your mom. so beautiful.”

he pressed a kiss to your temple while squeezing your shoulders. “you have fun today, alright?”

“i will,” you promised, before stepping out with sam.

when you showed sam where your car was, he let out a small laugh. “just like dean, huh? you and your muscle cars. you shrugged, tossing him your keys. “they're badass.” he just shook his head and opened the passenger door for you. once you were inside, he hopped into the driver’s side. while he was adjusting everything, a small photo fell from the visor. he picked it up to read the date on the back. may 2nd, 1999. when he turned it over, it was faded picture of you and sam from his sixteenth birthday. even though it was only last year, it felt like the both of you had changed so much. grew older, looked different, matured, everything.

“i always kept it with me,” you admitted in a small whisper. “it’s the only picture i had with the two of us in it.”

“well, guess we’ll have to take a few more, huh?” he looked over at you with a smile.

“i guess so.” you smiled back at him. it was the most you had smiled in a while.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

sam took you to a town about an hour away, assuring you he didn’t mind the drive. most of the drive was filled with the two of you talking about anything and everything. he told you how john was becoming angrier by the day, and drinking more by the night. you squeezed the hand he kept glued to your thigh in understanding. he also told you about all the different high schools he and dean had been to. you liked those stories the most. it was interesting to learn what a high school was like and the typical high school experiences from someone else and not from books or television. when he asked you about your schooling, you told him how you had finished earlier this year and he gently squeezed your thigh. “that’s amazing, bug! are you gonna go to college?” he asked, turning to look at you and then back at the road. “probably not,” you said. “i like staying at home and doing research on the monsters.” he nodded his head, but his eyes shifted and his body became tense, like there was something he was keeping to himself. “what about you?” you questioned. “do you plan on going to college after this year?”

he hesitated for a second, but then nodded his head. “uh, yeah, i’ve been looking into it. all my counselors and teachers say i could get into a really good school if i wanted to. but dean and my dad don’t know. they- they can’t know.”

“hey,” you said gently, grabbing his hand to hold it, “it’ll be between us. and, i’m happy for you. if you do decide to go.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but you silenced him. “sam, i’m serious. if going to college is what you want, then you should go. besides, they got really fancy computers there. i’m sure we can do video calls or something.” he laughed softly, deciding to drop it for now, even though he wanted to do anything but. he wasn’t gonna ruin your special day.

and just like he promised, the day was all about you. he took you to a record shop, buying you all the records you had chosen. he even attempted to buy all the ones you just touched, and you had to practically pry them away from him. “nothing is too much for you, pretty girl,” he tried to argue, but you ended up winning that argument. he then took you to a bookstore where you spent most of your time. following you around like a lost puppy, while he silently held all your books in his hands. afterwards, he took you to a small diner, ordering some food, and a large chocolate milkshake to share. the two of you silently ate your food, until he spoke up. “i don’t know if i told you, but i really like your dress. it’s pretty on you.”

“thanks,” you muttered shyly. “i actually bought it for my sixteenth birthday. i thought it matched… it reminded me of you. that’s why i bought.” he looked at you with that sad puppy gaze, sliding his hand across the table to grab yours. “i’m sorry, again. i should’ve been there for your sixteenth like you were there for mine.”

you squeezed his hand tighter, shaking off his apologies. “it’s okay, sam, really. you’re here now.” that’s all that matters.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

it’s already dark outside when you and sam get back to your house. bobby seems to already be fast asleep, as there’s no lights on. sam carries all your bags as you pull out your house key from your purse. he brings them all the way up to your room, laying them on your bed. he turns towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close. “i had a really fun time with you today,” he whispered.

“i did too. thank you for all of this.”

“you deserve it, bug. all of it and more.” he swallows, taking a deep breath. “i’m sorry i have to leave tonight. i wanted to spend more time with you.”

“it’s okay, sammy. i understand, really. all of this was more than enough for me,” you assured, squeezing his biceps.

“then let me leave you with one more thing, okay?” he offered. you nodded as he started leaning down to kiss your lips. the kiss was sweet and slow, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he slowly began to kiss you with more passion. your hands trailed up his arms to hold the sides of his neck, feeling the smooth skin beneath your palms. you could feel him straining as if he was trying to hold himself back. you pull back just enough to talk, and he chases after your lips. “don’t,” you whispered.

“don’t what?” he asked, chest heaving.

“don't hold back.”

and those were all the words he needed. when he dove back in, it was more passion filled. as he kissed you, he walked you over to your bed until your knees hit the back of your frame. without breaking the kiss, you wrapped your fingers around the lapel of his jacket, tugging him onto the bed with you. you pulled away again, pushing at his jacket.

“off,” you commanded, and he immediately followed. he struggled to pull it off, but once he did, he threw it somewhere behind him.

he then dropped his head to your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to the junction of your neck. he then pressed another right under your ear, and then lightly kissed down your jaw. you tilted your head back, giving him more access. he gently bit down on the side of your neck, before licking the mark. you let out a moan at the unexpected feeling and slapped a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself. you could feel how the sound affected him as his bulge grew against the inside of your thigh. and you may have been inexperienced, but shit, did he feel big.

your hips uncontrollably jolt against his, and your core presses against his cock. the sensation of the pressure and clothing between you make you both shiver and moan. you grab ahold of his chin, and move his head up to kiss him. his hands hold up his weight and find their place beside the sides of your head. your nails drag down the sides of his neck, not enough to make him bleed, but enough to leave a mark. and sam winchester fucking whimpers when you do so.

the sound acts like a key to unlocking something inside you, as you wrap your legs around his hips, flipping him over. the kiss doesn’t stop once, and sam could’ve come from how assertive you seemed. the confidence then fell, causing you to pull away and breathe. “i’ve never… i’m a virgin,” you blurted.

“i am too,” he responded. “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

you shook your head. “no, no, i want to. i just… i don’t think i can go all the way.”

“that’s okay, pretty girl, that’s okay,” he assured. “here, let’s do this.” you slid off of him, watching as he moved up to sit against your head. he gestured for you to come closer, and you did, sitting down on his lap. his hands found their place on your waist. “this okay?” he asked, and you nodded.

when you began to kiss again, your hips slowly grinded down onto his bulge, making him moan into your mouth. the room feels warmer and it makes your clothes stick to your skin. a warm and buzzing feeling begins to grow in your belly, making your toes curl. you pulled back, looking him in the eyes. “i-i think i’m close,” you muttered.

“me too,” he huffed. he dropped his head to your neck, and you could feel his hot breath fanning against your skin. he let out a small mewl when you grinded harder against him. “god, y/n, i love you. i love you so fucking much.”

those words were all that you seemingly needed when you could feel the coil snap inside you, biting down hard on your bottom lip to quiet your moaning. sam followed shortly after, as he slowly grew limp against you. his bangs stuck to his forehead from all the sweat gathering there, and you pushed them back. his met yours and they seemed even softer than before. he looked at you like you hung the moon stars. like you were the answer to every question he ever had. like… like you were the love of his life.

“i love you too,” you admitted. “i think i’ve loved you ever since i met you.”

he smiled at that, holding the back of your neck to pull you down, and press your forehead against his. “me too, bug.”

“so… does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” you asked softly.

“i think so,” he replied. “do you want us to be.”

“i’d like that a lot, baby.” the nickname falls from your lips accidentally, yet feels like it should’ve been there all along. it makes sam feel all tingly inside and he leans up to kiss you again when he hears a car horn beep twice.

you could feel your heart drop at the sound, knowing his visit was over. “i’ll walk you out,” you whispered, and he just solemnly nodded.

you bent down to grab his jacket, and slipped it on him. then fixing his tie and hair to make him look presentable. he does the same for you, combing his fingers through your hair. the walk down the hallway and stairs is silent. not out of guilt or regret, but in contentment. the acts committed changed everything, yet nothing at all. you guys didn't go all the way, yeah, but this was still something that the two of you shared and would treasure. once outside, you could see that it was only dean in the car, which you were grateful for.

you wouldn't want john to see sam like this, and you don’t think you could control your emotions if you ever faced the man. “give me one second,” you said, before walking in the house to grab a marker. you walked back over to him and grabbed his hand, writing your number on it. “there. that way you can text me when you miss me.”

he hugged you, holding you tight to his chest. “i love you, pretty girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. he reluctantly pulled away, looking at you longingly as he began to walk away.

“baby, wait,” you called out. he turned around. “yeah?”

you grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a real kiss. “i love you, too,” you said once you pulled away. “and stay safe.” he squeezed your hand three times. “i always do, pretty girl.”

you watched as he walked away from you, waving at him as he slipped into the passenger seat of the impala. you didn’t head back into the house until the car was completely out of sight, the only remnants left behind was the dust it kicked up. walking back up the stairs, it didn’t feel heavy like the last time he left. this time was different.

you didn’t even change out of your old clothes when you laid down on your bed. the room smelled of sam, and it calmed you down, already pulling you into sleep when a buzz came from your phone. rolling over, you grabbed it from your nightstand and opened the message. it was from an unknown number, but you knew exactly who it was.

“i miss you already, pretty girl :(”

you smiled as you texted back, “i miss you too, baby”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

as the year passes by, sam keeps his promise. he video calls you on your birthday, and blows out a candle on a cupcake that he bought for the occasion. after that, he calls and texts you almost every single day. sometimes it’s long conversations, while other times it’s just a simple ‘good morning’ and ‘good night.’ it doesn’t have to be a grand gesture, you just have to know that he’s still *here* and that he cares. when the old nightmares haunt you, you don’t have to deal with them alone. you can just call sam. it doesn’t matter what time it is, because he’ll pick up everytime.

he visited on his eighteenth birthday with dean, but it’s only for a few hours. it didn’t matter to you, though. because it was the first time you saw him since early october. you gift him another book for his birthday. this time, it’s an annotated book of frankenstein. “it’s my favorite, so i wanted you to carry a piece of me everywhere you go.” that same night, dean takes a new picture of the two of you. it’s sam laughing with cake smushed all over his face, while you’re kissing him on the cheek. you put that one in your car alongside the old one.

you don’t see him again until august, but this time, the visit’s unexpected.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

when sam came to your home, it was almost eleven o’clock at night, and bobby was already sleeping. he doesn’t knock on your front door, he climbs up to your fucking window like some fairytale prince. when he knocks, it jolts and makes you reach for the knife under your pillow. but when you see that it’s sam, you turn down the volume of your fiona apple record and walk to open your window. “baby? what happened?” you asked. he doesn’t respond as he looks at you with those puppy dog eyes. you climb through your window, sitting down beside him on the roof. “do you wanna talk about it?”

he grabs your hand, rubbing his thumb across your scar. “it's my dad. he found out about the whole college thing. he didn't take it too well, and… well, he kicked me out. said if i wanted to leave, then i should stay gone,” he explained.

you shifted closer, knees touching. “oh, baby, i’m so sorry.”

he shrugged. “it’s no big deal. i figured he would react that way, it just, still kinda hurts, you know.” you nodded silently. “i hopped on the first bus i could to see you before i left. the school year starts soon and i have to travel all the way to california and i don’t know how long it’ll take me.”

“you can take my car,” you offered, but he shook his head.

“bug, i’m not taking your car. bobby built that for you, i’m not gonna take it from you.”

you moved closer, now resting your head on his shoulder. “i just want you to get there safely.”

he rubbed your arm to warm you, as you were only dressed in an oversized tee. “i know you do, but i’ll still be safe. i always am.”

“you know… you could come with me,” sam said after a few minutes. “i can find an apartment close to the campus, and we can live together.”

“sam… i would go with you. and you know that, but i can’t just leave bobby in the middle of the night like that. he’s done too much for me in my life for me to leave him like that.”

sam sighed, but didn’t argue. he knew you had a point, but he still wanted you to be close by. “besides, it’s only a day drive. i can drive to visit you on the weekends, or something,” you reassured.

“i’d like that,” he muttered. “hold on, wait here.”

you watch him go into your bedroom and grab something, before joining you back outside. he now has your digital camera in hand. “sam, what are you doing with that?”

“nothing, bug, just taking a picture of you.”

“a picture of me? for what?” you asked with a soft laugh. “to keep with me,” he replies, looking at you with a ‘duh’ expression.

you playfully rolled your eyes, but complied with what he wanted. you fixed your hair and smiled at the camera as the flash went off. “perfect,” he said, looking at the picture. “i’ll print it before i leave in the morning.”

you grab his hand, pulling towards your bedroom. “let’s lay down, okay?” he follows after you, laying down beside you. his hand rests on your hip, rubbing his thumb across the exposed skin of your thigh.

“i’m gonna miss you,” he whispered.

“i’m gonna miss you too, but you can always call me when you do.”

“you know that that’s gonna be everyday, right?” he asks with a laugh.

“yeah, i know. i’ll make sure to keep my phone charged, then.”

he laughs again, pulling you to his chest. he breathes in the smell of your lavender shampoo, savoring it until he can be with you again.

“i love you so much, pretty girl.”

“i love you too, smart boy.”

previous chapter | next chapter

a/n: omg, second to last chapter and i'm already feeling so emotional about this series. i just love them sm and i'm gonna cry when i stop writing for them. if the smut is bad.. i'm sorry. i'm so bad at writing it bro omg. but i hope you guys still love, and lmk if u want to be tagged in any of my works in the future !! <333

taglist: @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @hobiespick @iloveyou2mia

[abbotjack]

Ok this might seem super random but I feel like jack and the reader from the life we grew would be watching love island . Like I see all these couples watching them online and I just kept imagining them doing it . Like bam as soon as baby is down it’s time for love island . 😂 and jack can’t help himself making commentary at everything they’re doing . Jk this was just super random I felt like I had to share . You’re amazing and I love your blog it’s such a welcoming space , hope you’re doing well !

This idea made my whole day, it’s so perfect?? Jack Abbot, post night shift, fake hating love island while absolutely needing to know who got dumped?? You waiting to watch it until he’s up because you’re both secretly obsessed?? It’s so them. Also, thank you for being so kind. Your message was the sweetest and genuinely means so much to me. You made this space feel exactly how I hope it feels. 🤍

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST

It’s 4:53 PM and the house is quiet.

Not the peaceful morning coffee kind of quiet. The other kind. The Bean is down for her nap, Duck is missing an eye again, and the twins have finally stopped treating your ribcage like a conga drum kind of quiet. The kind that only happens in a house that’s run on toddler chaos, shredded cheese, and the sacred 7PM–7AM shift rotation of Dr. Jack Abbot.

You’re on the couch, legs propped up, belly stretched tight under one of Jack’s old shirts. Your back hurts. You’re eighty five percent sure you dropped your phone somewhere between the couch cushions.

The TV’s paused on Love Island... waiting.

Jack’s finally up, the weight of another brutal night shift still clinging to him. This morning, he barely managed to kiss you, kiss Bean, and do his usual fridge check before crashing into bed like someone hit his off switch. You never wake him, unless the house is on fire. And even then, you’d probably just close the door and handle it yourself.

When he wakes on days like this, it’s always slow. Hair rumpled, eyes half lidded, moving like gravity’s still a little too heavy. Hungry in that very specific, I worked a trauma bay last night and now I’m eating shredded cheese straight from the bag kind of way.

Which is exactly what he’s doing now.

You hear the fridge open. Then the unmistakable rustle of the cheddar bag. A beat of silence. Then a tiny voice from the hallway.

“Dada… can I have some feelings cheese too?”

You smile.

Bean appears, Duck in hand. Jack comes closer to her, already holding out a fresh pinch of shredded cheddar like a holy offering.

“You promised Duck could have two pieces today,” Bean says solemnly.

“I did,” Jack nods. “And you held me accountable. That’s integrity, Bean.”

You watch them from the couch, heart already melting. This is how it started, the cheese thing. Not from you. You keep snacks in matching containers and label leftovers with the date. You were a federal compliance accountant, for God’s sake. Precision is your love language. But then Bean caught Jack one morning... half dead from back to back shifts, crouched in front of the fridge in his scrubs, eating shredded cheese straight from the bag. He didn’t even pretend to hide it. He just looked her in the eye and said: It’s feelings cheese. Helps with brain. She nodded like he’d told her a sacred truth.

And now here you are, living in a house where cheese is currency, comfort, and spiritual practice.

Jack finally plops down beside you on the couch, balancing the bag between you like it belongs there. “Tell me you didn’t watch it without me,” he says.

“I didn’t.”

He exhales. “Good. Because that would be emotional cheating.”

You grin. “You literally pretend to hate this show.”

He grabs the remote, unpauses it. “I do hate it. I also need to know if that one girl cried in the Beach Hut or just dramatically stared into the ocean again.”

You glance at him. “You know their names.”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “I remember who’s dangerous.”

You laugh so hard your stomach aches. Onscreen, two new contestants make their entrance: one in overly crisp linen, the other introduced as a “crypto investor,” like that’s supposed to be reassuring. Jack squints. Then his voice softens. Still teasing. But quieter. More personal.

“I wonder what you were like then.”

You glance over.

“When?”

He nods toward the TV. “When you were that age. Twenty one. Just starting out. Probably had three highlighters in your bag and a five year plan on your desktop. Corrected people’s grammar in group projects. Said things like, ‘I just function better with a routine.’”

“I was insufferable.”

“You were dazzling and beautiful.”

You pause.

He looks at you, eyes gentle but tired. Like he’s still halfway in that night shift fog but would still find you in a crowd. “I think about it sometimes,” he continues. “What it would’ve been like. You back then. Me, too messed up to stay still. I wouldn’t have known how to love you yet. But I would’ve tried.”

You lean into his shoulder. “I think I would’ve scared you.”

“Oh, no doubt. You would've ruined me with your beautiful brain.”

You laugh into his clothes.

“But I would’ve shown up,” he says. “Even back then. Even if I didn’t know what to say. I think I would’ve made a mess of it. But I would’ve meant it.”

You curl your hand around his. His calluses. His pulse. The way he still smells like the hospital and somehow like home. “I would’ve followed you,” he adds, “even if I didn’t know why yet.”

You don’t say anything. You just rest your hand on your belly, and he places his over yours. There’s a kick. A shift. The twins are listening. On screen, someone shouts, I just want to be loved for me! and Jack doesn’t even look.

“She’s absolutely texted ‘lol okay’ as a breakup.”

You giggle. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m literally exhausted and emotionally available. That’s what women say they want.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Bean appears again, “Can Duck have one more sprinkle?”

Jack tosses her a pinch of cheese. “Only if Duck agrees to take responsibility for their actions in the villa.”

Bean nods. Confused, but serious. A deal’s a deal.

The living room smells faintly of baby shampoo and cheddar. A terrible dating show hums in the background. You’re very pregnant, sore in places you didn’t even know existed during your last pregnancy, and completely undone by this man who treats shredded cheese like currency and still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t change a thing.

[elijawrites]

hiiii! First off love your work girly, doing great work for us wuh luh wuh’s! 😼 just wanted to ask if ya could do a Rumi x Reader fic thingy where reader is like a barista where Rumi and the others go undercover too like RELIGIOUSLY. And Rumi had devolved a crush on said barista and has finally worked up enough courage to try and ask her out. Shenanigans from Zoey and Mira I use once they find out etc!

tbh have fun with it! Like use this as just a very loose prompt or whatever!😼🫶

OPERATION: Espresso your feelings .ᐟ

ft. rumi x barsita! freader

warning. none, just pure fluff, reader is just a civillian / a normal barista in a normal cafe, read in dark mode !!

an. thank you for requesting anon! i really liked this one, and i hope i wrote what you wanted me to 🤍🤍 and IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG OEMRJWIDJ

Rumi swears this is not a crush.

It’s just that she and the other two happen to do a lot of “undercover missions” at this one little coffee shop off of 7th street. Y’know, the one with the fairy lights hung across the ceiling, the mint green tiles behind the bar, with the hanging penguin sign that says ’Welcome’ and the barista with the kindest smile and most soothing voice Rumi has ever heard in her ENTIRE life?

Yeah, that one. The one that just screams ’home’

“Rumi,” Mira says one morning as Rumi straightens her jacket for the fourth time. “Are you sure this is for a mission and not just because you’re down bad for the barista”

“I am not—” Rumi couldn’t finish her sentence due to her being distracted by you tying your apron near the counter, the way your hair falls perfectly over your cheekbone, the way your nose scruches as you try to reach it, the way you—

She coughs. “This is a professional visit.”

Zoey leans over and whispers, “You literally tipped her twenty bucks for a muffin yesterday.”

You notice them, of course. Who wouldn’t? A trio of girls in clearly fake sunglasses and earpieces, regularly visiting everyday @ 5pm, not so quietly whispering and arguing over who gets the last blueberry scone. You think it’s cute. especially the purple haired one—the one who acts all brave and confident and yet turns to jelly the second you ask how her day’s going. yeah, she’s cute.

You write “Have a lovely day:)” on her cup every time. Or sometimes just a heart next to her name if there’s too many costumers.

You don’t see her face when she reads it, but Mira and Zoey do.

“She’s gonna combust,” Mira mutters as Rumi sees the note.

Zoey fake-swoons. “Quick quick, Write that in the mission report, maybe that’s the info we need” She giggles out.

Rumi scowls and sips her caramel latte. “Shut up.”

Today, however, Zoey and Mira had enough of their leader being such a coward

Rumi’s been pacing in front of the café for ten minutes before Zoey finally shoves her inside.

“You’re asking her out. End of story.”

“No I’m not—”

“Yes you ARE rumi.”

So Rumi stands in line, practically vibrating with nerves, hands all sweaty. When you spot her, your eyes light up like you’ve been waiting for her all day, and that just makes her heart do little jumps, she swore it would jump out of her body if it could

“Hey, Rumi! The usual?”

She nods dumbly, trying her very best to not dip and just run away at this very moment. You finish her order quite quickly, Knowing it like the back of your hand.

But before she can bolt back to her corner booth like usual, Mira casually bumps into her.

“Oops.” The latte SPLASHES right onto Rumi’s jacket.

Rumi looks horrified, mira looks smug, and rumi swears she heart zoey fake gasp from across the room. You rush around the counter immediately, napkins in hand.

“Oh my god, are you both okay? It’s alright, We can totally comp that—”

“No, no—it’s fine! It’s—uh…” Rumi’s voice cracks. “Actually…uh…”

Your eyes meet. Her ears are red. Your hand brushes hers as you pass her more napkins. Her heart skips. And mira subtly elbows her side, urging her to continue

“I was wondering if maybe… sometime… if you wanted to—like—get coffee? Not here obviously, I mean—together. With me. I mean. If you want.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then your smile widens slowly, sweet and a little teasing “Well, that depends. Is this an actual date?”

Rumi groans into her hands. “A date. Definitely. A date.”

You giggle. “Then yes. I’d love to.”

[weoris]

엔하이픈 ⦂ 박성훈 ‎ ‎ ‎ CAN’T FEEL MY FACE ━━ P SH

❪ 勇 ❫ but𝒾𝐥ove𝒾𝗍

❛ 𝐂𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘 ❜ sunghoon x 𝒇! 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌. ༝༚༝༚ 𝗱𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗵𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝘄𝗰. 2OOO 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀. 𝗈𝖿 𖥔 ݁ 𓈒 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒

REBLG﹠LIKE ˵

MIDNIGHT━━━━now your first good nights rest since the breakup.

you knew saying someone like sunghoon would create tension in your life. he was the exact opposite of the ‘dream guy’ he looked like, sunghoon was rather like the ‘troublemaker delinquent ’ in every young adult movie.

he may be a looker, but that was about it. you remember the cycle.

the long, messy, passionate cycle.

he was such a romantic. a new bouquet of flowers every day; gifts and gifts galore; obsessed with touching you; all the social media stories and posts about you, when he rarely used it.

“You look so gorgeous— c’mere..” sunghoon whispered, holding your jaw with his feather light touch, as you brought your hands up to prevent him from ruining your hair — with the petals of your corsage slightly scraping his cheek.

It may have been your sister’s wedding, but sunghoon was sure he wanted you and him to be up on the alter.

You giggled, putting your hand on his chest — just finding it unbelievable how straightforward and needy he was, you had only just gotten out of the closet two seconds ago..

Sunghoon growled slightly, gritting his teeth when you didn’t let him kiss him. yet a little chuckle left his lips as he softened a bit at the sound of your giggles.

“No, I’m serious.. please doll..” he mutters, half of his words muffled as he pressed his lips onto yours gently. “N—no.. hmp—you’re ruining my makeup.. stop..!” you spoke against his lips between little giggles.

A laugh left his lips, he shook his head and nuzzled closer to you, teasingly kissing you harder. “Mm—mm..”

unfortunately, his kisses had to come to an abrupt ending as suddenly all the bridesmaids were called (and he did end up almost falling asleep on your uncle’s shoulder and snoring several times during the ceremony, making you look around awkwardly, disappointed and embarrassed..)

the doorbell rang, as sunghoon stood outside your door, waiting for you to open the door as he squinted and blinked his eyes harshly against the bright sun rays.

“Good morning, doll.” Sunghoon says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he kisses you immediately, pressing the little bouquet against your chest.

the bundle of both lavenders and kisses first thing in the morning was not what you were expecting, but it was definitely a pleasant surprise.

“Lavenders?” You say, looking down at the bouquet and glancing back up at him, as he held your waist against his hip. “What? You said you were wearing purple today! I thought it’d be nice to match!”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled, patting his chest to calm him down. “Ok, ok! Thank you,” you mutter with a playful pout, pecking his cheek gently and wiping off the lip gloss from his cheek. “I’m very grateful~”

sunghoon’s grumpy front disappeared, a cheeky smile, as he bent his knees to wrap his arm around your thighs below your rear, carrying you up suddenly. “Well, why don’t you show me your gratitude, princess?”

but under that fiery, romantic persona, maybe you weren’t enough to store all of his affection.

