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haztory · 1 month ago

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the lonely fight.

— masterlist | part one | part two — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, this is a crack/fluff followed by angst, alcohol consumption featuring the night shift team and team bonding exercises, more yearning, more wanting, escalation of tensions, city girl confronting jack's deep rooted issues, jack being a traumatized man — word count: 6.3k — summary: Karaoke night is supposed to be a morale boost for the team. It only escalates tensions even further for you and Jack.

It’s late into your shift on Wednesday when Ellis and Shen find you in the brief lull.

Saying the night has been easy is an insult, one you’re not keen on doling out without proper padding and a roll of sterile gauze clutched to your side, battle tested and ready for war. You’re down an attending, the three residents that were scheduled for tonight have been reduced to one, and two nurses have been cut early in the night due to budget constraints. Leaving only a skeleton crew to man the deck for the night.

You manage. You all do. With gritted teeth and the incessant propensity to keep moving.

Would manage even better in between putting your notes in for the girl in Room Three who got an earring stuck inside of her lobe if the network for the EHRs wasn’t experiencing a statewide slow-down. You’re one more loading screen away from punting the computer altogether when the two doctors brace either side of your work station. They settle next to you with a tired air—one not quite exhausted but close enough to know that they’re counting down the minutes until sunrise.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask the two of them, eyes locked on the buffering screen in front of you.

“We might have to go to paper.” Shen says.

Your eyes find him, quickly. “Who said that?”

”Richmond’s on the phone with admin.” Ellis says, leaning her chin into her palm. “They’re talking about it.”

You sigh, waving the white flag with the computer. “If they want handwritten notes, they’re not going to be up to standard and I don’t want to hear shit about it. I have three patients that need to get logged in and more that are going to come in soon.”

“Broken left hand. X-rayed. Fixed.” John supplies, dryly with a pantomime of his hand writing on paper. You snort in agreement. Shen bobs his head from side to side as he looks around the floor. “At least it’s quiet.”

Your head snaps to him just as Ellis’ falls into her hands and groans.

“What is wrong with you—“

“—do you ever learn—”

Shen shrugs you both off. “You guys are so superstitious.”

“We need a smarter attending on the floor.” Parker sighs, dragging her hands down her face. She looks at you, desperately. “How long before your boards, sunshine?”

You laugh at her, pitiful and flat. “Don’t count on me so soon. I’ve still got time.”

“We need more attendings who don’t play with God on the floor.” Parker pins an ugly stare at John, just as he shrugs in return.

“Jokes on you, Parker. I feel like I play with God everyday.” You tease, but you sympathy for her sorrow and continue, offering your answer as a means of consolation to her. “I take them in six months.”

Thing One and Thing Two nod slowly, digesting the words in what should be a passing understanding. But—there’s a look in their eyes. Too knowing, too conspiratorial, to be considered innocuous.

Your eyes narrow at them, “What?”

”What?” Parker parrots.

“Why do you guys have that look?”

John turns his head to Parker, then back to you. “We don’t have a look.”

”You’ll be here, right?” Parker ignores your question, giving her own. “After you pass?”

John seconds Parker. “Not going back to New York?”

”Or Florida?”

“No.” You tell them, skeptical at their line of questioning. Still, you give the truth. “Pittsburgh is home for a while.”

“It’s the winters, right?” John asks. “Keeps you coming back?”

Parker scoffs. “No, it’s definitely Eliza Furnace Trail. The smell of piss and shit, just addicting.”

“There’s reasons to stay.” You tell them, finalizing your notes on the system and returning to the home screen. A shadow moves in the corner of your eye, drawing your attention to it quickly. You spot Jack exiting North 10, speaking quietly to Anna Maria as the two head further into the hallway.

You turn your attention back to the Scooby and Shaggy, only to find them staring curiously at you. Then, with glib interest, you tack on, “And maybe it has something to do with you two.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yeah, totally.”

Your laugh is light and the two smile knowingly. Peace settles in the air, complimented by the steady beeps of the machines in the examination rooms and the soft chatter across the floor.

Ellis clears her throat. “You’re coming, right? Friday night?”

You nod. “I am. Taking roll call?”

“Gotta make the reservation for the table.”

“Who’s going?”

“Us, Hilly, Anna Maria, a couple of people from day shift.”

“You guys ask any other attendings?”

“Basu’s doing a double, Robby gave a hell no, Walsh is on the fence and we’re fine with that. And we were going to ask Abbot, but—” Ellis’ voice trails off and she weighs her hand like a scale.

Shen cuts in, dryly. “We were hoping you would do it.”

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum remain pointedly innocent even as your glare turns deadly on them.

“You both have to stop this.” You grit out. “Why me?”

“Because you guys got that weird telepathy thing going on.” Shen provides, simply. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He looks to Ellis for backup, which earns a supportive smile from her.

“He will give you the same answer that he will give me.” You insist for the hundredth time, punctuating the statement with an eye roll for emphasis on exactly how you feel about it.

They both stare blankly at you. Not that you blame them entirely. Try as you might otherwise, even you can hear the gentle deceit on your tongue when you insist on normalcy between you and the attending.

If anyone asks, it’s respect. Admiration, trust, and all the sister siblings of a well-meaning accord that force you to hold the man in high regard. Nothing more.

You keep the low pulse of hope and longing that toils within your stomach pointedly quiet.

“Just ask.”

“You guys are ridiculous.” You stand from your desk, deciding the moment has dragged on and you’d rather not be caught in the crosshairs of further investigation. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check on my patients before Shen’s curse catches up to us.”

“Tell him we’ll cover the beer!” John calls after you as you make your way down the hall, conveniently in the same direction Abbot went down.

You wave your hand in the air, brushing the two of them off. “I know how to do it.”

They wait until you’re a safe distance away from earshot before turning to each other.

“Good work.” Parker tells John, holding her fist out to him. He bumps it in relaxed victory. “You adjusting?”

He shakes his head, his lips turning downward in a frown of intrigue. “Nah. I still think that it happens before the boards.”

“I’m switching to eight months.” Ellis supplies lowly.

“Why eight?”

“When she gets results back and passes, that’s when it happens. Abbot’s not going to fuck a fellow, too much of a power thing.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’d fuck any fellow, but he’d make an exception for that one.”

“My money is on when she becomes an attending. Abbot would fuck an attending.”

“So… you’re saying I have a chance.” John says and Parker shoves his shoulder with a laugh.

—

Luck is something rarely afforded to the ED. It’s sheer will power that things manage to work, human perseverance and triumph even in the moments of clear sabotage as the unit is denied more staff, denied more resources, forced into a corner to fend for themselves with bare threads of patience and the bottom of the barrel that nobody else wants to touch.

The floor isn’t lucky that the number of people waiting for care is relatively tame at the same time that the hospital's servers are undergoing an update that’s halted everything in its track. Luck implies something good, something that changes the tides for the better. The floor is just coincidentally in the eye of the hurricane at the moment. One ambulance away from teetering over the edge and plunging the unit into the swirling winds and drowning rain.

Jack doesn’t count his blessings. That’s asking for fate to be tempted. He watches the time tick on his watch and waits. Listens for the distant sounds of thunder approaching, finding only the soft squeak of sneakers on the tile floor.

He hears you before he sees you. The familiar sound of your steps, the steadied pattern, the jingle of your badge against the swivel clip on your chest

He’s standing beside the rolling cart outside of North 15, having given up on any attempt at reviewing the team’s charting notes when the screen gave its fourth error message. You lean against the door frame, watching him.

“I talked to Richmond. We’re switching to papers.”

“Medieval times.” His expression flickers with disbelief, before smoothing into one of calm neutrality. His jaw clenches, tight for a second. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Don’t speak too soon. The psych eval that was about to get sent up just got delayed because they can’t get access to his medical history. Probably going to get worse for my other three that were ready for transfer to different units that also have their records in a system that is shut down.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” He meets your eyes, unabashed in his displeasure.

“I wish I was. I called, tried to strike the fear of God into Psych but those people aren’t scared of shit. They said it’s too risky.”

He scoffs. “If they really want to know risk, why don’t they come down and see how the other half lives?”

“That’s what I said. I was able to pull a favor with Ortho. On the record, they’ll accept four so long as we provide them with some form of medical history.”

He raises a brow, “Off the record?”

“They said they want a sticky note, minimum, but can be convinced for oral presentation as long as we’re available for any questions. I told Shen and Parker to choose the most important to go up. Just need your sign off.”

The still nonchalance cracks slightly. He smirks. Impressed. “Done. Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re scary, you know that?”

“You like it.” You smile and he shakes his head slowly, but he doesn’t deny it. And you know then that you’ve caught him ripe enough to push further. “By the way, Shen and Ellis want to know if you’re going to the karaoke night thing on Friday.”

It draws a narrowed stare your way. “You their messenger now? That’s the third time this week.” His eyebrow raises, entirely unamused at the prospect.

You take his annoyance to be directed at the invitation. He’s concerned by the fact that the two doctors know to send you.

You push past it, giving it little thought. “Are you?”

“…No.”

You catch the hesitation. Brief, but there. “Why not?”

“I deal with this place enough, I don’t need it cutting into my day off.”

“C’mon. It’ll be good for morale.”

“If I wanted to be tortured I’d pick up a double, not sit and listen to you all scream at the top of your lungs.”

You hold your hands up in surrender, “Fine, be a grouch. If you happen to find yourself free on Friday night, we’ll be at Riley’s. Eight o’clock. I’ll be wearing a blue sweater and singing ‘Single Ladies’. Can’t miss it.”

Jack looks at you from beneath lashes. “Don’t do Beyoncé like that.”

You pull your head back in amazement. “I’m surprised you even know who Beyoncé is.”

He steps towards you, his hands falling to hold the stethoscope around his neck. His gait is slow as he crosses the small distance from the cart to the other side of the door frame. You can see how he’s favoring his left leg yet makes no betrayal of that on his face. “I’m not that out of touch.”

“Had me fooled. You’re allergic to fun.”

“Our definitions are drastically different.”

“And what do you do for fun, Dr. Abbot?” Your head tilts. He leans against the other side of the frame and folds his arms across his chest. Your eyes flick quickly to the sight, tempted by muscle and veins.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” His smile slants. Hung and crooked, like a crescent moon in the sky. It creases into his skin gracefully and the urge to bask in the luster that shines from the rarity of his smile surges within you tenfold.

“I would, actually. I’d like to know what you get into on your days off. Except for building furniture for sleeping people.”

He huffs a breath, his head tucking down to his chest. Not in embarrassment, but shyness at the reminder of his good deed performed by the other side of Jack Abbot. One revealed to you in parts, with his hand lingering on your back, his eyes fixed on you, and care imbued in the small things he does.

He peers his head out of the doorway, looking over the floor before meeting your gaze. He thinks, for a moment, before deciding that disclosing is low in some kind of risk.

“I run.”

“Really?”

“Yeah really. Good for the heart.” He bats.

“Bad for the knees.” You return.

“Good thing I’m already down one.”

You hum, amused. Delighted to know more. “What else?”

“I read.”

“Yeah? What do you read?”

Jack shrugs, blasé. “Whatever catches my eye.”

“Romantasy, right? You seem the type.”

“Is that the elf shit the nurses are talking about?”

“Faes.” You correct.

“Whatever the fuck that means. Pointy-eared weirdos frolicking in flowers.”

“God, you are old.” Your laugh is soft, gently reverberating through him and he finds himself leaning into it. Watching it, letting it wash over him like a warm sip of coffee on the long shift. A sweet relief. “I’ve got some good recommendations if you want them.”

“I don’t want to read fairy porn.”

“No, I save that for the people who will appreciate that. I’ve got some memoirs, good educational reads, fun stuff. We can start our own book club.”

“A book club?” He repeats, eyebrows raised on his face in disbelief. “Now who’s old?”

“Well, the difference here is that I go out and have fun while still embracing old people things.”

A message interrupts, then. It sounds over the intercom and both your attentions are called to it. It’s over as soon as it happened, one of the nurses announcing someone’s name and instructing them to see The Hub, but it’s the disruption to the easy rhythm. A reminder to you both in your respective yet silent realizations that there is a world outside of this moment—one that was easily forgotten, for a second.

You tap his arm, voice earnest as you appeal to him, just before either of you can be called to duty. “Come to Riley’s on Friday. I’ll let you pick what I sing.”

Jack shifts on his feet, settling his lean further against the door frame. His shoulders, broad and sturdy, sway before finding stillness again. “You’re stooping to bribery now?”

“This is part of my tactic. Warm you up, bribe you, profit.” You explain. “I’ll pull out all the stops if I have to, which includes giving you the first pick of my song.”

“Your tactic needs some work.” He cocks his head at you. “You shouldn’t give someone that much power. Could land you in big trouble.”

“And yet, I’m giving it to you.”

The banter stills. Halts completely, only the low hum of the fluorescent lights filling in the space.

It’s not the first time you’ve said something to that effect—a seemingly simple declaration. Spoken as easy as you breathe, as if you haven’t further fractured the barely held boundary that lies blurred and frayed between you two. This tiny truth of yours isn’t a simple compliment. They’re windows of implications into something deeper. Something more volatile that simmers under the warmth of your skins and behind each tease.

It happens, then. The inevitable, the familiar, the expected. The song and dance that has become so routine that escape seems futile.

The induction of the soft feelings. The confusing ones.

Jack stares straight into the fire, unconvinced that you don’t know what you’re doing. Unconvinced that he should walk away.

“Beer will be on Shen.” Your voice lilts into a song, a means to diffuse the tension.

“That’s a terrible idea.” He says disapproving, but there’s no malice in it.

“Whatever gets people to come.” A beat passes and you know that, at the very least, he’s considering the offer.

“Tell Shen and Ellis to stop making you do their dirty work.” He says quietly. You shake your head softly, suppressing the want to tell him that talking to him is the farthest thing from dirty work. It’s an easy task, one you look forward to most days.

“I’ll consider it.” You say instead. He nods, knowing that the two will keep going to you for as long as the affinity he has for you is as obvious as it feels.

“So…” You kick your foot out, tapping his leg gently, “Are you coming?”

His lips curl, slightly. “…I’ll see.”

“Good.” You move from your place on the door frame, inching backwards into the hallway. Back into the rush and chaos of a world that feels so far away from this little bubble the two of you made.

“By the way, Shen said the “q” word, so prepare.”

Jack sighs, heavy and annoyed. Luck and fate tempted once more.

“Does he want a black eye?”

—

The door to Riley’s opens with a squeal at 9:15 PM on Friday. The sound is drowned out entirely by the screams that erupt from the crowded establishment when someone’s voice tilts falsetto at the opening line of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’.

Jack’s eyes look to the stage, only moderately surprised to see Shen delivering the performance of a lifetime. A bottle of beer is clutched close to the man’s chest as he hits notes only a prepubescent boy could to a crowd more than supportive of his endeavors, a red flush to his cheeks.

He wasn’t going to come.

A morning traffic jam that resulted in a six car pile-up on I-279 this morning led to a late exit for Jack which led to an even later morning trying to tackle all of the things he wanted to do for the day. Grocery shopping for meal planning, a stop at a supply store to fix the rubber seal on his leaky kitchen faucet, start his week’s worth of laundry, fit in some semblance of sleep in there (maybe). Top it all off with ESPN and a beer.

It wasn’t in the plan to come. It just didn’t fit.

…but then you sent a photo.

A picture of you seated at a table with a smile so bright it could single handedly illuminate the dark and dingy bar surrounding you. Parker sits to your left distracted by something off camera with John standing behind the two of you, a peace sign thrown up as he leans down to stay in the frame. And to your right, an empty chair. Your text saying: Saving you a seat!

So he came. Because the promise of free beer and a means to decompress after a shitty week of long and trying shifts was enticing enough.

(And because you asked, but he stomps out that answer like a low broiling fire needing to be put out.)

He finds you immediately in the surge. Blue sweater at the middle table and an empty chair beside you. Just like you said.

His steps are cautious, dodging moving bodies and his own discomfort as he zeroes you in his sight. He fits in beside you just as your hands raise upward shouting a song lyric with the singing group, sliding into the seat as if he just came back from the bathroom instead of making his grand entrance. You notice the movement, your singing faltering as you look to defend the empty chair from pilfering. Your hair is loose from the usual style you have from work, strands framing your face, your body relaxed from the alcohol you’ve no doubt been drinking. There’s a scrunch to your face as you look at him that immediately peels into one of joy when you realize who it is.

“You’re here!” You shout, your excitement bringing you closer to him. Your touch is liberal, spurred by the haze of drunken inhibitions. Leaning into him, your hands fall onto his shoulders, grabbing onto him as if you were afraid he would disappear. He lets you, watching amused as you fail to contain your elation. Affected, as you bleed into him.