“You piece of shit! How could you do this to me?! After all we went through??!” Your voice echoed throughout your dorm, pacing around the living room while scolding the boy who was sitting on your couch.

Sunghoon had nothing to say, couldn’t apologise, defend himself, give excuses — just nothing.

“I’m sorry..”

“You should be!”

“I was drunk.. you know I wouldn’t do that, baby-”

“BUT YOU DID!” You interrupted, too angry to even listen to any part of his explanation.

Sunghoon sighed and bit his lip, looking down and basically just letting you rip him apart for cheating on you.

for his constant lack of respect for you when he’d blatantly flirt with other girls, or let them dance on him at parties he’d just always have to go to..

And for the next few days, you could only sit in your bedroom and cry. What did you even expect from him? Why did you even for a moment — think he would be loyal, respectful and honest?

maybe because he was so stupidly charming, so terribly handsome, and so so so romantic.

and throwing away all the flowers, the stuffed animals, his shirts and hoodies, your Polaroids together …

sleepless night after sleepless night, you stayed up late reminiscing everything.

each item you were cleaning out felt like a stab in the heart, and each memory of him was the knife twisting.

overeating ice cream tubs while stalking his profile through your secret account became a routine — as you watched him party and throw himself from girl to girl.

after about two weeks of endless sobbing, you could finally spare a night of not crying yourself to sleep on the couch..

KNOCK KNOCK

only to be disturbed by the knocking of your front door.

you tossed and tumbled in your bed, trying to ignore the banging, thinking it was just in your head.. until your phone started ringing, the buzzing vibrating your pillow.

a groan escaped your lips, turning off the ringing immediately. but it didn’t stop. “Oh for gods sakes..” you muttered, finally answering the unknown caller with your eyes still closed.

“Yes..?”

“Ah.. baby.. open the door please..” the sluggish voice spoke, sweet as honey intoxicated with alcoholic toxin.. your body stiffened, immediately waking you up.

was it..

“i miss you so much.. so much, please you have to let me in..” he muttered. and you couldn’t be mistaken — it was the voice you wished to hear an apology from, longed to hear you call baby again, yearned to hear any word from..

you propped yourself up on your elbows against the couch. “S-sunghoon?” you whimpered a little, as a chuckle left his lips from across the phone.

“Ha.. hi, baby.. oh that voice.. you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for it..”

a scoff left your lips, as you brushed your messy hair back. all you wanted to do was just talk to him like you used to, but you knew you had to be stronger than that..

“Are you a fool? You can’t cheat on me and expect me to welcome you with open arms..” you muttered groggily over the phone, hanging it up quickly.

“N-no, angel..” Sunghoon let out a groan again, his back crashing your front door, the piece of wood acts as his separation and your hurt. Your heart still ached the same when you heard him whining and calling you ‘angel’..

and his banging didn’t stop.

his palm on the door, loud slapping noises were heard as he tried to get in.

Pet names left his lips as he whined, trying to get your attention — the attention of his old safe space. the safe space that he had tainted red with his lustful, wandering.

the consequences of constantly searching for new shiny toys was finally crawling back to him. now he was yearning for that familiarity again.

dark walls, beer cans scattered, a beating heart. you couldn’t feel your face. your thoughts only consumed with the cries outside your door..

“B-baby..” sunghoon gasped in surprised, the words leaving his lips in a raspy, hushed voice.. looking up at you with tears in his eyes, almost tripping with the door slammed open.

he climbed up, leather jacket already off on shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your hips and kneeled in front of you, holding you tight.

“I missed you so much, honey..” sunghoon says, his drunk-affected fragile legs shaking as he got up.

you scoffed and pulled him in the house, locking the door behind. “Shut up. I’m only doing this ‘cause I don’t want you to be a nuisance to my neighbours.”

sunghoon knew that was an utter lie. even his stupid, idiotic, selfish, drunk mind.. could comprehend. he smiled, giggling slightly.

you put your hands on his shoulders, furrowing your eyebrows as you took off his jacket. your hands traced up to his red cheeks. “God.. you’re.. drunk out of your mind..”

“Drunk on youuu~” he cooed, puckering his lips and trying to lean down to kiss you. You huffs and leaned back, keeping your grip on his shoulders tight so he wouldn’t come at you again.

Sunghoon sighed and pouted, his eyebrows knitting in annoyance. “Whatttt? Let me kiss you!”

a groan left your lips. one of disgust of his drunken state, or of struggle to not give in, you don’t know. but your stomach was being hypocritical, leaping and fluttering just at the sight of him close again.

he stumbled on a box by your doorstep, stubbing his toe and using it as an excuse to slump down on you..

you hadn’t even bothered to throw the box out or call him to pick his things up, his belongings stayed compact in there, filled with either hoodies or t shirts of his that were neatly packed, or gifts that were ripped apart and turned into scraps.

sunghoon giggled as you turned around, your eyes rolling with a scoff leaving your lips. he hugging you from behind, cooing gently and finding comfort in the side of your neck..

“mm.. you still smell like me..” he whispered, closing his eyes as a cute smile graced his lips.

you huffed and paused.. you only wished you could smell like him still. you put your hands atop his, rolling your eyes with a sigh again.

“That’s yourself you’re smelling there.. gosh, how much cologne did you put on?” you coughed, waving your hand in front of your face to let some of the strong perfume out. he pouted and shrugged. “Enough for you to remember me..”

your hands stopped waving at his words, as you blinked twice. he was planning on coming here? he wanted you to remember him? as if you’d even forget but.. was he really missing you like he said? or was this just some other mind game to get you into bed..

but you couldn’t deny the speeding rage of your heartbeat, as you put your hands on top of his again, and sighed softly. “I could never forgot you.. you know that..” you said, a mere whisper, yet something intimate that you hoped he could comprehend in his drunken mind.

sunghoon opened his eyes, face still against the side of yours. he looked up at the skyline in front of you both, humming softly. his eyes trailed down to your lips again, as he pouted and hummed.

“C’mere..” he whispered, turning you around. his hands rested on your jaw, as he cooed and caressed your cheeks with his thumb. “Just one night, ok? Let me love you just one night..”

You sighed, trying to push him back. Yet, you couldn’t physically.. you only tried to push that feeling of wanting him again in your heart.

Sunghoon whimpered again, sitting down on your couch, hands holding your thighs and pulling you into his hold.

“I can’t even feel my face.. just let me stay again..” he whispered, his hands holding the back of your thighs, chin against your stomach as he looked up.

It was hard to believe that this.. vulnerable, desperate looking guy, was the same man who broke your heart and played around with the pieces.

one night stand after one night stand, he still came back to the place, he would spend all his nights in. the nights that mattered.

the nights where you didn’t cry yourself to sleep or wish his suffering. the nights where he’d coax you to sleep, burying you with affectionate kisses and cuddles.

you didn’t even realise you were tearing up until he was wiping your tears off, his rough hands soft on your skin.

“Mm.. why did you leave then? If you were going to come back.. do you even know how much I suffered because of you??” you cried out, voice muffled and interrupted with soft little sniffles and sobs.

Hoon’s heart ached, seeing you all vulnerable like this again.. sure, he was all drunk and he was dumb for breaking your trust, but the burning sensation in his chest couldn’t go away. He needed you, he yearned for you.

your sobs were silenced by his lips, as you sighed and whimpered into his kisses. he held your face delicately, as if he was unfamiliar with touching you again.

sunghoon’s eyebrows knitted, gently tugging at your chin down with his thumb, as he deepened the kiss with his tongue. his thumb raised to wipe your tears, as his other hand trialed down to your waist, pulling you into his embrace even more.

the feeling was so familiar, so burning. it felt like an addiction you knew you shouldn’t be feeding into, something you had fought against and struggled. but now you were giving up.

your mind was in distress, knowing you shouldn’t be letting him kiss you or touch you like this, so gentle, so delicate. but your body was moving on its own. your lips moved against his before you knew it, as your hands went up to his biceps.

that flutter rose up in your chest and stomach, wanting — no, needing for him again. your mind turned to jelly, your skin all fiery as you held onto his shoulders to stabilise yourself.

Sunghoon started to relax, eyes fluttering as he tasted you again. it felt familiar again, kissing you, touching you, listening to you. he had every part of you memorised, but he wished he could forget your tears.

he pulled back after a minute, looking down at you.. your eyes still teary, wet lips frowning.. but a different glint in your eyes. sunghoon wiped your tears again, pouting at you.

“Don’t cry, princess.. let me love you again, I’ll wipe your tears away, ok? I’ll take care of you again, ok?” sunghoon whispers again, leaning closer to you with his nose against your cheek.. as he kissed that sweet spot under your ear.

a whimper lift your lips again, you couldn’t reply or push him off. you knew you should’ve retaliated, but you had tried hard enough.. you could only sigh into his touch, and bask in the addicting feeling. “Ok.. t—take.. care of me.” you whispered, making sunghoon smile against your neck, hands going under your thighs and picking you up effortlessly.

“Finally..” he whispered, his fangs showing as he grinned up at you, before nuzzling his head into your face and leading you to bed.

© weoris | tumblr.

신 🐇 xin comeback ! hope you all enjoyed ♡ @enhablr @kflixnet @kwritersworld @sgz-net

❪ taglist open ❫

[xylatox]

Fragile! Handle With Care, Sir || psh

I am finally getting to read this oh my god. I am  such a happy camper today because ive been literally thinking about this for days.

Before I even start, seeing reader is an unreliable narrator made me giggle omg what is going to happen.

“I just— I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

I love how casual he is about it, like its absolutely nothing

It is the kind of space people inherit, not rent — where artists live when they can afford to treat their work like a mood, not a career.

Oh to be a rich artist who can do this and watch birds <//3

But I needed the money, desperately. Rent was overdue, my fridge was empty, and my pride didn’t stretch nearly as far as my bills.

This line ate i fear

Also mc is cute and shy i wanna eat her up

Just as I moved to take another step, he spoke. “Here, let me take your coat,” I pause, my fingers twitch at the top button, slow and clumsy, too aware of his eyes on my hands. 

And hes a gentleman ugh <//3

“— or something stronger, if you need it.”

I was taking something stronger I cant lie, i would not be able to do that sober

Sharper, denser. Male torsos bent in half-light, male hands twisted in motion — uncanny in their intimacy — as if he had studied his own in the dark, again and again.

Oh this is good ugh (i maybe be a bit obsessed with the idea of hoon studying himself)

“You’re doing well,” he says before I can finish. “You carry tension in beautiful places.” 

Literally want oh fuck out loud😭😭😭bro i genuinely would never be able to handle this and he calls her PRETTY OH MY GOD. HE FLIRTS LIKE SYCH AN ARTIST I CANT DO THIS

“That’s good,” he adds, eyes locked back on the page. “You’re responsive.” A pause as his pencil moves again, “raw emotions make better art.” His voice doesn’t waver, it never fucking does. It’s detached like he can afford to look at me like a part of his project now. 

Istg i will jump this man like a rabid dog what the fuck sunghoon

“You’re more than welcome to come back.” he said, opening the door for me. The light from the hallway spills in. I step through it, the envelope still clutched in both hands.

Would have him right there immediately

Also the little paintbrushes being the separations are so darn cute ::(  and the tension after the first session is so high i think i might go insane

His sleeves were rolled higher today, exposing the sinewy shape of his forearms which are smudged faintly with graphite. 

Someone hold me back <///3

“Just hold this one a little longer, darling.” 

Oh my god

they don’t ache like you do.”

Oh holy fuck, berry??????

A corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Second time,” he murmurs, more observation than accusation, like he’s keeping score. “You’re consistent, at least.”

HELLO??? MAY THE WORLD SWALLOW ME WHOLE

“So fucking desperate,” He leaned in, voice indulgent near my ear. “all this from a couple of words?”

I will pass out (shes so real for reacting like this)

“Every time you tremble, I get a better line out of you.” he said, his breath fanning my shoulder. “I mean, just look at you,” 

AHHHHH?????

“No brushstroke could ever capture this.”

Man i love this so much ugh

“I’ve already seen all of you, love.” His words wrap around me like a reminder: I’m already laid bare — in ink, in memory, in him. 

Im so giggle i love him😭😭I am such a loser for artists for real

“They’re mine,” he says, like a truth he’s living with. “You gave them to me. You don’t need to see how I see you.”

I fear this was kinda hot

Slipping from my stool with a slow, careful grace, I sink to the floor between his legs. The room feels different from down here, colder somehow. He blinks down at me before his brow lifts, curious. My hands hover near his inner thighs, not yet daring to touch. “Like this?” I look up at him through my lashes.

HELLO???? FORGET HOON I WANT HER <////3

“You’re adorable to think I’d care about a boyfriend.” he chuckled, pushing it past my lips, “he should’ve held on tighter.”

?!?!?!? SUNGHOON??

Was the praise for the pose or for what came after? I didn’t know…

Oh im so normal about this

BRO. The fruit scene was so intimate oh my holy fuck actually, i cant do this i need him

And the prompt?? Cool as hell wtf

Loving how needy mc is actually oh my god

“If I fucked you like I want to,” he said finally, voice dropping into something more intimate, “you wouldn’t be able to pose tomorrow.”

Need him so bad i cant even hide it anymore

“Patience, precious. I’ve waited longer for things worth less.”

I cant oh my god

. “Flattering… but wrong,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “You really think he listens to you more than I do?” His words hung in the air, I tried responding but it came out as a whimper. 

MY JAW DROPPED AT THIS LINE HOLY SHIT

if God saw you like I do, He’d set the sky ablaze out of pure jealousy.”

I am going to pass out

“You’re more than any prompt could ever ask.”

The way im so giggly at the end, berry im so glad i finally got to sit and read this oh my god, it was so good😭😭😭 i need to read this again istg, i need him so bad

Fragile! Handle With Care, Sir.

Synopsis: Money’s tight. That’s the beginning and the end of it — the reason you find yourself responding to an anonymous ad on a dusty forum thread. "Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent" is all you remember from it. You didn’t expect much. Definitely not him… and definitely not returning, over and over. He tells you it’s academic — your face, your form, your flush. But what began as art turns into obsession. He touches like he’s still studying you — Every gasp, every shiver, every drip he’s cataloging. He talks to you like you’re a masterpiece he hasn’t finished. Like he’s not done carving you open. You're no longer just his study. You’re his favorite piece that he can’t stop refining.

Word count: 14.6k 

Pairing: art major!Sunghoon × nude model / muse!reader

Warnings: university art major au, smut centered (MDNI), dark themes (???), reader is an unreliable narrator, unprofessional relationship, size kink, oral sex (m!rec), fingering (f!rec), power dynamics, age difference, yn called him ‘sir’, nicknames (darling, precious, sweetheart, etc), soft dom!Sunghoon x sub!reader, yn loves to be praised a little too much, yn kinda becomes a little bratty at the end bccc why not hehe, obsession (on both sides), both are insane and unhinged actually sorry (not sorry), light degradation / praise & humiliation kink, hoon is nice pinky promise, grinding (on a chair), cum play / swallowing / smearing / creampie (i hate this word), exhibitionism / being watched / put on display, edging / delayed orgasm / denial, overstimulation, v in p, unprotected sex, bulge kink / breeding kink, we still have the aftercare promiseee

a/n: RE-read and take the warnings veryyyy seriously, yall know i commit to my themes lol. I did have to take out some scenes because frankly it was getting so long and I couldn't stfu sooo. I'm not 100% proud of the writing or story telling or the pacing, i was so overwhelmed by it that i stopped taking it seriously LMAO but im still posting it either way bc fuck it, i cant leave you guys hanging. A special thank you to my lovely lovely lovely moots and dear friends @hoonieyun and @orxngebloods you guys helped me push thru this even tho I wanted to burn it with me in it LMAO thank you so so so much <3

Taglist: @hoonieyun @rosepetals09 @xylatox @seungsoftly @bxcndd @kireistrawberryjayla @hoonkishoe  @luvyou2ooo @orxngebloods @cutehoons02 @kaiaonsaturn @ddeonuswife @ambi01 @yukisroom97 @berryzoo @geniejunn @toastmenace @snowprincehoon @annovaz @enhaheart8 @dark-moon-light02 @tobiosbbyghorl @ikeuheartz @heelovesmeknot @pjselee @zoe1love @sunooqvrlsx @girlwholovekpop @enhawonnie @juliejulesjule @whateverhoon @luvchaew @hoonieyun @ikeuheartz @heekolazz @wiccangirl29 @pshfan0812 @orxngebloods @seungsoftly @tian-zu @yooonjnng (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

“You’re not messing with me, right?” 

I must’ve asked him three times by now if this was real. My voice shaky over the line, my fingers tight around the phone. I’d just come off a double shift, still in my uniform, pacing the corner of my small kitchen with a half-dead phone pressed to my cheek. He didn’t laugh, just responded with that flat, almost bored voice.

“Why would I bother?”

I found the ad three nights ago, scrolling the university forum during a bout of 3 a.m. financial anxiety. The ad didn’t say much, just a phone number and those couple of words: ‘Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent’. It was anonymous, but the tone was unmistakable. Clean. Cold. Borderline rude. It sounded exactly like him. It should’ve raised alarm bells, yet they were easy to ignore in the haze of overdue bills and late shifts. Desperation has a way of softening the sharp edges of good judgment. 

“I just— I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

It wasn't reassurance. Instead it was a verdict, like something he already decided. That phone call had been short and efficient. His voice was oddly calm like someone confirming an appointment, and not asking a stranger to undress in front of him. He didn’t try to convince me — just answered questions like it was a practiced drill. Like my uncertainty was the only variable that’s still lagging in a process already set in motion.

The stairs leading up to his apartment are wide and spiral, wrapped in an ornate iron banister that’s chipped at the edges but still elegant. The metal scrolls are cool beneath my fingertips, worn smooth where hundreds of hands must’ve passed. They wind upward around a hollow column of air that smells faintly of turpentine, varnish and something more expensive — maybe cologne? maybe leather-bound books and red wine that’s bled into wood? Your guess is as good as mine. 

The wallpaper is floral, pale green and ivory, faded in places like they were left too long in the sun. Dust clings to the edges where the ceiling stretches impossibly high, catching light from a chandelier I can’t see but know is there — because everything in this building feels curated, not decorated. 

My boots echo softly with every step. It’s the kind of silence that carries its own gravity. The hush that says the people who live here were raised not to rush. As I move forward, as I climb higher, there are fewer sounds and fewer lights. More velvet, more shadow.

It is the kind of space people inherit, not rent — where artists live when they can afford to treat their work like a mood, not a career.

The same post-it note was still in my hands, the one with his address scrawled in my rushed handwriting, the ink slightly smeared from when I’d written it down in the middle of our phone call. Rain had gotten to it on the walk here, turning some of the lines into soft blurs. I kept it folded in my pocket, it was unimpeachable like it was a contract. The corners had gone soft from being folded and unfolded, smoothed over with my anxious fingertips in the fluorescent light of the train. I must’ve checked it ten times on the way here, as if the numbers might shift or vanish. 

I should’ve laughed and said ‘I made a mistake’, hung up the phone and gone back to scrolling through job boards that paid ten dollars an hour to smile behind a register. That would’ve been the sane, safe thing to do. But I needed the money, desperately. Rent was overdue, my fridge was empty, and my pride didn’t stretch nearly as far as my bills. So instead of hanging up, I swallowed whatever hesitation I had left and asked for the address, and he gave it to me like he already knew I’d come.

“Bellgrave Residences. 62 Linden Street. Suite 701. Top floor. White door. You'll know it when you see it.”

I stop at the top floor, heart thudding as I come face to face with the door marked ‘Suite 701’, the numbers screaming at me in serif gold. White door, brass handle… just like he said. But what he didn’t mention was the nameplate below it. A slim, engraved plaque: ‘Park Sunghoon’. His name also looks cold when etched in metal. Enough to remind you he lives in a place where names matter.

I check the post-it note again, even though I already know the number by heart at this point. I’ve read it so many fucking times it’s burned into the inside of my eyelids. With one deep breath, maybe even my last from how hard my heart is pounding behind my eyes, I lifted my hand and knocked on the lacquered wood.

The door opens after two knocks with a soft click of an expensive lock turning, my pulse and nerves were the first to answer back in my throat. He came into frame in the low light and for a second, all I could register was the shape of him. Broad, strong looking shoulders framed by a dark button-up shirt — sleeves rolled, collar loose, wrists bare. He didn't just stand, he held space in a way that made the air feel tighter. There’s no smile from him, just a subtle lift of the brow.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice is smoother in person, though still unreadable. The same light from inside casts him in a halo of soft gold, warming the sharp lines of his pale face. It makes him look almost gentle, until you meet his stiff eyes — detached, too observant. I can’t tell if I’m more intimidated or embarrassed under his gaze. 

Great fucking start… I'm already on edge when fully clothed in front of him. How the fuck am I supposed to stand naked in front of him?

I nod. “Hi, yes. This is for the…” I trailed off, suddenly unsure what to call this. My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my work bag. “The modeling.” I finished quieter. He doesn’t say anything at first, the silence hangs awkwardly while he watches me, making me too aware of myself — how I’m standing, breathing, inevitably making me shift my weight on the heels of my boots. God, why does this feel like a test?

“You found it alright, come in.” He opens the door wider, stepping aside to let me in.

I step past him, careful not to brush against his shoulder. The warmth from inside wraps around me as soon as I cross the threshold, a quiet shift from hallway chill. The air inside is thicker than it was in the hall — not stuffy, exactly, but heavier. Like it’s been holding its breath all day. That soft orange glow from the lamp deepens now that I’ve stepped inside, blooming against the darker corners of the room.

“Shoes, if you don’t mind,” he spoke up as he clicked the door behind me shut.

“Right, sorry.” I mumbled, already crouching to slip them off. The apology came out fast and automatic like muscle memory, like every customer service job I’ve ever worked has drilled into my mouth. My fingers fumbled at the laces, I tried not to look as frantic as I felt. The socks were embarrassingly mismatched — one navy, one pale pink with a fading cuff. I tucked one foot behind the other instinctively, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He probably did.

That’s what happens when you’re stretched too thin — rushing between jobs, surviving off borrowed hours. Some things just slip. The dark wood beneath me is polished and cool against the soles of my feet. I take a careful step and my socks glide a little. It’s almost too smooth, frictionless. It felt like walking on glass.

Just as I moved to take another step, he spoke. “Here, let me take your coat,” I pause, my fingers twitch at the top button, slow and clumsy, too aware of his eyes on my hands. The wool is still warm from my body. I manage to undo the last clasp, and before I can shrug it off fully, his hands are already there to ease the weight from my shoulders.

He’s close now, close enough that I catch it — something faint clinging to his collar. Clean linen, maybe a hint of bergamot. Not heavy or sprayed, it’s the kind of scent that comes from fabric softener that bakes into the fabric. Subtle, masculine. He folds the coat neatly over his arm. “I’ll hang this up,” he says, already turning away.

“Please, go in.” He gestures lightly toward the interior of the apartment. “Tea?” he asks over his shoulder, already halfway down the hallway before I can answer. His voice carries easily through the tall ceilings, pale walls, and that low golden light from the autumn dusk bleeding through sheer curtains. A velvet couch sits near the window, deep green and sunk into slightly at one side. There’s a stack of well-used sketchbooks on the floor beside it, carelessly neat, like they live there. “— or something stronger, if you need it.”

“Tea is great,” I responded, something stronger might actually dissolve me into the floor right now. I don’t trust my nerves with anything more volatile than caffeine. Carefully, I sat at the edge of a chair that probably costs more than my entire month’s rent. My hands are folded in my lap, trying not to fidget and look like someone who answered an anonymous ad for cash.

And I did. I'm that someone. I’m sitting in a stranger’s apartment, waiting to take my clothes off like it’s a transaction I’m qualified for.

Jesus, what the fuck am I doing here?

The thought comes hard like I’ve been holding it off all night and it finally crashes through. The palms of my folded hands are suddenly damped. I shouldn't have come — or maybe I should’ve thought it through, at least. 

I try to breathe. The space helps, strangely — not by calming me, but by giving me something else to focus on. The air carries a scent that’s difficult to name but impossible to ignore — the soft residue of things once warm: dried mint, cedar, maybe a blend from whatever he wears or drinks. It is soaked in the corners of the room, woven into the fabric of the curtains, the grain of the floorboards. Underneath it all, there’s the dry, fibrous tang of canvas — that raw, papery smell of linen stretched too tight. A hint of old pigment, maybe gesso. Like the room itself has been painted a hundred times and remembers every stroke.

A tall folding privacy screen stands near the window, its wooden panels carved in delicate patterns, edges worn smooth by time. The lacquer of the divider is faded in place. Beside it, a low leather chaise rests in shadow — scuffed, sun-softened, the kind of furniture that remembers every body that’s sunk into it.

When he returns, it’s with two ceramic mugs balanced easily in his hands, no tray or sugar bowl. He sets one down on the low table in front of me. His sleeve pulls back just enough to show the cut of his forearm — lean, steady muscle under smooth skin. Strong without trying. You can tell by how quiet his movements are, but never rushed. Just a controlled man. The tea smells faintly floral.

“Today’s just a try-out,” he says. His tone is steady, like a slow pour. A kind of calm professionalism that still manages to land gently. “Just to see if we’re a good fit. You’re free to leave whenever you need to.” 

I nod once. “Okay.”

Sunghoon studies me for a moment with his hands in the pockets of his pants, then gives a short nod of acknowledgement. He turns and I follow his gaze toward the far side of the room, where the light falls into a soft yellow behind the sheer curtains. The windows stretch nearly to the ceiling, but most of them are covered, the outside world blurred into a sea of suggestions. 

“May I ask why you need this so badly?” I say it carefully — not confrontational, but curious. My voice is softer than I mean it to be, careful in the way you are with someone you don’t know how to read yet. “You make it sound… important.”

“I’m a final-year at Daeho,” he says as he walks, not looking back. His voice is level, but there’s no warmth in it. Just clarity. “This series is for my graduating portfolio. If I don’t finish it, I won't walk.” He says it plainly, as if it’s simple math: no model, no final, no diploma.

“And I’m behind.”

So this isn’t just ambition. It’s pressure and fear of consequences. However, being behind doesn’t seem like just a deadline problem — it looks like something that presses heavily against his pride. Like this work isn’t just academic, It’s essential. As if finishing it is the only way he knows how to stay intact.

I watch his back. Steady, absurdly straight, full — like posture was drilled into him young and never unlearned. The way his sharp shoulder blades moved under the fabric, the narrowing where it meets his waist made it hard not to stare. Ridiculously composed. Like even the way he stands is intentional.

He gestures toward the folding screen. “You can change there. Robe’s clean.” His tone is dry, like he’s keeping a careful distance from anything too personal.

I just got up and stepped behind the divider, it creaked softly as I moved. On the wall inside hangs a slate gray robe — well-worn, freshly folded over a brass hook. I hesitate for a beat because I don’t know if it’s his or something he keeps for these types of occasions. The idea that other people might have worn it makes my stomach tighten… but it smells like him, that same bergamot smell. Like breath on a collarbone. I start unbuttoning with unsteady fingers. Every movement feels twice as heavy behind the screen — the slip of fabric, the tiny clinks of metal of my jeans. I don’t know if he can hear, why does it even matter? He will see everything in a couple minutes. 

My clothes slide to the floor piece by piece. There’s something strange about undressing in someone else’s quiet. Like each layer isn’t just clothing, but some flimsy shield I’d rather not admit I need. By the time I slip into the robe, my heart is hammering against the inside of it.

It fits — just barely. A little too big. Probably meant for him — it makes more sense on a body like his that holds space. The sleeves fall past my wrists, and the hem brushes the tops of my knees. I exhale, and it smells more like him now that it's warmed by my skin. From the other side of the screen, I hear the shuffle of papers, the scratch of charcoal against canvas. Already working and thinking in lines and shadows.

Of course he is.

When I step out slowly, he doesn’t look at me right away. Just moves toward the easel like this is routine — just another class, just another figure to study, just another pose to capture. There’s no shift in his expression, no flicker of surprise. Just the efficiency of someone who’s done this before. 

Am I the one overthinking this? 

He sets down a thick sketchpad with a gentle rustle. The stool in front of it is simple, dark wood polished smooth at the seat’s edge. There’s a single overhead lamp angled toward the center of the room, casting a low, warm pool of light over where I’ll sit. Everything else falls into a soft shadow, unfocused.

“Whenever you're ready,” he murmurs, still not quite facing me. “No rush.” His hand lifts to adjust the lamp, just a few degrees. Then the angle of the easel… then his stool, sliding half an inch left. I realize he’s giving me time, turning his back while I decide what to do.

Deep breath.

Fuck around and find out, I guess.

I slip the robe open, the fabric tugging light at my wrists as it falls. My skin prickles at the change in temperature, or maybe it’s just the muteness in the room. My pulse feels impossibly loud in my ears, making it hard to hear anything else in the studio. The seat is cold, too bare beneath me. I exhale slowly, trying to let go of whatever tension is gripping the back of my neck, trying not to shuffle with any of my limbs.

“All right,” he says, leaning back. “Let’s begin with something natural.” I nod while looking at the floor, not trusting my voice or my eyes. I just shift into the pose he’s asked for: simply sitting. Then, the scraping of charcoal bagin — that soft, scratchy drag of it over paper.

I can feel the weight of his attention. It’s not loud, It doesn’t demand… but it’s absolute. Every part of me feels watched — not in the way men usually watch women, but in a way that’s somehow worse. Deeper. Smarter. Like he’s not just seeing me, but computing shadows on my skin, calculating every angle of light falling off my waist. The kind of gaze that isn’t greedy, but exacting. It makes my chest feel too open.

He sees too much.

His stare isn’t lecherous either. It’s terrifyingly focused — the kind of focus you give to something you don’t want to ruin by blinking. And maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just an artist doing his job. Regardless, it still makes me want to look anywhere else. Out of sight, out of mind.

My eyes drift around the apartment — if he's observing me, so will I. Your room reflects your mind after all. If there’s one word for his studio, it’s cluttered — but not carelessly, there’s a method to it. It's the kind of clutter that only looks chaotic to someone who doesn’t live inside it. Every surface holds something: pencils, brushes, old sketchbooks with frayed corners, empty mugs and wine glasses, rolls of paper held down by chipped ceramic weights.

There were canvases leaning against the walls in loose stacks — some blank, others smudged with the early shadows of figures in progress. Some sheets had begun to peel back, as if trying to escape the surface they'd been pinned to. The tools are old-school: graphite, pastels, palette knives and abandoned old brushes in jars of murky water. Everything looks expensive, used but cared for. 

Even his mess has structure.

The pieces that are stuck onto the muted walls are unframed and almost all rendered in charcoal, thick and smudged, edges blurred like smoke. Some are tacked up carelessly, others are more composed — stark lines, dramatic contrast, unfinished limbs trailing into white space.

And then I realized something… most of them aren’t women.

Figures, yes. Bodies, lots of them. But the musculature is different. Sharper, denser. Male torsos bent in half-light, male hands twisted in motion — uncanny in their intimacy — as if he had studied his own in the dark, again and again. A few portraits, hollow-eyed and tired-looking, all bearing the same signature strain. But women — soft shapes, breasts, hips — I hardly see them. Maybe one if I squint. 

Is this why he posted the ad? Maybe that’s what he wanted. Something he didn’t usually draw, something different. Or maybe something he couldn’t look at for long without it getting complicated. He doesn’t interrupt my wandering thoughts, doesn’t rush and just keeps sketching. 

The grainy sound of charcoal dragging across paper is the only thing filling the space. He sharpens his charcoal pencils obsessively, even though the tip is already razor-thin. His movements are methodical, like the repetitive act soothes something restless inside him. The tiny shaving of wood curls onto the floor, a soft testament to his need for control. I can’t help but watch — the way his wide fingers cradle the pencil, how his eyes flicker with something unspoken every time he leans closer to his work. Somehow, I know: he draws like this all the time. 

He shifts in his chair only occasionally, but each time he does, it’s for a reason. When he reaches for a new pencil, it is as if it’s an extension of his own hand. He tilts his head, adjusts the angle of the sketchpad just so, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studies the lines he’s drawn. There’s a rhythm to it: draw, pause, correct, erase, redraw — an unspoken dialogue between the artist and his canvas.

He rose from his stool with a soft scrape against the polished floor. From where I sat, it felt like he suddenly grew taller — like the air around him stretched upward. His gaze stayed locked on the sketchbook in his hands until the very last second, not betraying any flicker of distraction or hesitation. He moved with that same assured confidence he’d had when he opened the door, not flustered by the naked girl in front of him. “The next position is a bit softer.”

His touch is practiced, clinical, impersonal in theory. One hand slips beneath my arm to nudge my elbow higher; the other settles briefly at my shoulder, coaxing it downward with the gentlest encouragement. His fingertips are ice cold, but the pressure is barely there, it’s more of a suggestion than force. It's from knowing exactly how the body should look in stillness. All I can focus on is the faint scent of charcoal on his sleeves, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifts. 

When his hand grazes the side of my ribcage to adjust the curve of my spine — a fleeting, featherlight contact meant only to guide the curve of my back. A flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. I shift just slightly, a reflex more than a choice. It’s barely a movement, but I know he caught it. He notices everything.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, so close I feel it more than hear it, a breath brushing the nape of my neck. 

“I’m sorry —”

“You’re doing well,” he says before I can finish. “You carry tension in beautiful places.” His fingers ghost along my jaw, just adjusting the angle of my face. Ironically, heat pools beneath my skin where his cold fingertips are, a stain only I can feel. “Just stay still, pretty.” My breath stutters. I hear it, loud in my own ears. My hands stay where he placed them, but my pulse has migrated: behind my knees, in the hollow of my throat, in my inner thighs. “Your lines are clean,” he continues, almost to himself, the way someone might admire the grain of marble before the chisel falls. “It would be a shame if I couldn’t capture them.”

The pad of his thumb, smudged dark from charcoal, presses lightly against my cheekbone. it dragged a shadow streak across my skin in a slow, downward arc. Not rough, not tender either. Like sketching without paper. His gaze shifts into thoughtfulness, maybe, with amusement held close to the chest.

“You look better in charcoal,” he said, absently. But it lands somewhere deeper in me — warmer than a compliment, heavier than praise: I look better in his favorite medium. The smudge on my face felt like an afterimage, like he signed something that doesn’t belong to him yet.

He steps back without another word or glance. Just the scrape of his stool against the floor once again as he sinks back into it.

Silence. 

There is silence over my racing heart that is not empty, but dense. A silence that settles and that stretches between us like drawn fabric, close enough to touch but never quite folding in. He returns to his work like nothing happened, pencil moving across paper with his rhythm of habit. I feel the weight of his attention feels heavier now, like he’s not just sketching me — now he’s studying what his touch did.

I’m holding the pose, muscles tight where they need to be, but something else is stirring beneath the surface — not pain, not discomfort, just a gentle pressure, like a quiet heat pressing from the inside out on my lower belly. My breath catches more often than it should. Each inhale is shallower, each exhale trembles on the edge of something unnamed. The air feels thicker now, like it’s pressing closer. Where his charcoal-stained fingers brushed me before, my skin tingles, like the touch is still there, like it’s waiting to be followed up, alive in the wake of his touch.

I try to push the feeling away, to focus on the lines, the light, the shadow — but it deepens instead. It even curls in my stomach. I am both here and somewhere else — caught between the careful discipline of the pose and the slow, building heat that demands my attention and his.

He shifts in his seat, the scratch of charcoal pausing mid-stroke. His gaze lowers to where the soft crease of my thighs parts just barely. A subtle sheen catches in his eyes. In that clipped tone which carries no judgment or surprise, just observation, “you’re wet.”

He said it like he identified a symptom on my body or noting a detail of anatomy. My breath stilled, I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or if I heard him right. But the slick between my thighs pulses with sudden awareness, undeniable now that it's been named, like it was asking to be noticed now. 

I swallow hard, cheeks flushing, caught off guard by his bluntness and the truth in it. “Forgive me, I —” I began, voice unsteady around the syllables. “I don’t know what happened —”

“That’s good,” he adds, eyes locked back on the page. “You’re responsive.” A pause as his pencil moves again, “raw emotions make better art.” His voice doesn’t waver, it never fucking does. It’s detached like he can afford to look at me like a part of his project now. 

But I haven’t detached from the sheer embarrassment of being wet and needy in front of a stranger. The air feels thick against my skin. Each breath feels noticed by him, and I hate that I know he sees it — the way I fidget at the corners, the way my thighs tense ever so slightly making the drippings louder with that squelching sound. God fucking damn it…

Why is my body embarrassing me? It's not fair. It's as if it responded to him before my mind had a chance to catch up, a silent surrender I hadn’t planned. I don’t even know what it’s responding to — his voice? His eyes? His hands? I shift slightly, not enough to break the pose, but enough to feel just how hypersensitive my cunt has become against the open air. I’m too aware of every inch of myself. Too aware that he is aware.

However, none of this seemed to outweigh the way I only saw green. Green as in money. Green as in rent paid. Green as in keeping my head above water.

So I let him draw.

Let myself be looked at.

-*-

It ends the moment he said, “That’s all for tonight. You can cover up now.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. His focus stays on the easel, on the page.

Still, I nodded and pushed myself to stand with muscles I hadn’t realized were shaking by now. I try not to rush toward the folding screen, even though every nerve in my body screams to. I folded the robe neatly, carefully, placing it back on the hook like that small gesture will buy me back some dignity.

Sliding my panties up is the hard part — the fabric catches, making me freeze. They're already damp. Not just warm, but wet enough to make my cheeks go hot again. God, what did this man even do for me to get like this? My jeans feel cooler against my skin when I pull them on, clinging where I don't want them to.

As I finished lacing up my boots by the front door, I saw him appear from my peripheral with a sealed envelope in his hand. “There’s more than we discussed.” he said, offering it out.

I blink in surprise, accepting it with both hands. And indeed, the envelope is thick, heavier than I anticipated. “You were better than I expected,” he adds after a moment; meeting my eyes with quiet sincerity, I feel the weight of both the envelope and his words settle in me. I murmured an instinctive ‘thank you’, unsure where to look, unsure what this exchange even means anymore.

“You’re more than welcome to come back.” he said, opening the door for me. The light from the hallway spills in. I step through it, the envelope still clutched in both hands.

That should’ve been the first and last time I saw him.

-🖌-

I called him two days later. It rang once, twice.

When I heard his voice answer — that calm, unreadable tone that never seemed to ask for anything — I realized I’d already made up my mind. He didn’t sound shocked. “Same time?”

His apartment looked the same, of course — but it felt different this time, less overwhelming and didn’t hit me like a wave. It unfolded slowly and surely. It's a place I was allowed to see with new eyes. I began to see the layers between his strokes. The hush between objects had a kind of elegance to it, like even the silence was curated. His apartment made the world outside feel far, far away.

I noticed things I hadn’t before: books lined along a wall, some with their spines cracked and faded, others stacked haphazardly near a lamp that never seemed to be on. Old film canisters sat unlabeled on a shelf, next to a closed sketchbook weighed down by a river stone. There were candles too, their wax pooled but not yet set. There was a record spinning softly when I came in — I didn't recognize the music… must be something from his time, not mine. 

When I arrived, he greeted me with an almost absentminded politeness, like he was already halfway somewhere else in his mind. There was no warmth, but no coldness either — just a kind of practiced detachment. He didn’t say much after, just gestured toward the familiar folding screen I’d come to associate with him. 

His sleeves were rolled higher today, exposing the sinewy shape of his forearms which are smudged faintly with graphite. there were little smudges near his wrist, near the crook of his elbow. The wire frames of his glasses didn’t soften him. If anything, they made him look more severe. As if they weren’t meant to only correct his vision, but to narrow it — to focus it like a blade. Still, his posture carried that same soft-spoken certainty — the quiet command of someone who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

The poses he gave me were different this time. Longer, for sure. Less forgiving, more demanding. Some of them bordered on awkward — not indecent or lewd but definitely meant for his eyes alone. Posed and exposed.

One of them had my spine twisted slightly to the left. My hands were placed behind me, pressed to the edge of the stool. Another one had one of knees up, the other angled down to the floor. One had my weight tilted back onto my hands, shoulders drawn, ribs visible. There was just the sound of his pencils working and the occasional instruction: 

“Chin down.”

“A little more to the left. Yes, just like that.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Good.”

My muscles were still getting used to the strain. I tried to mask a wince, but during one of the longer poses, just a sharp breath slipped through my nose as my shoulder locked a little too tight. His pencil paused. “Are you alright?” His voice, for once, held something softer than precision.

“Yeah. Just… sore.” I tried to roll my shoulders a bit without losing the line of the pose.

He stood, his tall build crossed the room in only a couple steps. “I’ll let you take a break in a moment,” he said, pausing beside me. “Just hold this one a little longer, darling.” 

Just like the first time, his charcoal-dusted fingers lifted to my face, grazing the curve of my jaw. His hand was so large, but his touch was light. The contact sent a nervous flicker through my stomach, wings beating at my ribs like startled butterflies. The nickname was the kind you earned by being in someone’s hands, someone’s head — not by name, but by shape. By presence. By body.

He tilted my chin slightly, guiding me back into the angle he wanted. The weight of his attention wrapped around my throat like a second robe, too tight to allow words to come out. My skin prickled in places I didn’t know could react to a word or a touch.

So I held still.

He gave a small, almost amused smile, like he found my hesitation endearing and a little entertaining, like a joke only he was in on. Not cruel, more like he was curiously unwrapping a delicate gift. “You’re not used to being looked at like this, are you?”

I bit the inside of my reddened cheeks, making the heat spread down my neck. “No, sir.”

“Mhm,” he just responded, sliding back into his seat with the ease of a man who owned this space and every quiet moment within it. “Don't worry, you will get used to it.”

Being naked in front of a whole art classroom — strangers, students,  and all — felt easier somehow. Easier than being completely bare and vulnerable in front of him — someone who saw every curve and shadow, who could read the secret language of my body better than I ever could.

After a pause that stretched just long enough to make my heart skip, he finally breaks the silence. “May I be honest with you?”

I look over at him from the side of my eye, not wanting to break the pose he just placed me in. He leans back slightly, eyes tracing some invisible line on the paper, not meeting my eyes. “I tried to sketch someone else a couple days ago. But...” He admits. “It physically repulsed me.” The sincerity caught me off guard, not because there was malice in it, but because he was very genuine with what he was saying. His gaze finally met mine, “they don’t ache like you do.”

A sudden rush of pride blooms in my chest. I should feel ashamed — but how could I? Finding satisfaction in being this vulnerably bare should feel like defeat, but instead, it feels like a secret victory. I'm starting to notice not only by his words but also from the way he looks at me, like I’m more than just a body to sketch and that I carry something he can’t put into charcoal but wants to capture anyway.

That fierce pulse in my chest settles. My fingers curl slightly in my lap, trying to contain the fluttering that’s spreading, luring me. I shift slightly on the stool, trying to refocus, but it happens before I can stop it — a subtle change, a flicker of want that tightens everything. The slippery mess of my cunt returns, slowly leaking down. 

Fucking again. It’s maddening how involuntary it is. Like something beneath my skin has decided for me.

He glances up from his sketchpad, then down again, making his pencil pauses mid-line. A corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Second time,” he murmurs, more observation than accusation, like he’s keeping score. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“I— I don’t know what’s happening,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

He hums, amused. The sound is all-knowing, that smug ‘sure you aren’t’ threaded beneath it. He leans back just a little in his chair, like giving me space might ease the pulsing — but he doesn’t stop watching. No, his eyes stay locked on mine, as if trying to memorize the exact moment I unravel. 

His gaze just adds to the pressure, making my hands clench faintly at the edge of the stool, not from discomfort — but from the sheer intensity of being seen like this. Of being read so easily. I crossed one leg over the other, breaking the pose just a little, trying and failing to get some friction of relief. But if anything, it made the tension worse — like a spark catching on dry kindling. 

“Go on.”

“What?” I asked, honestly I couldn't hear him over my racing heart and the way I’m clenched, throbbing just from his voice.

“I said go on. Don’t be shy now.”

“Im alri—” I tried protesting, but my hips buckled on the stool’s edge involuntarily. As if my body accepted the permission before my mind. The pressure went straight to my clit, easing its nagging, I couldn’t help but let out a soft curse under my breath. 

My breathing is uneven, shallow in a way that has nothing to do with the pose anymore and everything to do with how I press my now puffy folds on the soaked stool. I kept rocking my hips — the faster i cum, the sooner this humiliation ends. 

I must have been too consumed with the task of chasing my high to not notice how he was already next to me. It was hard to see anything with my glassy eyes, but I could make out his usual relaxed posture. His fingers brushed against the inside of my knee, barely there, and then dragged upward with excruciating patience. His knuckles skimmed the edge of where I ached the most, grounding and teasing all at once. “So fucking desperate,” He leaned in, voice indulgent near my ear. “all this from a couple of words?”

His words made my movement slower. I closed my eyes and pulled my head down, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. His cold hands found the plush of my hips, holding me still before pushing me down on the stool again, as if he’s encouraging me to continue coaxing out my own orgasm.

“Sir, please.” I begged, not sure for what exactly, I couldn’t tell anymore. Most probably begging him to not stop holding me down, making my grinding much rougher. My thoughts blurred with every drag of friction, every embarrassing whine I made. 

He hummed low and approvingly in my ear. The vibration of it — so close, so casual — made my balance falter, and I found myself instinctively leaning forward to him. “Every time you tremble, I get a better line out of you.” he said, his breath fanning my shoulder. “I mean, just look at you,” he taunted, holding my jaw lightly, firm but gentle as he tilted my head toward the window behind us — he really is making me look at myself. 

My reflection stares back at me, unrecognizable: eyes fluttering half-shut, lips parted on a whimper, slick from all the biting. I look dazed, flushed, like I’ve been undone from the inside out — like a girl wrung of every coherent thought, all I can do is take what I can get.

He held my gaze in the reflection, possessive, adoring. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever drawn.” He praised. 

My closed my eyes, It’s too much — the way he looks at me, the rasp of his praise. My head fell back as my spine arched. I came with a whimper, my pussy tightening and pulsing around nothing, trembling with the release he'd so patiently pulled out of me without even really touching me. 

The erratic movement of my hips slowed down as I started riding out my orgasm, thighs shaking against the stool and his arms. He came closer — gentle, but no less intimidating — and brushed the sweat-damp hair from my face. 

“No brushstroke could ever capture this.”

-🖌-

We’ve filled sketchbooks by now, multiple.

Dozens of me — where the paper captures and holds my body undone, time and time again. Some pages catch me mid-sob, eyes lidded, mouth open in soundless moaning. Others show me stretched by his fingers alone, ruined in that sacred, breathtaking way only he understands. Always drawn with that same precision he uses when he touches me, like he discovered me once, and keeps trying to rediscover me.

Sometimes I see them half-finished on his desk. My own face, hips and waist — caught in the middle of the moment, ink bleeding at the edges like I was shaking when he made them. One sketch has my back arched, mouth open like I’m about to say his name. There’s another which was too tender, where my starry eyed face is turned toward him, soft pink cheeks, like I’m waiting for him to say I’m doing well. He sketches like he’s trying to remember me even as he’s looking right at me.

Although… he never lets me look at any sketch for long.

My thighs would ache from being spread open, holding in particular positions he would ask me to do. So much so that all I could focus on is the soft drag of pencil over paper, and his low, thoughtful hum he makes when something pleases him. I try not to writhe away or beg — pretend I don’t ache for more than his touch, than his fingers.

Sometimes, when his admiration sits too heavy on my skin, I can’t help but shy away, tilting my face anywhere but his direction. It's ridiculous how much I crave his attention — this raw, hungry need that shames and excites me all at once. He’d lean close to my ear, making his thumb pressing firmer on my clit, drawing a needy mewl from my lips. “Don’t hide now,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his voice. “I’ve already seen all of you, love.” His words wrap around me like a reminder: I’m already laid bare — in ink, in memory, in him. 

He truly believes that when I come as he sketches, it's like the final stroke that brings his sketches to life. As if without it, his art would be missing the key part — a secret pulse only my pleasure can provide. Like my slick seeps into the paper through his fingers, making each line more vivid, each shadow deeper. “The more I touch you,” he breathed once on my lips as I was so, so close to coming on his digits again for the night, "the better my art gets.” He groaned at the slick glide of his fingers inside me. To him, my release isn’t just an ending — it’s the ignition, the spark that turns charcoal and paper into something electric.

When I step into the room still wrapped in his robe, he’s already at his desk, the soft haze of dusk spilling over his shoulder and catching in the waves of his hair. The golden light glints faintly off the rim of his glasses, just where they’ve slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. 

He doesn’t glance up right away — his focus is on the pencil that flicks once, twice across a page like he’s finishing a thought only his hands understand. “We’re doing portraits today,” he says after a moment, voice threaded with the same calm concentration as his movements. “Come sit in front of me, my darlin’.”

I move toward him, caught in a room that feels like it exists outside time. The only sound is the quiet shuffle of my steps and then, just as I near the desk, the soft slip of paper. That practiced rustle of pages and sketchbooks being closed as soon as I’m close to his sketches — makes my heart jolt in my throat. 

He always does this, every time.

As I lower myself into the chair, he’s already in motion, wordlessly slipping sketchbooks into the wide drawer beneath his desk. One after another, the thick spines disappear with a quiet thud. Not hurried or flustered, but intentional. He lingers on the last closed book as he slides the drawer shut with a muted click. 

With a slow breath, he leans back in his chair and adjusts his glasses with one hand. Then he begins to draw, the paper whispers beneath his hand — the steady hand that had once held me open, drawing sounds from my throat I didn’t know I could make — now it moves with the same careful precision, dragging graphite across the page. Nothing about him is rushed. His gaze lingers between lines, like he’s sketching me in his mind first, committing each detail to memory before it ever reaches the paper.

I hesitate, my toes curling against the legs of my stool. The hem of my robe brushing my thighs, suddenly feeling sheer. And still, I ask  — not because I haven’t wondered before, but because this time the weight of it feels too close to swallow. “When can I see some of the pieces we did together?” I was aiming for casual, but my voice thins around the edges.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he nudged my chin gently slightly to the left until I sat just the way he wanted. His fingers linger at the nape of my neck longer than they need to. A hush hangs between us. He studies so closely that he could draw the shape of my breath if he wanted to. His eyes — unreadable behind the lenses as usual — but no less consuming, rake over me with the quiet accuracy of someone cataloguing something already beloved. 

Then, finally. 

“They’re mine,” he says, like a truth he’s living with. “You gave them to me. You don’t need to see how I see you.” It’s like he’s guarding something too precious to share — something he’s convinced I wouldn’t understand, even if I stared straight at it. 

His voice was poised, but there was something coiled tight beneath it — not menace, no, never that — just a deeply tethered reverence that bordered on obsession. Like he could sketch me a thousand more times and still find something new to fixate on for weeks. “They’re too sacred.” he added, more to the page than to me. He reaches for another stick of charcoal, his fingers smudged for sure. 

He turns his focus back to his paper, completely reabsorbed in the curves and shadows. I shift without thinking, restless under the weight of his attention, making my knee bump his. It’s an accident — I swear — but the sudden contact makes my breath catch. I go still, cheeks warming with embarrassment, expecting at least a glance or a flicker of reaction.