There’s a dry resignation on his face, like he finds this to be equal parts burdensome and amusing. But he makes no move to put distance between you two. “I’m here.”

“Do you want a beer?” You shout over the noise, “Come on, I’ll get another one too!”

“How many have you had?”

You hold his gaze for a moment, smile turning sheepish. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s get you some water instead—” He moves for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table, grabbing a plastic cup sat beside it and filling it up.

“No! C’mon!” You grab onto his forearm, halting him from pouring anymore, “I don’t work tomorrow. Let me have fun.”

“You’re going to wake up nauseous and knee deep in regret tomorrow when you realize everyone’s recording you guys.”

“I don’t care.” You laugh, earnestly. “I don’t regret the things that I want, Jack.”

As his hand hovers over the pitcher, yours falls onto his arm nearest to you. Grasping onto the breadth and holding him tightly. Even in the slur of your words, he sees the honesty behind it. How intently you say it, mean it. Might mean something else behind it all, too.

“Come on.” You begin again, a siren song on your tongue perfectly heard even in the shrieks of the bar. “Grab a beer, have fun with us. With me. You held up your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

He looks over your shoulder, relieved to find that the table is too entranced by Shen’s glorious rendition of the ballad to be concerned with the intimate moment behind them.

“I haven’t gone up yet. You get to choose my song.”

Your eyes are warm, beautiful. And close. Too close.

“I was promised Beyoncé.” He says after a second, softer than the moment calls for, softer than he intended it to be.

You smile happily at him. “Beyoncé and a beer, coming right up!”

The soft feelings, the confusing ones, slip into the narrow space between you.

Despite it all, Jack is steady. Sipping casually at his Miller watching person after person head on the stage and make a fool of themself. It’s that steadiness that has you drawn to him. Not sloppily or messily, but just teetering past a point of buzzed and into the embrace of loose.

Your thigh touches his underneath the table mistakenly. Once, twice, four times. He presses back into you, comfortingly. You lean into him when you laugh, mutter the smart quip and teasing joke at a certain performance that he shakes his head at. His arm slings around the back of your chair, only slightly brushing against your shoulders.

And it’s easy.

“This is for you, Abbot!” Shen calls over the microphone an hour later, his face flushed red with his drunken stupor as he clutches the microphone like it's his last chance. The static from the speakers blows from how close he holds it to his mouth. “This is dedicated to that epic pericardiocentesis you did the other day that I’m still thinking about, you handsome man.”

The rushing piano of “I Need a Hero” plays and it’s the first time you see Jack’s shoulders shake from laughter as he raises a beer up to Shen. The song progresses to an ensemble as the team all shout the lyrics, their fingers pointing back to Jack at each proclamation of needing a hero throughout the song. And you swear, swear, that a flush rises up his neck at the lavish attention paid his way. His head tucks into his chest, and his eyes narrow like the sound of Shen’s voice is physically causing him pain but you can see it as clear as day.

He’s happy. And it dredges up a tingle in the depths of your heart that surges like a rushing tide you can’t hold back.

It soars even higher—feels even worse—when it’s your turn. Microphone shoved in your hand, dance moves pulled out as you sing about needing a ring on your finger and feeling Jack’s stare bore into you the entire time.

A smile, free, unabashed, admiring permanently fixed on his face.

—

“Someone get Mel home!” You call over your shoulder into the bar as you make your exit, the clock just creeping past midnight. Jack’s arm sits firmly around your waist, thick and corded as it supports and holds you steady. “I want her tucked in and sung to, precious girl.”

“Easy.” Jack’s voice is husky beside you and colored with a slight twinge of amusement. Startling, almost, as you’re reminded of how near he is. It’s rough and jagged and it flares a heat within you that has you whipping your head to look at him.

“Don’t want you spilling guts all over me.” He’s firm and warm next to you, a beacon of quiet strength. You’ve always known Abbot was broad from his forearms alone. Seeing it is one thing, feeling it around you? It’s something else entirely. Temptation sings for you to fall into him.

It’s hard to recover from it, taking much longer than you’d like to admit as your tongue feels thick in your mouth and your heart pounds in your ears. You blame that on the environmental circumstances of the night.

“Don’t forget, old man.” You poke just as his arm tightens around you. Your own hand falls to his wrist held right against the front of your stomach, falling in step beside him as he guides you through the bar’s parking lot. “I’m from the city. I can handle my alcohol.”

His interest is piqued, despite all well-meaning efforts to hide it. “I know. You don’t let anyone forget it.”

“Watch it. Don’t make me mad, I can take you if I need to.”

“Yeah? Gonna go for my ankles?”

“Oh please, this again—”

“You gonna slide across the floor again for my feet?”

“He was running away with a catheter in him. If I didn’t take him down it was going to be golden showers for all of us.”

“Yeah, but going for the feet puts you in the direct line of sight.”

“Alright, then next time you stop the meth head, Lieutenant Dan.”

“And get a mouthful of urine? I’m not kinky enough for that.” He says nonchalantly and you guffaw, your hand landing a smack at his chest. His walking slows as he approaches his truck towards the end of the parking lot. Shiny and well-taken care of, the car you remember him driving you home in before.

He guides you towards the passenger side of the car, loosening his grip on you as he fishes his car keys from his pocket. “All I’m saying is that the Giants missed an opportunity in their draft pick.”

Separating from him, you slump against the passenger door, watching him pull out the key fob. “If the Giants put me on the roster, we’re coming out with a ring every year, baby.” You hold your hand up for emphasis, pointing at each of your fingers. “You can kiss ‘Single Ladies’ goodbye.”

A beat passes. Jack’s eyes bore into yours. “Nevermind, let’s call the Steelers.”

You laugh echoes around the empty parking lot. A song on the wind, a hymn in an empty church as it bounces into the night. Your head leans back in joy, resting against the side of his car. Relaxed, easy, happy.

“Tonight was fun.” You hum. Jack nods, slowly. Carefully, guarded.

You see it, even in the sway of the uncountable number of drinks you’ve had that only makes you slightly unsteady—you see it clear as day. The way he is bobbing and weaving, ducking and side stepping a truth he’s not quite ready to admit yet. Not as though it’s a particular harrowing one. Your eyebrow flicks up, curiously.

“I didn’t know Shen had that in him.” He says, pointedly neutral.

“Neither did I. You must have brought it out.” You push. “Everyone was really happy to see you.”

A grimace pulls to his lips, small yet noticeable. It confirms a suspicion, then.

Jack Abbot can banter without issue. He can do the sincerity and the comfort when it comes to someone else needing it. But in this moment, cool, confident, and steady Jack Abbot actively avoids acknowledging a truth that implies something good about him��admitting that people wanted him around and that he actually had a good time.

“Someone just needed to make sure you guys didn’t burn down half of Pittsburgh. And drive your drunk ass home.” He demeans, disguises, dissuades.

Maybe it’s not that serious. Maybe it’s just a defense mechanism he uses when near drunk people, a release of a pressure gauge but for some reason you’re not having it. Blame it on drunken fixations, but they’re the heart of sober thoughts. You’re on the crux of something, inching closer and closer to the soft center of the man. Spurned on by little more than his continued dodging and the need to know, you ask. “Why did you come tonight?”

Surprise colors his features for a second before he schools it. “Morale boost.”

“For the team or for you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think that you wanted to come out this whole time.” You dig. He stiffens, minutely.

“You promised ‘Single Ladies’. It was too good to ignore.” He says, stilted. Almost forced.

“No, before that. You wanted to come. You’re just using that as an excuse to justify it.”

“What are you trying to say?” His gaze turns stony, his voice curt.

His lips are drawn tight as he stares the particular Dr. Jack Abbot speciality into you. You should probably feel intimidated, should probably be scared into a dynamic of hierarchy between you two, should probably heed the warning signs that crease in his crow’s feet and settle in the lines of his small frown that tell you to stop where you stand.

You don’t. You stare back, equal in your press into him.

(Because you’ve seen the softness before, know it exists. It was only a few weeks ago that he drove you home, sat at your table, talked to you like it was the easiest thing in the world. Only a few months ago Jack made it a habit to start meeting you at each of your shifts with your coffee mug in hand, a quiet check-in in his eyes. Only a few days ago the two of you lost yourselves in the safety of a bubble built by the two of you in the midst of a chaos.

You know where the softness sits, you know it will keep creeping out.

And right here, right now, you can see how he tries to lock it away. Pretends that it doesn’t exist with all of the good in him.)

“I’m saying you’re allowed to want something for once, Jack.” You tell him, honestly. “You’re allowed to want, and to hope, and to have faith that for a moment something good will happen if you let it in. You’re allowed to want something and have it, because you deserve it.”

He says nothing. Only stares. A charged silence buoys between you two, lit only by the haziness of the street lamp. A warmed yet dulled light that casts a gentle halo around the suppleness of your face—soft and angelic as you peer up at him.

To anyone else, your words would be the ramblings of a drunken woman. Let off the tongue with nonsensical meanings. Prompted by nothing, and supported by whims. To Jack, it’s something else entirely. Not the once foreboding noose— the omen of the invitation, the threat of giving in. What he thought would be a long fraying rope beckoning for the sounds of his choking is replaced instead with you. Your hands, warm, and soft, and well-meaning that wrap around his throat and squeeze until his breath gets caught in his chest. Your nails digging in the skin in search of something he has long since buried. Fingers tenderly massaging out the truth, his reckoning, his undoing.

The in-between of your words isn’t hard to make out. Something good will happen if you let it in.

If you let me in.

He wonders if you know how close you are to getting to it. He wonders if he even knows how close it is to being released.

The night hums softly. Beckoning a closeness that is filled with a hostile tensity. Like peace and war, heat and ice, fusing into one. Becoming the energy that you both fuel. That something—the one that seems to follow you two when moments like this fall, when it’s quiet and the two of you acknowledge that the air feels weird—is here.

Loudly silent. Quietly screaming.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He gives, finally.

“Yeah. You are.” You huff out a breath. Then, with the familiar sound of a door being knocked on, you say. “I’m glad you came out. It made my night better, too.”

Your eyes flick down to his lips. His do the same. A question sits in the air.

Will you let me in?

He swallows, then makes his choice. Buckles the armor up his chest, shuts the door that has been creeping open all this time, that you’ve been pushing against. He locks it, keeps you barred on the other side.

“You gonna get in?” He asks, nodding his head to the car.

The air spoils as quickly as it was heated. Now cold and void with all of the things left unsaid.

You nod, simply. Leaving well enough alone. “Yeah. Okay.”

He opens the passenger door for you quietly, his hand hovering over you slightly as you step up into the seat, but he never touches you. You buckle yourself in, silent as he enters through the other side. Then he drives you home. It’s quiet, a suffocating, choking quiet, but neither of you make any effort to break it. The radio buzzes on the lowest volume, only barely filling the void.

You thank him for the ride when he gets to your apartment. He nods his head. You go inside and he watches until you're safely inside before peeling off on the road.

He pointedly tries not to think about anything the whole way home. Puts it onto the shelf, blocks it out, does everything to not remember how earnestly you looked at him, to not remember how you were the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a long time. But it’s his luck—the old funny thing called karmic fate that this night is the first night that he dreams of something other than the tense soundscapes of agony and grief that plague him and draw short bursts of sleep.

He wakes up with his mouth dry, sweat beaded on his temple, his heart pounding, and the phantom feel of a hand on his chest.

He dreamed of you. Eternal, effervescent, you.

Shrouded in the warm hazy light of a bedroom, your laugh on the wind. A quiet moment of serenity, peace. Enjoying the stillness of you two, basking in the feel of giving in before it transformed into something else. You, then, bare on a bed beneath him, your wistful sighs in the air of his room. A prayer on your tongue, the words that fuel his desire, unlock all that he’s kept held back and that’s released something he hadn’t allowed himself to yearn for. And he knows then that the door that was slightly ajar by your gentle hand, the one he so quickly and concisely shut earlier, has now been thrust open by a gust of wind from his exhaled shaky breath.

“Shit.” He thumps against his pillows in defeat, his hands rubbing at his face harshly.

He admits, here, in the dawn of his bedroom with sunlight slowly filtering in through the curtains, the long held truth. The guilt is tumultuous; roiling and biting. Shredding through his skin, through muscle and tendon and into the marrow of his bones as he realizes, harshly, violently, with a voracious sense of betrayal and fear—

—that he liked it. He liked seeing you in the after hours with your hair down and your smile effortless. Liked seeing you in something other than scrubs and liked hearing the squeal of your laugh. Liked the way you leaned into him throughout the night. Liked watching you, liked being watched by you.

Liked, liked, liked.

For the first time in years, he laughed—truly, belly achingly laughed— and the burden on his shoulders levied just as the lowlights of the bar fell onto the sweetness of your smile. In the sanctity of a spartan bedroom lingering with the last remnants of a life long lost and hollow of his own that aches to be filled, he admits it.

The familiar something that exists everytime the two of you meet has a name.

Want.

And Jack wants you.

All of you.

a/n: imma be real i don’t love this chapter but we need it before we get into the meat and potatoes. i was second guessing myself the entire time and then i remembered this is fanfiction so who CARES

this chapter was inspired by "the lonely fight" by mk.gee :)

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #my writing #ask me and i'm there #jack abbot #jack abott #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction

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toxicanonymity · 2 months ago

Note

feeling so horny 😫 for democracy 😫 and being represented by my elected representatives 😫

used resist bot to remind my representatives here in the hellscape that is my home of florida that their job is to represent us and our needs! not their own financial interests or! their religious beliefs!! also felt the need to remind them of the constitution and it's protections of our voting rights!

anyway, speaking of the constitution, we the people of the toxic fanclub, in order to create a more perfect union between the miller brothers cocks and reader's body, establish boners, insure domestic horniness, provide for the common spank bank, promote the general sexy time, and secure the Blessings of Horny to ourselves and our Posterity, do request more of your beautiful musings on Leopard Print. perhaps dp....

Please, you are too funny, I love you so much 😫😫😫 SAVE act | 5calls | resistbot | ask event | event masterlist

cheetah print, pt. 2 of 2

Joel x f!reader x Tommy, 2k words (part 1 here)

"Pussy’s ours,” Joel said, “But the womb is mine.” He grazed your lower belly. “Want ya blowin’ up round with my baby.”

WARNINGS: 18+, PWP, unsafe PIV, double penetration (double vag; vag/anal), dirty talk, degradation, cream pies, breeding kink, huge loads, body/weight talk, cum inflation, miller incest via DP, fuck it we ball. leopard print au NOTES: My miller bros masterlist has fic recs with more DP. BONUS PART HERE

“So ya wrecked her pussy, huh?” Tommy asked.

“Oof,” Joel answered and kneaded your ass. “See for yourself.” They both watched your pussy cling to to Joel’s cock as he slid back nice and slow and told you, “Face down, ass up, sugar.”

You assumed the position, earning a “good girl” from Joel.

You winced at the emptiness, and at the air hitting your dripping cunt.

“Oh yeah,” Joel observed. He stopped a trickle of cum with his finger and pushed it back in.

“God damn,” Tommy said. “Nice work.”

Joel spread your pussy lips to show Tommy your insides. “See all that?”

“Two loads?” Tommy asked. “I ain’t been gone long enough for three.”

“Just one so far,” Joel bragged.

“No shit,” Tommy said.

“Told ya those supplements work,” Joel replied.

The cum began to trickle out again and this time Tommy was the one to catch it on his finger and slide it back into you. “Mmm…. Look like she could use a plug,” Tommy mused.

“Well i sure as hell ain't done here,” Joel said, “Long as we got that straight.”

“Yes sir,” Tommy said and untied his board shorts.

“What are you waitin’ for,” Joel asked, “Plug her up.”

Tommy slid into you, easily bottomed out. “Wrecked ya good, huh?” he murmured. Your pussy winked at his words.

“Ooh, she still got it though,” Tommy remarked.

With another shift of his hips, Tommy plugged you up good. “There ya go,” Tommy whispered.

He held your hips and stayed fully seated inside you, keeping you full, plugging Joel’s cum in your cunt, presumably until Joel was ready to give you more.

Joel positioned himself in front of you, softening cock in his hand. “Give’m a kiss, baby,” he directed you. You lowered your head, with Tommy’s cock still in your pussy, and took the head of Joel’s cock into your mouth.

“Good girl. Easy now.” You sucked him nice and easy while the brothers chatted like you weren’t there.

Tommy asked, “Remember what we talked about the other night?”

“About takin’ a trip up north?” Joel asked with his cock hardening again in your mouth.

“Nah, ‘bout how it’s been a few years since we, uh. . . Shared a hole. At the same time, I mean. Still think this one’s up to it?”