But he doesn’t look up, not even once. As if I’ve always been this close, already in this intimate part of his world — an extension of his art. His pencil glides over the page again, never pausing, but my eyes start to wander lower, past the firm curve of his arm, past the scattered charcoal dust on his clothes. That’s when I see it, the unmistakable bulge outlined beneath his pants, betraying his composure.

Oh, how the tables turn… So much for being the calm one in the room.

Without notice, his strokes falter with a subtle huff of breath through his nose, frustrated. His fingers hesitate at the edge of the page, as if chasing something just out of reach, before he finally sets the charcoal down with a soft clink. “I need another position to see you properly,” he mutters, almost to himself. He looks around, clearly thinking and searching — the charcoal still staining his fingers, his sketch unfinished, something about it is not quite right. His brow furrows behind those glasses, that familiar crease between his brows deepening. 

The idea blooms in me all at once. It takes root before I can question it, and I’m moving before doubt has a chance to catch up.

Slipping from my stool with a slow, careful grace, I sink to the floor between his legs. The room feels different from down here, colder somehow. He blinks down at me before his brow lifts, curious. My hands hover near his inner thighs, not yet daring to touch. “Like this?” I look up at him through my lashes.

He leans back, like he wants to take in every inch of the view I’m offering him. As I settle lower against the cool hardwood floor, the loose edge of his robe slips off one shoulder, baring the curve of my collarbone and the top swell of my chest. “Always so eager,” he said, amusement softening the marvel in his tone. His charcoal fingers flex, resting just at the edge of the sketchbook like he’s unsure whether to keep drawing — or reach for me.

My fingers find the zipper, narrowing the world to the sound of the metal sliding and the soft rustle of fabric under my touch. I slowly freed his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, revealing his red and strained tip with a bead of pre-cum.

“You’re not married.” he hummed, just an observation once I wrapped my fingers around his length. My eyes flick downwards to see what he sees: bare skin, no claim, no ring. 

I shake my head. “No,” I confirmed, licking his slit before reaching the very top, “No, I'm not.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb slowly across my lower lip. “I’d hate to do this to someone else’s woman.” He's consumed with the contrast — that dissonance. The softness in my eyes, all doe-eyed and sweet, paired with the kind of simmering shameless hunger I’m no longer trying to hide.

And he drinks it in. Not just the need, but the way it lives alongside the tenderness.

“You didn’t even ask if I had a boyfriend.” I tilted my head, a flicker of mischief slipping through. I didn’t even have a boyfriend — haven’t in ages, honestly — but of course he wouldn’t ask something so juvenile. Not him. 

That’s just how his mind works: serious, precise, polished. Every word feels chosen, every pause earned. He speaks like a man who hasn’t just lived but built something brick by brick — a life shaped by intention, not impulse. He’s older, sure… but never dull. If anything, age has sharpened him and made him timeless, dangerously aware. He learned the weight of silence and uses it like a blade.

My eyes found his as I traced a vein on the side of cock with my tongue, lubricating the rest of his shaft, gradually making my way back to the top. “You’re adorable to think I’d care about a boyfriend.” he chuckled, pushing it past my lips, “he should’ve held on tighter.” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring the feeling of my throat. 

I stroked what I could fit in my mouth with my tongue and the rest I stroked with my hands. I could feel him twitch, guiding every movement with quiet command, his voice praising even as he pushed me to the edge. “Can you take a little more for me, yeah?”

His fingers tangled gently in my hair, ushering me to go deeper and take more of him. His cock hits the back of my throat, muffling my sigh as he’s slightly choking me. “You're doing so well. So good for me.” he breathed out, head tilting backwards just enough for me to catch the rough shadow of stubble tracing his jawline.

As I swirl my tongue around his cock, I feel him tense one last time. His breath ragged as he bucked his hips involuntarily before his hot release spurting into my mouth, coating it in that translucent white color.

I pulled back slightly, just for his swollen tip to come out a small ‘pop’ and make the rest of his cum drool onto my hands. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, relishing the sight. “Messy thing,” he teased, fond, like he liked me that way.

His thumb found its way between my lips, calloused and warm, stained faintly with charcoal. “Open.” I parted my lips, curiously, revealing all his release still flowing between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

He doesn’t speak at first — just watches me, eyes narrowing slightly as if catching onto something he hadn’t seen before. “Hold still, love.�� he murmurs, already reaching for his sketchpad. His thumb presses slightly more to ensure it stays open, resting on the edge of my bottom lip.

As soon as the sound of pencils scratching on paper returned, I tried to focus on the usual things — the tension in my shoulders, the steady lift of my chest as I breathe, the faint ache in my spine from holding still. But it’s different this time. The vulnerable parting of my mouth somehow feels more intimate than being bare.

“Open wider for me, sweetheart.” he spoke up, still completely focused on the sketch as he pushed down just a little more. “That’s it.” Each scratch of his pencil feels like a tether, binding me to his gaze even though his eyes are on the page. 

It only took a few minutes before my jaw started to ache — not intense, but enough for my brows to pull together and for tears to brim in my eyes. I’m still motionless but inside, I feel like a wire pulled too tight. He notices immediately. “Does it hurt?”

I nod once, barely, unable to speak.

He reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at my mouth — not in that clinical precision of his. But it's like he was still drawing, still paying attention to details only he could see. He wasn’t cleaning so much as preserving. Unexpectedly, his strong palms brushed my hair back from my temple where sweat had made them cling, before pressing a kiss to my forehead — like he was trying to erase every trace of discomfort.

“Stunning,” he whispered between the strands of my hair. “You did amazing.” 

Was the praise for the pose or for what came after? I didn’t know…

-🖌-

The money was better than anything I’d earned before, that was true.

It meant I could finally step away from the endless cycle of shifts and odd jobs — the ones that blurred together until I couldn’t even remember which uniform I was supposed to wear that day, leaving me bone-tired and half-present in my own life. No more 3 a.m. alarms, no more rushed shifts, no more weird jobs strung together. 

Somehow, he always noticed what I needed before I could name it. 

Before I even knew how to respond to his soundless attentiveness, he said something that caught me completely off guard. “Do you need me to double the pay?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted more sugar in my tea. The amount he was already giving was more than generous, already absurd by any reasonable standard — but his offering wasn't indulgent but instinctive. As if the idea of me needing anything and not receiving it from him was unacceptable. “It’s not charity,” he said again, in case I dared think it. “It’s peace of mind — mine. Knowing you're taken care of. I don’t want you stretched thin, not when you give me so much already.”

But care, for him, was never just practical. It bled into everything. It wasn’t just money or comfort he gave so freely; it was attention. Obsession, almost. Like every small act — feeding me, paying me, studying me — was part of the same devotion.

His art became our foreplay, oddly enough. His art was more than just lines on paper — it was the slow build, the prelude to everything that followed. Each stroke, each whispered compliment dripped filthier than his palette ever could be. His praise wasn’t just words; it was a tantalizing promise, edged with something deliciously daring.

He takes orgasm after orgasm from me, like a man gathering proof. Proof that I’m real beneath his hands, that he can draw out every twitch, every cry, every flood of heat and still not reach the end of me. Sometimes I think he’s counting them, memorizing the cadence of each one like brushstrokes, mapping out where my body breaks open and how it sounds when I fall apart. He watches every time, like each climax is another layer of truth he gets to carve into his memory. And he never rushes, never stops until he’s sure there’s nothing left in me but the echo of his name.

However, today, he seems off.

Distant in that unreachable way he sometimes gets — but something is chewing at the edge of his thoughts and he won’t let it surface. He hasn't shifted my position once since I arrived, not even the usual ‘tilt your chin’ or ‘relax your wrist’. Hours pass, and still, I stay like this. Muscles beginning to sting, knees threatening to lock. 

But it’s not me he keeps adjusting — it’s the paper. He’s redrawn the same angle again and again, hand moving with that practiced focus but with muted irritation. Erasing, sketching, erasing again. The image just refuses to come through the way he wants it to.

After maybe the fifth paper he had balled up and threw in the trash, he finally spoke. “Let’s take a break,” he dismissed, not quite meeting my eye. Just turned, wiping charcoal off his fingertips with the edge of a towel before leaving the studio. His tone is leveled, but there’s something in it that makes me pause. I wordless came down from the pose he’d held me in for far too long — limbs stretched, hips tilted just so. Everything in me feels overworked and sore, and not in the way I’ve come to crave.

Did I do something wrong?

I gathered his robe where it had slipped from my shoulders and wrapped it tighter, the fabric still warm from the place and smells like his hands. It's quiet when I step out, the only sound is the soft tick of the old clock above the hallway arch, counting time that suddenly felt heavy between these walls. 

I found him in the kitchen, back turned, haloed by the afternoon light. He was still in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s at the sink, cutting a pear with almost surgical precision. The knife glints under the light. His hands move with that same quiet concentration I’ve seen when he draws, like nothing could rattle him. But I see the tension, like he's trying not to think too loudly.

He slices the fig next, its flesh opening with a soft sound. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry — not sure why I suddenly feel like I’m intruding. The fact that he hasn’t spoken to me in full sentences even when I was modeling for him does nothing to ease my uneasiness.

He glances over his shoulder, finally acknowledging me. His gaze skims me slowly — from bare legs to where my fingers clutch the lapel of his robe — then settles on my face. Whatever he sees there softens something in him, but he just goes back to the fruit. The silence stretches between us, long enough that the ache in my legs dulls, but the ache in my chest blooms louder. I wonder, foolishly, if he’s angry. If I’ve held the pose wrong. If I ruined the drawing. Or worse — if he’s tired of me altogether. 

Then, with terrifying calm, he cuts into another fig, the blade sinking through its skin. “You haven’t eaten all day.” He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks, but it lands like a stone dropped into still water. Slicing the fig into quarters, then halving a pear — slow, exact motions that say this isn’t about fruit. This goes back to care, control.

He dips a sliver in honey, watching it drip in slow glistening beads, then turns back to me. “Eat, sweetheart,” he says softly, sliding the piece toward my lips. His voice is persuasive, but there’s an unmistakable edge of authority beneath it. “You’re no good to me starved.” The fruit is sweet — obscenely so, clinging to my tongue like syrup. My gaze flicks up, and he’s already watching, studying, cataloging every small motion — the way my jaw moves, the flick of my tongue, the hollow of my throat when I swallow. 

He feeds me another slice, slower this time, and lets the pad of his thumb catch the juice spilling at the corner of my mouth. I expect him to wipe it away, but instead, he draws it to his own lips and sucks it clean.  Something about it makes my stomach tighten — not with nerves exactly, but with that impossible, fluttering I only ever seem to get around him. It’s stupid, maybe, the way that the patience, the certainty and the attention short-circuits my thoughts.

“We should get back,” he says in his matter-of-fact voice, and disappears down the hallway. 

I follow a few steps behind, the hem of his robe brushing my calves with each step. Back in the studio, the light has shifted. It falls differently across the floor now — longer shadows, cooler air — night is falling. He’s already moved to his easel, brows knitting with focus again.

Maybe I’d imagined the softness in the kitchen, he’s still frustrated.

I lower myself back onto the stool without being told, tucking the robe from my shoulders, waiting. He starts again, charcoal to his paper.

It only took a few strokes from his pencil before he groaned again, worn with creative restlessness. His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses askew, fingers pressing in tight like he could squeeze the tension out through his skull. 

“Should I do a different pose?” I finally speak, already starting to shift slightly on the stool. “I can —”

“No, darling,” he interrupts, his voice firm but clearly worn at the edges. “You’re perfect. That’s not the problem.” His hand drags through his hair — something he only does when he’s genuinely stuck — while the other grips sheets of paper from his desk, already slightly crumpled from being handled too much. 

I recognize the layout immediately, it's the printed portfolio guidelines. He showed them to me on his computer a couple times before, but of course, he had to print them out. I can already imagine the justification, something like ‘reading on paper helps me think’. It's unmistakably him. “It's just that this next prompt for the portfolio.” he eventually exhales.

I step down from my own stool, the floor creaks slightly beneath my weight — he doesn’t look up. We’re used to this sort of nearness by now: the kind where bodies hover near each other simply because it’s become habit, not necessarily out of intention. I drift behind him, arms folding over his broad shoulder as I lean in close. His strength is solid beneath my touch. He tilts the paper slightly, sharing the words with me, and a stray lock of his thick hair brushes my cheek, rough against my skin under the soft glow of the studio light.

On the page, bolded in academic print near the top, is the phrase: 

Prompt: the vessel of a Human.  For this series, we invite submissions to consider the human form as a vessel — not just of anatomy, but of memory, desire, silence, or longing. How does the body contain something unseen? How does it fracture, or strain, or carry?

glasses sliding slightly as he rubs at the bridge of his nose again. “It’s vague. How am I supposed to draw a body that’s holding something invisible?” It's like he’s chewing gravel. “Pretentious as hell.” He drops the printed sheet onto his desk with another one of those tired exhales that seem to rise straight from the chest, the kind that settles in artists who live too long with their own ideas. I watch his fingers — ink-stained, smudged with charcoal — tap against the edge of the table.

He’s frustrated, but not at me, that much I know. I glance at the sketch discarded beside him, the faint imprint of his latest attempt already curling at the edges. The prompt might as well be written in another language, whatever it was meant to be, I couldn’t guess. My thoughts however wandered to the way his eyes held me earlier, the way they lingered, the familiar pull that entwines between my ribs and presses against my skin. Something in me clicks in place — a thought, a pulse, a flicker of boldness pulled straight from the burn of his attention.

“You know…” I started, stepping closer, voice low — soft, almost conspiratorial, “I might have an idea.”

He glances at me sideways, not moving much. “Do you, now?” 

I want that feeling again. Need it, even now, as he frowns at his desk, lost in thought. “Maybe it’s not about what’s invisible,” I offer, tip-toeing around the topic. “Maybe it’s about how the body — the vessel, I mean — wants to be filled.” I tilt my head at my last word, letting the suggestion hang in the air. 

His eyes narrow, not with judgment — more like amusement. That knowing gleam again, like he’s caught me in the act of something I haven’t fully admitted yet. That steady gaze that always seemed to reach beneath whatever mask I wore. His voice was like velvet ribbons when he answers, faintly teasing. “You think that’s what they want?”

“I think…” I pause, watching him watch me. “it’s what you want.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, something caught between surprise and recognition. He leans back in his chair, slow and unhurried, like he’s giving me space to hear just how loud my own boldness was. “What I want?” he echoed my words as his hand drifted forward — firm, sure — to rest on the back of my thigh, squeezing once on the flesh back there. “You cheeky girl,” his tone was not scolding, but almost fond, like he can’t help but be a little charmed by my nerves. 

“You’re the one who’s stuck.” The words leave me a little too fast, laced with something desperate — not just for his attention, but for him. I reach for him, not bold enough to grab, but needing to touch something. My fingers brush against his forearm, barely grazing the skin where his shirt sleeve is pushed up. My thumb toying with the seam of the fabric there. “Let me help.” I offer again, gentler, needier.

He watches me for a second, eyes dragging over my face like he’s measuring how much I mean it. One brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You just want my attention again.” 

“You haven’t really looked at me all day.” I whispered, not denying what he said, just mustering the best doe eyes I can manage. Letting the need and the plea beneath my words show. It’s ridiculous — selfish, even – for wanting his attention like this, hungry for it in ways I can't soften or disguise.

A low laugh slips from his chest as he brings my knuckles to his lips, letting them linger there for a beat too long. My hand looks small in his, shrunken by the breadth of his fingers. “Mm.” His eyes flick up, half‑lidded, appreciative. “You really are a work of art.” 

This is it. This is when he finally gives in, the green light I’ve been waiting for. But then he tilts his head toward the waiting stool for me. “Go sit,” he murmured — kind, yet edged with quiet authority. “And stay still this time.” The instruction isn’t loud, but it lands with the weight of a command meant to be obeyed.

Fine, then. 

Climbing back onto the stool, I made a point to stretch long, deliberately — letting my knees fall open just a little wider than I know he needs. Just enough to tempt, to test the edge of his patience. A flicker of a suggestion, if you might. I don’t say anything, and I don’t need to. The mellow between my legs has never been louder, but I keep still — except for the way I subtly tilt my hips out of frame, angle my shoulders wrong, let one hand fall too casually at my side. Just enough to skew the lines. Just enough to make him notice. 

I know the frame he’s trying to build, the symmetry he chases with every stroke of charcoal — and I know I’m breaking it.

The room is apparent and thick with his focus, but I feel the intensity of it drift when he realizes. He didn't say anything yet. Maybe he’s giving me a chance to correct myself, or maybe he’s waiting to see how far I’ll push. I keep my expression sweet, unbothered — like I’m simply doing my best to follow directions. But inside, I already know exactly how he likes me, I’ve been posing for him too long not to. I want to see if he’ll touch me. 

“Change positions,” his voice firm, already drawing again.

I blink innocently. “Wait — like this?” I shifted the wrong way again, chin tilted, eyes wide. “Sorry… I keep forgetting how you want me.” im putting up an act, drawing it out like a performance. I kept delaying, pretending that I’m guessing, fumbling with my limbs like it was my first time. Each second stretched. 

Until, at last, I heard it — that familiar deep inhale-exhale. Then the soft scrape of the stool followed as he stepped out from behind the easel, the sound loud in the muffled studio. I heard his footsteps, slow and unrelenting — like he had all the time in the world to correct me. There’s something simmering behind his gaze as it drags over me, more like he’s entertaining a game he already knows the outcome of. 

His hands braces against the back of my stool — caging me to him. Whether it’s to secure the seat or secure himself, I can’t tell. His eyes radiated controlled heat and measured restraint, but it smolders all the same. “Enough,” his tone was clipped, but solid with something between frustration and his own impulse. “You’re wasting time.”

His hands slide to my hips, fingers pressing into the soft plush of my skin. He adjusts me with the surety of someone who never doubts where he wants me, and doesn't bother to ask for permission because he already has it. I let him guide me, in fact, I melt into the correction that I’ve been waiting for all day.

I hummed back, a poor mask for the want simmering just beneath the surface. But this wasn’t what I wanted, not really. It barely scratched the itch. My fingers strayed upward, finding the open collar of his shirt. The top buttons were already undone, exposing the slope of his chest — warm, solid, and maddeningly inviting. I traced the edge of the fabric there this time, fingertips ghosting over his skin. “I tried,” I purred, not wanting to let go of the act. “You didn't make it easy.” I added, the softest hint of accusation curling in my tone —  a gentle push, waiting for him to finally lose control.

Still, he didn’t bite.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, hm?” he asked, voice like steel draped in silk  — gentle seemingly, but with that unmistakable pull of control underneath. He was soft, teasing and commanding all at once — it was dizzying to say the least. “Why won’t you let me work?” he reckoned, almost like he was balancing on the edge of restraint, and I was the one daring him to tip.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” I asked back instead, the words slipped out before I could temper them, making him still. The air thickened as I searched his face — he’s unbearably handsome in that incantatory way he always is, lit faintly by the gold wash of studio light. I hate how calm he looks while I’m coming undone. My voice softened further. “I mean really fuck me.” I continued, reasoning my behavior. “You’ve made me come with your fingers. With your mouth. Over and over…” I shake your head, just slightly. “But never… properly. Never all the way.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just observes me. His silence wasn’t cruel, but it made me feel bare. Small, like every inch of my wanting had been laid out for him to examine.

“You think I haven’t been planning to?” There was something dangerous in the discrete of it, something that made my thighs press together instinctively.

“Then stop treating me like I’m breakable,” I murmured back, lifting my chin to some degree. I tried to be brave for the slow burn curling in my core that had long since outgrown teasing touches and half-finished thoughts. He narrowed his eyes on me, he was weighing restraint against desire and realizing he didn’t have much left. 

“If I fucked you like I want to,” he said finally, voice dropping into something more intimate, “you wouldn’t be able to pose tomorrow.”

God, the way it landed made me feel like I was already on my knees. My breath hitched as I reached for his hand, guiding it down, until his fingers rested against my soaked folds. I didn’t say much — just, “sir, please…” — breathless, like the word itself might convince him. A low groan rumbled from his chest as he felt how wet I was. “I need you.” I whined, raw with want. 

When two of his fingers entered me, It was embarrassing how fast I clenched around them, desperate. “Goodness.” he grumbled out, like he couldn’t hold it in, sounding too fond. My movements were syrup-slow at first, needy, chasing every curl of his fingers. I clutched at his wrist, seeking stability and riding the rhythm he gave me. “That’s it, baby. Take your time.” he cooed, kissing the pulse point just beneath my jaw, like he could feel my heart racing, then kissing down to my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His other hand held my hip, steadying me while I took what I needed — and I needed all of him. Every curl of his fingers. Every breath against my neck. Every inch. “Mmh – shit. Sir?” I whimpered out, rocking down again and again until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. 

“Yeah, pretty? What is it?” he crooned, laced with indulgent patience. His fingers brushed gently along my temple, tucking loose strands behind my ear. “Tell me,” he coaxed again, eyes never leaving mine. “What do you need?”

When I opened my mouth to speak, but only a gasp left me when his palm pressed against my clit just right — intentional, smug — shushing me. My voice faltered in my throat, I bit down on the sound trying to claw its way out of me. I refuse to give him satisfaction today. Yet my body betrays me, hips twitching under his palm, but I keep my gaze steady, lips parted but holding firm. I won’t let him have it.

Not yet.

“Need more — need all of you...” I was able to choke out over the obscene sound of him knuckle-deep, dragging whimpers from me with every thrust. “Hhnn–fuck.” I moaned out now that I finally let myself speak. It came out trembling, wrecked.

“Mhhh,” he hummed near my ear, as if thinking, weighing his options. This fucking man. “Patience, precious. I’ve waited longer for things worth less.”

“I’ll be good — just… please.” The words slip out, barely holding their shape. 

He chuckles low, a sound that curls down my spine. “You’re usually so quiet,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against my cheek like he’s savoring the sight of me coming undone. “Didn’t know you could beg so pretty, darlin’.”

I open my mouth to say something — a smart remark, another plea, anything — but it dies on my tongue the second his fingers curl just right again. My breath stutters. The heat in my lower belly loops and pools tighter, spreading out like molten sugar.

His gaze flicks up, catching mine — knowing. “Gonna come, baby?” he asked, voice so damn calm, like he’s not the one driving me toward the edge. I just nod, letting my forehead find his shoulder, pressing there like I’m seeking shelter, grounding myself in the steadiness of him. 

He hums like he’s pleased, like he’s been expecting it. Of course he has. He is always conscious. “Just like that. Show me how bad you need it.” 

And so I do — the orgasm unspools from deep inside me like a string pulled too tight finally snapping. My back arched instinctively, pressing closer against him. Muscles fluttering around his digits one last time as a breathless mewl breaks from my lips.

He withdraws slowly, savoring every inch as he pulls free. Without breaking eye contact, his cum-slicked fingers glide over my cheek, tracing a line — as if signing a masterpiece only he could create. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve always wanted to experiment with different mediums.”

I pressed on, persistent, even though my breath was still raging from the last wave of pleasure crashing through me. “I can keep going.” One hand moved with purpose — palming the hard line of his bulge in a way that balanced innocence with unmistakable hunger. My other hand traced a slow, teasing path up his veiny arm. “I want to keep going.” I corrected myself.

He sighed, rich with a mix of admiration and exasperation, finally cracking open his usual calm. “You are relentless, my love. You know that?” Without another word, he dipped forward, arms curling around my waist with a strength that both anchored and claimed me. In one smooth motion, he lifted me off my feet, the weightlessness shocking yet exhilarating.

I’m still floating somewhere between breathless and dizzy, every nerve ending alive and hypersensitive. The world feels soft and distant, and I barely register where he’s taking me. It’s like he’s both leading me forward and cherishing me — a paradox of power and tenderness that makes my head spin.

He sets me down. I realize I’m face down on the couch, my ass raised high, exposed. The position is vulnerable — no — humiliating with how i'm still pulsing, clenching around nothing and it's all for his viewing pleasure.

“Now tell me, honey…” He drags his fingers down my slit, making a slow path that makes me flinch with the echo of my last climax.

I don't hesitate, “anything. God, I will tell you anything." I breathed out a little too quickly, like the need has taken over where words should be. I push my ass back against his hand, reaching for more. 

He tsked under his breath — not quite a reprimand, more like adoration wrapped in warning. “Easy, pretty.” His hand rests heavy on my lower back, pushing me back to my place. “Look at you,” he continued his little show, collecting whatever cum and liquid that is dripping between my thighs now, “all soaked and still asking so sweetly.”

My cheek stayed pressed to the couch cushion, breath catching in my throat. “You said you’d take care of me,” I said, not accusing, but trembling. “Then do it.”

In one fluid movement, he shifts me — manhandles me with assured hands until I’m on my back, open to him. The strength in his touch is unmistakable, but it holds no cruelty. “Greedy, greedy girl,” he muttered as his charcoal stained fingers from the hours of half-finished sketches trail down the outside of my leg, leaving a ghost of heat in their wake. When he reaches my thighs, his thumbs press gently into the plush to pull them apart. “Then I gotta keep my promise, no?” he asked, rhetorically, now rocking his cock on my slit to lubricate himself. 

I panted as I felt his swollen tip push in, “There,” he threaded through my entrance, my pussy wrapping to cradle him, “Is this what you needed, sweetheart?” He eased into me slowly, every inch met with a breathless shudder from me. I nodded weakly, completely forgetting the sheer size of him. It stretches with a burn, intoxicating nonetheless. “Fuck… you’re tighter than I ever imagined.”

His thickness expands my limits, “mmh, more.” I mewled, my fingernails dragging at his arm, ensuring marks soon. He leaned down, chuckling before kissing neck, “No need to rush. I want you to feel all of me.” His lips went down to the valley of my breasts, the last kiss being there. “But I won't lie, you make it so hard to take my time.” He slid fully inside with a groan, buried deep, hips grinding into me like he couldn’t get close enough. My cunt clenched as he filled me whole.

His thrusts that were slow in the beginning have picked up the pace, each push against my walls was uninterrupted, making me feel unbelievably stuffed. “That’s my girl. You’re taking me so beautifully.” he praised, his eyes not leaving the view of my pussy swallowing each one of his plunges. 

I could feel his hands gently lift my legs, one by one, before he settled them carefully on his shoulder. The shift is effortless from his part, but it was a new angle that opened me up, reaching new places. “Oh my God—” I gasped, fingers clutching at my thighs, utterly lost on where to place my hands, my body trembling with a mix of surprise and overindulgence. 

I felt the heat of his quiet laugh brush against my ankle, a teasing warmth that sent a ripple up my spine. “Flattering… but wrong,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “You really think he listens to you more than I do?” His words hung in the air, I tried responding but it came out as a whimper. 

Then he dropped my legs gently near his hips just to then lean in so close his breath ghosted against my ear. “But let me tell you something, darling — if God saw you like I do, He’d set the sky ablaze out of pure jealousy.” His words made me light-headed, my vision unfocused with glossy eyes. My thoughts were a blur — scrambled, burning, and sweet — like my mind couldn’t keep up with the pleasure flooding through me. 

“Too much?” he teased with a smile, savoring the way the words make me squirm. I only managed a small shake of my head, lips parted, breath hitching — I might be overwhelmed, but unwilling to stop. “Mmm,” he hummed as he pushed in my poor cunt even more, the pressure was beyond belief. “My sweet girl… Always taking everything I give you. Every last drop.”

“Sir—” It comes out more like a moan than a word, high and breathless, trembling with the edges of my second climax. His pace doesn't falter. “Yes, love?” he answers, gentle and vexingly composed, just focused, possessive.

I gasped as my toes curled, head falling back to the cushion of the couch. “Come in me.” I plead, cracking open around the words — straight from my heart, all surrender. His low laugh rumbles through all the way to my pussy, there is some surprise in his tone. 

“Full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” The continued stretch from him made my gummy walls cling tighter with every push. “Yeah, full – you sure are.” He muttered to himself more than anything, pussydrunk for sure. 

He drove into me in one slow, devastating thrust, stealing the breath from my lungs. “You feel how deep I am?” He said, his tip touching my cervix. There was an undeniable bump on my lower belly, it being so visible made it easy for him to push on it, making me squeeze him involuntarily even further. “Come on it, baby. Come for me.”

His forehead pressed against mine, breaths ragged and warm between us. I could feel everything — every trembling inch of his cock in me, every pulse of heat. His hand found mine, fingers lacing like he was grounding me, or maybe grounding himself. "Look at me," he commanded for the last time tonight, voice thick with something that sounded like awe. I did. And I swear — for a second — I forgot the room around us, the tension from earlier, even my own name.

I squeezed his hands as his hips stuttered when he came deep, thick creamy white ropes filling me so utterly I thought I’d break. It all mixed with my own release, the squelching sound between our skin is clear as day. My back arched, mouth parted in something between a gasp and a cry, and he caught it with a kiss, swallowing the sound like it was all meant for him.

“So fucking perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “You’re impossible to stop drawing.” his hand finds mine, fingers curling softly around my wrist. My chest raises and falls, legs shaky, still flushed and sensitive where he claimed me — I am still freshly fucked. His cum poured out of me in relentless spurts, wet and sticky, soaking my skin and the couch beneath me. “My favorite subject.” Slowly, reverently, he lifts my hand to his lips. His mouth is warm and gentle, brushing a kiss across my knuckles, trailing soft sparks over my skin.

“You’re more than any prompt could ever ask.”

[tttabii]

— 박종성 unexpected problems ; park jongseong

pairing ꪆৎ gentleman!jay x reader ; genre: fluff. one sided enemy to lovers. reader swears that she hates jongseong's guts. word count: 5855.

YOU SWORE THAT PARK JONGSEONG was a living breathing problem.

It was all triggered when he spilled an entire cup of iced americano onto your blouse in front of the humanities building. It was a nice day—sunny, calm, until he bumped into your shoulder with his loud laugh.

The second the freezing liquid soaked through the fabric, and your audible gasp reverberated in the hallway, all he did was look down, blink, a few times... then give you a ward cash.

No "sorry."

No "are you okay?"

Just... fucking money.

You remembered his expression too. Like it was no big deal. Like he bumped a water bottle over, not his cup of coffee on your whole outfit and morning.

And since then, you resolved: Jay Park, is not a good man.

It didn't help that your friend group had the biggest crushes on his.

"Sunghoon's so cute I want to cry,"

"Ni-ki's dancing are unreal."

"Jongseong has such good boyfriend energy, like—ugh, imagine."

"Do you think he smells good?? He looks like he smells good."

You just wanted to scream.

What could be interesting about a bunch of rich boys playing sports? What could you find appealing about these kids who acted like campus royalty? Especially Jay, the way he walked like the whole school was his catwalk? That shit-eating grin like he had a thousand secrets when you definitely weren't interesting enough to even know one?

You didn't care if he was hot. Or rich. Or had nice hair that always flopped perfectly over his eyes. No. You were not like all the other students. You weren't going to fall for it.

...that is until the professor told you about your new seating arrangements.

And just like that—you were seat partners with Park Jongseong.

He never ignored a chance to talk to you, either. From day one.

"Are you always this quiet or do I scare you?"

"That's a nice pen. You want me to get you a gold one?"

"Your notes are too cute for you to hate this class."

You either waved him off or answered him in one word. But he never stopped trying. The effort was honestly... strange.

Jay, however, noticed every little thing.

The way you always furrowed your brows when trying to understand something.

How you fidgeted with the cap of your pen during pop quizzes.

How you zoned out halfway through lectures but still somehow managed to pass.

He remembered the coffee incident, unfortunately.

And maybe he should've said sorry instead of throwing money.

But you looked so pissed, he genuinely thought you were going to throw the cup at his head.

Still, he noticed you in the crowd.

At the basketball match.

Under the scorching sun.

Not screaming his name like the others, but sitting stiffly, clearly dragged there by your friends, lip gloss melting off from the heat. You didn't even like him—he knew that—but something about you kept catching his attention.

Today when you walked in late a cup of coffee was waiting for you on your desk.

You stared at it, then stared at him. You stared back at the cup, and then back at him.

Jay, crossed arms leaning back in his seat looking way, way too smug.

"It's for you. An apology," he said nonchalantly.

You blinked. "Took you that long to apologize?"

"Hey, at least I apologize," he said raising an eyebrow.

You scoffed, pulled out your laptop, and opened up your notes—fighting the way your lips twitched. Not a smile. Not at all. Class moved slowly. You did your best to pay attention, but Jay's tapping his pen and glancing at you every so often pulled you out of your thoughts.

It wasn't until the professor began writing complicated diagrams on the board that you furrowed your brows in confusion. You didn't say anything—but Jay noticed.

Without saying much, he leaned a bit closer and explained it quietly, simplifying everything so well that you almost forgot you were mad at him.

"...Oh. That... actually makes sense," you muttered, barely taking your eyes off your screen.

He just shrugged like it was nothing.

But Jungwon—who sat behind you two—definitely heard the soft "thank you" you mumbled under your breath. He noticed how you didn't pull away as quickly when Jay leaned in. He noticed the slight shifts in your body language.

Maybe Jay wasn't just a problem anymore.

Maybe he was becoming... an unexpected one.

After class, you hurriedly grabbed your stuff, and made your way right outside the hall, where you eventually found yourself scrolling through your phone to pass the time until your friends showed up.

They came a few minutes later, immediately nudging each other, as one leaned toward your ear and said, "Don't freak out. But Jay's totally watching you right now."

You looked up, and sure enough—in that moment he sat leaning against the brick wall with Jungwon by his side, arms crossed, hair a little tousled from running his fingers through it, and staring at you directly.

He wasn't even pretending not to look.

And you tried not to look interested, but your heartbeat said otherwise.

You swore you would never feel this way about him. Not now. Not ever.

But when you caught his stupid gaze—that stupid, confident gaze—and turned away like his stare was on fire. "Whatever," you said real quietly to yourself. "Maybe he he was looking at one of you guys or something."

But none of your friends were falling for it.

"Girl, come on." Juri sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she wrapped around your arm. "Even I like him and I feel like he was staring at you. It feels like it didn't even blink, like what kind of a K-drama is this?"

You bit back a comment, cheeks warming slightly, brushing your fingers through your hair to play it off. "It's not that deep, guys. Come on. I'm hungry." 

"Right, yeah," said one of your friends with a smirk. "Hungry for what though?" 

"Shut up," you sighed, lightly swatting her shoulder as they all burst into laughter, teasing you mercilessly while still debating what to eat for lunch. You could feel the way your heart was skipping in your chest, and you hated it. Hated the thought of him affecting you like this.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the quad, Jungwon was over the staring competition that Jay was losing to.

He abruptly jabbed him with his elbow, sending him an annoyed look. "Stop staring at her and tell me what you want to eat later. You're being weird."

Jay continued to lean against the wall, chewing on his bottom lip, and did not respond right away.

Then finally, a small quiet voice.

"...Do you think she hates me?"

Jungwon blinked and scrunched up his face. "What?"

Jay looked away from where you and your friends huddled, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I mean, I wouldn't blame her. But I don't know, I keep trying."

Jungwon gave him an unimpressed stare before shrugging his shoulders. "She probably does. But..." he paused, watching the way you were trying very hard not to look back at Jay, fiddling with your bag strap, and the way your lips twitched like you were trying not to smile.

"...I think she's warming up to you or something. I don't know."

Jay allowed the tiniest of grins to curve onto his lips, his gaze drifting back to you once more.

Yeah. He was gonna try again.

Your morning was already off to a terrible start. You had cramps twisting in your lower stomach the second you got out of bed, and you knew—knew—the rest of the day would continue in the same terrible fashion.

You wanted nothing to do with the heat. Or your heavy laptop. Or people breathing too loud.

So when you reached your seat and dumped your bag on the chair with a heavy thump, Jay flinched just slightly beside you. He turned his head to look at you, presumably expecting some other cold brush-off or annoyed glare, but instead saw you laboriously pulling out your notebook, then sighing in exasperation as you noticed you forgot your pencil case.

You looked... off.

You were slumped over your desk, one arm under your head and the other curled across your stomach, breathing heavily through your nose. It wasn't hard to put two and two together, especially with how often you shifted uncomfortably in your seat every minute, with your brow wearing an ever-so-slight frown.

Jay frowned a little, his lips pressed together into a line. Was it him? Did he do something again?

But, when class began and you blearily blinked awake, wordlessly pointing at the extra pen laying beside his laptop, he just nodded and slid it to you with a slight gesture of his hand. You took it, wordlessly, and he wasn't expecting a thank you either.

This was different than other days. You didn't brush him off, or fight him with your snarky attitude. You were just tired. And Jay could tell.

And to be honest, he was too.

Jay shouldn't have been taking notes, he shouldn't have been paying attention to the professor, explaining some stat formula. But his attention had gone sideways.

You were slumped again, your head turned toward the window, eyelashes fluttering lightly as sleep began to pull you down again. He took in the way your hair strands framed your cheek, and how the rise and fall of your chest was slightly uneven—probably from the lad style.

You looked soft, he thought. You were still beautiful, and you were still so headstrong in the way you carried yourself every day, but in that moment, you looked really vulnerable—in a way no one ever got to see.

No one, except him—the person you hated the most.

His chest tightened.

And maybe you didn't know, but Jay had always paid attention. It wasn't just basketball and flirting and showing off. He observed you. And he saw every detail about you.

The way you would cross your arms when someone walked in that you didn't like.

The way your eyes always flicked to the exit in your lecture, as if you were planning your escape.

The way your nose crunched when someone said something dumb—which, usually was him.

And now, how your hands were lightly clenched over your stomach, how you didn't have your usual bag, and how your shoulders were hunched the whole class.

Jay wasn't used to being... protective like this.

Once class was over, he reached out, nudging your elbow gently. "Hey..." he said, his voice lower than usual.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, letting out a soft groan while you hurriedly packed your belongings, not saying much, and being slower than you usually are—your usual brisk pace shattering before his eyes.

He stood up before you did, ready to ask if you were okay, when his eyes glanced down.

And froze.

There—faint, but visible to see—there was a stain on the back of your skirt. The guys who were normally a few rows behind, already walking down the stairs were loud as usual.

Jay knew what kind of assholes they were. He didn't need them seeing this. He didn't need you getting embarrassed.

With a rush, he came to put himself closer and then step into your space—with his back now pressed directly to yours just as you turned slightly in confusion and almost bumped into him. "Jay—?"

"Shh. Just..." He mumbled low enough only you could hear it as he was shrugging off his varsity jacket and looping it around your waist. "Don't move yet."

You froze as you began understanding what he was doing. You looked down and back behind you.

Then the panic hit.

Your voice became suddenly small. "Wait—shit—fuck, seriously?"

He tied the jacket around your hips, snugly but not too tight, making sure there was enough cover. "Yeah. But I got you."

Your heart was breathing a little bit faster now, and you were flushed from more than just the cramps. "You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to." He turned slightly and blocked you with his body as the group passed. "Now let's go before those idiots say anything."

You stared at him for a second, heart racing from the embarrassment. But Jay wasn't laughing.

He wasn't poking fun at you, or even looking smug. He was just calm. Calm and somewhat gentle. You looked down at the jacket he tied for you. It smelled faintly of his cologne.  

"....Thanks," you whispered.

He didn't say anything for a beat, just smiled a tiny smile and moved to the side and offered his arm as if this wasn't a big deal. "C'mon," he said. "Let's go. I'll walk behind you—just in case."

You definitely weren't expecting him to say that—that he'd stay behind you just in case. That he wanted to cover you. That he noticed, cared, and took action without a second thought and without judgment.

You didn't even trust your own voice to speak up, you just nodded slightly; you tucked your chin in a little as you ran down the steps of the lecture hall and followed him. He just stayed behind you—not too close to suffocate,  but enough that you could feel the presence of him.

The soft weight of his jacket around your hips wasn't heavy, but it was... grounding. Almost comforting, in the way it made you feel protected.

Jungwon had picked up the hint quickly, walking ahead a little with his earbuds in, choosing not to say anything or third-wheel—bless him for that.

As you both exited the building, the sun immediately warmed your skin, and you saw your friends standing just outside the gates of the campus. They were chatting casually, but the second their eyes landed on the both of you together—it was over.

Juri squealed first.

"Oh my god-" she gasped rather dramatically as she elbowed one of the girls beside her.

Their eyes dropped down to the most easy to identify varsity jacket wrapped around your waist. Jay's jacket. And how he was still standing subtly behind you, brushing your back with his chest whenever you moved even slightly.

You wanted to melt into the floor.

"Hi guys..." You let out awkwardly, waving a bit as you slowed to a stop in front of them, everything suddenly coming to your attention—him, your cheeks, theirs eyes, his jacket.

He remained behind you, levelled like a wall, a quiet assurance behind you.

The excited squeal one of your friends were trying so openly to suppress. Juri was practically bouncing with excitement, mouthing something you didn't need to interpret to know you were going to glare at.

She winked. You glared. She's grinned even wider.

Traitor.

The rest of your friend group quickly caught on to whatever Juri was scheming and played along too well, saying something about being "suddenly so busy" and "oh no, we forgot we have that meeting" and "so sorry, can't join you guys" before waving and scattering in different directions, pretending to be more occupied than they clearly were.

You turned your head to them, deadpan. "Really?"

Juri winked again from behind her iced latte and skipped away.

Jay watched the whole thing with the kind of amused look that was just barely hidden—a small smirk tugging up at his lips as he leaned a little closer to you.

"So I guess we're alone now," he said casually, tone light.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "You can go find your friends or... practice. I mean, whatever you were supposed to be doing."

Jay shrugged. "I'd rather stay."

You looked up, prepared to protest again, but he was already talking.

"Keep the jacket. It's cute on you," he added nonchalantly, eyes flitting down, clearly taking in how it wrapped snugly around your hips. "Color looks good on you."

Your heart stuttered—an infuriating flutter you refused to admit was because of him.

"Jay," you said, half-informing, half-flustered.

He just chuckled softly. "Wanna join me for lunch then?"

You blinked, surprised. "What about your frie-"

"They'll live," he cut in with a slight grin, nodding toward the sidewalk just past the gates. "They can survive a day without me. I promise."

You hesitated, still gripping the strap of your bag in defiance. But... you were hungry. And your friends really did just ditch you.

And Jay... Jay wasn't being boisterous or cocky like he usually is, he was just... here. Present. Acting like you were a person, not a target. You didn't hate it.

He tilted his head at you, his voice softer this time. "My treat?"

You looked up at him, and bit the inside of your cheek before you sighed. "Fine."

"Fine?" He grinned, eyes bright. "I'll take it. Let's take you back to your dorm first to change?" Jay raised a brow to you, voice softer now, though you could see the teasing in his eyes.

You felt your breath hitch slightly—right, your skirt. You forgot the whole reason you were covered in his varsity jacket. Heat bloomed at the back of your neck as you quickly nodded. "Y-Yeah. Good idea."

He walked next to you in silence, while you led the way. He glanced your way occasionally, when you'd brush your hair behind your ear, or rub your eyes in tired frustration. You weren't used to this—him giving you this much attention.

When you both stepped into the elevator, the air felt thick, like it was charged with things unsaid. Jay didn't say too much either, he just shoved his hands into his sweats pockets and watched the numbers light up until you hit your floor.

You hesitated for a moment before unlocking your dorm door—not because you were scared, but because this was the first time you had ever let any guy inside. Any guy.

But Jay didn't just feel like any guy.

When the door creaked open, he slipped quietly past you. His eyes roamed the small room. It was not too feminine—just cozy, and filled with little details that screamed you.

The soft fairy lights, the half-empty mug on the desk, the pile of books on the chair, the diffuser softly puffing in the corner. Your whole room felt cozy and real, just his type.

He leaned back against the door frame while you set your bag down. "You can shower first if you want," he said casually, shrugging his jacket off his arms. "I'll wait."

You blinked. "Really? I don't wanna take too long..."

"You wouldn't. Go on. It's your priority first alright?" he stated reassuringly, taking a seat at the edge of your bed and already reaching for his phone to scroll until you got into the bathroom.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a big sigh. A sigh of relief but also a sigh of exhaustion from the day. You quickly took off your clothes and got under the water, allowing it to melt the tensions in your lower back and stomach. There was warmth spreading over your skin, the soft smell of your shampoo rising with the steam.

But halfway through drying yourself, your eyes grew wide with horror.

You forgot your clothes.

You clutched the towel tighter around yourself and creaked the door open just enough to peek in the room. Jay was splayed out on your bed; lazy, legs splayed open slightly, his phone sleeping on his chest while he took it all in. At the sound of the crack of your door, Jay's eyes shot up immediately.

"Jay..." you called softly, voice barely audible. "Can you... go to my wardrobe and pick something out for me?"

He blinked a few times; clearly taking in the sight of your bare legs and shoulders wrapped only in a towel. His throat bobbed as he quickly averted his eyes. "Y-Yeah. Sure. I can do that.."

He leapt out of the bed faster than expected and walked over to your closet like he was on a mission. His fingers traced along the hangers while he glanced along before grabbing what looked most interesting one—a soft little sundress and a cardigan.

He looked at it one second. Cute. Way too cute. He thought he was grabbing something easy to put on—not something that made it look like you were on a date.

...wait.

Is this a date now?

He invited you to lunch. He bought you coffee. He gave you his jacket. Was he serious about this? If so, did you see it that way?

His head cocked slightly as he brought the outfit to your hand peeking through the slit of the door. "Here," he said, clearing his throat. "I hope that's okay."

"Thanks," you mumbled, fingertips nudging together for a moment as you took your clothes back in the room and shut the door again.

Jay turned away, allowing for a little more privacy, walking over to the bed and flopping down onto it again, but now he really looked different. His hand was now behind his head, and he just stared up at the ceiling.

His heart felt weirdly calm and loudly beating at the same time.

This wasn't normal for him. But it didn't feel bad at all.

He didn't even care about the fact that he saw some girl in your department giving him a look as he walked into your dorm earlier. He was probably going to deal with a rumor or two by tomorrow, but honestly, let them think whatever they want. It doesn't mean anything unless you say something.

He wasn't a mess-around type of guy. Regardless of what he might be labeled as—confident, cocky, or a tad intimidating, Jay Park has always eventually been a careful chooser. Something about him sitting on your bed, in your space, waiting for you to get ready just to go out and eat, felt like the first time he wasn't choosing with his head.

Maybe you're his unexpected problem.

But maybe you were the only one he didn't mind having.

You emerged from the bathroom, newly clothed in the soft dress Jay had chosen for you, with the cardigan draping you comfortably around your body. You went straight to your vanity, pulling your hair as gently as you could to the side, and reaching for your cushion foundation. 

You didn't want to take too long; he was already being more patient than anyone had ever been with you, but you wanted to look nice.

Jay, still perched lazily at the edge of your bed, watched as you patted on the soft makeup. He tilted his head slightly, admiring the way your brows furrowed when you concentrated.

"You don't have to rush, you know," he said, "You're already pretty, but I get it. Take your time to look good good."

Once you were finished, he stood up, waiting as you grabbed your phone and lip balm, before walking out of your dorm.

The walk to the restaurant was... quiet in a comforting way. The kind of quiet where the air didn't feel heavy or awkward. Jay walked beside you, hands in his pockets, occasionally looking over at you—the way your cardigan sleeves nearly covered your hands, the way your hair bounced softly with every step.

You were beautiful. And he knew he was going to be in trouble.

As you passed through the parkway leading to the restaurant, an older couple walked past you two and the man looked at you with the woman before pausing to lean and give a warm smile. "What a cute couple you two make," the elderly gentleman remarked, nodding his head at Jay before giving you a wink.

You widened your eyes slightly and immediately shook your head. "Oh! No, no, we're not-" you nervously laughed, looking down to hide the growing redness in your ears.

Jay offered a polite nod and, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile coming across his face.

"Well," the elderly man said, his eyes twinkling, "you two would look really good together."

You didn't offer much response to that. But Jay didn't either.

When you arrived at the restaurant—a cute, warm little Japanese place, sandwiched between a couple of shops—he opened the door for you, and then, like it were second nature, he pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. It definitely caught you off guard. You couldn't say many guys did that anymore.

You quietly admired the atmospherics—dark wooden tables, warm light, jazz faintly playing in the background, and the menu was digital, and you scrolled through it quickly while Jay rested his chin on his hand, eyes flicking between you and the dishes.

You finally placed your order, and once the waiter walked away, Jay pulled his phone out to take a picture of the restaurant; you really didn't think much of it—until you noticed his camera stayed pointed a moment too long at you.

"Wait—h-hey!" you leaned forward, a little embarrassed.

He looked up, phone still in hand. "What?" he asked.

"You just took a picture of me."

"You're literally right in front of me. What do you want me to do?"

"Delete it."

"No."

Your mouth opened in protest, but he spoke first, "Don't worry, you look good."

You huffed and crossed your arms, slouching back in your chair. "What if your little fangirl group sees it and comes to murder me in my sleep? You never post girls," you said.

Jay hesitated for a moment, looking directly at you.

"Then I'll be there," he said gently, not teasing, not joking; just being honest. "To protect you."

You blinked.

"And besides," He tilted his head, lips curling into an all too familiar smug grin, "Are you sure you hate me?"

You stared at him, mouth opening but no words coming out—and he knew you couldn't deny how he'd been treating you. The jacket. The dorm. The lunch. The damn picture.

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed.

Jay had posted it—the picture of the restaurant with you slightly blurred in front. And he tagged you. He tagged you.

You looked up at him slowly.

His eyes were still on you—expectant.

"You're waiting for me to repost it," you mumbled under your breath.

Jay gave you a sly smile and leaned back in his seat. "Might as well. You look good. Let them know who I'm with."

Almost immediately after, his phone starts buzzing. Jungwon. Heeseung. Even Sunghoon. His group chat was blowing up with messages that said:

jungwon: finally

heeseung: no way is this real

jake: bro's in love

heeseung: WHO IS SHE

sunghoon: our boy got a girlfriend???

Jay just chuckled, locking his phone.

"Looks like they are freaking out already," he said casually, taking a sip of his water.

Jay was already laughing the minute you said, "My friends are freaking out too."

He leaned in a little more, resting his elbow on the table, as you flicked through the increasing number of likes and notifications about your post on your phone, scrolling nervously with your thumb.

You sat there scrolling through the notifications, and you were only halfway through it when you sighed and started writing back, one after another—

No, we're not dating.

It's just lunch lol.

Nooo he's just being nice.

But texts kept flooding in, from people you hardly spoke to.

And they didn't believe you; why should they? Not when Jay—the guy who has never been seen out like that with a girl—was now publicly posting on his Instagram, tagging you, feeding the two of you in public.

And not when the restaurant he picked was that cute, with it's oh-so-romantic lighting, and view, and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing he's there for.

Because to him, you were the pretty view. Not the food. Not the street-side sunset later.

You. Only you.

And then the drinks came, the sound of porcelain tea cups softly clinking in the calm space, Jay taking a small sip from one cup, and casually putting it back down, eyes flicking to your plate,  

then to you.

"You're checking mine out," he said.

Your head jerked up. "Wha—no I wasn't."

Jay smirked, grabbing his chopsticks to cut off a perfect bite-sized piece and holding it out to you. "Come on. Eat it."

You hesitated, caught by surprise, blinking as the food stayed in front of your lips. Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you leaned in and took the bite. He watched you chew with content.You had gone silent, now concentrating on your own plate, your cheeks warming up.