“Guess we better try her on and find out,” Joel said and twitched in your mouth. “Think there’s room?” he asked his brother.

Tommy did a little swirl of his hips and said, ”yeah, you got her nice’n open.”

Joel was stiff in your mouth, and told you, “That’s enough.” He got up and went behind Tommy to look at you wrapped around that dick.

Joel tilted his head to look at where your body was joined with his brother’s. “Fuck, man, you gotta tell me if she’s leakin’,” Joel said.

“Just means ya fucked her out good, s’all,” Tommy congratulated him. Tommy demonstrated by scooping up the semen with his fingers and sliding them in along with his cock.

“What’s the goin’ rate for double-vag these days?” Joel asked and your face burned. When you didn’t say anything, he concluded, “Shit, almost forgot you’re in it for the cock, ain’t that right?” Then Joel said to Tommy, “I want her facin’ me. Gotta see the look on her face.”

Then Joel laid face up and held his cock for you and said, “C’mere, sugar.”

As you sank down on Joel’s cock, he said “Look at you all fucked out already. He looked your body up and down. “God damn.” He palmed your tits, slid his hands down your abdomen, and as he raked his fingers over your lower belly, he said, “Tommy ain’t gonna come in here, know why?”

“Cause you found me first? This pussy’s yours?”

“Nuh-uh. This pussy’s ours,” Joel said, “But the womb is mine.” He grazed your lower belly affectionately with his knuckles. “Want ya blowin’ up round with my baby.” The image made you throb harder.

“C’mere,” Joel whispered and hugged you toward him.

In the background, Tommy was lubing up his cock. Then he got in position behind you and used two lubed up fingers to push Joel’s cock down in your cunt, making room for his own cock on top. Tommy’s tip prodded at your hole but didn’t go in. Then he used his fingers to help more. He pushed the head in, wedging it in, smushed on top of Joel’s cock, making you gasp. Then he used his fingers to help push the head in more and adjust your walls so they hugged the tip comfortably. Joel tilted his hip to let out a couple of inches.

“Ready?” Joel asked.

“Yeah,” Tommy answered, strained.

Joel counted, “one, two,” then Tommy pushed half his cock in as Joel’s length slid back into you.

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed at the stretch. “Fuck fuck fuck, oh, god.”

Joel smiled as he read the combined pain and pleasure on your face. “She’s good,” he told Tommy. Tommy bit his lip and slid in further, making Joel moan.

“Good girl,” he praised you. “Look at you, takin’ both these big dicks,” he marveled.

Your cunt burned and so did your upper body. Two men had their cocks in your cunt at the same time, and their cocks weren’t small. It embararssed you and turned you on.

“Good girl,” Tommy echoed. “How’d ya know that was gonna work?” he asked Joel.

“She’s just got that look about her,” Joel said. “Moment I laid eyes on her, knew anything was possible.”

“Guess so,” Tommy agreed.

“Plus,” joel continued. “The way she sat right down on your cock last time, and all I did was open the truck door? God damn…. Fuck, that was hot”

You moaned at the memory and mounting pleasure as your body adjusted to the double girth.

“Yeah,” Joel whispered. “You liked that.” He rocked his hips under you, making Tommy grunt at the friction.

“You sure are somethin’,” Tommy muttered.

“She’s my somethin’,” Joel reminded him. “How’s it feel sugar?” Joel asked.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “God, I’m fuck, I’m so stuffed. Packed.”

Both men moaned and twitched at your words.

“God, it’s so much, like I could burst,” you said. “Just totally stuffed.”

“Yeah?How ya fittin’ us anyway?” Joel asked.

“It’s like everything’s moved out of the way,” you said. “Like, all my insides are pushed apart and up,” you panted, then took a moment for a deep breath. “Like pushing up on my lungs even,” you took another deep breath, then sighed. You reached your hand between you and Joel and felt your tummy. “Fuck, I’m full,” you said.

Joel fucked you slowly. “Yeah, takin’ these cocks real good. Girl like you needs two cocks, huh? You got the hungriest cunt, sugar. You’re a real good girl. Best kinda girl. God I love this hungry cunt. So fuckin’ hot.”

“Surprised she can talk,” Tommy said.

“What’d I tell ya?” Joel asked. “She’s a pro….. She was droolin’ for it earlier. Knew she wanted more.”

“Fuck, I’m so packed—ohh,” You moaned with joel sliding in your cunt with his brother’s dick.

“Look so hot, baby,” Joel gushed. “Feel so good, takin’ our cocks.”

“Oh,” you moaned.

“You want some more? Ready for another load?” Joel asked, breathing heavier. “I got more, don’t worry.”

“I dunno, Joel,” Tommy hesitated, “Fraid I might–”

“You better not,” Joel warned. “You know your fuckin’ place.”

Tommy took a deep breath, bit his lip and held still. Joel thrusted a few short strokes, moaning, “oh, yeah,” Then groaned as he pulsed in your cunt, throbbing against your walls and Tommy’s cock as he unleashed a massive load.”

You were speechless, it just pumped and pumped into you. “Fuck, that was a lot,” you panted.

“Ain’t quite—ohh,” Joel moaned, still throbbing. “Fuck,” A few more massive twitches, and he sighed.

“Fuck, I’m gonna blow if I don’t pull out,” Tommy warned.

Joel was exasperated, “Fuck, it’s gonna leak all over the place,” he complained, “gonna be too loose right now.”

Your chest was on fire.

“It’s okay, I — I got it,” Tomy said and squirted lube onto his thumb. He hastily smeared it into your asshole, then pulled out of your overstuffed cunt and slid his used dick right up your taint and started pushing into your ass, making you moan.

Joel was spellbound by the face you made.

“Oh, god,” you said. “Fuck.”

Tommy pushed his dripping cock into your ass, with their cocks now separated by just the thin membrane of your back wall.

“That feel good too, huh?” Joel asked

Your wrecked face answered as yo nodded.

Tommy backed up and slid into you, beginning to fuck you slow. “Oh, yeah,” Tommy whispered, “That’s a tight fuckin’ hole….. Good girl,” he said.

“Fuck, man, I’ve gotta-” Tommy warned.

“Fuck it, fill’er up.” Joel said.

“You sure?” Tommy asked.

“Fill her ass up all ya want,” Joel offered.

“It’s gonna—it’s gonna be a lot,” Tommy warned, fucking you slowly in the ass. It was a different fullness, still completely packed, but without the burn around their cocks.

“Yeah,” Joel said.

Tommy bottomed out and pulsed into your guts, groaning quietly as he came. “It’s—little more,” he panted already having dumped a full load. “Yeah,” he sighed.

You must have had ten loads worth of Miller jizz in you at that point. You’d never felt so full. Not only did they take up so much space inside of you, it felt like you yourself took up more space. Your belly was pushing against Joel’s happy trail. When Tommy finished coming, he affectionately placed his hands on your sides, then whispered, “Oh, wow,” and slid his hands around front a bit, feeling the swell of your belly.

“Thought ya said she wasn’t knocked up yet,” Tommy said, caressing your softer, rounder shape.

“Hell if I know,” Joel said. “Sit up a lil, baby,” he urged you. He slotted his fingers under your arms to help push you up, and tommy moved his hands to cup your tits, pulling you back. “There ya go,” Tommy said.

Joel’s eyes went dark looking at your fuller belly. “Fuck,” he whispered, and his breaths were heavy. His cock twitched in you, and you looked down and cradled your belly in your hands. “Oh my god,” you whispered.

Joel moaned and his eyes were glued to your belly as he erupted again, placing one massive hand on your belly as he came. “Oh baby,” he moaned, feeling your skin tighten under his palm with a little more growth. “Oh, fuck.”

They helped you get cleaned up. The swelling didn’t go down much after you got off their cocks.

You couldn’t keep your hands off your belly. You were bracing your hand on it like you were pregnant as they helped get you dressed. It sloshed as you walked. Joel took a picture and sent it to you because you wanted to know how you looked. Looking at the picture, you figured it was right at the line where it could pass for a very serious beer gut or food baby, or both combined. Maybe. Your tits could barely fit in your swim top, though.

When you rejoined your friend, she was staring blatantly at your swollen stomach. Your face burned, but you didn’t say anything. “You look different,” she said.

“Oh, I gained a few pounds,” you told her. “I really didn’t need that extra popsicle,” you cradled your gut. “It’s like I never stop.”

“I didn’t notice earlier,” she said. “I mean, not that there’s anything to… notice,” still couldn’t peel her eyes away.

“It’s okay,” you told her. You laid down and caressed your bump under the umbrella, dripping with arousal for the rest of the day.

thank you for reading! and thank you for your comments. i've been writing a lot, and your comments and reblogs help keep me going.

And thank you for talking to your senators!

#joel miller x reader x tommy miller #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x reader #joel miller smut #miller brothers #blorbos for democracy #toxicanonymity ☠️#blorbos for democracy ☠️#joel x tommy x reader #joel x reader #we the people anon

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luckyroll3 · 21 days ago

Text

Picture Perfect

Summary: After experiencing loads of chemistry with Chan during a magazine photoshoot, your insomnia leads to a chance encounter with him late night at the hotel pool that turns into an intimate one-on-one private photography session.

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 15,451

You arrive at the studio two hours before the scheduled shoot, the weight of your camera bag a familiar comfort against your hip. The space smells of cleaner and expensive equipment, a scent you've come to associate with the peculiar blend of anxiety and control that defines your work. Your footsteps echo across the polished concrete floor as you flick on the industrial lights, transforming the cavernous room from shadow to clinical brightness. Today’s subjects are from Stray Kids; they’re a global sensation, eight impossibly photogenic men.

This is huge for you and you refuse to be anything less than impeccable.

The studio assistant has already arranged the sets according to your specifications, but you double-check everything anyway. Your reputation for perfectionism precedes you in the industry; it's how you landed this high-profile job in the first place. You adjust a reflector panel by two inches, tweaking the angle until the light bounces exactly right. Not harsh, not flat. Perfect.

You examine the concept boards propped on sleek easels with minimalist black frames housing images of striking contrasts and bold silhouettes. The brief called for "raw authenticity with polish," whatever the hell that means. But you understand the visual language behind the marketing jargon. These men need to look accessible yet untouchable, human yet godlike. The contradiction that sells.

Crouching beside your primary camera, you check the settings for the ninth time. Your fingers dance across the dials with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over as you mentally run through your shot list. Background music flows through hidden speakers; something ambient and unobtrusive, selected to create the illusion of calm in a space that will soon vibrate with heightened energy.

"Checking the histogram?" asks your assistant, materializing with a clipboard and a coffee that's more cream than caffeine.

"Always." You straighten up, rolling your shoulders to release the tension gathering there. "Did the stylist confirm the wardrobe arrived?"

Before she can answer, the atmosphere shifts. The front door swings open, and suddenly the air in the room feels electrified. You hear them before you see them; laughter, rapid-fire Korean interspersed with English, the unmistakable sound of a group that shares years of inside jokes and comfortable chaos.

Stray Kids spill into the studio like paint splashing onto canvas; They are vibrant, impossible to ignore, instantly transforming the space. Your eyes dart from face to face, mentally matching them to the brief profiles you'd studied. The tall one with the intense gaze must be Hyunjin. The one with the angelic features and impossibly deep voice has to be Felix. The one joking loudly and making exaggerated hand gestures is probably Changbin.

While your assistant scurries to greet them formally, you hang back, observing. It's part of your process, watching subjects before they know they're being watched often reveals the most authentic versions of themselves. The group moves like a single organism with eight distinct personalities, a choreography of friendship that speaks of a long-term shared experience.

And then, separated slightly from the playful chaos, your eyes lock with his. Bang Chan. The leader. You'd recognize those dimples anywhere, those intelligent eyes that seem to register everything at once. While the others are still shrugging off jackets and exclaiming over the studio setup, he approaches you directly, purposeful and present.

"Good morning," he says simply, extending his hand. His voice carries a hint of Australia in the vowels, a warmth that seems both professional and personal. "You must be our photographer for today."

His hand meets yours, and the contact sends an unexpected current up your arm. Static electricity, you tell yourself. The dry studio air. Nothing more.

You gave him a calm, practiced smile. "That's me," you respond, impressed by how steady your voice sounds despite the ridiculous flutter in your chest. “And you must be the one they warned me about.”

That earned you a soft chuckle. “Guilty. But I have a feeling they probably warned you about all eight of us.”

"You’re right. ‘Complete and utter chaos’, they said,” you confirm with a smirk. “Welcome to the studio. I've been looking forward to working with you all."

Chan's smile deepens, dimples appearing like punctuation marks on his face. "We've heard great things. Your work with that indie rock band last month, MindSweep, was incredible."

The fact that he's familiar with your portfolio catches you off guard. Most celebrities arrive prepped only with the bare minimum about the shoot itself.

"You've done your research," you say, allowing a small smile.

"Always." His eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "It's important to know who's capturing your image, don't you think?"

Before you can respond, the management team arrives, breaking the moment with schedules and logistics. You slip back into professional mode, addressing the group as a whole, explaining your vision for the shoot, how you'll be working with each of them individually and as a unit.

"We'll start with group shots, then break into individual sessions," you explain, gesturing toward the main set. "The concept is contrast; light against shadow, structured against fluid. I want to capture the duality that defines your group."

As you speak, you notice Chan watching you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. Not a critical stare, but something appreciative; like he's seeing more than just another industry professional running through a routine.

The shoot begins, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of direction and capture. Your voice becomes firm, confident, all business as you position the group, adjust lighting, suggest angles. This is where you shine; behind the lens, control at your fingertips, seeing what others don't.

"Changbin, chin slightly lower. Seungmin, quarter turn to your right. Felix, that's perfect; hold that expression."

Through your viewfinder, eight faces transform under your guidance. You work quickly, efficiently, calling out adjustments and praise in equal measure. But no matter where you point your camera, you keep finding your focus pulled to Chan. The way he positions himself naturally, understanding the composition before you have to explain it. The subtle shift in his expression when the shutter clicks; somehow more present, more aware of the lens than the others.

"Chan, can you move slightly to center? Perfect." Your voice betrays nothing, but when he follows your direction with a knowing half-smile, something unspoken passes between you.

Two hours in, you're reviewing images on your monitor when you sense him behind you, close enough that you can smell the faint notes of his cologne. It’s something woody with subtle hints of vanilla.

"How are we doing?" he asks, voice low near your ear.

You scroll through the images, hyperaware of his presence at your shoulder. "Great. Your group photographs well together."

"Professional harmony," he says with a light laugh. "Over eight years of practice."

"It shows." You stop on a particularly striking image of him, the studio lights catching the angles of his face in a way that emphasizes both strength and vulnerability. "You have a natural instinct for the camera."

"Maybe it's the photographer," he counters, and you refuse to look up, focusing intently on the screen to hide the flush that threatens to rise to your cheeks.

When you move to individual shots, the energy shifts again. Each member brings a different presence to the set: I.N with his fashion-forward confidence; Hyunjin with his intense, almost theatrical expressions; Lee Know with his effortless cool that makes every frame look like an editorial spread.

During Han's session, you catch Chan watching from the sidelines, his gaze moving between you and the set with quiet assessment. When he catches you noticing, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers that same half-smile that somehow makes you feel both seen and challenged.

"Chan, you're up next," you call after concluding with Seungmin, who thanks you with surprising formality before bouncing back to make fun of Changbin, who promptly pulls the younger member into a headlock.

Chan steps into the light with an ease that speaks of countless photoshoots, but there's something different about his demeanor now; a focused intensity directed at you rather than the camera. As you approach to adjust his position, your hand briefly touches his shoulder, and the contact, though professional, feels charged with meaning.

"Turn slightly toward the light," you instruct, your voice lower than intended. "I want to capture the contrast between shadow and illumination on your face."

He complies, but his eyes remain fixed on yours rather than looking into the lens. "Like this?"

You step closer, reaching up to adjust the angle of his jaw with your fingertips. The touch is clinical, something you've done with countless models, but your pulse quickens embarrassingly.

"Almost. Look past the camera, not at it. I'm trying to capture contemplation."

He holds the pose perfectly, and you retreat behind your camera, grateful for the barrier. Through the viewfinder, you see him differently; fragmented into composition, light, and form. It's easier to maintain professionalism when reducing him to artistic elements.

"Perfect," you murmur, capturing frame after frame. "Now, relax your shoulders,” you say, voice low. “Think less magazine cover, more… album you made for yourself but never released.”

His brow arches with amused curiosity, but he follows your direction. And when he exhales, the wall drops. The image you capture in that instant is breathtaking; it makes your heart skip.

“Now, don’t move but look directly at the lens."