He reached for his phone.

"Can I film it again?" he asked. "You looked really cute when I fed you. I'll send it to you—post it if you want."

You stared at him for a beat. "I don't even look cute right now."

"You look perfect."

You tried not to react to that, biting the inside of your cheek before you gave in with a little eye roll. "Fine."

He fed you another bite while filming, a soft chuckle sound leaving his lips behind the camera as you blinked at him mid-bite, clearly shocked.

You looked at the video afterward and well, you liked it. It was oddly cute. Only you were in frame, the lighting soft and golden, the mood intimate.

So you posted it.

Your comments started pouring in. The caption was vague, but that didn't stop people from blowing up your DMs. Your friends were already in your group chat spamming heart emojis and yelling in all caps.

You set aside your phone again and went back to your food.

Jay was looking at you again, but this time he didn't say anything. He just smiled to himself.After lunch, he insisted on paying for lunch—no negotiation—and the two of you walked out into the late afternoon sun walking side by side down the cobbled streets of the city, past window displays and street vendors.

It felt like a date. An actual date.

You weren't sure you were ready to admit that yet.

But he could feel it. The way you hesitated when you were walking past a boutique, the way your shoulders brushed and you didn't pull away, the way your voice softened when you were talking to him. It was different now. You weren't the girl who hated him anymore.  

Eventually, you both reached your dorm, the sky dimming now with an early evening hue. He walked you all the way to the door without a question.

"This is the most fun I've had in a long time," Jay said, with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on the balls of his feet. His voice was softer now—a little shy, despite his confidence.

You studied him for a moment, your heart tugging at something you didn't dare name yet. "Me too," you said, a barely audible whisper.

Then, on gut instinct—uprising from your heart or just the heat of the moment—you tiptoed forward and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. You stepped back, your heart racing, your eyes wide, and your brain scrambling to process what you just did.

Jay stood frozen. Then, his head turned toward you, with a sparkle in his eye and a slow, self-satisfied smile emerging on his lips.

"Well, so much for hating me, huh?" he teased, raising an eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes and shrugged him lightly with embarrassment. "Shut up. It's just a thank you for taking me to an expensive lunch."

He chuckled. In his strange but Jay-like way, he reached out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "I guess I should take you to lunch more often then."

This time his voice was lower and there was a hint of seriousness.

"I'm not complaining," you said, and you couldn't help but smile.

That next morning everything felt loud.

The whispers, they were everywhere. You don't think you made it onto campus before you heard it-

"Is that the girl from Jay's post?"

"She's the one he fed right?"

"Ugh I can't believe how lucky she is. I didn't even think he liked girls like her."

The stares you got felt heavier than your backpack. You keep walking, brushing your fingers back through your hair like you didn't care, until your best friend Juri comes sprinting toward you with the loudest gasp.

"You. You kissed him!"

"What- I didn't-"

You blinked fast and took a stumbling step back.

"Okay maybe not you, but you two went to lunch?! Girl come on." she whined, pulling your arm through hers. "And don't you try downplaying it. I seen the story. We all seen the story."

You rolled your eyes. "It was just food."

"Yeah, a food date, with Park Jongseong, that fed you and tagged you and now half the girls on campus wanna burn you at the stake."

You sighed, face heating up as your friend group giggled and teased all the way to the lecture hall. When you stepped inside alone, the buzzing died down just a bit. Not because people weren't talking—they were. But because you were suddenly all too aware of your seat.

Beside Jay.

He was leaning in toward Jungwon, laughing about something when you sat down, catching your presence from the corner of his eye. He turned immediately, smile tugging at his lips.

Jungwon, of course, caught on fast.

"Your girl's here," he snorted, stretching in your direction.  

"Shut up," you muttered, slumping in your seat.

Jay just chuckled.

Class started and you attempted to focus, but it was hot. Way too hot. Second day of your period and it hit you harder than yesterday. The cramps were intense, like someone had clamped a fist in your stomach. You winced slightly leaning your elbow on the desk, annoyed at the heat slowly rising through your body in discomfort.

Jay saw.

Without saying a word, he reached into his bag and pulled out a thermal bottle. He nudged it toward your desk.

You stared at it and then looked up at him, confused.

"It's warm ginger tea... my mom said that it helps with cramps." he whispered.

You blinked. "You made it for me?"

He shrugged and looked back down at his notes. "Thought it might help."

You took the bottle, suddenly at a loss for words.

After class, you walked next to him again. The two of you seemed to slide into a quiet rhythm of walking next to each other without saying a word. Jungwon was behind you humming something rhythmic under his breath, but then he abruptly stopped and said bye.

Jay's hand brushed against yours before he gently laced your fingers together.

You didn't pull away.

Outside, your friends awaited again, sprawled at the steps, but so did those girls. The ones who looked at you like you'd sinned just by being next to him. Popular. Perfect. Pretty.

Jay noticed the way your mood shifted, how your smile faded just slightly. And maybe he could've ignored it, or reassured you with words.

But that wasn't his style. Instead he leaned down and kissed you loud on the cheek.

You squeaked a bit, trying to pull away.

"Jay, what the hell are you doing-"

The sound of his mouth making smacking noises on your cheek over and over filled the breeze, making your friends go wide-eyed as you turned a darker shade of red. Your nose crunched, eyes scrunched shut as you half-laughed, half tried to squirm away without offending him.

"You're so annoying-!"

"And you're so cute." he grinned.

You turned your head, wanting to say something but miscalculated.

Your lips met.

His lips were warm and sweet, just enough to make the girls eyes widened from afar. 

Jay blinked, in shock, pulling away a little, and then, "...fuck it."

He kissed you again, this time intentionally. Longer. He was more sure this time around. Your friends behind you screamed. Someone definitely started recording. The girls who were shooting daggers at you are completely shaken. And you?

You couldn't move, your lips tingling, breath knocked out of your body.

Jay pulled away slowly, his lips barely brushing against your own, and soft and low enough that only you would actually hear him say, "Now you really can't say you hate me."

[jarofstyles]

Picture blurb timeeeee. Low key a little sugar-daddy ish because someone sent an ask a little bit ago asking about it so I thought I’d find my way into the dynamic a little.

Check out our Patreon for 300+ exclusive writings and series (sign up on your browser to save money!)

Warnings- daddy kink (it’s been a whole), power imbalance (boss x assistant),

“You really want to assist me?”

Sitting with his palm laid on his thigh, the other holding the glass of whisky, Y/N looked up at him from across his desk. The chair was pushed back and away from the expensive, dark stained oak he spent most of his days behind. It was late in the office and Y/N had just helped him finish the last of his emails that had been backed up, but it hadn’t been lost on her that he’d been a bit spacey the whole time.

“Hm?” She looked up at him with rounded eyes from the pile of papers she was trying to clean up on his desk.

“Said, do you really want to assist me?”

Y/N knew that tone of voice. The one that made her quiver, her knees shake. The tone he took on when he wanted her in ways that HR would have a medical emergency over.

“Of course I do, Sir.” Her voice was airy as she stood up straighter, clasping her hands in front of her neatly.

He’d trained her well.

“Of course you do.” He echoed her words with a husky chuckle, placing the glass down on the striped coaster Y/N had crocheted him. “Come t’me. You know where I want you.”

He wasn’t playing around today. There was no hiding it, the hands moving to the arms of his chair as he waited for her to sit on his lap. Apparently, the first attempt wasn’t correct.

“Ah- no. Other way.” He murmured, watching her turn around so she was truly on him now. His chest against her back as he lifted his hands to adjust her the way he liked it. “There. Knew you could listen. You always do a good job for me, don’t you Sweets?”

“I try my best, Sir.”

“Y/N.” He mumbled, brushing the hair away from her neck. “You know what t’call me when we’re doing this.”

“S-Sorry. I try my best, Daddy.” Her voice wavered not because of uncertainty- it was excitement. Giddiness. They hadn’t done this nearly all week. Hadn’t touched like this because they’d been truly busy doing the job they both came her for, and Harry had obviously been stressed.

“That’s my girl. You know how much I like that.” His nose brushed over her sensitive skin, down her neck as he placed a wet kiss to the curve of it where it met her shoulder. “You’ve always had a knack for knowing how t’please me. I’m so lucky.”

Y/N preened at the compliment, leaning back against him as she let some of the tension from the day melt away from her. Harry took care of her. He always took such good care of her, made her feel good, made her feel healthy and happy, and she wanted more. Greedy wasn’t her usually feeling, but he’d not even kissed her in the last two days and it felt like she was finally getting a fix. “I like making your life easier. Making you happy.” She replied, a shuddery breath leaving her as his hands ran over her thighs.

The skirt she wore had ridden up, but that wasn’t a problem. That was exactly what the man wanted.

“And you do. Such sweet little thing. You help me work, you help me relax, you help me thrive. You, my sweet angel… have done everything I’ve ever needed. And that’s why you’re mine.” He’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t share, and he had no interest in anything or anyone else. It had seemed too good to be true at first given what she’d heard of his prior activities but it was true.

Given the fact she made his calendar, she knew it would be near impossible for him to do regardless.

“I’ve been going crazy all week. Don’t like it when we don’t get to have our time alone together.” He sighed, sliding his slightly cool hand up her skirt. There was no hesitation, no question about it as he teased the hem of her panties, feeling her squirm just a little. Knuckles brushed back and forth over the edge, a happy sound leaving his lips as he felt her tense just the slightest bit at the close proximity to where she wanted him the most. “I know you have been too. S’not fun to be too busy to give you my cock.”

As much as he obviously enjoyed work, the place she saw him happiest was when she woke him up with her mouth on his cock, taking him down the way he liked.

“I do miss it.” She replied, swallowing the moan she wanted to let out as he nudged his hand fully between her thighs to cup over her cunt. There was no doubt he could feel the damp fabric, the way her clit was most definitely pulsing now. Holding it like he owned it, owned her- and he did. Y/N would hand over every inch happily if it meant she got to be his. She had been his since the first time he’d lifted his eyes and asked her to get him a coffee. “I miss when we can’t be close.”

“God, you’re fucking sweet.” He shook his head in disbelief, his free hand curling over her breast. It seemed he truly didn’t get how he had her devotion at times, but it was easy. For as prickly as he was, he treated her right. After a string of awful circumstances when it came to dating, he managed to blow them all out of the water. “I’ve had half a mind to bend you over every time you entered the office. To get you under the desk and suck. But we were too busy. I think that we’re going to take a break.”

A break? That had her curious.

“What do you mean, Daddy?” She turned her face to look at him, smiling slightly when he nudged his nose against hers.

She loved when he smiled back at her. His dimples. His teeth. The way his eyes softened just for her. It wasn’t often she got them, but she was seemingly the only one who did.

“I think that I need an entire week t’have you all to myself. I don’t want anyone interrupting. I don’t want phone calls. I just want you.” Harry’s fingers tugged the panties to the side, the little mewl she let out when his thumb slipped over her clit making him hum. It had swelled, hot and slick underneath his fingertip as he played with her pearl. Just how he preferred. “We’re going to Italy. The coast. Rented a pretty pink boat for us, because I know you’d love it.” It had taken him a bit to find a pink boat that would fit his needs, but he’d done it for her. He’d buy it at the end if that’s what she wanted. “Going to have you as much as I want, as much as you want.”

A getaway wasn’t something she’d done with him. It was something he mentioned in passing but the actual plans had her giddy. “Really?” Her words were breathless as his other finger slipped into her cunt, making her squirm. “We’re gonna… we’re going?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, connecting their lips in a chaste kiss. “We’re leaving here, going to let you pack a bag, and we’re taking my plane. You’re going to sleep with my cock tucked up into you, and by the time you wake up we’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” She grinned widely at him, only letting it fall as he curled his finger the way she liked. “I-I’ll make you so happy. I promise.” The concept of spending all that time with him alone was a reward in itself. A man who never took a real day off going off the grid to a yacht he booked because she liked the color of? It was far more than she’d expected.

“And I’ll make you happier, darling. Just wait n’see.”

[jimmyvalmerenthusiast]

Hanks- Painting your nails after them

a/n; me and my bf, who's just as obsessed with DE like me, were brainstorming headcanon ideas for the hanks for funsies and I really liked this prompt so here's a drabble. pre realization and kind of mutual pining. reader is gn. tried to keep it in character as best as I could, haven't been able to play recently because of work 💔

Out of boredom, you’re constantly painting your nails and toenails new colors. Smiling to yourself as you finish off your pinky finger and closing the polish, you hold out your hands to admire your work. You were proud of how well you've gotten at painting your own nails even when using your non-dominant hand plus with some help from Barry which was much needed at the beginning. 

You beamed at your color choice and couldn’t help but simply giggle to yourself, the colors this week you had decided were going to be based off the Hanks, your favorite adrenaline junkies. Admittedly you caught yourself falling hard for the group of handsome men who always so energetically invited you to join their adventures, and you couldn’t ever say no to them.

So you thought painting your nails the colors of their signature jumpsuits might be a good start to showing your romantic interests. Once they fully dried, you hopped up off the floor of your workout room, slid on the dateviators and made your way to your closet. You aimed your glasses at the hangers and next all you heard was:

“HOUSE HOMIE!”

And there they were, as handsome and energetic as ever.

“YOU’RE BACK!”

They cheer, giant smiles on their faces as usual. The sight of them and their smiles brought you warmth to your heart and made it impossible to not greet them in the same manner.

“DUH! I’d be crazy to not come see my favorite dudes!”

You returned with a smile like theirs.Your words and expression allowed soft blushes to creep up on The Hanks’ faces; rendering them speechless for a minute. But only for a short minute.

“Hell yeah homie! That's awesome to hear!”

Four cheered with a toothy grin

“So what’s up homie? We don’t have any adventures planned today, recovery day y’know!”

One asked, the others questioned the same thing. You fiddled with your fingers nervously as you held your hands behind your back, surprised they hadn’t already asked why your hands were behind your back.

“I just wanted to show you guys something I did!”

You spoke, bouncing on your toes out of nervousness and giddiness.

“We could also be something you do, gorgeous.” 

Three flirted, sending you a wink with a bright red blush on his freckled face. His flirtation caused your face to flush red and you to stammer over your words a bit before you cleared your throat.

“Anyway, look at my nails! I painted them!”

You outstretch your hands towards them showing off your colored nails with your palms facing you

“That’s dope homie! But uh what’s so exciting about it?”

Two questioned as he tilted his head to supposedly get another angle of your nails. You only giggled at his question before speaking.

“Do the colors not look familiar? Look a bit closer dudes”

You snickered as they lowered themselves to look closer at your hands.There was a good couple minutes of silence before

“Oh. U-Um, That's..wow."

That as well as some nervous laughter was all that was heard from Hank 5. Seems like he made the connection first, a bright pink blush settled on his face.

“Dude, what does it mean?! Tell us!”

The other four echoed, desperate for an answer. You made eye contact with Hank 5, who usually seemed quite put together was too flustered to say anything, and simply smiled warmly at him before answering their question. 

“I painted them the main color of your suits! I thought it’d be a cute way to think about my favorite guys when they're not around.”

You say, a bright smile coming to your face as you lower your arms back down to your sides. You grin at the sight of the bright blushes and dropped jaws coming to the Hanks’ faces, how you adored these gorgeous himbos.

“Alright, I’m off now! Later homies!”

You cheer as you wave goodbye and make your way elsewhere, probably to geek out to Skylar. What you didn’t see were the bright smiles and love struck looks on the Hanks’ faces. This interaction helped confirm what they knew they really wanted. You.

[cheftsunoda]

Hi how are you feeling poly queen??? So i have a pretty weird request but just hear me out jenson button x reader x george, charles, max or alex (or any driver you think it could work tbh) So reader and this other driver have been dating for years and they both have a huge crush on jenson so they tend to flirt with him all the time and it’s quite funny to see for the others drivers bc they’re super obvious. Anyway in the end the three of them end up together and the fans kinda freak out bc they’re iconic but also can’t believe how the driver and reader bagged jenson by being silly and flirty all the time. Bonus points if reader is the sister of a driver from the same generation as jenson and has no idea her sister is flirting with him.

Obviously you don’t have to write it if you’re not confortable but i thought it was funny 😂

Love u 🫶🏻

the jenson button effect — jb22 + aa23

smau + blurbs

jenson button x !driver vettel reader x alex albon

being sebastian vettel’s little sister came with pressure — but you handled it. fast, fearless, and already a fan favorite. dating alex albon? just a bonus. the two of you were chaotic, competitive, and head over heels.

but then there was jenson button.

it started as a bit — harmless flirting with a world champion. until he flirted back. now, somehow, it’s not just a joke anymore. it becomes real. and very, very public. fans are losing it. the grid is confused. seb is… coping.

and you? you’re in a throuple with your boyfriend and your shared crush. life comes at you fast — but apparently, love does too.

fc : lissie mackintosh, lily muni he and abbi pulling

(a/n) : i JUMPED on this request bc i've been dying to write about alex again and ive always been a whore for jenson. like GOD DAMN. and sorry for the inactivity the last few days- my doctor advised to stop taking my bc and let my period happen and it has been absolute HELL for me. but hope that you all are well and that you enjoy this!! love youuu

danica slander will be included ur welcome

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando and 1,800,700 others.

f1gossipgirls : Quali day chaos? 👀 YN Vettel and Alex Albon spotted arriving together — all smiles and matching helmets in hand — while both Sebastian Vettel and Jenson Button are in the paddock today. Fans already bracing themselves for another round of their iconic “flirt with Jenson on live TV” game. Will today be the day they finally take it too far? 👀

—

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lando : if they get him before i do i’m starting beef

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↳ username005 : LANDO AJSJSJSJ

username000 : can’t lie if my bf was hot AND willing to co flirt with jenson button? i’d marry him on the spot

username17 : seb is 100% in the garage praying no one flirts with his sister on national television again 😭

username55 : “they’re just friends” then explain why alex looks at jenson like that 😭😭

username75 : i want whatever spell they’re casting on that old man.

↳ yn_vettel : he isn’t old. he is beekeeping age.

liked by f1gossipgirls and alex_albon

↳ f1gossipgirls : yn💀💀

username001 : if there is not an alex, yn, jenson interview this weekend i will RIOT. give me what i want pls

—

The Alpine garage was buzzing, as usual, with engineers murmuring over tire strategy and last minute tweaks. You were leaning over your steering wheel, going through radio checks, when you heard two familiar voices approaching.

“Is it too late to trade her out?” Sebastian’s voice, dry as ever.

You grinned before even turning around. “If you want Alpine to win, I suggest I stay,” you called back, standing up just as your brother came into view — dressed casually, arms crossed, the proud big brother aura dialed up to eleven.

Behind him was Jenson, looking annoyingly perfect in a crisp white button down and that smug, sunshine smile that always made your brain short circuit for just a second too long.

“Hope we’re not throwing off your focus,” Jenson said, walking over. “Seb insisted we stop by, but I told him you’re probably too busy winning to entertain old men like us.”

You laughed as you stood. “Old men don’t usually look that smug,” you teased, giving him a quick hug. It was soft, familiar — but there was an unmistakable spark under it, the kind of chemistry you and Alex had been very bad at hiding whenever Jenson was around.

Sebastian eyed the hug, then you. “Still not sure I approve of him hanging around,” he muttered. “He’s far too charming.”

Before you could respond, Pierre strolled past, towel slung over his shoulder and a bottle of water in hand. He paused just long enough to glance at Jenson, then at you.

“Ah,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Two retired world champions here to wish YN luck? Must be serious.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s called support, Pierre.”

“Mhm. Support. Is that what we’re calling it now?” His grin widened. “Should I warn Alex, or is he in on the plan?”

Seb groaned. “You see what I mean? This is exactly why I didn’t want her hanging around you people.”

Jenson chuckled, unbothered. “I can’t help it if I’m popular with the next generation.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll need a helmet,” Sebastian warned, but even he couldn’t hide the soft look in his eyes when he turned back to you.

You just shook your head, cheeks warm, heart full. Because despite the teasing and the tension, it meant the world having your brother here — and maybe, just maybe, having Jenson standing beside him too.

—

The sun was still blazing over the paddock as the top qualifiers made their way through the media pen. Reporters buzzed like flies, camera lenses tracking every exhausted smile and sweat slicked brow. You had just finished spraying water down the back of your neck when you heard your name.

“YN Vettel, P3 today for Alpine — a phenomenal lap at the end of Q3. We’re here with you, Alex Albon in P5, and—” the interviewer turned, clearly trying not to grin— “the ever observant Jenson Button. Quite the lineup.”

You grinned as you stepped into frame, Alex following close behind, towel slung around his shoulders and looking way too relaxed.

Jenson, already holding the mic, smiled as you both approached. “This feels unfair. I’m outnumbered.”

Alex smirked, leaning in just enough to bump your shoulder. “You love it.”

“Do I?” Jenson teased, eyes flicking briefly toward you — and for a second, it felt like the cameras vanished.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Come on, Jenson. You’ve been interviewing us all season. Surely by now you know we’re harmless.”

He arched a brow. “You flirted with me mid interview in Barcelona.”

“And you blushed and stuttered,” Alex added helpfully, already grinning.

Jenson cleared his throat, very professionally. “Moving on.”

The other reporter laughed nervously off camera, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Alright, alright. YN — first, congratulations on P3. That final sector was incredible. Talk us through it.”

You nodded, shifting into a more serious tone — but only just. “Honestly, I knew I had time to gain in Sector 3, and the car felt really planted today. I pushed a little more than I should’ve, but I could hear Seb in my head going ‘commit or box,’ so I just sent it.”

Alex chimed in. “She was glowing in the garage. Literally glowing. I think Jenson might’ve clapped.”

“I did clap,” Jenson admitted, deadpan. “Quietly. To myself.”

You looked at him, smirking. “Touched, truly.”

“P5 for you, Alex,” Jenson said quickly, trying to steer the interview back on track. “Great result for Williams — you looked really hooked up in Q2 especially.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, I’m happy with the lap. I probably could’ve squeezed another tenth, but thinking about YN distracted me. So.”

You snorted. “That’s on you, not me.”

Jenson blinked. “Are you two always like this?”

“Only when you’re around,” you both said in unison.

The cameraman audibly laughed behind the lens.

Just then, Lando walked by, sweaty, hair a mess, clearly having just wrapped his own interview. He slowed as he passed the group, gave all three of you a once over, and sighed loudly.

“Oh god. They’ve got Jenson again.”

You turned to him, beaming. “Do you want to join?”

Lando didn’t break stride. “No thanks, I’d rather not third wheel a live throuple audition.”

“Rude,” Alex called after him.

Jenson, surprisingly, looked… flustered. He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “For the record, I’m just trying to do my job.”

You leaned in slightly. “And you’re doing it so well.”

The interviewer had completely given up on keeping the conversation on track. “Right. Well, we’ll let you all get back to debriefs, but congrats again — and maybe next time we’ll see the two of you on a podium?”

Alex winked and grabbed your hand.  “Don’t tempt us.”

Jenson muttered under his breath. “They’re going to be the death of me.”

You winked at him. “But what a way to go.”

—

The champagne was still drying on your race suit as you walked through the paddock — hair damp, cheeks flushed, hands still shaking from the adrenaline of your first P1 of the season. You couldn’t stop smiling.

Alex had been the first to hug you when you jumped out of the car, lifting you off your feet like you weighed nothing. He was soaked in sweat, but neither of you cared. P1 and P3 for the two of you? This wasn’t just a podium — it was a moment.

And then, as if the universe knew exactly what it was doing, you spotted him. Jenson.

Standing at the edge of the media pen, mic in hand, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of sun kissed skin, and a grin that was already forming the moment your eyes met his.

“Here she is,” he said, stepping forward as the crew waved you toward him. “The woman of the hour.”

You gave him a breathless laugh, still buzzing. “If you start the interview with ‘how does it feel,’ I swear I’m walking away.”

He chuckled, and god, it did something dangerous to your chest.

“Alright then,” Jenson said, shifting his weight, eyes gleaming. “Let’s try something new. YN Vettel — first place, flawless drive, your boyfriend in P3, your brother somewhere in the paddock losing his mind — how in the world are you still standing?”

You shook your head, half in disbelief. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been dreaming about this day since I was like… eleven. It always felt like it would happen eventually, but now that it has, I just—” You stopped yourself, overwhelmed for a moment. “I feel like I’m going to cry or explode. Possibly both.”

Jenson’s voice softened. “You’ve earned it. Every bit of it.”

And for a second, it wasn’t an interview. It was him and you, sharing something unspoken.

Then Alex appeared behind you, practically skipping into frame. “Did she cry yet?” he asked, already grinning.

“No,” you groaned, rolling your eyes as he slung an arm over your shoulder. “But you’re about to make me.”

Alex beamed. “Perfect. That’s my job.”

Jenson laughed, mic moving to him. “P3 for you today, Alex — a huge result for Williams. Big points on the board. How’s the energy after that?”

“I’m riding high,” Alex said. “But mostly because I knew if I wasn’t on the podium with her, she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“She’s already lording it over you, isn’t she?” Jenson teased.

Alex leaned in like he was whispering a secret. “You should’ve heard her on the cooldown lap. Called herself ‘the fastest on the grid.’ I think she’s getting cocky.”

You elbowed him, laughing. “You love it.”

“I do,” he said easily. “But if the cockiness persists, we might need to take you down a peg.” 

Jenson looked between the two of you — soaked in champagne, adrenaline, and something softer. There was a fondness in his eyes that went deeper than usual. And when his gaze lingered on you, just a beat too long, you felt it like a pulse under your skin.

The interviewer from the side cleared her throat, gesturing to wrap. But Jenson hesitated.

“One last question,” he said, eyes still on you. “What would you say to the little girl who watched her brother win world titles and wondered if she’d ever get a moment like this?”

You froze. It hit you right in the chest.

You blinked quickly, smiled — small and real. “I’d say… hold on. Your time’s coming. And when it does, don’t be afraid to enjoy the hell out of it.”

Jenson nodded, just once. “That’s beautiful.”

Alex gave your shoulder a squeeze, his voice lower now. “You okay?”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. I’m really good.”

Jenson stepped back, giving the mic to the crew, but before he walked off, he leaned in and said softly, just for you. “You were magic today.”

Your heart flipped. You didn’t reply. Just smiled — all warmth and adrenaline and affection you weren’t quite ready to name. But you knew. He did too. And maybe the whole world watching had started to suspect… that something was happening here. Something real.

—

yn_vettel

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yn_vettel : weekend dumpppppppp

tagged : alex_albon and carmenmmundt

—

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lando : we didn't need the meme. we know you're into him

↳ alex_albon : HEY. be nice. she made that meme.

↳ yn_vettel : artistic expression 💅 purrrrr

↳ jensonbutton : should i be flattered?

↳ pierregasly : flattered? mate you’re being hunted

↳ lando : blink twice if you need help

↳ alex_albon : HE IS FINE. he called us endearing last week.

↳ jensonbutton : i did. and i meant it. still do.

↳ charles_leclerc : i support whatever this is, but i fear for seb

↳ sebastianvettel : do not drag me into this.

↳ yn_vettel : too late old man

↳ sebastianvettel : last i checked...he is older than me and much older than you

↳ yn_vettel : yeah but he is like dilf status

↳ sebastianvettel : i am logging off for life.

carmenmmundt : love you beautiful and congrats on the win!!

liked by yn_vettel

↳ yn_vettel : love you forever! ty carms

pierregasly : caption should’ve been “me, my man, and the man we’re trying to steal”

↳ yn_vettel : GOODNIGHT PIERRE. GO TO BED

↳ alex_albon : wait wait let him cook. im stealing that

alpinef1team : our race winner!! 🩷💙

liked by yn_vettel

alex_albon : room service burgers after a podium 11/10

liked by yn_vettel

↳ yn_vettel : even better when the front desk has your card so you paid for everything i ordered

liked by alex_albon

—

skysportsf1

(this pic of albono 🫦) (srry)

liked by lando, pierregasly and 3,740,007 others.

skysportsf1 : What happens when you put a world champion, his biggest fans, and one very fast kart track together? 👀🏁

We sent YN Vettel, Alex Albon, and Jenson Button out for a little “friendly” competition — and let’s just say, it got a little competitive, a lot chaotic… and maybe even a bit flirty. 😅 Video out now on our YouTube!

—

view 75,000 other comments.

username000 : this is NOT journalism. this is matchmaking and i support it

username7 : jenson was trying so hard to be professional and then yn winked at him and he spun out 😭😭😭

lando : if i flirt with jenson will i get invited next time??

↳ jensonbutton : try me

↳ lando : OH

↳ lando : the jenson button effect is real.

username77 : can someone check on seb. he’s probably stress-building a bee sanctuary right now

username15 : alex and yn when jenson takes the lead: 😍 alex and yn when each other takes the lead: 😈 jenson the whole time: 😳

pierregasly : me pretending i’m not watching this for the sexual tension

↳ yukitsunoda0511 : NO SPOILERS!! im only 5 mins in

olliebearman : can we get an edit of all three of them just giggling and making accidental heart eyes??? for scientific reasons

↳ yn_vettel : its your bedtime rookie (someone pls do it)

—

“Just a lighthearted karting video,” the Sky Sports producer said.

“Casual, friendly, no one trying too hard,” the cameraman added.

You and Alex exchanged one look. You were already zipping up your suit, helmet tucked under your arm, while Alex leaned against the pit wall in his signature half zipped chaos. Jenson Button, calm and dangerously charming in a branded polo and race boots he probably hadn’t worn in five years, watched the two of you with the calm patience of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was about to walk into. Or maybe he did — and that’s why he smiled like that.

“We’re going to be so well behaved,” you said, batting your lashes.

“Model citizens,” Alex added.

Jenson raised a brow. “Is that before or after you run each other off the track?”

“Before,” you and Alex replied in sync.

The producer sighed. Jenson took the mic. “We’re here at the track today with YN Vettel and Alex Albon—two incredibly fast, slightly chaotic, definitely competitive Formula One drivers. We’re going to settle the age-old question, who’s the best behind the wheel when the car has no downforce, no radio, and no team principal yelling at them?”

You cut in, smiling sweetly. “Spoiler alert… it’s not you.”

Alex gasped. “Have some respect. He’s a world champion.”

You shrugged. “So’s my brother.”

Jenson looked at you with a half smirk. “Is that why you keep flirting with me? To complete the set?”

Alex doubled over. “OH MY GOD.”

You bit your lip. “If you’re scared, just say that.”

The producer, somewhere in the background, whispered, “We’ll never be able to air this.”

They gave you all a rolling start, pretending like it would be calm. You all pretended right back. First lap was smooth. Waving at the camera, laughing, easy.

Second lap, you dove down the inside of Alex in Turn 3, yelled “BYE!” through your helmet mic, and took the lead. He chased you for two corners before Jenson casually passed you both with textbook precision and a wave that made your blood boil in the flirtiest way possible.

“Oh, he’s gonna be insufferable,” you muttered.

“You say that like he isn’t already,” Alex replied, laughing.

Two laps later, you and Alex nearly collided going side by side through a hairpin. Jenson watched it unfold from ahead and muttered, “Children,” like a dad watching his toddlers fight over an iPad.

You pulled into the pits for a water break and immediately shoved your helmet off.

“That was a dangerous overtake,” Jenson said as you yanked your hair out of your bun.

You smirked. “You liked it.”

He blinked. “I—well, it was… bold.”

Alex walked up behind you, also helmetless, dripping sweat. “She drives like she flirts. No mercy.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked.

“Yes,” both Jenson and Alex said in unison.

The producer audibly choked.

One lap. No rules. Winner picks dinner.

You, Alex, and Jenson lined up side by side, all grinning like devils.

This time it was war.

Alex tried to divebomb you into Turn 1, but you held him off and ran wide. Jenson squeezed between both of you. All three of you nearly spun. You took the lead in the final sector, Jenson right on your tail, and crossed the line with your fist in the air.

Alex came third, laughing so hard he could barely see. Jenson pulled up beside you and took off his helmet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

“You cheated,” he said breathlessly.

“I flirted,” you corrected.

“Same thing,” he muttered, grinning.

Back in casual clothes, still sweating and laughing, the three of you stood in front of the camera as Jenson tried to read the outro off the prompter.

“Well, that was karting with—honestly, I don’t know what just happened. I’ve been emotionally bullied and overtaken repeatedly.”

“Sounds like love,” Alex said.

You shrugged. “We warned you.”

Jenson looked at you, then Alex, then straight into the camera. “This was supposed to be a friendly video. Instead, I’m now in therapy.”

“Group therapy,” you added, slipping your hand into Alex’s.

Alex nodded. “He’ll learn to like it.”

—

The sun was low now, casting golden light across the track as crew members packed up gear and cables. The shoot was technically over — mics off, cameras down, producer exhaling into his headset like he’d just survived a hostage situation.

You were sitting on the edge of the pit wall, still in your race suit but with the top half tied around your waist, hair messy and damp from your helmet. Alex stood beside you, sipping a water bottle and trying to catch his breath. You could still feel the ache in your cheeks from laughing too much.

Jenson approached, casually — too casually, for someone who just spent the last hour pretending not to be flustered every time you or Alex so much as looked at him.

“I think I’m traumatized,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Alex grinned. “You loved it.”

“I did,” he admitted. “In a very ‘what have I gotten myself into’ kind of way.”

You tilted your head. “Regret joining us?”

Jenson laughed, shaking his head. “Not even a little. In fact…” He paused, just long enough to make your heart skip. “I was thinking—since YN technically won—and Alex didn't flip me off too many times… maybe the three of us should do dinner?”

You blinked. Alex did too.

“Oh,” you said finally, the smallest smile curling at your lips. “You’re asking us out?”

Jenson shrugged, still smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes now — the kind that made it clear he’d been thinking about this all day. “You’re both very hard to say no to.”

Alex glanced at you. “Well. She did win. Guess that makes her in charge.”

You pretended to think. “Hmm. Okay. But I get to pick the place. And we’re getting dessert first.”

Jenson laughed. “Deal.”

Alex bumped your shoulder. “Make him pay.”

You smirked at Jenson. “You’re paying.”

He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare argue with the reigning karting champion.”

And just like that, the tension that had danced around the three of you all day finally settled into something warm and comfortable. The flirting wasn’t just a joke anymore. Not just a game.

You hopped down from the pit wall, grabbing your water bottle and walking between them with the cocky little grin that had wrecked Jenson back on lap three.

“Come on, gentlemen,” you said over your shoulder. “I’m starving. And I earned it.”

Alex followed with a laugh. Jenson, after a brief moment of stunned silence, did too. And the camera crew, still quietly packing up, caught the three of you walking off together — laughing, bickering, undeniably something.

—

The hostess led the three of you through the dimly lit restaurant with all the grace of someone who had definitely clocked the trio immediately. You, Alex, and Jenson—still slightly sun-kissed from the day on track, still dressed just nice enough to make people wonder, “Is this… a thing?”

You were wearing a black dress that walked the line between elegant and unhinged, Alex in a linen button-down he probably borrowed from George, and Jenson in the most offensively perfect navy suit with his top two buttons undone like a threat.

The second you sat down, Alex leaned across the table, stage whispering, “This is absolutely a date.”

“I’m not arguing,” you replied, flicking your menu open.

Jenson cleared his throat. “It’s just dinner.”

You raised a brow. “At a place with mood lighting and a violinist.”

“There’s literally a candle,” Alex added, pointing.

Jenson glanced at the flickering tea light in the center of the table and muttered, “They seated us in the romance zone, didn’t they?”

“Oh, 100%,” you and Alex said in sync.

The waitress appeared with menus and a very knowing smile. “Can I start you with drinks?”

“Red,” you said immediately. “Something that tastes expensive.”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Jenson added.

“Same,” Alex said. “We’ll let the dangerous woman choose everything.”

You smiled, tilting your head sweetly. “You finally get it.”

—

Alex was halfway through a story about Carlos crashing a scooter in the middle of Milan when you caught Jenson watching you over the rim of his glass.

Not in a creepy way. In a softly overwhelmed, I might actually be in trouble kind of way.

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” you asked.

He blinked, clearly caught. “Nothing. You’re just—different off-track.”

Alex snorted. “No, she’s not. She just hides the chaos better in a helmet.”

You nudged Alex under the table. “You’re supposed to make me sound mysterious.”

“I’ve known you too long to lie that well.”

Jenson laughed, loosening the collar of his shirt just slightly. “You’re both special…slightly dangerous for me.”

“Flattered,” you said. “Terrified?”

“Little bit,” he admitted, sipping his wine.

—

You were telling a story about nearly taking out Alex during karting when the waitress returned with dessert menus. She set them down and said, “You three are adorable, by the way.”

You froze. Alex choked on his water.

Jenson blinked. “Pardon?”

She smiled innocently. “Just saying. Very cute energy. Enjoy your night!” and then vanished like a ghost.

You looked at Alex, then Jenson. “We just got externally soft launched.”

Alex whispered, “The prophecy is fulfilling itself.”

Jenson put his head in his hands. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you said. “Also, I’m ordering three desserts. One for each of us. No arguing.”

Alex raised a glass. “To throuple core.”

“To Jenson surviving this,” you added.

Jenson groaned, but he was smiling — pink-cheeked and glowing in the candlelight like he was absolutely okay with this chaos happening to him.

And when the desserts came — tiramisu, crème brûlée, and some ridiculous molten lava cake — you all leaned in with spoons and giggles and bites stolen from each other’s plates like it had been this way forever.

Somewhere across the room, someone definitely took a photo.

You didn’t care. 

After you all finished, Alex offered to call the car. Jenson politely declined.

You? You just walked in the middle — hands brushing against both of theirs, warm from wine and laughter and whatever this was becoming.

“You know,” Jenson said as you stepped out into the night air, “I still don’t quite know what this is.”

You turned to him, grinning.

“It’s dinner,” you said, “and maybe the start of something really fun.”

Alex nodded. “And if it gets messy?”

You smirked. “Then we’ll just race again. Winner makes the rules.”

Jenson laughed. And he didn’t say it out loud, but god help him — he hoped you won.

—

You wake up to the sound of Alex snoring lightly, his cheek smooshed against the pillow and his hair sticking up. The curtains are still mostly drawn, only the softest morning light leaking in, and everything is quiet — the kind of stillness that only exists in hotel rooms after a late night filled with too much wine, too many inside jokes, and far too much flirting.

You roll over, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body protests any movement at all. You’re still in last night’s clothes, sort of. Alex is curled up next to you, shirtless, one arm thrown across your waist like he’d decided, mid dream, that you were his human sized body pillow.

“Al,” you murmur, poking his side. “Alex. Wake up. We need coffee and possibly medical attention.”

He groans. “No. I’m in mourning.”

You blink at him. “For what?”

“My dignity,” he says dramatically, eyes still closed. “I let Jenson Button flirt with you the entire night and I thanked him for the wine. I think I might be in love with both of you.”

You snort, flopping back down. “At least he paid.”

There’s a knock at the hotel room door. You both freeze.

Alex lifts his head just enough to glance toward it. “Room service?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t order anything.”

The knocking comes again — louder this time.

“Ugh,” you grumble, dragging yourself out of bed and padding toward the door in one of Alex’s oversized shirts. You crack it open carefully, squinting against the hallway light— And freeze.

There’s a massive, borderline obnoxious, flower arrangement on a rolling cart outside your door. Roses, peonies, hydrangeas, and at least three types of orchids are practically bursting out of a crystal vase that looks more expensive than your entire wardrobe.

You blink. “Uh… Alex?”

“Is it the apocalypse?” he calls from the bed.

“It might be,” you say. “Come here.”

He drags himself to the door, shirtless and barefoot, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. When he sees the bouquet, he stops in his tracks.

“Jesus,” he says. “Did someone die? Are we dead?”

You lean forward and spot the small white envelope tucked into the middle of the chaos of petals. It’s addressed to both of you — in annoyingly perfect handwriting. You open it.

To my two favorite co-stars,

Thank you for making yesterday one of the most fun days I’ve had in years. You’re both ridiculously talented, wildly attractive, and maybe a little bit dangerous together — and I’m starting to think that’s my favorite combination.

Let’s do it again sometime. Dinner round two? My treat again. Just name the city.

Yours (regrettably not literally), JB x

Alex reads over your shoulder and makes a wounded noise. “Yours, regrettably not literally? He’s trying to steal both of us.”

You grin. “Can you blame him?”

Alex plucks one of the peonies out of the bouquet and tucks it behind your ear. “I would be mad,” he says, pulling you in by the waist, “but you looked too good last night. I’d flirt with you both too.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, laughing softly. “Should we respond?”

“Definitely,” Alex says. “Let’s send him back a bottle of wine and a cheeky note.”

You hum. “Dangerous combination?”

He kisses the top of your head. “The most.”

And as you both stand there in the doorway — half-asleep, barefoot, in each other’s arms and surrounded by an absurd amount of flowers — you realize you’re not quite sure what you and Alex are now. But whatever it is… Jenson clearly approves. And honestly, that’s probably all the confirmation you need.

—

yn_vettel

liked by alex_albon, jensonbutton, lando and 7,000,000 others.

yn_vettel : enjoying this little break:) gonna turn my phone off and let the internet scramble

tagged : alex_albon, sebastianvettel and jensonbutton

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

ynvettelmywifey

liked by lando and 1,803,005 others.

ynvettelmywifey : i have compiled a definitive list of moments where yn, alex, and jenson are clearly in love with each other. this is a cry for help. also, you’re welcome.

A) that one interview where alex and yn are being asked questions and everything’s normal… until jenson appears and suddenly yn starts YAPPING at light speed, stutters mid-sentence, turns bright red, and then hands the mic to alex like “you talk.” cutest. thing. ever. i scream into my pillow every time.

B) the williams event that lives rent free in my brain. alex is looking at jenson like he hung the damn moon, and then there’s that tiny clip on the williams youtube channel where jenson and alex are casually talking about yn and seb, and it literally sounds like a love letter. “she’s just got something special” OKAY I’M CRYING.

C) this godforsaken photo. they got CAUGHT staring at jenson. multiple times. MULTIPLE. the way alex is mid swoon and yn is biting her lip??? hello????

D) 2024 monaco gp. yn’s weekend was ROUGH, she looked exhausted, but then she finds out jenson’s doing post-race interviews and this girl LIT UP like a christmas tree. the clip of her face when she hears? life-changing. her whole body language changes. i rest my case.

E) THE CUT ALPINE VIDEO. alpine we will never forgive you for not airing this. yn vettel + jenson button = no thoughts, only heart eyes. she’s sitting across from him one-on-one, giggling like a schoolgirl. her whole soul is blushing. put the eyes away girl you’re in public!

F) the jenson + alex interview where they CANNOT stop flirting. like full-blown british charm olympics. then the interviewer brings up yn and they IMMEDIATELY go soft. jenson’s like “she’s incredible, isn’t she?” and alex goes “she’s the best part of my day, every day.” BE SERIOUS.

conclusion: they are all in love. we are all witnessing it. i am feral.

—

Jenson doesn’t tell either of you where he’s taking you.

All he says is

Dress warm, no heels, and meet me on the South Bank at 7. Trust me.

Alex raises an eyebrow when you read him the text aloud. “Is he taking us hiking through central London?”

You laugh. “If he is, I’m making him carry me.”

You meet him by the river, not far from the London Eye. The city lights glow behind him, reflecting on the water, and he’s waiting with three takeaway coffees and a smile that makes your chest ache.

Alex spots him first. “God, he’s annoying.”

“Why?” you ask, turning to him.

“Because he’s stupidly hot and thoughtful.”

You don’t disagree. Jenson greets you both with hugs — tighter than the first time, familiar now — and hands over the drinks. “Thought we’d try something different. I figured dinner was too predictable.”

You glance around. “So what’s the plan?”

“Night walk through the city,” he says simply. “Then I want to take you somewhere.”

The walk is slow, easy, full of quiet laughter and shared stories. Jenson is in the middle, and he somehow manages to link arms with both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At one point, he leans in and says something under his breath that makes Alex laugh so hard he nearly drops his coffee.

You don’t even ask. You’re too busy trying not to stare at the way Jenson’s hand brushes yours every few seconds. On purpose. Definitely on purpose.

The night is cool and clear. It feels unreal.

Eventually, you reach a narrow footpath along the river, slightly hidden. Jenson glances around like he’s making sure no one is watching, then gestures for you both to follow.

You exchange a glance with Alex.

“You sure he’s not luring us to our deaths?” you whisper.

“If he is, I’ll die happily,” Alex replies, fixing his hair.

The footpath leads to a private dock. There’s a small vintage boat waiting — low lights strung around the edges, champagne already on ice. It’s not flashy. It’s intentional.

Alex stares. “What the hell.”

You blink. “Jenson—”

“I didn’t want a restaurant,” he says quietly. “I wanted a memory.”

And then he climbs in like this is something he does every day.

You and Alex follow.

Once you’re drifting gently down the river, everything softens. The city hums in the background, but in your little boat, the world feels quiet. Peaceful. Golden.

Jenson sits opposite you and Alex, one knee drawn up, his hand resting near yours. You all sip champagne and talk about ridiculous things — the worst fan gifts you’ve ever received, weird media day stories, the time Alex locked himself in a catering fridge because he thought it was a door to the bathroom in hospitality.

At some point, Jenson asks softly, “When was the last time either of you did something just for yourselves?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment too long.

Alex looks down. “I don’t even know.”

You just exhale.

Jenson’s expression softens. “You give everything to your careers. To other people. I think maybe… someone should give a little back.”

He doesn’t say it to win points. He says it like a promise. Like he already means it.

As the boat turns back toward the dock, Jenson finally shifts. Leans forward. Looks between you and Alex with something deliberate in his gaze.

“I need to say something,” he begins, voice low. “And if I don’t say it now, I’ll keep dancing around it until one of you punches me.”

You and Alex both straighten, your hearts synced in quiet anticipation.

“I like you,” Jenson says. “Both of you. A lot more than I expected to. And I know this is… unconventional, maybe a little crazy, but—” he hesitates, then smiles, “—so are we.”

Your breath catches.

Alex clears his throat. “Jenson…”

“I know I’m older,” Jenson continues, “and you two already have this unshakable bond, but I feel something when I’m with you. Something real. And I think we could make this work, if we wanted to. If we tried.”

Silence. Not awkward. Just full.

Then Alex speaks, softly. “What exactly are you asking?”

Jenson leans forward, brushing his fingers over yours — then Alex’s.

“I’m asking if you’d let me be part of this. If we could try — not just dinner dates and stolen glances — but a real chance. The three of us. Together.”

You don’t answer right away. You just reach across the space between you and take his hand. Alex does the same. Jenson smiles. And under the London night sky, champagne still half-finished and hearts racing, something quiet and sacred forms between you.

—

several weeks later...some domestic moments bc im a whore for soft.

The kettle’s whistling.

Alex is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, eating strawberries straight from the container. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, watching some terrible DIY show on mute. And Jenson — infuriatingly alert for someone who definitely got the least sleep — is making tea like he’s been doing it his whole life.

“Al,” you call softly.

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Did you put the clean sheets in the dryer?”

“No,” he says, mouth full. “But I told Jenson to.”

You both turn to Jenson.

He raises an eyebrow without turning around. “You did. And I said no. And then you said ‘Fair.’”

Alex hums. “That does sound like me.”

You smile behind your mug. These are the kinds of things that would’ve felt like fights in a different context. But here, in this house, with these two, it’s… playful. It’s normal. It’s real.

Jenson brings over two mugs and sets them down in front of you and Alex, then stands there expectantly, hands on his hips. “I made the tea. I demand praise.”

“You’re a hero,” you say. “A domestic god.”

“A working class icon,” Alex adds, deadpan.

Jenson leans over and kisses the top of your head, then Alex’s temple, then sits down at the table with a sigh. “We’re doing it, you know.”

Alex looks over at him. “Doing what?”

“This,” Jenson says, gesturing vaguely. “All of it. Waking up together. Bickering over laundry. Remembering how you both take your tea.” He smiles a little. “Being a proper thing.”

You glance at Alex. He meets your eyes and shrugs like yeah, it’s weird for me too. But then he grins and hops off the counter, padding barefoot across the kitchen to Jenson, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek. You follow — mostly because you’re cold and they’re both warm and you have zero shame anymore.

Alex slides into Jenson’s lap. You drape yourself across both of them. Somehow it works.

“I keep thinking someone’s going to barge in and tell us this isn’t allowed,” you mumble into Jenson’s chest.

He brushes a hand down your spine. “No one gets to decide that but us.”

Alex hums. “I mean, maybe your PR person. But other than that…”

You all laugh.

Then Jenson’s voice softens. “Is it too fast?” he asks. “Us. This.”

You look at Alex. He looks at you. It’s unspoken, but easy.

“No,” you say in sync.

“Scary,” Alex adds. “But not too fast.”

“Terrifying,” you agree. “But not wrong.”

Jenson leans his head back against the chair, arms wrapped around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’ve never wanted anything more domestic in my life.”

Alex smiles and steals your tea. And somehow, without any big declarations or timelines or expectations, you realize that this isn’t just a fling or an experiment. It’s something soft and strange and safe. It’s home.

—

The air is quiet. Outside the window, you can hear the wind brushing through the trees. The kind of silence that invites the truth. Jenson’s lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his other hand linked with yours. Alex is curled up behind you, chin tucked into your shoulder, his thumb tracing lazy patterns over your hip. You’ve been still for a while — not speaking, just breathing together — until the words slip out.

“We have to tell Seb.”

Alex’s hand pauses.

Jenson turns his head toward you. “You’ve been thinking about it all night, haven’t you?”

You nod slowly. “He’s going to find out anyway. He always does.”

There’s a beat of silence before Alex says, quietly, “He’s going to kill me.”

“He’s going to kill me first,” Jenson murmurs. “I’m the old one.”

You let out a small, tired laugh, burying your face into the pillow. “He’s going to kill both of you. And then he’s going to ground me.”

Alex leans up on one elbow. “Okay but like… genuinely, is there a non lethal way to do this? Because I love you. And I also enjoy living.”

You roll onto your back, eyes to the ceiling. “He’s my brother. He’s always looked out for me. Every race, every bad day, every broken heart. He was the first person I called when I got my F1 seat. The first person who hugged me when I cried after my first DNF. I’m his little sister, and now I’m—”

You gesture vaguely between the three of you.

Alex speaks gently. “Now you’re happy. And that should matter to him.”

“It will matter to him,” Jenson adds. “He loves you too much for it not to.”

You press your lips together, eyes stinging just a little. “He’s going to be disappointed.”

Jenson shakes his head, sitting up slightly. “No. Protective, sure. Overwhelmed? Probably. But disappointed? No. Not when he sees this for what it really is.”

Alex pulls you back against him. “We’ll tell him the truth. All of it. That this wasn’t planned, it wasn’t casual. It just happened. And we didn’t expect to fall into something this… solid.”

“Real,” Jenson echoes. “It’s real.”

You close your eyes. “He’s going to ask if this is serious.”

Alex kisses the back of your shoulder. “And we’ll say yes.”

“He’ll say he wants to talk to both of us privately,” Jenson mutters. “In German. While sharpening tools.”

You laugh, wet and soft. “He’ll forgive you eventually.”

“He always does,” Alex murmurs, lips near your jaw. “Because he knows I love you.”

Jenson strokes your arm with the back of his hand. “And because he knows I’d never let you fall if I wasn’t ready to catch you.”