When he does, the intensity in his gaze seems to bypass the camera entirely, connecting with you despite the equipment between you. Your finger hesitates on the shutter for a fraction of a second before continuing.

Throughout his individual session, you maintain the appearance of cool professionalism, but there's an undeniable current running beneath each exchange. His responses to your direction come just a beat slower than necessary, as if he's considering each word. When you show him a particularly striking image on the camera display, his shoulder presses against yours briefly, and neither of you moves away.

Chan hovers near your table as you scroll through the preview reel on your laptop.

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

You tilt the screen toward him. One of him leaning against a pillar, looking half-bored, half-thoughtful.

He laughs. “I look like I just told someone they disappointed me.”

“It’s honest,” you say. “People like honesty.”

Your eyes meet again. Something soft flickered there; recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.

"I like how you see things," he says quietly, for your ears alone.

The final group shots are a controlled chaos of eight bodies and distinct personalities coming together under your direction. You navigate around the set, occasionally brushing past Chan as you reposition lights or adjust compositions. Each momentary contact feels deliberate on both sides, though nothing could be proven.

From across the room, you notice Felix whispering something to Seungmin while glancing between you and Chan. Seungmin responds with an eye roll that dissolves into a knowing smile. They've noticed something; perhaps the same electrical current you've been trying to ignore.

"Last set," you announce, positioning the group for the final concept. "I want movement in this one; natural interaction, nothing posed."

They fall into comfortable chaos: Changbin playfully headlocking Seungmin, Hyunjin dramatically posing while Han pretends to faint at his beauty, Lee Know trying to kiss I.N. while the youngest recoils in horror as he laughs, and Felix grinning brightly at all the chaos. Chan maintains his position slightly apart, his eyes finding yours over the top of your camera with unmistakable intent. When Han yells something loudly in Korean, Chan breaks the intense eye contact and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

You capture it all: the friendship, the playfulness, the subtle thread of tension that runs between you and the group's leader. In the viewfinder, they're just images, compositions of light and shadow. But the feeling in the studio, particularly when Chan's gaze meets yours, that's something no camera can fully capture.

When you finally call the shoot complete, the group erupts in relieved laughter and thank-yous. As they gather their personal items and the stylists begin packing up, Chan lingers near the equipment, examining your camera setup with genuine interest.

"This lens," he says, gesturing but not touching, respectful of your equipment. "It's the same one you used for that editorial last spring, isn't it? The one with all the dramatic shadows."

The fact that he remembers such a specific detail about your work catches you off-guard again. "Good eye," you reply, impressed despite yourself. "Most people wouldn't notice the difference."

He shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow manages to highlight the line of his shoulders. "I pay attention to things that interest me."

The statement hangs in the air between you, ambiguous enough to be professional, specific enough to be something more. Before you can respond, his manager calls him over to discuss scheduling, and the moment stretches thin, unresolved.

As the group prepares to leave, Chan turns back, catching your eye across the now-cluttered studio. The smile he offers is different from the ones he's given all day; smaller, more private, like a secret between the two of you. You nod slightly in acknowledgment, already knowing that the photographs you've captured today, technically perfect as they may be, won't fully convey what passed unspoken between photographer and subject.

You're coiling the last of the lighting cables as the clamor of eight voices, stylists' directions, and management's hurried phone calls has dissolved into a humming silence punctuated only by the soft clicks of your equipment being packed away. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, casting the space in a warm glow that softens the industrial edges of the room. You look up to find Chan standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your hands fumble slightly with the cable. You didn't realize he had stayed behind.

"I thought you left with the others," you say, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet studio. You loop the cable with methodical precision, focusing on the task to maintain composure.

"The others went ahead to dinner." His voice carries easily across the space between you. "I told them I'd catch up."

You nod, placing the coiled cable in its designated case. The studio feels smaller somehow with just the two of you in it, as though the walls have inched closer. Your movements are deliberate, professional, a contrast to the inexplicable nervousness fluttering beneath your ribs.

"Everything go okay with the shoot?" you ask, though you already know the answer. The images captured today were some of your best work, partly due to the subject matter, though you're reluctant to admit that to him.

Chan pushes away from the doorframe and moves into the room with unhurried confidence. His presence seems amplified in the emptiness, drawing your attention even as you pretend to focus on closing equipment cases and checking memory cards.

"Better than okay," he says, approaching your workstation where the monitor still displays the last image you were reviewing, coincidentally, one of him, eyes direct and challenging the camera. "I've done hundreds of these, you know. But this one felt different."

You glance up, meeting his gaze. "Different how?"

He considers the question, running a hand through his tousled hair in a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Most photographers see what they want to see. You seemed to be looking for what was actually there."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s specific, thoughtful, not the generic praise you typically receive. You turn away, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, his presence radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with the studio lighting.

"That's the job," you respond, closing the laptop with a soft click. "Finding the truth in the performance."

Chan makes a sound that’s half laugh, half acknowledgement. "Is that what you think I was doing? Performing?"

You look up at him again, allowing yourself a moment of professional assessment. "Everyone performs in front of a camera. It's human nature."

"And what about now?" He gestures to the empty studio. "No camera. No audience. Am I still performing?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with implication. His expression is open, curious, with something simmering beneath the surface that quickens your pulse.

"I don't know," you answer honestly. Most of the celebrities you meet are always on, camera or not, audience or not. "Are you?"

His smile appears slowly, creating those dimples that the camera loves so much. In the softened studio light, they appear deeper, more intimate somehow.

He ignores your question. "Thank you," he says suddenly, the phrase landing with unexpected significance.

You tilt your head slightly. "For the shoot? Just doing my job."

"No." He shakes his head, taking another step closer. "For seeing us, seeing me, the way you did. The pictures were..." he searches for the word, "honest."

You find yourself mirroring his movement, drawn forward by some invisible pull until barely two feet separate you. The air feels charged, like the moment before a flash fires.

"Honesty makes for better art," you say, your voice dropping to match the intimate atmosphere that's developed around you both.

"Is that what brought you to photography? The pursuit of honesty?" His questions feel deeper than the typical post-shoot small talk, probing gently at your passion rather than just your process.

You consider how to answer, surprised by your desire to offer something genuine rather than the practiced responses you usually give. "Partly. I like finding the moments between the moments, I guess. The truth that exists when people think no one's watching."

Chan's eyes hold yours, and for a second, you feel as exposed as if you were the one in front of the lens. "Like how you were watching me today when you thought I wouldn't notice?"

Heat rises to your face, and you're grateful for the dim lighting. "I was doing my job," you counter, though the defense sounds weak even to your ears.

"Very thoroughly," he agrees, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip. "Especially during my individual session. I counted at least twice as many shots as the others got."

"Some subjects require more work," you reply, surprising yourself with the boldness of your response.

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet studio. "Ouch. Is that how you talk to all your clients?"

"Only the ones who hang around after hours to critique my process."

"Not critiquing," he corrects, his hand coming to rest casually on the edge of the desk, inches from your own. "Appreciating."

The proximity of his fingers to yours creates a tangible tension, a magnetic field you feel compelled to either break or complete. You remain still, neither of you retreating or advancing.

"You know," Chan continues, his voice lower now, "I requested you specifically for this shoot."

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Your work has this... rawness to it. Even with all the commercial gloss, there's something uncalculated about your images. It's rare in this industry."

You find yourself momentarily speechless, touched by the specificity of his observation. Most people in his position would hardly give a second thought to who was behind the camera.

"I’m sure the label had several options," you say, recovering. "I assumed they made the final call."

"They did… after I made my preference clear." His fingers drum lightly on the desk, still tantalizingly close to yours. "I can be persuasive when I decide I want something."

There's that unspoken current again, running beneath his words, charging the exchange with meaning that extends beyond professional admiration. You should probably create some distance, maintain the boundary between photographer and subject, but your feet remain rooted to the spot.

"Well, I'm flattered," you say, aiming for nonchalance despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Though you might be overestimating my talent."

"I don't think so." His response is immediate, genuine.

Your phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the moment. You glance down to see your assistant's text asking if everything wrapped up okay and if you need her to come back. The real world intruding on whatever bubble had formed around you and Chan.

"I should finish packing up," you say, though most of the equipment is already secured.

Chan straightens, giving you space, though reluctance is evident in his posture. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."

You busy yourself with the remaining equipment, aware of his presence as he moves to the doorway again, one hand coming to rest on the pillar in a casual pose that somehow manages to highlight the lean strength of his body. Even in this unguarded moment, he's naturally photogenic, and your fingers itch for your camera.

"I meant what I said about your work," he says as you shoulder your camera bag. "It's special. You see things others miss."

You allow yourself to meet his gaze again, abandoning the pretense of professional detachment. "And what do you think I see when I look at you, Chan?"

The question is bolder than you intended, stripping away the polite veneer that's characterized your interaction so far. His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, more intense.

"I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "But I'd like to find out." There’s a smirk on his face that you try to ignore as you sling your tote bag around your body and pick up your box of equipment.

You move toward the door where he stands, knowing you need to leave but reluctant to end whatever this is. As you approach, he remains in place, his body creating a partial barrier that will require you to pass close to him.

“Thank you again for today,” he says softly. “You’ve got a really calm energy. Kind of rare in rooms like this.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Thank you for being a great subject,” you respond as you readjust the box to hold your hand out to him. “Hopefully I’ll get to work with your group again.”

He takes your hand in his and squeezes gently. “Hopefully.” He holds onto your hand for a second too long, before releasing.

As you move by him, he remains close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest, a contact that could be dismissed as accidental but feels entirely deliberate.

At the threshold, you pause and look back at him, standing in the glow of the studio, somehow looking like he belongs there. The day has been a symphony of unspoken communication, charged glances, and professional pretense masking growing attraction. Now, on the cusp of leaving, that attraction crystallizes into something palpable enough to touch.

As you finally turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

"And for the record," he says, "I wasn't performing today. Not with you."

You glance back over your shoulder, allowing yourself one last look at his face, memorizing the way the fading light catches his features. "I know," you reply simply. "That's what made it interesting."

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

You stare at the hotel ceiling, counting the tiny stucco bumps until your eyes cross and uncross. Sleep is playing hard to get tonight, flirting with your consciousness before ghosting you completely. The digital clock on the nightstand flashes 2:17 AM like it's mocking you. Your body also still hums from the shoot. You’re creatively energized and emotionally restless thanks to the residual adrenaline, as your mind replays today's session on an endless loop, specifically the moments when Chan's eyes found yours over the camera lens, the way his voice dropped when speaking only to you.

You reach for your phone, then think better of it. Your brain won't be silenced by another mindless scroll through social media or the muted sitcom reruns playing on the hotel TV.

"Fuck it," you whisper to the empty room half an hour later. With a frustrated sigh, you kick off the suffocating sheets and pad to your suitcase. If sleep is determined to evade you, you might as well do something about it. You pull out the yellow bikini you packed out of habit and a thin cotton cover-up that's seen better days but feels like an old friend against your skin. Hotels equal pools equal bikinis; simple traveler's math.

The elevator ascends silently as it carries you to the rooftop, the mirrors reflecting a woman caught in the liminal space between exhaustion and alertness. You pad across the marbled hallway and stop at the glass doors. According to the information packet in your room, the pool closes at midnight, but your keycard still grants access. Either someone forgot to update the system, or night swimming is the hotel's unspoken perk for insomniacs. You push through the glass doors into the night.

The rooftop deck appears as a midnight oasis, the pool a rectangle of liquid sapphire, illuminated from below by lights that pulse gently between shades of blue as moonlight dances across the water’s surface. The water glitters under the night sky, empty and peaceful, while silver patterns shift and reform with each gentle ripple. The city sprawls below in a patchwork of lights, but up here exists in a bubble of quiet separate from the urban pulse.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

You kick off your flip flops and drop the cover-up onto a lounge chair, its fabric forming a crumpled shape. You slip into the pool without ceremony, sighing as the warmth wraps around your skin when you slide beneath the surface. This is exactly what you needed, something real and immediate to wash away the day’s lingering electricity.

You float on your back, eyes open to the vast spill of stars above, letting your thoughts dissolve into the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. Your eyes gently close as the water plugs your ears against the world, creating a private universe as the silence holds you.

A splash shatters your tranquil solitude. It’s almost silent, signifying the execution of a clean dive.

You jerk upright, treading water, as a figure cuts through the water just below the surface with practiced grace and professional looking strokes, powerful arms slicing through the blue. When the swimmer surfaces with a satisfied inhale and exhale and pushes hair back from his face, your heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against your ribs.

Chan.

He freezes and his eyes widen when they meet yours, recognition sparking between you like the underwater lights reflecting on the pool's surface. His surprised expression mirrors your own.

"Oh," he says, his Australian accent coating the syllable in honey as he treads water. "I didn't think anyone else was… I can go if you want privacy."

"No!" The word comes out louder, quicker than you intended. "I mean, it’s fine; it's a big pool. Plenty of room for two insomniacs."

His laugh is low and warm, creating ripples around his shoulders where they break the water's plane. "Is that what we are? Fellow members of the Can't Sleep Club?"

"Charter members," you confirm, treading water at what feels like a respectful distance. "I was halfway through counting those ceiling bumps when I had to bail."

Chan grins, accompanied by those infamous dimples. "I was writing lyrics in my head. Same ones I've been stuck on for three days. Figured maybe they'd flow better in water."

"Does that work? The water thing?"

He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, droplets flying from his fingertips like tiny diamonds. "Sometimes. Water, shower, driving; places where your body's busy but your mind can wander. You know what I mean?"

You do. You tell him about your own creative process, surprised at how the conversation flows easily, the water providing a buffer against the awkwardness of speaking with someone you spent the day assessing and photographing.

“What about you? What’s keeping you up?”

"Same disease, different symptoms." You don't mention that he, specifically, has been the primary thought keeping you awake. "The ceiling in my room was starting to mock me."

Chan laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the open-air space. "Mine was definitely judging my life choices."

He swims closer with lazy, confident strokes, coming to rest a respectful distance away. Water beads across his shoulders and collarbones, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds.

"So," he begins, "do you crash hotel pools after 2 AM often, or am I witnessing a rare event?"

"Only when particularly photogenic boy band leaders keep me from sleeping," you quip before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a horrifying second, you think you've overstepped. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Oh? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality that made an impression."

"That too," you concede, relaxing into the banter. "Though your dimples did most of the heavy lifting."

He splashes a small wave of water in your direction, the playful gesture breaking any remaining tension. "And here I spent all those years developing my musical talents when I could've just smiled my way to success."

You splash him back without hesitation. "Don't sell yourself short. Your music isn’t that bad,” you add with a smirk, causing him to laugh loudly.

"You’re funny. So do you leave tomorrow?" he asks, gliding even closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water.

"Yeah, I'm covering a music festival in Austin on Saturday for an online magazine. Arts and culture beat."

"We fly out tomorrow too. We have a couple performances in Tokyo before heading back to Seoul." His gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, and the water suddenly feels warmer against your skin.

The two of you drift into an easy conversation. You talk about music; not just his, though you do mention a B-side from their last album that you particularly love, watching his face light up with pride. He asks thoughtful questions about your work, listening with his whole body, nodding and responding in ways that make it clear he's not just waiting for his turn to speak.

He’s different in this setting: looser, softer. He's not Bang Chan the performer right now; he's just Chan, a guy with tired eyes and a bright smile that seems to pull from somewhere genuine. And when you laugh together, it doesn’t feel like a first-time thing. It feels familiar.

"That's exactly what I was trying to express in that track," he says, after you describe how a certain chord progression in one of his songs made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and beautiful. "Like you're about to jump, and you don't know if you'll fly or fall, but the not knowing is what makes it worth doing."

The conversation shifts to art, to creativity, to the way certain combinations of notes or words or colors can crack something open inside a person. You're both moving in lazy circles now, sometimes drifting closer, sometimes apart, like binary stars locked in orbit.

"I’m surprised you've actually listened to our music. I thought maybe you just did your homework for the shoot."

"I like to understand what I'm capturing," you admit. "But I was a fan of your production style before I knew about this job. The layering you do with vocal harmonies on your solo tracks is..." You pause, searching for the right word. "It's architectural. I mean, it’s also there in many of the group songs, you singing harmonies in the background, but it’s more pronounced on the songs you record by yourself."

Chan moves closer, genuinely intrigued now. "Most people don't notice that stuff."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving yours. "You definitely aren't."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the gentle sound of water as you both tread calmly.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice is softer now, more intimate.

"Depends on the question."

"What made you become a photographer? Like, really; not the answer you give in interviews."

The unexpected depth of his question catches you off-guard. You consider deflecting with humor but find yourself wanting to give him honesty instead.

"I was always the observer," you tell him. "The kid on the periphery watching how people interact, capturing moments in my mind before I ever had a camera. Photography just gave me a legitimate reason to keep watching."

Chan nods slowly, absorbing your words. "That makes sense. You have that quality of seeing beyond what people present."

"What about you?" you ask. "Was music always the path?"

"Always," he confirms with absolute certainty. "Even when I was being passed over for groups and debut and my parents were gently suggesting backup plans. Music wasn't just what I wanted to do; it was the only way I made sense to myself."

His hand gestures animatedly as he speaks, sending small ripples across the water's surface. One hand comes to rest briefly on your arm to emphasize a point, and the contact, though fleeting, sends warmth radiating through you despite the cool water.

"I get that," you say. "Some pursuits aren't choices, they're necessities."

He studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Exactly. That's exactly it."

You've drifted closer during the conversation, close enough now that you can see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"You know what's funny?" Chan says, his voice softer now. "I came up here to be alone, but this is the first time today I've felt like I could breathe properly."

"The irony of finding peace with a stranger in a pool at 3 AM isn't lost on me," you reply, and he laughs again, the sound rippling across the water's surface like rain.

"Are we still strangers, though?" he asks, and there's a genuine curiosity there, a head tilt that makes water droplets run from his hair down the curve of his neck.

You consider this. "Maybe not. Maybe we're... temporal friends. Friends for tonight."

"I like that," he says, swimming closer. "Temporal friends with potential."

"Potential for what?" The question hangs between you, heavy with possibility.

Instead of answering, he floats onto his back, staring up at the slice of sky visible above the hotel's glass barriers. You join him, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you drift. The contact sends tiny electric currents through your body each time it happens.

"Some people are just blips," he says eventually. "And some are turning points."

The philosophical tone surprises you. "Which am I?"

His hand finds yours underwater, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."

When you both right yourselves again, you're closer than before, your hands still touching. Close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his eyebrows, the moles scattered across his face and neck that makeup usually conceals. There's a small scar peeking out from the edge of his swim shorts on his hip; it makes you want to trace it with your fingertips.

"Today, during the shoot," he says quietly. "There was something there, wasn't there? I wasn't imagining it?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "No. You weren't imagining it."

"And now?" he asks. When you don’t say anything, he continued. "I have a confession," he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates pleasantly against your sternum despite the water between you.

"Should I be worried?"

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you from earlier today."

Heat that has nothing to do with the pool temperature rises to your cheeks. "Oh really?"

He nods, one hand reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "How you talked about your philosophy for taking pictures, capturing the moments in between.”

His hand lingers near your face, and something shifts in the air between you. The playful banter recedes like a tide, leaving something more raw and honest in its wake.

"Chan…," you start, not entirely sure what you're going to say next.

"I like how you say my name," he interrupts softly. "Not like you're saying the name of someone you've heard of. Like you know me."

His arm brushes against yours as a slight current pulls you both toward the center of the pool. Neither of you moves away. The contact is deliberate now, the press of skin against skin underwater creating a different kind of conversation.

“Funny,” he says, bobbing in front of you. “I didn’t think the most memorable part of today would happen after the shoot.”

You look at him. “Are you trying to be charming?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

Instead of answering, you move closer. So does he. And then the space between your bodies disappears.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks quietly, and the directness of it, the simple honesty, makes your breath catch.

You nod, and he eliminates the remaining distance between you with a smile that's equal parts shy and certain. His lips touch yours with cautious pressure, cool from the water but warming quickly. It's tentative at first. Slow, exploring, questioning. But when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you open to him with a small sound that seems to echo across the water's surface.

His hands find your waist underwater, drawing you flush against him and anchoring you to him as your legs tangle together to stay afloat. The sensation of being weightless while he holds you makes every touch feel amplified.

You break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Around you, the water ripples with the movement of your bodies, small waves lapping against the pool's edge like applause.

"That was..." he trails off, searching for words.

"Good potential," you finish for him, and his laugh is breathless against your mouth before he kisses you again, more certain this time, his hands moving from your waist down to your ass.

You can feel every inch where your bodies connect: the firm plane of his chest against yours, the brush of his thighs against your own, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip. The water seems to echo the sound of your combined breaths, magnifying them in the quiet night.

When you pull away again, his eyes are darker, more intense than before. The playful musician has been replaced by something more primal, more focused. It sends a shiver down your spine despite the warm water.

"My room or yours?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.

You consider for a moment. "Mine's on the twelfth floor."

"Mine's on the fourteenth, but we’re more likely to get interrupted by my bandmates. They’re a bit… mischievous. And nosey."

"Mine it is," you agree, and there's a moment where you both just look at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold you're about to cross.

He kisses you once more, softly, before you both swim to the edge of the pool. You climb out first, water cascading from your body, suddenly aware of how your bikini clings to every curve. Chan follows, and you allow yourself to appreciate the way water runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest and arms, highlighting the definition of muscles that his usual oversized hoodies conceal.

He retrieves your cover-up from the lounge chair, holding it open for you with a gentlemanly flourish that makes you snort with laughter, breaking the tension. He grabs his own t-shirt, using it to roughly dry his hair before pulling it on over his wet skin. It seems neither of you remembered to bring towels for your late night swim.

As you walk toward the elevator, leaving damp footprints across the marble floor, his hand finds yours again. It's such a simple gesture, fingers lacing together, but it carries the weight of intention. This isn't just about physical attraction. There's a connection here that transcends the random chance of two insomniacs finding each other in a hotel pool at 3 AM.

The elevator doors close, and Chan leans against the wall, still holding your hand, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Still temporal friends?" he asks.

"With increasingly clear potential," you answer, and his laugh follows you all the way down to the twelfth floor.

When you and Chan finally make it back to your room, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels inevitable.

You fumble with the key card, your breath hitching when Chan’s hand brushes your hip, casual but deliberate. You open the door and step aside to let him in. The room is dim, painted in soft golds from the city lights bleeding through the windows.

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a decision made. The two of you stand in the dim entryway for a moment, water still dripping from both your bodies, the air between you thick with anticipation. You're suddenly aware of how small the space feels with Chan's presence filling it. His eyes catch the subdued light from the bedside lamp you'd left on earlier, turning them to liquid amber. The wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to imagination yet somehow making you hungrier to see what's beneath. A small puddle forms where you both stand, neither of you moving, the moment suspended between hesitation and inevitability.

"So," Chan says, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh that humanizes him instantly. "This is the part where I'd normally make a joke about being all wet, but I'm trying not to be that guy."

"You just made the joke while saying you weren't going to make it," you point out, grateful for the tension breaker.

"Fuck. I did, didn't I?" His dimples deepen as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "Let me try again. Hi, I'm the hot guy from the pool who can't stop looking at your mouth."

Heat blooms between your legs. "Much better," you say, stepping closer. "I'm the girl who's thinking about peeling that shirt off you."

"Thinking about it, or...?" He lets the question hang.

In response you reach for him, bringing your lips to his.

The kiss is different now; deeper, more urgent. You curl your fingers into the hem of his soaked t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. He raises his arms to help, and the wet fabric makes a soft sucking sound as it releases his skin. You break the kiss to pull it the rest of the way over his head. You drop it to the floor with a soft splat, your eyes tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen.

His hands settle on your ass, thumbs brushing the bare skin just beneath the bikini bottom.

He kisses down your neck slowly, as if savoring each inch of you. You shiver as his teeth graze your collarbone.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.

He chuckles against your skin. “Only if you want me to be.”

His palms slide over your ass, up your back, around your front and across your tits until they find the tie of your cover-up, tugging gently. "Fair's fair," he murmurs.

The light fabric falls open, then to the floor, and his breath catches audibly at the sight of your bikini-clad body. His eyes travel a slow path from your collarbone to your hardened nipples probing through the fabric, then down your stomach to your thighs, appreciation evident in the way his pupils dilate.

"You're staring," you whisper.

"Can you blame me?" His voice has a rough edge to it now. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself. The hot photographer from my shoot is standing in my hotel room in a wet bikini."

"Your hotel room is on the fourteenth floor," you remind him with a smirk. "This is my room."

"Details," he dismisses with a wave, stepping close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Important detail, though: I really want to kiss you again."

"Then do it."

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. This kiss is more deliberate, more knowing. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste chlorine and the steak he had for dinner. You press closer, your damp skin meeting his, and he groans into your mouth.

Your fingers dance along his spine, feeling each vertebra, mapping the terrain of his back. His hands move from your face to your shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of your breasts through the wet bikini top.

"This needs to go," he murmurs against your lips, fingers finding the tie at your back. He pulls to loosen it.

"Yours too," you reply, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts.

There's a moment of clumsy, laughing urgency as you both shed the last of your wet clothes. Chan's swim shorts stick to his thighs, requiring an ungraceful hopping movement that makes you both dissolve into giggles. But the laughter dies in your throat when he stands before you, fully naked and unashamed.

His body is a testament to discipline. It’s all lean muscle under smooth skin, the definition of his abdomen leading your eyes downward to where he's already hard for you.

"Your turn," he says, his voice lower now, serious.

You reach behind your neck to untie the second set of strings of your bikini top, letting it fall away to the ground. Chan’s sharp intake of breath is more gratifying than any practiced compliment. His eyes darken as he takes in your bare breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious gesture of want. The bikini bottoms follow, sliding down your legs to join the puddle of wet materials at your feet.

For a moment, you just look at each other, naked in more ways than one.

"You're fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes the words feel like more than a line, more than what you say in these moments.

"So are you," you reply, meaning it.

He closes the distance between you again, and the first touch of his naked skin against yours pulls a gasp from your throat. His erection presses hard against your stomach as his arms encircle you, hands splaying across your back to pull you closer.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. You walk backward toward the bed, unwilling to break contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Chan follows you down as you fall back, his body covering yours, hips settling naturally between your spread thighs.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he admits against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Standing behind that camera, completely in control."

Your fingers trail slowly down his back. "And now?"

His smile is wicked, dimples appearing like punctuation marks to his intent. "Now it's my turn to capture you. Tell me what you want," he breathes against your neck, where his lips have been leaving a trail of heat.

"You," you say simply. "But also… talk to me."

He raises his head to meet your eyes, a question in his gaze.

"I want to hear you," you clarify. "Not just the polite, edited version of the idol they train you to be. I want the real you."

A slow smile spreads across his face, something darker and more primal than his stage smile. "Careful what you wish for," he warns, then drags his mouth down your body, pausing to take a nipple between his lips.

You arch into the sensation, a moan escaping as he uses his tongue in wicked circles around the sensitive peak. His hand finds your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the nipple in counterpoint to his mouth's rhythm.

"Fuck, you taste good," he murmurs against your skin. "Been thinking about this since I saw you this morning, standing there looking all professional but with this mouth that had me imagining all sorts of unprofessional shit."

His confession sends a thrill through you. "Like what?" you ask, running your fingers through his damp hair as he moves lower, lips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel.

"Like how you'd sound when you cum," he says, settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your center. When his lips kiss the inside of your right thigh, it quivers. "Like how your body would react to mine. Like whether you'd be loud or quiet." His tongue takes a long, deliberate swipe through your folds as if he was licking a large scoop of ice cream. "Like how wet you'd get for me."

Your hips buck involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.

"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.

"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"

"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."

The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.

"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."

Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."

So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"

He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.

When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.

He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."

He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.

"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.

His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."

He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.

"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”

"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.

His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."

The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.

"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.

He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

"There," you gasp. "Right there."

"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."

The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"

You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.

Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."

You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.

Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.

You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.

You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”

Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"

“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”

His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."

"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."

“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.

"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.

"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."

He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame: the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.

You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.

"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.

Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.

"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.

"I don't usually…"

"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."

You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.

"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.

The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.

"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.

"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.

You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos. One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.

Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.

"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.

"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.

You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.

Thirty more minutes have passed.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.

You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.

"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."

His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.

Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.

Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.

You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.

But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.

"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.

You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.

"This wasn't..." he begins.

"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."

The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.

"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.

He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."

The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."

Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."

"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”

He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.

The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.

You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.

****

Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.

They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.

So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.

You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.

The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights.

That one you printed just for you, not for public display.

Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.

You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:

Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.

Hey, you try. Too casual.

Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.

Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.

You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.

I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.

The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.

The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.

Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.

You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.

The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.

You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.

If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.

Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.

At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.

Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.

Thank you for considering this request.

You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.

The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.

With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.

The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.

You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.

Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.

Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.

Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.

There.

Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.

Yes, you have my permission.

One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.

You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces.

You find none.

Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?

But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.

You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.

"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.

Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.

Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.

You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:

Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.

You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions.

You have permission. That's all you needed.

The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?

****

When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.

"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.

"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."

The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.

You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit, black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.

A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.

The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.

You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.

You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.

"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."

You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."

"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.

You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.

The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.

Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.

Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.

Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.

Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.

"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."

Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.

You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.

Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.

When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.

"They look different than I’d expected."

The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.

But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.

Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.

Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.

"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.

He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."

“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.

“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.

He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.

"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.

"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."

"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."

Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.

He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.

"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."

You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.

"How did you know I'd still be here?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."

The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.

"I'd like that."

You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.

When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.

"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.

"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."

His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."

"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.

Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.

"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"

The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.

"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."

His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.

"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”

You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.

My Masterlist

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aurorawritestoescape · 1 year ago

Text

HEATWAVE || Joel Miller x f!reader || 2,5k

Summary: Joel helps you to cool down on a hot summer day. In his own way.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, pwp, horny!Joel, sweaty filthy sex, m!masturbation, unprotected piv, creampie, cum eating, fingering, praise kink, swearing, pet names (baby, sweetheart). Pics are for the mood only, reader has no specific physical descriptions.

A/n: I’ve been dying of heat all week but imagining Joel railing me slightly alleviated my hardship. Hot Joel kiss to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕Hope you will enjoy this story. Love ya!❤️

same couple - HEATWAVE collection || MASTERLIST

“Don’t, Joel.”

“What?”

“Don’t touch me, please. It’s too fucking hot.”

Joel sighs and falls back on the couch as you shift away from his feet, getting comfortable as far as possible from his heat radiating body.

“Fine. Jus’ wanted to make you feel good. You’ve been snappy all day.”

“Sorry. It’s all this damn heat! I’m dying without the AC!” You groan and shake the hem of your crop top, trying to cool off just a little. You’re wearing the tiniest shorts you could find but nothing really helps when you’re dealing with a Texas summer without any conditioning.

“It’ll be fixed tomorrow, baby, don’t worry.”

“I know but… ugh!”

You throw a glance at Joel who has the most sympathetic expression on his handsome face. You also can’t deny that he looks hot like this, completely naked except for his home shorts. His broad chest, rising and falling in steady rhythm, is glistening with sweat, his thick thighs are spread and his cock is slightly tenting his only garment. You’d eat him whole if not for the fucking heat!

Torturing you even more he gives you his bedroom eyes and you bite your lip, thinking how to fuck him without touching him. Suddenly your gaze lights up.

“Oh! I know what we need!”

He raises one brow in a silent question and you start hastily explaining, at the same time grabbing your phone off the coffee table and opening a browser,

“I’m gonna look for hot weather sex positions.”

Joel chuckles and you furrow your brows at the man.

“No, don’t laugh. They minimize skin contact and should be easy on the movements. I saw an article once.”

Your pussy aches more and more the longer you watch Joel splay on the couch and you need him to be on board with your idea but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic.

“Not sure it’ll help much but…let’s try it,” he shrugs and you beam at him before typing away.

As always when you need it the most, the internet is slow and you shake your leg, already losing patience.

In your peripheral vision you notice Joel move and your eyes shift from your phone screen to him for just a second. You do a double take when you see him pull the waistband of his shorts down, freeing his semi hard cock, as his mischievous gaze is set on you.

"What are you doing?" you groan at the sight of his big hand, wrapping around his long juicy member.

"Jus' a lil' pre-game, baby. Go on with your research."

You watch him give his manhood a few languid pumps and your mouth waters when some wetness beads on the tip. A new surge of desire burns your core and your breathing fastens. A few seconds later you remember what you were doing and turn away from the hot sight so you could return to the task at hand.

You try to open the first link but it’s loading for eternity so you close it with a curse and press the second one.

Then soft grunts reach your ear and you see Joel pleasure himself in earnest, as his cock is drooling on his veiny hand.

“Hey, wait for me, would you?” You grumble, tapping the same link three times, as if it can make it open faster.

“I’m imagining your hand doing it, sweetheart,” Joel smirks with his eyes already hazy as his palm is sliding up and down his length, thumb brushing over the tip from time to time, “or your pretty mouth, licking my cock. Oh, I bet your pussy wants some of this. She doesn’t care about the heat.”