The room quiets again. You feel Alex’s heartbeat against your back. Jenson’s warmth at your side. Maybe your brother will yell. Maybe he’ll go quiet in that Seb way that says he’s thinking ten things at once. Maybe he’ll tell you he’s worried. Maybe he won’t understand right away. But one thing is certain. You’ll tell him together. And that, at least, makes it a little less scary.

—

The air smells like fresh coffee and pine. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your knee bouncing under the wood. Across from you, Alex is trying to look casual, picking at a croissant. He hasn’t made eye contact in ten minutes. Jenson is standing by the window with a mug in his hands, pretending to be interested in the view. You’ve never seen a man that composed look this tense. Then the back door opens. Seb walks in, wearing a fleece and old sweatpants, hair a little messy, smile soft as ever. He’s holding a basket of eggs and humming something under his breath.

“Morning,” he says, placing the basket on the counter. “Hope you two didn’t let YN bully you into that oat milk nonsense.”

“Rude,” you mutter.

He grins and pours himself a cup of coffee before glancing between the three of you. Then he pauses. His eyes narrow — not unkind, but sharp. A Vettel level scan. He sets his mug down.

“What happened?”

Jenson clears his throat. “Nothing. We just—”

“You’re all acting like someone died,” Seb says. “Is this about your Alpine contract? Because I told you that team—”

“No,” you cut in gently. “It’s not about racing.”

Seb frowns. You take a breath. “Can you sit down for a second?”

He does, immediately. The room shifts. Serious now. Jenson joins you at the table. Alex stays frozen for a second, then finally pulls his chair closer. His knee knocks yours. You reach for both their hands beneath the table. Seb watches all of it. Then you speak, slowly.

“I need to tell you something. It’s… not bad, I promise. But it’s important.”

Seb nods once, waiting. You glance at Alex. At Jenson. Then back to your brother.

“I’m seeing someone. Two someones, actually.”

Seb’s brow furrows. His mouth opens, but you keep going.

“I didn’t plan it. None of us did. But… I fell for them. Both of them. And they fell for me. And… somewhere along the way, they fell for each other too.”

Alex shifts slightly. Jenson’s hand tightens in yours. Seb doesn’t speak.

You keep going, voice quieter now. “We didn’t want to hide it from you. But we also didn’t want to make it a thing before it was real. It’s real now.”

Silence. Seb leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. Looks at you, then at Jenson. Then Alex.

“You’re serious?” he finally asks, voice steady.

You nod. “Very.”

He looks between them again. Then, calmly. “How long?”

Jenson answers, gentle. “A few months. It started light, but… it grew.”

Seb looks at Alex. “You love her?”

“More than anything,” Alex says without hesitation.

He turns to Jenson. “And you?”

“I’d never be here if I didn’t,” Jenson says. “I know what this looks like. I know how it might feel to watch someone you’ve protected your whole life take a risk. But I’d never let her fall. Neither of us would.”

Seb breathes in deep through his nose. He rubs his palm over his jaw, thinking. You wait. And wait. Then he finally looks at you — his little sister — eyes softer than they’ve been since he walked in.

“Are you happy?”

You nod. “Really happy.”

Another pause. Then he exhales and leans forward, elbows on the table.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says slowly. “My brain is still trying to compute it. But… you look happy. And I trust you. I trust you to know what’s right for you.”

Your eyes sting.

He looks at Alex and Jenson. “And I trust you two to not screw it up. Because if you do…” He gives them a very classic Vettel look. “I will find you. And I will not be charming.”

Alex swallows. “Understood.”

Jenson nods. “Fully.”

Then Seb pushes back from the table and opens his arms. You’re up before he finishes the gesture. You hug him tight, burying your face into his shoulder. He holds you the way he always has — like you’re still seven years old and too curious for your own good.

“I just want you to be safe,” he murmurs. “And loved. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

“I am,” you whisper. “I really, really am.”

—

The energy is buzzing. Engines still cooling, fans still screaming, champagne still dripping off a few podiums in the background. Jenson is seated at the Sky Sports desk in front of the paddock, his tie askew and hair a little windswept from running between interviews.

He’s halfway through a post race debrief with Danica Patrick, Naomi Schiff, and a rotating third pundit who may or may not be sweating because he just got spritzed with sparkling wine.

“Now, let’s talk about Alpine,” Danica says into the mic, flipping to the graphic. “Specifically, Vettel.”

Jenson shifts in his seat, already knowing where this is going.

“I’m going to be honest,” Danica continues, tone sharp. “She’s been off this weekend. Slower pace, messy defending, and she nearly took out both McLarens in turn three. I know she’s popular, but we need to be realistic—”

“She still finished P5,” Jenson cuts in, voice steady but steely.

Danica raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Jenson says, smiling tightly, “P5 in that Alpine today was a miracle. She was managing engine temperatures, floor damage, and had the slowest pit stop of the race. And she still overtook three cars in the final five laps. That’s not luck. That’s talent.”

Naomi watches him like she knows exactly what’s happening.

Danica doesn’t back down. “Sure, but we can’t pretend she hasn’t been erratic lately. The mistakes, the inconsistency—”

“She’s had one DNF all season,” Jenson says, sharper now. “Her consistency rating is better than Russell’s. And I’ve been in that paddock. I’ve seen the data. I’ve seen the way her team leans on her. They’d collapse without her.”

Danica shrugs. “I just think she gets a little too much credit, honestly.”

Jenson’s jaw flexes.

“Danica,” he says, calm and cutting, “you’re entitled to your opinion. But if you’re going to try and discredit one of the most intelligent, talented drivers on the grid because she had one imperfect race in an otherwise stellar season, then you’re not being analytical. You’re being unfair.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the desk.

The third pundit tries to hide behind his notes. Naomi casually sips her water, not even trying to hold in her smirk.

Danica opens her mouth to respond— And then it happens. Off camera, someone walks past with a purpose.

You.

Still in your race suit, fireproofs pulled to your waist, sunglasses perched on your head, ponytail a little messy from the helmet. You pause just behind Jenson, lean down, press a kiss to his cheek — no, his mouth, unapologetically, possessively — and murmur loud enough for the mic to catch it.

“Thanks, babe.”

And then you walk off. No fanfare. No second glance. Just a soft smile and a wink at Naomi as you disappear down the paddock corridor. Naomi loses it.

Danica blinks. “Wait—what?”

Jenson, still blushing, coughs and adjusts his earpiece like it might save him from the moment that just went very live on international broadcast. The poor camera guy zooms out to try and find you, but it’s too late.

Twitter , Instagram, TikTok — everywhere — is in flames within minutes. And so is the rest of the grid. 

Oscar nearly spits out his water. “Did she just kiss Jenson Button?”

Charles gasps dramatically.  “Did he blush?”

Lando arches his eyebrow.  “Wait. Wait wait wait. Does that mean…”

Kimi shouts. “They’re a throuple???”

Lando looks as if something just clicked in his brain. “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF IN THAT SKY SPORTS VIDEO THEY DID TOGETHER.”

Ollie Bearman, silently Googling age gaps. “Okay but like… I need to sit down.”

Oscar again, dazed. “She didn’t even look back. Icon behavior.”

–

Jenson finally clears his throat on live TV.

“Well,” he says, attempting casual, “I guess that answers a few questions.”

Naomi bursts into laughter. Danica just blinks.

The broadcast cuts to a highlight reel, but it’s too late. The grid knows. The media knows. The fans definitely know. And the three of you? Well. You’re just getting started.

—

yn_vettel

liked by sebastianvettel, jensonbutton, alex_albon and 11,008,003 others.

yn_vettel : i guess the only way to get danica patrick to stfu is to hard launch your throuple on live tv. love both my boys so so much 😍😍😍😍

tagged : jensonbutton and alex_albon

—

view 753,000 other comments.

naomischiff : the way i knew but still screamed when it happened. queen behavior.

liked by yn_vettel

lando : i need someone to explain this like i’m five. (also congrats ily)

liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon

↳ yn_vettel : u r 5 wdym

olliebearman : so do we address it normally or do we throw a parade???

liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon

sebastianvettel : i need a nap.

liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon

danielricciardo : am i allowed to be in love with all three of you or is that too much

liked by yn_vettel, alex_albon and jensonbutton

estebanocon : everyone say thank you to danica for being a bitch so we can have this throuple

liked by yn_vettel, alex_albon and jensonbutton

jensonbutton : thank you for choosing violence on live television, darling. it was hot.

liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon

alex_albon : i was going to do a cute little soft launch but sure babe steal the spotlight with a live kiss and national chaos, that’s fine

liked by yn_vettel and jensonbutton

—

[calebsdog]

"Caleb? I don't feel good."

Today was the most dreaded day of the month. The first day of your period. Also known as the worst day of your period. You've been powering through all of your worst symptoms since you got out of bed this morning.

Nausea? Check. The worst stabbing pain of your life in your abdomen? Of course. Mood swings? Do you even have to ask?

"Yeah honey. I know." Caleb hates your period almost as much as you do. To him, it doesn't matter if it only happens once a month. The fact that you had to endure this pain at all weighs him down.

"But you're being so brave. Do you know how much of a baby I would be if I had a period?" Tucking you closer against his side Caleb's warm, real hand comes to rest on your stomach. His warmth wasn't as effective as a real heating pad.

But it makes you feel spoiled. Which matters way more to you right now.

"I'd cry way more than you. Liam would have to drag me to work."

"You survived getting blown up."

"Yup. And it's definitely way easier than having a period."

"You're so dumb."

Caleb was definitely pandering. Still, it's enough to make a little laugh build in your chest. You've spent the whole day trying to find something to lift your spirits. Now that the opportunity has presented itself you want to stubbornly hide your smile from him.

He doesn't deserve to know he's actually funny.

"Dumb? I think the word you're trying to find is empathetic." But it was too hard to keep a straight face with Caleb. He sees right through you.

"Seriously though. Tell me if there's something I can do to make you feel better. I hate seeing you like this."

He's already gone above and beyond today. Cooking you a light brunch when you had finally managed to drag yourself out of bed around noon, something he knew wouldn't worsen your cramps, and coaxed you to eat as much as you could.

He ran to the store to buy an emergency pack of feminine products because you forgot to pick some up at the store this week. He doesn't even need you to remind him which brands you prefer before he leaves. He keeps a close eye on everything that you use.

And just taking the time out of his day to take care of you was enough to keep you from spiraling. There wasn't much you could ask him for that he hasn't already done for you without question.

"How about you tell me you love me? One hundred times." Caleb didn't have to keep himself busy to make you feel better. Actually, you'll punch him in the face if he stops holding you.

"Is that supposed to be a challenge?" Sure, it was a bit ridiculous when you made Caleb promise to fold you a thousand paper cranes when you were kids. The allowance he got back then was enough to buy you a few extra pieces of candy at the store. But a thousand pieces of paper was a bit too steep for him.

Caleb's been through a lot in his life. Telling you that he loves you has always been as easy as breathing.

"Then I have to make sure I don't lose. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

In retrospect? Your request was a terrible (wonderful) idea. He has you cuddled up in his lap now. His warm lips pepper sincere kisses all over your face.

"This is more than I asked for. Are the kisses a bonus?"

"Mhmmm." He doesn't get distracted.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..." You hope to keep count of how many 'I love you's he imprints into your skin. You want to get back at him if he miscounts. Do you really love me if you only said you love me ninety-three times, Caleb? But only a few kisses in, you've already lost count.

"I love you." The final, hundredth reassurance of his love is spoken directly against your lips. It flows through you, rattling around in your skull.

"I love you one hundred and one." Just to be extra, Caleb tells you one more time.

"Do you feel better now?" Caleb finally pulls his face a few inches away from yours. It doesn't feel like you took a single breath that entire time.

"Mentally? Yeah. You won, dummy." Sighing, you rest your head against his chest.

"Physically? My asshole just started cramping."

[enhani-ki]

bunnies in heat - reader x ni-ki

warnings : smut, explicit languages, etc.

ni-ki had been sleeping over a lot lately.

at first, he was sleeping over only on weekends then it turned to him coming over into weekdays too. that his clothes keeps ending up and piling in your drawers now.

it became completely normal to wake up with his arms around you too, seeing his shirts and pants on the floor, or the smell of his cologne lingering in your room.

today you were cuddling. his body was warm pressed against yours under the covers. his breath tickles your ear every time he spoke, and his lips kept brushing your skin, ni-ki doesn't even realize what he was doing.

he was all over you. arms tight around your waist, leg hooked between yours, chest against your back as if he was trying to fuse into you. he kisses your ear, jaw, neck, and your breath gets caught each time.

he sucks your sensitive spot below your ear, making your fingers curl and grip the blanket. he groans quietly when you move just a little and you feel him getting hard through his thin pajama pants.

you kissed him back for a little while but then—

"you're moving so much," you whispered breathlessly, half-complaining as you squirmed in his grip. "i– i can't breathe properly…"

"mmnh…" ni-ki hummed against your neck, his voice now low and sleepy. "sorry, baby..." he murmured, but the way he tightened his arms around you says otherwise. he wasn't sorry at all, not even a little. "i just missed you…"

"we've been together all day," you pointed out, shifting on his arms.

"yeah." he replied, kissing your cheek softly. "still missed you."

you rolled your eyes at him playfully but your chest was aching a little at how your boyfriend could make everything sound like a love confession.

quietly, out of nowhere, ni-ki asked,

"do you you wanna have sex with me?"

your eyes went wide, pushing him away just a little, your hands stayed on his shoulders. you blinked fast. "what—wha—WHAT?"

ni-ki groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, voice muffled against your skin. "ughh… fuck. that was so awkward. sorry, i didn't mean to say it like that."

then he blushed, chuckling weakly before looking at you again, "i said, do you wanna have se—"

quickly, your hand flew to cover his mouth. "baby, i heard you!" you whispered, totally horrified.

he paused, eyes twinkling with amusement and anticipation as he gently pulled your hand away. his fingers felt soft and warm around your wrist, he asked again, "so?" but when he saw the panic and unsureness in your face, his expression immediately softened, "…no?"

and before you could even answer, ni-ki smiled gently, relaxing his grip on you a little as if he already knows the answer. "you wanna take your time?"

your heart was pounding so hard that he could probably feel it against his chest. your cheeks turned red as you look away and finally, you nodded slowly.

he kissed your cheek, thumb stroking your waist in quiet reassurance. "okay," he whispered. "let's take our time."

your throat tightened. you wanted to say something—maybe apologize but the words stuck, so instead, you mumbled, "…are you horny?"

ni-ki blinked, surprised—then let out a soft laugh before pulling you closer, gently guiding your head to rest on his chest.

"don't worry about any of that, baby…"

"but—"

"i love you," he murmured quietly but firm, cutting through your spiraling thoughts like a thread being pulled tight. "don't stress, okay? i promise you, you're more than enough."

the two of you were quiet for a while. you just listened to his heartbeat as he held you close then eventually, ni-ki sat up and gave you a soft kiss on the forehead.

"i'm just gonna take a quick shower."

you watched him disappear into the bathroom, the sound of water running filling the room. but your head… it just wouldn't quiet down.

was he upset? disappointed?

...frustrated?

the thought made your stomach twist. you tried to brush it off, pacing around the room hoping it might help shake the feeling. however, the thoughts only got louder in your head.

the spiral started, making your head spin and making you upset at yourself too.

wait—is he... is he handling it in there?!

you heard the water shut off, giving you silence again. you bit your lip, hesitating but curiosity keeps getting the better of you. and quietly—so quietly—you pressed your ear to the bathroom door.

but right then, the door quickly opened the second you leaned in—

you almost fell forward but your boyfriend caught you. his hair is wet, he's got towel around his hips, there's water dripping down his chest, ni-ki raised an eyebrow at you. "…what are you doing?"

"i—i wasn't—!"

then he smirked after catching you red handed. "were you listening at the door?"

"no! i—i was just—!"

"ahh…" he interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief and amusement after the realization. "you were trying to hear if i was jerking off in your shower, huh?"

"fuck..." you cursed, closing your eyes and looked away, totally dying inside. "no…"

he leaned in, "tch. you're so nosy." brushing a strand of hair from your face. droplets splashing on your toes. then with a grin, he added "and i wouldn't jerk off."

you tilted your head, "huh? why not?"

"because i'd rather you jerk me off."

your jaw dropped and he just laughed again, pulling you in, telling you how cute you are when you panic.

then lately, he wasn't even wearing shirts to bed anymore.

some nights he was too lazy he just wear boxers that in the mornings you feel him pressed against your ass or thighs, hard and twitching through thin fabric.

you don't say anything but… it stuck in your head, your heart always race and your body becoming more curious.

what does it really looks like when he's turned on?

how big is it, really?

will he feel good just from being touched?

and ni-ki's all over you again, his bare chest against your back, face in your neck, breathing soft and sleepy. his hand were already resting on your waist under your shirt... you'd gotten so used to the way his crotch pressed against you at night—but tonight, you feel him getting harder again.

you turned slightly to face him, "you're hard again…"

your boyfriend let out a sleepy chuckle. "well, sorry. i love being this close to my girlfriend so much that it turns me on…"

you pouted into the pillow. "so you're just gonna sleep it away?"

he laughed softly and groaned into your neck. "babe, why are you so concerned about my dick?"

"i'm not! i mean—" you turned to look at him, flustered. "i'm concerned about you."

ni-ki opened one eye, "well, i'm not gonna die because of it, you know?"

you sighed heavily and kept thinking about it. he's right there. too close… and part of you just really wants to— "…can i touch it?"

his eyes opened and his sleepy expression vanished in an instant, "what?"

you met his gaze, more nervous now. "uhh, can i… touch it?"

"o– of course…"

you reached down carefully, hand sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers, you felt ni-ki's whole body shuddered.

he let out a low, breathy moan and leaned in to start kissing you slow and needy. your touch had completely jolted him wide awake. "oh, fuck… baby…"

your fingers wrapped around him, eyes widening slightly. "it's big."

ni-ki smirked against your lips, his voice got deeper now. "hmm, really? it's not even that hard yet."

you didn't have time to reply, he took your hand, and before you could process it, he actually spit into your palm.

"riki—?!"

"shh, trust me." he laced his fingers with yours and wrapped your slicked-up hand around his length, groaning as he helped you stroke him.

his cock hardened so quickly it startled you. it got even bigger, practically pulsing in your grip that your one hand wasn't enough anymore.

you looked down. "it's… not fitting."

ni-ki laughed breathlessly. "it's okay, you're doing so good. ahm, fuck, that feels good."

"do you want to suck it too?"

your lips parted. "i– i don't know how…"

he bit his lip before he kissed your jaw, his breath felt hot on your skin, practically warming you too. "i'll teach you."

he shifted both of you on the bed, ni-ki leaned back against the headboard as you positioned yourself between his legs. his boxers were halfway down already, his cock flushed and glistened in the low light...

ni-ki trailed his thumb across your cheek down to your lips.

"you sure, baby?"

you hesitated, heart pounding as your eyes flicked between his face and what was between his thighs.

"you don't have to," he added softly, other hand brushing your hair back. "we can stop here—seriously."

"no, i really want to." you replied, making ni-ki smile proudly.

you stared at his cock slightly twitching in the air, its tip flushed red, already glistening with his pre-cum. you'd felt it under his boxers before but seeing it like this, in front of you...

it made your mouth dry.

you swallowed, moving your fingers before your brain could catch up. your wrapped one hand around the base then adding your second hand just above it.

not enough.

there was too much of him to hold. his cock is too thick, long, and the pre-cum spills from the tip was making your palms even more slippery.

you gave him a slow stroke, then another. your hands moved tentatively, sliding up and down in clumsy rhythm. the wet slick sounds between your palms made your face heat up and your pussy clench. so erotic.

n-ki groaned low, his hips twitching slightly just from your touches. "oh, baby…"

you looked up at him, face burning even more. "i really don't know what i'm doing."

he reached for you instantly, stroking your cheek with the backs of his fingers. his touch was tender, ni-ki murmured. "you don't have to be good... just want you, you're already making me crazy here."

you stroked him again, faster this time, watching the way his face twisted in your grip. his tip leaked steadily, slick smearing across your knuckles.

"you can keep using both of your hands," ni-ki whispered shakily. "but… i think i'm gonna lose it the second you put your mouth on me."

"i wanna try."

your lips parted slowly as you leaned forward, tongue flicking out, licking to taste him first.

"shit—" he hissed, jaw clenched, head tipping back against the headboard. "y/n..."

you took him in a little deeper but your throat tightened immediately—you gagged, pulling back with a choked breath.

"it's okay. just go slow," he chuckled, panting as his hand gently rested at the back of your head. "don't push yourself too deep." though the deeper you went, the better it felt for ni-ki.

you nodded, trying again. your lips stretched wider, jaw already aching. spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you bobbed your head fast. you wrapped one hand around what couldn't fit. he was burning hot in your mouth, heavy against your tongue, twitching with every movement.

god, i'm probably so bad at this…

his fingers curled in your hair now. voice breaking as he whispered through his gritted teeth.

"you're doing so good," he groaned. "your mouth feels so good..."

you tried to breathe through your nose. your eyes stung with tears.

his cock throbbed against your throat. salty, warm, very new to taste but his moans were so fucking addictive too that you just couldn't stop even if you wanted too.

you adjusted your angle, trying to breathe—but your throat flexed without meaning to, swallowing around him.

ni-ki's eyes widened, choking on a moan.

"f–fuck—baby, that—what you just did—"

you blinked up at him confused, still messy and teary, holding him steady in your mouth.

you did it again. let your throat flex around him, tighten your lips, letting him feel just how snug you were inside.

his thighs tensed instantly, hand clenching on your hair tightly, "…shit, i'm close."

you swallowed again, a whimper caught in your throat as your lips slid down further, his cock twitched violently in response, suddenly getting even bigger. he gasped, "wait—baby, almost there—don't stop."

you started to pull back, overwhelmed—but his hand stayed at the back of your head desperately.

"don't pull away—please," he gasped. "let me—let me finish in your mouth—i can't hold it— y/n"

you nodded and started sucking harder, bobbing your head faster.

ni-ki came with a loud, broken moan, hips jerking uncontrollably as thick spurts of cum spilled into your mouth. you gagged again from the volume, the heat, the unfamiliar taste—it's so much—but you swallowed all of it, trying to keep up.

you were shaking too now. your jaw hurts, your hands were messy and slippery, and your eyes were wet and full with tears—but you didn't stop until he was done and empty.

ni-ki couldn't stop groaning, whispering your name as he brushed your hair out of your face with the most wrecked look you'd ever seen.

it's second period. your teacher kept talking about something — but you're not hearing none of it.

your mouth had been on him less than twelve hours ago and all ni-ki can think about is the way you'd looked at him then — all soft, nervous, and curious, like he was something you wanted to figure out.

you're sitting a few rows ahead of him. head is bowed low, playing with pen in hand, pretending to take notes,

he knows you're not listening either.

your shoulders are a little tense, lips kept parting every time your mind wander. he saw you smiling to yourself — shy, spaced-out, those little smiles makes his stomach tighten.

you must be thinking about it too.

you have to be.

ni-ki adjusts in his seat, subtly shifting his legs under the desk, feeling his pants feel tighter than they should. and it's not like he's that hard-hard... almost. it's hard enough to feel it. enough to make him want to sneak away, press his forehead to a locker, and groan while palming himself.

he's been like this for a week. every class. every time he looks at you.

you've been giving him blowjobs for a week now and the flashbacks hits like static electricity.

the sound of you choking just a little, the sight of your eyes, glassy and wet, you're hurting but still looking up at him.

the heat of your mouth, the press of your throat, the way your hands trembles slightly as you touch him.

you made him fall apart.

and now he can't stop thinking about you, how would you fall apart for him too.

ni-ki's fingers tighten around his pen. his jaw flexes slightly.

he shouldn't think about it here. oh he shouldn't picture the way you'd sound if he had his mouth between your thighs, kissing, making out with your pussy, licking, sucking on your clit until you couldn't even speak—

"riki," the teacher calls.

he jolts slightly.

"y– yes?"

"do you know what group you're assigned to?"

his mind went absolutely blank.

"…uh, no."

the whole class shook their heads. ni-ki swallowed, tries to find a safe answer but fails.

"listen carefully next time," the teacher warned. "you're on group two."

you glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. your face goes red immediately.

you're both so, so bad at hiding it.

later, during break, you catch each other by the lockers. ni-ki leans close, arms crossed as he towers over you, trying to be casual — and failing completely.

"baby... you were zoning out the whole time," you murmured. "what's got you so distracted, huh?"

his eyes flick down to your lips just for a second.

"you," he said, honest as ever.

you blushed and smacked his arm. "shut up."

"…i keep thinking about last night," ni-ki whispered, making your heart dangerously stutters.

"yeah?" you breathed.

he nodded slowly, eyes dropping back to your mouth, your neck, your body. he swallowed thickly, quiet but you can now practically hear the words he's holding back.

"i wanna make you feel good too."

"w-what…?"

"i just… i think about it. a lot." he pouted, eyes soft but looked stormy at the same tome. "i can't be the only one who cums every night."

"not here, riki—!"

he grinned and bit his lip to stop himself. he held your wrist gently, seeking more connection, more of you.

the bell finally rang.

you step back reluctantly, adjusting your skirt and trying to breathe like you weren't just fantasizing about your boyfriend in a school hallway.

ni-ki stays leaning against the lockers, watching you walk away, hand slipping into his pocket. he pulls out your phone that you'd left at your desk this morning.

[cycle tracker] you're ovulating today!

"oh?"

a/n: random fic. just want to get some drafts out. this was supposed to be for a bad boy!ni-ki but it was too long so i had to shorten and throw away the plot TT i have so much in my drafts, i just might delete all of it. part two soon :p

masterlist: マスターリストm.list