You know he’s teasing you so you’d hurry up but the solution of your problem is so close that you can’t just stop now. So you fix your shorts that are sticking to your already wet folds and avert your eyes from your tormentor.

“Fucking cookies,” you curse, getting hotter because of the sweltering weather and also after noticing Joel buck his hips to fuck his fist better.

Finally you find an illustration of an almost contactless sex position and tilt your head, trying to understand it.

“Where’s his..? Oh! But… Nah. I’d break your dick like that.”

“We don’t want that,” Joel chuckles, his voice strained with pleasure he’s giving himself.

You’ve never seen him jerk his cock for such a long time so your gaze involuntarily shifts away from your phone again and you shamelessly stare at his hand gliding up and down his stiffness.

“We miss you,” Joel taunts you, seeing desire paint your face, and shakes his cock from side to side, spilling precum everywhere.

“Joel..” You whine and using every ounce of your will you tear your eyes away from his body and return them to the screen.

“Ok, this one is more doable. But it’ll take me forever to come like that… Oh and this… this just defies gravity.”

Giggling at the picture, you show Joel the screen and he gives you a polite smile but his half-lidded eyes tell you that he’s already deep in the ocean of lust, close to reaching his high.

Your gaze slides down to his throbbing cock, his big hand jerking it and you give up. You throw your phone back on the table and with a quiet “Fuck it,” you decide to literally fuck it. Fuck Joel.

Your man’s eyes light up as he coos at you,

“Yeah, c’mere, baby. Come sit on your popsicle.”

You laugh, climbing up the couch over his huge body and straddling his thighs. His skin is unbearably hot but your need overshadows everything.

You take his cock in your sweaty hands and purr, wetting your lips, “popsicle? shall I lick it first then?”

“Usually I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to that, but…,” he says, taking in your body, wrapped in a tight crop top and little shorts. You hear him groan as you lean down to his leaking cock but then his hand on your cheek stops you, “but! I’ve been playing without you and … My cock’s ready for your sweet pussy, baby. Gimme.”

With that he shifts to the side and pulls you to lie down next to him on the couch. The warmed up surface and Joel’s huge body pressed close to you make you whine as another wave of heat hits you.

“Shh,” Joel shushes you and clumsily sits up, almost making you fall off the narrow seat.

He takes his shorts off and helps you discard your clothes as well.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mumbles, his hungry eyes travelling over your exposed body, “wanna lick you all over.”

You take a sharp breath, suffocating with lust, but then Joel does the unforgivable. He lays down on top of you, pushing your legs apart with his knee, and you’re about to cry at how hot the vast expanse of his sweaty skin makes you.

“Joel!” You cry out, trying to push him off, palms braced on his chest, but the next second his lips crash against yours and he’s giving you a heady kiss which quickly makes you forget all about the heat. You’re immediately enchanted by him, his taste, his desire for you. The kiss is sloppy and messy and you cool off a little whenever your wet lips part from each other, even only for a second.

Soon sweat coats your body and Joel’s cock pulsating against your belly turns you into a desperate puddle. To get some respite from the heat, you tilt your head down and blow on your chest.

“It won’t help,” Joel murmurs, “Maybe this will.”

He hunches over you, leans down and licks a long stripe from your breast over your neck and jaw and reaches your lips and kisses you again. You hum with pleasure, noting your salty taste on his tongue and enjoying the sensation of the cooling wet path on your skin.

You’re making out for a few more seconds but the ache between your thighs makes your wriggle under him and Joel hastily lifts his torso and hovers over you, his chest inches from yours as you breathe out after this tiny relief. You glance down and see his heavy cock rest on your mound, his balls pressed to your folds, some wetness smeared on your belly where he is leaking on you. The sight makes you whine his name and reach for his big member.

It’s hot, stiff and damp when you caress it gently with your fingers and Joel’s dark eyes lower to the place where you’re making him even harder if it’s even possible.

“Put it in, sweetheart. Want you on my cock already. You’re drippin’ all over me. My balls are fuckin’ drenched.”

His Texan drawl is even more apparent when he’s so turned on and you know it’s time for him to fuck you. But he teased you so much. Why can’t you?

You throw your legs apart wider, but pressing your hips deeper into the couch, pull away from Joel’s hot crotch. You feel the air slightly cooling your sopping pussy and it feels so amazingly good, that a gasp climbs up your throat.

“Where’re you goin’, naughty girl?” Joel groans and rolls his hips against your pussy, scorching you with his heated thighs, balls and cock, making you mewl. He overplays you, making your hungry hole clench around nothing, clit twitch and you immediately bring your hand down and push his pulsating hot length into your soaked entrance. Both of you moan loudly at the anticipated sensation.

Joel drops his body on you again, holding some of his weight as he braces his forearm on the couch.

You should be uncomfortable, annoyed, hot and miserable but all you feel is his cock spreading your insides, his balls rubbing against your ass. His scent, a mixture of sweat and musk with a slight trace of his favorite piney deodorant, envelops you completely. He invades all your senses at once and you let him, welcome it with your body and soul.

“Joel,” you whisper, choking on your feelings and hugging him even closer.

“I know, baby, I love you too,” he replies, covering your whimpering mouth with his and drinking your oh’s and ah’s.

Soon he’s rolling his hips, his thrusts languid and gentle, as you’re making out, glued together by desire and love. You become one as the heat, radiating from the two of you and the sweat on your skin are mixing together and your bodies slide against each other in this lustful dance.

His cock is massaging your walls, kissing your cervix with its fat head and you glide your hands over the expense of Joel’s dewy back, shoulders and arms before they sneak down and you grab handfuls of his ass. You start grinding your pussy against his pelvic bone and coarse hair.

Suddenly Joel lifts his torso and looks at you, blown out eyes darting between yours, his hips still moving.

“You’re drownin’ my cock, sweetheart. So fuckin’ wet. My perfect pussy. Wanna see?”

After hearing your sultry ‘yeah’, Joel brings his hand to your face, brushes your lower lip with his thumb and then his palm glides down your heated body. Your skin erupts in goosebumps from the gentle contact and you whimper when he runs his fingers over your slicked up folds, spread around his fat cock.

You lift your hips chasing his touch on your clit, and he grants your wish. His index and middle finger find your hardening bud and he swirls it for a few seconds, closely watching your reaction. Your lips part and eyes flutter shut, as his cock and fingers make your pussy purr. Joel’s manhood twitches deep inside you before he pauses his thrusts into your wet heat.

Suddenly he pulls his cock out entirely.

“Joel! No!”

He tsks at you for the impatience but then his girthy length gets replaced by three of his fingers and you gasp and then moan when he begins pushing them in and out of your messy cunt, curling them to press the pleasure spot inside your core.

Joel sees how close you’re by the way your eyes roll to the back of your head and your walls start squeezing his digits harder and harder. He places his thumb on your clit and pushes, sending a new wave of ecstasy to your brain and you cry out as your climax hits your sweaty body. The drops of your sweat slide down on the couch because of how hard you tremble under him and Joel watches the euphoria course through you with an adoring gaze.

“Yeah, jus’ like that. Good girl.”

When you still and open your spent eyes at him, his fingers curve inside you as he scoops your slick and cum and then pulls them out. He raises his hand and watches your creamy juices slide down his hand.

“Joel,” is all you manage to mewl, witnessing your liquid euphoria.

With his tongue peeking out, he brings his hand to your chest and paints your pebbled nipple with your wetness. Then he leans closer and blows on it and you moan at the temperature change.

“Yeah, you like it, huh? Dirty girl.”

As if confirming his words, your nipple hardens more and with a grunt Joel latches onto your breast and licks off the taste of your pussy. You whimper as another course of pleasure reignites your core.

Joel hums, enjoying the flavor of your skin, and the next moment his cock spears you in one go and he begins pounding into you, pulling his hips back fast and thrusting his throbbing manhood into your sopping pussy with hard and sharp strokes. His tongue continues dancing over your tits and you clench his curls with the last drops of strength you have in your spent body. After a few more thrusts, Joel parts from your puffy nipple and growls, still railing you.

“Fuck, baby— choke my cock again— C’mon, be a good girl—come again.”

He kisses you passionately while his hand slithers down between your bodies and he starts rubbing your clit, chanting, “One more, one more.”

In no time you’re squealing as your pussy is clamping around his cock and it sends him over the precipice. Joel breathes out a moan and his hips jerk again and again, sending rope after rope of his hot cum inside you. Your cunt keeps milking him of the last drop as he presses his sweaty forehead to yours, your eyes locked with his and full of gratitude, love and euphoria.

You’re descending from your highs together, limbs tangled and bodies flush against each other. To your surprise the sweat cooling your skin and his cum seeping out of your pussy send a shiver down your spine.

“I’m cold,” you mumble into the crook of his neck.

“Really? Maybe we don’t need AC at all? I can just fuck the heat out of you?”

“Yes, we do,” you disagree, giggling.

“But I loved helping you, baby. We should reschedule the repair for next week.”

You push him off you, burning the man with a fiery gaze, “Don’t you dare, Joel Miller.”

“I’m kiddin’, sweetheart,” Joel chuckles, hugging you tight and shutting your grunts up with a kiss. A second later you feel hot all over again.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!💖

Same couple - HEATWAVE collection || Masterlist

General tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk

If you'd like to be tagged in my future fics, let me know!💕

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #pwp #joel miller tlou

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wileys-russo · 4 months ago

Note

Steph, airport, "How did you forget your boots?" (possibly a teen!r and it's not a prank teen!r actually forgot her boots, maybe for Matildas camp?)

Love your writing so much! How you manage to make full blurbs from these always amazes me your honestly a magician.

not a prank II s.catley x matildas

"kyra!" you huffed, the older girls leg shooting out and tripping you, your body almost hitting the ground before caitlin hurried to grab your backpack and haul you to your feet.

"steph she won't leave me alone!" you yelled out for the other girl who simply sighed, dropping her sunglasses over her eyes and pretending as if she didn't hear you.

"steph! did you hear me? steph!" you called again as your national captain quickened her steps in response, kyra pulling faces at you as you tried to lunge for her and caitlin held you back.

"the more you rise to her, the more she's gonna go at you. we've been over this." caitlin chuckled, slinging an arm over your shoulder as kyra turned her attention to charli, jumping on her back.

"easy for you to say. you'll meet up with macca and lani and leave me all alone for kyra to mess with me!" you huffed grumpily, having lost the rock paper scissors that lead you to being sat beside the brunette who was supposedly three years older than you, not that you'd know it with the way she acted.

"nah. she's got a whole team of people to annoy, you'll be fine egg." caitin tugged your beanie down over your head as you shoved her away from you. "i told you to stop calling me that, all of you." you grumbled, a baby photo of yourself with no hair posted by your mum for your birthday leaving you with the nickname.

"well, thats not gonna happen." caitlin grinned, grabbing your backpack for you and loading it into the back of the car, the driver sending you a friendly smile as you scrambled inside, eagerly dropping yourself next to steph.

"you ignored me. you're supposed to look after me, you're my cousin!" you sharply poked the older girl in the ribs who hissed and smacked your hand away. "i thought you didn't want to be babied? you made that explicitly clear at christmas." steph pushed her sunglasses onto her head as the other girls boarded the van and took their seats.

"ah! leave her alone." stephs arm darted out to push away kyras hand which tried to tug your beanie off, quickly pushing herself up and out of her seat to again ward off the midfielders sticky hand that tried to tug at hayleys hair next who was seated behind you.

"thats not babying." you pointed out once kyra sat down and stephs attention returned to you. "well you just have such a widdle baby face, and such chubby cheeks!" steph cooed, pinching your face and shaking it side to side as the engine roared to laugh and you heard hayley chuckle.

"this is babying!" you grunted, managing to pull her off and quickly doing up your seatbelt as the van pulled away from the airport, all of you having touched down back in australia for the last home game of the year.

thankfully the conversation shifted after that, hayley leaning forward to join in as in what felt like only a few minutes the van was pulling into the hotel, the media team already camped out the front with the usual cameras in hand ready for some social content no doubt.

bags unloaded and polite but tired smiles flashed you had your room keys in hand, trudging after steph down the hall as your rooms were right next to one another, no doubt likely at your cousins request.

"i know you're tired, but unpack and organise. training gear, game gear, mufti-" you snickered at that causing her to pause. "mufti? we're not doing a dollar coin donation at the door." you teased with a grin, the older girl only rolling her eyes but you didn't miss the slight smile that ghosted her lips.

"yeah yeah very funny. but before you relax, unpack. then down for dinner at-" "dinners at six steph, i know, i was given the same schedule you were."

a few more lecturing words of wisdom and you were finally free, swiping your key card and letting yourself inside, awkwardly lugging your suitcase in behind you as the door swung shut and you looked around, pleasantly surprised at how large the room was.

after testing out the bed and exploring every little nook and cranny you could find, you grunted as you lifted your bag up onto the bed, flipping it open and groaning at its dissaray, having packed in a hurry yesterday.

none the less knowing steph would absolutely make a point to check you'd unpacked you knew it would be less painful for you to do so now than suffer the consequences of not having done so later.

but upon getting about halfway through, you realised there was something missing, a very very important something, and a cold sense of dread settled over you as you had a vision of exactly where they were...back in london.

"oh fuck. fuck fuck fuck!" you swore, throwing things around the room as you hunted through your bags fruitlessly, the item in question far too large to be missed you were really just clutching for straws.

coming up empty handed, you knew now there was really only one thing you could so. so with that same sticky cold sense of dread trickling over you, you grabbed your room key and stepped outside, taking a few steps and knocking on stephs door.

she answered right away, raising an eyebrow in silent questioning, a peek past her showing her own case half unpacked on the floor.

"we have a problem. well, i have a problem. which i am now going to make, your problem." you managed to get out, your cousin staring at you strangely before stepping aside so you could make your way in, the door closing after you.

"well go on! out with it." steph snapped her fingers impatiently as she perched on the corner of the bed and you remained standing, messing nervously with the tips of your fingers.

"i sort of, maybe, kind of, accidentally-" "out with it in this century, egg." "hey aunty lesley said you can't call me that anymore!" "my god just get on with it."

"i left my boots at home." you finally managed out with a wince, your cousin staring at you blankly in response. "ha ha, very funny. what is it really? dinners soon." steph sighed, running her hands tiredly down her face.

"no i'm not joking. i really left them. they're still on my bed....in london." you laughed nervously, hand rubbing the back of your neck as very suddenly stephs facial features shifted, eyes narrowing.

"this isn't a joke?" "no, i really forgot them." "swear on your mums life, you're not joking?" "yes! i swear. i really forgot them."

"i just-" steph was quick to her feet, pacing back and forth mumbling things under her breath as you slowly lowered yourself down to sit on the armchair opposite her, sensing this was not going to end well for you.

"how! how did you forget your boots?" steph rounded on you suddenly, looming over you as you shrugged. "i don't know! i didn't do it on purpose." you defended as steph groaned, once again dragging her hands down her face.

"how did you not just pack them! you little shit you use them every fucking-" steph paused for a second, closing her eyes and inhaling and exhaling, calming herself.

"sorry. sorry. lets just...pause for a second." steph spoke, eyes still closed as you looked at her like she'd grown a second head but nodded none the less, your cousin taking another deep breath and moving to sit down on the corner of her bed again.

"steph...who are you calling?" "rebel. its twenty minutes away, they close at nine and you need some fucking boots now!"

#woso x reader #steph catley x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

If you’re still up for requests — could you maybe do one where peter or remus comes home after a visibly bad day and the reader misinterprets his behavior and assumes he’s upset with her instead ?? like she’s walking on eggshells, silently fussing around trying to figure out what she did, meanwhile all he wants to do is hold her and decompress 🥺☹️

absolutely no pressure! <33

“Oh my god.” Peter lets out a pained groan at the door, followed by the plastic crinkle of shopping bags hitting the floor. “My back. Jesus.”

You look up in surprise from your book at the table. “I thought we were going together?”

“I couldn’t face coming home and going out again.” He drags the bags to the fridge and pauses. “I figured you’d be okay with not having to go?”

“Sure,” you agree immediately. He has a black cranky fog around him, you can practically feel it as you get up to help him unpack the bags. He doesn’t seem best pleased with you.

He rubs his eyes, rubs his mouth, and turns to the sink. He runs the faucet, pulling one of the glasses back off of the draining board to fill, and wincing at the harsh sound when he turns it too fast. Peter forgets his own strength every now and then —usually when he’s not feeling well.

Peter gives you a funny look as you step into his space. You quickly step out of it and start to load groceries into the fridge and cabinets, pleased to find he’s bought the things you would’ve gotten yourself and even some things you’d have wanted but not allowed yourself. Maybe he’s not that mad after all—

“God damn,” he says, rolling an empty bag into a ball in his hand, “I forgot the fucking laundry detergent again.”

“That’s okay–”

“It’s not okay, you’ve asked me to get it three times this week.”

“I was just reminding you,” you say, fingers tingling with the potential of an impending argument. “It’s fine. We haven’t run out yet, we can squeeze another wash out of it. I’ll get some tomorrow.”

He sits down in the chair you’d been sitting in and moves your book and plate of snacks aside, neither gentle nor rough about it. “Damn,” he says again, dropping his face into his hands.

“Pete…”

His eyes must be sore by now he’s rubbing them so much, hands held to his eyes and fingers scratching into his hair. He tips his face toward the table and lets himself sit with whatever it is that’s getting him down. Me, you think worriedly. I shouldn’t have asked him to get groceries today. You knew he had a longer shift than usual, and that he’d want to do some Spidering afterward.

You’ve sorry on the tip of your tongue when he lays his face heavily in one hand, elbow on the table barely keeping him up, and holds the other out toward you. Rejecting him doesn’t even cross your mind.

“Fuck, I missed you today,” he says, taking your hand as soon as you offer it and dragging you toward him. You peer down at him with wide eyes as he wraps his arm around you, his nose quick to hide in the linen of your shirt. His voice tickles, “I just wanted to be with you. I knew this would make me feel better.”

There’s a little dry barb at the back of your throat you can’t speak past. Peter doesn’t notice, rubbing his cheek in your side as he repositions you for optimal hugging. He lets out a self-pitying whine, second arm joining the first in a lock behind your back. “You smell amazing.”

“I do?” you ask finally.

“I think you’re just made for me, angel,” he says, voice dragging with fatigue. “You always smell good.”

You squint with lips pursed, blinking in confusion as you bring your hand up to his hair. “Thanks for going to the store.”

“You’re welcome. I can’t function without groceries either, anyways.” He sighs with the particular Parker brand of lovelorn contentedness, a familiar sound. He makes the same noise when you’re tucked up in bed together on the weekends with nowhere to go, or holding hands on the subway travelling home, knee to knee or intertwined. “Can’t believe how quickly you make me feel better,” he murmurs.

“I kinda thought you were mad at me,” you confess, matching his tone.

“You have some strange wires crossed in your brain,” he says. His sympathy and affection for you is palpable; his hand tracks a soft line down the curve of your back.

“Yeah, I know. Do you want me to rub your shoulders?” you ask, pressing your face to the mop of his thick hair.

He hugs you tightly. “You’re my dream girl.”

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mubarakmg · 8 months ago

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guiltyc0nscience · 6 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ against the board, chris sturniolo

hockeyplayer!chris x fem!reader

synopsis. in which chris' hockey game takes a turn when your ex-boyfriend makes a crude comment about you, causing chris to loose his temper and break-out an intense fight on the ice.

warnings. one weird comment (not from chris,) violence.

word count. 2.1k.

authors note. this is lowkey corny but i love this idea. ive seen it so many times from different fandoms. this is also going to be quite long because i probably won't be posting for a few weeks since i have loads of studying to do (shoot me now) so this will be the last fic of 2024.

the ice rink was alive with anticipation, the hum of the crowd growing louder with every passing minute. you sat near the glass, bundles up in your puffer coat and a scarf, the chill of the arena seeping through. your fingers tapped nervously on your thighs as you glanced at the empty rink, the zamboni making its last slow pass across the ice. tonight was a big game for his and his team--the stakes were high, and you could feel the tension hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

chris had been quieter than usual in the hours leading up to the game. normally, he was the kind of guy who thrived under pressure, making everyone laugh and offering his signature smirk even when the odds were staked against him. but tonight, he'd barely said a word during the drive to the arena.

"are you okay?" you'd asked softly as he adjusted his gear in the locker room hallway, is usual pre-game routine. he'd paused, meeting your eyes with a look that was equal parts determination and something else--something harder to place.

"yeah,"he'd said finally, his jaw tightening. "just...gotta focus tonight."

you hadn't pressed further. you knew chris well enough to recognize when he needed space, but you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his mood than just the pressure of the game.

now, as the players began to filter out onto the ice for their warm-ups, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. chris sturniolo, in his yellow, black and white jersey with the number 3 on the back, he looked every bit the confident athlete he was known to be. his skates cut smoothly across the ice as he joined his teammates, his focus razor-sharp.

but your gaze didn't linger on chris for long, because that's when he appeared. jason carter--your ex-boyfriend that you had completely forgotten was a forward for the opposing team--skated onto the ice with his trademark cocky grin that made a pit form in your stomach. you hadn't seen him in over a year, not since the messy breakup that left you vowing never to look back. yet here he was, every bit as insufferable as you remembered.

you sank deeper into your seat, hoping he wouldn't notice you. but you had no such luck. jason's eyes found yours almost instantly, and his smirk widened. he skated closer to the glass near where you sat, leaning just enough to make it clear he was there for you.

"looking good, y/n," jason drawled, loud enough for you to hear through the muffled sounds of the arena. he raked his gaze over you in a way that made your stomach churn. "miss me?"

your cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment, but you forced yourself to look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. behind jason, you caught sight of chris, who had slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as he took in the exchange.

the buzzer sounded, signalling the start of the game, and the teams lined up for the face-off. chris and jason were positioned directly across from each other, their stances tense. from the stands, you could see the unspoken challenge in their postures. the puck dropped, and the game began.

it didn't take long for thing to escalate.

from the first shift, jason played with a kind of aggression that was impossible to ignore. every time he came near chris, he delivered an extra shove or cutting a remark, his words too low for the crowd to hear but clear enough to leave chris visibly bristling. you clenched your fists in your lap, helpless to intervene as the animosity between them grew with every passing minute.

then, it happened. midway through the second period , jason skated too close to chris after a whistle, leaning in with a smug grin.

"guess she still has a thing for hockey players," jason sneered, his voice carrying just enough to make chris stop in his tracks. "bet she thinks about me every time you're on top of her."

the words like a match to gasoline. before anyone could react, chris dropped his gloves and lunged at jason, his fist connecting with a sickening thud to jason's jaw.

the arena erupted into chaos as the two players grappled on the ice, punches flying and sticks scattering. referees rushed in to break them apart, but neither seemed willing to back down. chris' face was a mask of fury, his usual composure completely shattered as he went after jason with everything he had.

you stood frozen in your seat, heart pounding as you watched the scene unfold. the crowd on its feet, cheering and shouting, but all you could focus on was the raw anger in chris' eyes--and the way jason seemed to revel in provoking him and you were so intrigued to know what fuelled the fight.

this wasn't just a hockey game anymore. it was personal.

the referees struggled to pull chris and jason apart, their skates scraping harshly against the ice as they grappled with one another. jason's helmet had been knocked off during the scuffle, and his lip was bleeding, but he still wore that infuriating smirk, as if the chaos he'd caused was all part of his plan.

chris, on the other hand, was a storm unleashed. his usual calm demeanour was nowhere to be found as he fought against the refs holding him back. his eyes were locked on jason, pure rage flashing across his face.

"say it again, carter," chris spat, his voice carrying over the jeers of the crowd. "say it again, and see what happens."

jason wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his glove, looking far too pleased with himself. "what's the matter, sturniolo? cant handle a little truth?"

the refs managed to drag the two of them to opposite sides of the ice, but the damage was done. the tension between them had been building all game, and now it was at a boiling point. the opposing bench erupted in shouts as jason's teammates yelled for a penalty, while chris' team crowded around their captain, trying to calm him down.

from your seat, you could barely breathe. your pulse hammered in your ears as you watched chris pace the penalty box like a caged animal, his chest heaving with every breath. you wanted to reach out to him, to somehow let him know you were there, but all you could do was sit helplessly as the game resumed.

the rest of the second period was brutal.

every time jason had the puck, chris was on him like a shadow, delivering crushing hits that sent the crowd into a frenzy. jason wasn't innocent, either--he took every opportunity to jab at chris with his stick, his taunts coming thick and fast whenever they passed each other on the ice.

"man, she must've been desperate to end up with you," jason sneered during a face-off, his voice low but dripping with malice. "bet she regrets it every night."

chris' grip on his stick tightened, his knuckles turning white as he leaned in closer. "and you're gonna regret ever saying her name."

the puck dropped, and they collided instantly, neither even pretending to play the puck. the refs blew the whistle again, but this time, there was no fight--just an unspoken promise between the two players that this wasn't over.

by the time the third period began, the tension in the arena was palpable. the crow was buzzing, half-expecting another brawl to break out at any moment. chris and jason were relentless, their rivalry overshadowing the actual game. every check, every pass, every glance felt like a continuation of their battle, and you could see the frustration building in both of them.

you were on edge of your seat, your hands gripping the armrests so tightly that your knuckles ached. chris was playing harder than you'd ever seen, his focus unwavering despite the emotional weight of the situation.

but jason wasn't backing down, and with each passing minute, it became clear that this game wasn't going to end cleanly.

then, with less than two minutes left on the clock, it happened.

chris intercepted a pass near the blue line and started skating up the ice, his movements quick and precise. jason was right behind him, his stick darting out to try and trip chris up. the crowd roared as chris broke free, heading straight for the net, but just as he was about to shoot, jason slammed into him from behind, sending both of them crashing into the boards.

the whistle blew, but chris didn't wait for the refs this time. he spun around, shoving jason hard enough to send him stumbling backward.

"you're done," chris growled, his voice low and dangerous.

jason laughed, shrugging as if the whole thing was a joke. "make me."

and just like that, the gloves came off. again.

this fight was uglier than the first, both players fuelled by pure adrenaline and anger. punches were thrown, helmets flew, and the crowd was on its feet, screaming and chanting. you felt like you were in a nightmare, unable to look away as chris and jason tore into each other, their rage boiling over in a way that no amount of referees could contain.

the game didn't matter anymore. all that mattered was settling the score.

the final buzzer blared through the arena, and chris’ team secured the win, but the victory felt hollow compared to the chaos that had unfolded on the ice. you waited near the tunnel, your heart pounding as you scanned the crowd of players leaving the rink, searching for him.

when chris finally appeared, your breath caught. his jersey was wrinkled, his lip split, and a bruise was already darkening under his left eye. he looked utterly drained, but when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker of relief in his expression.

“chris,” you called out softly, stepping toward him as he dropped his bag.

without a word, he closed the distance between you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you into him. his embrace was warm, desperate, and unsteady, like he was holding onto you to keep himself grounded.

“are you okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly as you pulled back to look at him. your fingers instinctively reached for his face, brushing against the bruise forming near his cheekbone.

chris exhaled heavily, his hands still gripping your waist. “yeah. i’m fine. don’t worry about me.”

“don’t tell me not to worry,” you said firmly, your brow furrowing. “you got into two fights tonight, chris. that’s not like you. what happened out there?”

he hesitated, his jaw clenching as he avoided your gaze. “it’s nothing,” he said finally, his tone tense. “just… the usual trash talk. It doesn’t matter now. plus, your ex is a dickhead so he deserved it.”

“it clearly matters,” you pressed, your concern growing. “chris, talk to me.”

he sighed, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your hip. “he crossed a line, okay? i let it get to me, and i shouldn’t have.”

you frowned, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “what did he say?”

chris shook his head, his eyes finally meeting yours. “it doesn’t matter. i don’t want you thinking about it.”

you studied him for a moment, the tension in his expression, the way his grip on you hadn’t loosened. you wanted to push for answers, but something in his tone made you stop. he was protecting you, shielding you from whatever ugliness had unfolded on the ice between him and jason.

“okay,” you said softly, deciding to let it go for now. “but you didn’t have to do all this for me, you know. you didn’t have to fight him.”

chris’ eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “yes, i did. i don’t care what happens to me out there. no one talks about you like that and gets away with it.”

your chest tightened at the conviction in his voice, and before you could think, you reached up and pulled him down into a kiss.

it was soft at first, tentative, but chris leaned into you, his hands sliding up to cradle your face as the kiss deepened. the noise of the arena faded into the background, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.

when you finally pulled back, chris rested his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “you’re too good for me, you know that?”

you smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “maybe. but you’re stuck with me now.”

his lips quirked into a small smile, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all night. “i love you.”

you laced your fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze. “i love you more. come on. let’s get you cleaned up.”

chris nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he let you guide him toward the exit.

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo edit #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo

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steddieas-shegoes · 3 months ago

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fourth line, best line

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'first line' (i know the title is misleading, just trust me)

rated t | 2,577 words | cw: injury | tags: modern au, hockey au, getting together, happens during a time skip just go with it, love confessions

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

The buzzer echoes in his skull. He didn’t notch a point tonight. Not a single one.

He didn’t even drop the gloves.

He’s gonna end up sent back down to the farm team, he can feel it.

“Munson!” A voice yells from behind him as he walks down the tunnel to the dressing room. “Hey.”

Steve is a good captain, a great hockey player, and a beautiful man. His number will almost definitely be in the rafters someday, and he’s got a long career in the NHL waiting for him when he retires from playing. He shouldn’t waste more than what’s required on pep-talking Eddie through a shitty game.

“Yeah?” He asks, trying not to sound like he’s a second away from crying.

“That pass in the second was a beauty,” he says with a smile.

It’s like nothing phases him, like they didn’t just lose 5-1 against their biggest rival.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Steve pats his shoulder. “Gonna lose sometimes. You gave 100%, that’s all anyone can ask.”

Eddie doesn’t think Steve watched the same game he did. He knew he didn’t give his best. Steve did, because Steve always does, but Eddie doesn’t even think his best came to this game at all.

“I got lucky with a pass, that’s it.”

Steve shakes his head. “Half of hockey is luck. You knew what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some players.”

A lot of guys would give their left nut to get a compliment like that from Steve Harrington. Eddie is one of them.

He knows he’s blushing, but he hopes it’s hidden under the flush of the exertion from his last shift. He’s dripping sweat despite barely breaching five minutes of ice time for the entire game.

“Thanks,” Eddie squeaks out. Steve’s probably just being nice, giving him a compliment to take with him on his flight back to the AHL. “I’ll work harder next time.”

Steve looks like he wants to say more, but he’s taken to the side for a post-game interview. They lost, but Steve’s charm is enough for the interviewer to focus on more positive parts of the game instead of what they probably planned on asking.

Eddie makes his way to the dressing room, probably for the last time this season.

He may get another call up if someone gets injured, but he won’t hold his breath.

****

one year later

“Harrington against the boards…usually wins these battles, but it looks like he’s waving at the bench. Don’t know what that’s about.”

Eddie’s watching the game at his apartment, stuffing his face with chicken parm from his favorite restaurant down the street. He’s carb loading before their early afternoon game tomorrow.

Steve’s been off this entire game. He’s slower, hesitant where he’s normally aggressive, hasn’t put his body into blocking shots the way he normally does. Anyone who plays hockey or knows hockey knows what this is.

He’s playing through an injury. When you’re this close to clinching the number one spot in the playoffs, your top center can’t be injured. Eddie winces when someone checks Steve into the boards on his way to the bench.

He goes down hard, way harder than he normally would. He’s slow to get up.

Eddie’s holding his breath. Sauce drips onto his shirt.

It’s his ankle. Dammit.

There are a lot of impressive things about Steve Harrington. He’s a good captain, a great player, a beautiful man. He also defeated every odd against him his rookie year when he came back from a shattered ankle that led to two surgeries and a four month recovery process that most doctors didn’t think he’d ever finish. He did and he came back even better than before.

He’s played for years with minimal issues. One concussion a few years ago that left him day to day for about a week, one upper body injury that benched him for three weeks at the beginning of a season. Eddie can see this is different.

This is his career.

Eddie can’t stop watching as Steve limps off the ice, down the tunnel, and out of view.

“Seems like we won’t be seeing Harrington back tonight. Hopefully his goal earlier boosted his team enough that they’ll pull off the win without him,” the announcer says.

Eddie’s walking his takeout container to the kitchen and trying to find his shoes before he even realizes what he’s doing.

What is he doing?

He’s not gonna be the guy they call up. He’s not even the guy they called up earlier this season when Byers broke his toe and missed three weeks. He’s definitely not gonna get the call to help fill a gap for Steve.

His phone buzzes, but it’s just Wayne asking if he’s watching the game. He replies quickly, tries not to give the old man any hope. Wayne always believes in him more than anyone else, always has, even when he got cut from his 12U travel team.

They do manage a win without Steve, but the commentators spend most of the third period discussing the likelihood of their chances at the Cup diminishing without Steve on the ice. They act like he’s dead, like he’s already been written off.

His phone buzzes again.

Stevie: Don’t freak out. Going to get some scans

Eddie rushes to the door, freaking out. He hits call before his feet have even hit the stairs outside his apartment.

“I said don’t freak out, love,” Steve sighs into the phone. He sounds like he’s in pain. “It might just be a stress fracture. Couple weeks and I’ll be back.”

“Could be more though?” He asks, feeling like he might be sick. This was supposed to be Steve’s year. He was gonna go all the way, lead this team to a big win.

“Maybe. But I’m okay.”

“Didn’t look okay,” Eddie is in his car, waiting for the bluetooth to connect before he pulls out of the parking garage. “Looked pretty bad. Wayne even texted me.”

“He’s a worrywart. I told them to move Hagan to my spot and call you up,” Steve says casually. “I dunno if they’ll listen, but be ready in case.”

“Steve. I’m not playing without you there. I’m on my way to you, not the damn team.”

He should know better than to expect Eddie to put hockey above him.

“Ed,” Steve sighs. “Your career is first. We talked about this. I’ll be fine. It’s not like you can perform surgery.”

“Surgery?! You need surgery?”

“No! I don’t know!” Someone is heard in the background and then a siren. “Are the sirens necessary? Jesus, that’s dramatic.”

“Are you in an ambulance?” Eddie’s voice pitches higher in panic.

“It’s ridiculous. Someone could’ve just driven me when the game was over,” Steve explains. “I can walk, so it can’t be that bad.”

“You can’t put pressure on it, dumbass!”

“Is that Robin?” Eddie feels relief wash over him. If Robin’s there, he won’t be allowed to brush it off at the hospital. “Let me talk to her.”

“No. You two are gonna inspire against me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, a fond smile creeping across his face despite his anxiety.

“We aren’t gonna conspire against you, sweetheart. I just wanna know the facts. You’re blinded by your Must Give Comfort No Matter What Disease.”

“Dumbass two, it’s definitely broken,” Robin says into the phone while Steve argues in the background. “He’s being so brave. But it’s gonna be eight weeks minimum even without looking at x-rays.”

“Knew it,” Eddie smacks his hand against the steering wheel. He’s driving on autopilot, heading straight for the hospital he knows Steve’s being taken to. He’s three hours away if there’s no traffic, maybe less if he takes the shortcut he knows when he’s closer. “So he’s done for the season.”

“Absolutely. Not worth the risk unless they get to the final round, and even then I’m pretty sure it won’t be worth it. He’s defeated the odds once, but he’s still got plenty of time to defeat them next season.”

Another call comes through for Eddie and he’s tempted to ignore it.

It’s his agent.

“Call you back in 10.”

He kinda knows what’s coming before he even answers.

He’s still shocked when he hears himself say he’s already on his way.

****

The team misses Steve like a limb.

It’s not that they aren’t good without him; They keep winning for the most part. His absence is felt, though.

It’s just tough to be a team without a proper captain.

Wheeler tries, but he just doesn’t have the room like Steve does.

Eddie feels like a visitor, and it’s no one’s fault. They all know him from his last stint and attending a few games to watch Steve, but adapting a new player into the lineup is hard.

He fits okay on the fourth line, even manages an assist in his first game.

His strength is faceoffs. He wins nearly all of them, might even have the highest average in the AHL. Steve’s always been jealous of it, especially because he didn’t even start playing center until he was 16 and it’s all Steve’s ever played.

Eddie stays with Steve while he’s called up. It’s what makes the most sense.

It’s also the longest they’ve ever been able to spend together at once.

Ever since their first date, they’ve pretty much been on a hockey schedule. Other than Christmas and one week over the summer when they were still so new that anything more would’ve been too much, they’ve only had random days that line up to spend time together.

To fuck, basically.

It’s easy. Wayne warned him that living with someone changes your perspective, but he just falls more in love with Steve by the minute. He’s fun, even when he��s hobbling around in a cast, barely leaning on the crutches he’s supposed to be relying on for at least two weeks. He’s smart, beats all the hockey guy stereotypes with his clever wit, even if he does misuse words sometimes.

He’s kind. He spends a few hours every other day at the children’s hospital, no media, no other teammates, just him.

“Not like I’ve got anything else to do. And I love seeing the kids. They’re funny,” Steve shrugs. “Plus, some of them play hockey and tell me all about their games.”

Eddie knows he’s probably way more in love than Steve is with him, but he’s gonna ride this out as long as he can. Steve could have anyone, an actress or supermodel or another NHL player, but he’s choosing a fourth line call-up who forgets to put his dirty laundry in the basket.

Steve watches every home game in a suite, and every away game on tv. He calls Wayne sometimes during the away games, but neither of them tell him exactly what they talk about.

Eddie scores his first NHL goal the same night he’s told he’ll be sent back down.

It’s bittersweet.

He knows it won’t change anything.

It’s still exciting when it happens, and he points up to the box he knows Steve’s watching from, then at one of the cameras for Wayne. The goal horn has never sounded so victorious.

He doesn’t notch another point the rest of the game, but he didn’t expect to.

He gets the puck after the game, poses for a picture for socials, and fist bumps everyone on his way out. He’s thankful for his time, proud of himself for being the guy they called up and kept up for so long. Maybe Steve had a lot to do with it, but they wouldn’t have risked their season on a guy they didn’t think could help.

Steve’s already outside waiting for him, beaming with pride.

“That’s my boy!” He yells.

Eddie’s heart flutters.

“Figured I’d put on a show before I go back,” he says, hating that his tone is so sad.

Steve’s face falls. “Go back? After the way you played tonight?”

Eddie shrugs. He kisses his cheek before he unlocks the car.

“It’s a business. I’m only two games away from having to sign league minimum and I’m not producing enough for them to do that,” Eddie explains even though Steve definitely already knows that. “Maybe next year.”

“Fuck next year!” Steve is mad. “You’re our best fourth liner now. You just need the chance!”

Eddie’s tired. He’s a little sore from taking a puck to the wrist and a stick to the neck. There’s nothing to argue about, and Steve’s not even trying to argue with him, but it still presses on Eddie’s nerves.

“I’m okay with it. Really,” Eddie is. He’s used to this back and forth. He knows he’s lucky to get a chance to shine once in a while. “They’ll do great without me.”

“But I won’t.”

Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“You will. You’ll be back on the ice soon and you won’t even have time to miss me. Plus we’ll have most of the summer,” Eddie explains.

“I’m not going back on the ice.”

Eddie’s heart stops.

“What are you talking about?” He manages to ask.

“I’m done. I wasn’t gonna announce it until the season was over. I have a fracture that needs more surgery and it’ll take another 8-10 months of physical therapy just to be able to do normal things, let alone hockey. And there’s only a 20% chance I’d be able to play competitively at all after, let alone the level expected of me. It’s not fair to the team to drag this on,” Steve says it like he’s practiced it. Maybe he has. There’s barely any emotion in it, like he’s pushed it far enough away that he doesn’t feel the pain Eddie knows he must feel. “I’ve got a statement ready. The team knows.”

“They didn’t tell me?” Eddie feels tears pooling in his eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

Steve cups Eddie’s neck, kisses his forehead. “I didn’t want to distract you from playing. And I don’t want this to ruin the high of the night.”

“Steve, this is so much more important than me scoring a goal.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Steve admits quietly.

“I want the same for you,” Eddie says back. “Hockey is everything to you.”

“Not anymore.” Steve takes a shaky breath. “I think it’ll always be important to me. It was my childhood and my career and my passion. And it’ll always be that, I guess. I’m sure I’ll stick around as a coach or recruiter or something. But since I got to have you, you’re all I want.”

Eddie’s heart starts beating much faster, probably dangerously so.

“I love you, Eddie. I love you more than anything. More than hockey. More than Robin, but you better not tell her that.“ They both laugh. Steve grabs his hands and kisses his knuckles. “I can live without hockey. It hurts, but I can do it. I can’t live without you.”

Steve’s career is over. It hurts Eddie to know he overcame so much just to have everything shortened way before his time was actually up anyway.

But his life is still happening, and he wants Eddie to be a part of it.

“So you’ll come with me?” Eddie asks.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Steve replies.

“Even though this is the best I’ll probably ever be?”

Steve smirks. “Fourth line, best line, right?”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie sports au event #steddie events #steve harrington x eddie munson #hockey au

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moonlightwritingf1 · 6 months ago

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The taste of desire | LN4

🥧 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N and Lando share a flirtatious, passionate moment while cooking, ending with a kiss and a mutual desire to explore their chemistry.

🥧 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🥧 word count ━━━━━━━ 4k

🥧 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

The sizzle of oil in the pan filled the kitchen, a gentle symphony that masked the undeniable thrum of tension between them. Y/N stood at the counter, her hands moving with precision as she chopped vegetables, the knife gliding effortlessly through carrots and celery. Her focus was sharp, but every now and then, she’d catch Lando out of the corner of her eye—his tall frame leaning casually against the fridge, his arms crossed, his lips twitching into a smirk whenever their gazes met.

He’s watching me. The thought sent a flutter through her chest, quick and insistent, like a hummingbird beating its wings. She shook it off, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand. But no matter how hard she tried, the air between them felt charged, crackling with something she couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore either.

“Need some help?” Lando asked, pushing off the fridge and sauntering over. His voice was smooth, casual, but there was an edge to it that made her stomach dip.

“I think I’ve got it,” she replied, not looking up. Her tone was light, but her fingers tightened around the knife handle as he came closer. The warmth of his presence seemed to wrap around her, magnetic and impossible to resist.

“You sure?” He was right behind her now, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Because I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, arching an eyebrow. “Handy, huh?''

“Totally,” he said, flashing her that grin of his—the one that made her heart skip a beat. “I can chop faster than you can.”

“Oh, really?” She turned fully to face him, tilting her head. “Care to prove it?”

For a moment, he just stared at her, those blue/ green eyes of his glinting with challenge. Then, without warning, he reached past her for the cutting board. His hand brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear.

“Watch and learn,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Y/N’s pulse quickened as she watched his hands move with practiced ease, the knife slicing through the vegetables with precision. There was something undeniably captivating about the way he moved, the way he exuded confidence even in something as mundane as chopping carrots. And yet, it wasn’t just his skill that had her captivated. It was the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, the way his gaze lingered on her lips, the way his touch seemed to linger on her skin long after he pulled away.

“See?” he said after a moment, straightening up and giving her a triumphant smile. “Told you I was handy.”

“Hmm,” she replied, feigning disinterest as she turned back to the stove. But her cheeks burned, and she could still feel the ghost of his touch on her hand.

The rest of dinner prep passed in a blur of playful banter and stolen glances. Every time they reached for the same utensil or passed each other in the narrow space, their bodies would brush, sending sparks flying between them. Lando was relentless, his touches deliberate, his teasing comments loaded with double meanings. And Y/N? Well, she might have been playing it cool, but inside, she was a mess.

By the time they sat down to eat, the atmosphere between them had shifted completely. The air was thick with unspoken desire, the tension so palpable it felt like it could be cut with a knife. They talked and laughed, but every now and then, their eyes would meet, and the world would fall away—just the two of them, locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

When dinner was done, Y/N stood to clear the table, but Lando stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Let me,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

She hesitated, her gaze flickering to his hand before meeting his eyes. “It’s fine, really.”

“I know,” he replied, his grip tightening slightly. “But I want to.”

There was something in his tone, something raw and unfiltered, that made her pause. She swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat as she nodded. “Okay.”

As he moved around the table, collecting dishes, Y/N found herself watching him again. He was so different from anyone she’d ever known—confident, charming, with a devil-may-care attitude that somehow only added to his allure. And yet, there was something vulnerable about him too, something hidden beneath the surface that made her want to peel back the layers and see what lay beneath.

When he finished stacking the plates by the sink, he turned to her, his expression unreadable. “You know,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, “I’ve been trying to keep my distance.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Have you?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, taking a step toward her. “But it’s getting harder and harder.”

She couldn’t look away from him, her breath hitching as he closed the gap between them. “Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Because,” he said, his hands settling on her hips, “you make it impossible.”

Impossible. The word echoed in her mind as she looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. His hands were warm against her skin, his touch sending shivers down her spine. And then, before she could say anything, he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss so soft, so tender, it took her breath away.

“Lando,” she murmured against his mouth, her hands instinctively reaching up to tangle in his hair.

“Shh,” he whispered, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “Just let go.”

Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. Every nerve in her body was hyper-aware of him—the warmth of his body against hers, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his fingers felt like they were burning through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. ''We should finish our dessert first.''

He laughed softly, a sound that sent vibrations through her entire body. “Dessert will still be there,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “And so will I.”

Before she could respond, his hands slid higher, his fingertips tracing the underside of her ribs as he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Y/N gasped, her legs going weak beneath her. She reached out blindly, grabbing for the edge of the counter to steady herself, but Lando’s grip on her was firm, holding her in place as his lips trailed fire along her skin.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she muttered, half-heartedly trying to push him away. But there was no real force behind the movement, and they both knew it. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, her nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt as she swayed closer to him.

Lando smirked against her neck, clearly pleased with himself. “Crazy good or crazy bad?” he teased, his voice light but his touch anything but casual. His hands moved again, one sliding up to cup her jaw while the other traced down her spine, sending shivers cascading through her.

“Both,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when he was looking at her like that, like she was everything he wanted and nothing he could ever have enough of.

“Good,” he said simply, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone before he leaned in to press a kiss to her lips. It was quick, almost chaste, but it left her breathless all the same. When he pulled back, his blue/ green eyes were dark with desire, his smile gone now, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

Y/N swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat rising between them, the tension so thick it was almost tangible. And yet, despite the way her body screamed at her to give in, she hesitated. There was something electric about this moment, something dangerous, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to dive headfirst into whatever this was between them.

But Lando didn’t give her time to think. He was relentless, his hands moving with purpose as he guided her backward, until her thighs hit the edge of the countertop. “Lando—” she started to protest, but he didn’t let her finish. Instead, he kissed her again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a confidence that left no room for argument.

Y/N moaned against his lips, her hands fisting in his hair as she surrendered to the sensation. She could feel the hardness of the counter digging into her thighs, but it hardly registered amidst the storm of emotions swirling inside her. Lando’s hands were everywhere—on her waist, her hips, her cheeks—his touch searing through her clothes and straight to her core.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he muttered against her mouth, his voice rough with need. “You feel so fucking good.”

His words only fueled her own desire, her body arching toward his as she deepened the kiss. She could feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh, and it sent a thrill of excitement coursing through her veins. This was reckless, impulsive, but right now, she didn’t care. All that mattered was the way he made her feel, wanted, desired, needed.

Lando broke the kiss then, his breathing heavy as he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And I will.”

But neither of them really believed it. Y/N stared up at him, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, and shook her head. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Lando’s eyes darkened further at her response, and without another word, he lifted her effortlessly onto the counter. Y/N gasped as her legs parted instinctively, giving him access to where she needed him most. His hands gripped her thighs, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her knees as he leaned in closer.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice nearly breaking. His breath was hot against her ear, his lips brushing against the shell as he spoke. “So beautiful.”

Y/N shivered, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she tried to steady herself. But Lando didn’t let her stay still for long. He kissed her again, his tongue delving deep as his hands roamed her body with possessive intent. One hand slid up her side, cupping her breast through the fabric of her shirt, while the other gripped her thigh.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her head falling back as his touch set her alight. She could feel the wetness pooling between her thighs, her body aching for more. “Lando…”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “I can feel how much you want me.”

She clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she lost herself in the sensation.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.” he whispered, his voice dripping with possessiveness.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice breaking as she met his gaze. “Yes, I want you. I need you.”

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper. His gaze dropped to her lips, waiting for her response with a patience that suggested he’d give her all the time she needed—though his body pressed closer, demanding otherwise.

She nodded quickly, her cheeks flushed, her voice soft but firm. “Yes. I want you, Lando. Don’t stop.”

His lips curved into a satisfied smile, and he leaned in, brushing his mouth against hers. The kiss was gentle at first, a teasing exploration that made her grip his shoulders harder. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more—needed more. Her lips parted, inviting him deeper, and he obliged, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with hers in a dance of desire.

God, he tasted incredible. Everything about him felt electric, from the way his his hand was gripping her thigh to the steady beat of his heart against her chest. She could feel the hard length of him through his jeans, pressing insistently against her thigh, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through her at the realization.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against her lips, his tone raw with longing. “So open, so ready for me.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, her nerves bubbling to the surface despite the growing heat between them. “Open? I’m not exactly in control here, Lando. You’re the one who put me on this counter.”

His eyes darkened, and he pulled back slightly, his hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. “And you love it, don’t you? Admit it. You love how much I want you.”

The words sent a thrill through her, making her heart race. She did love it—loved the way he looked at her, as though she were the only thing that mattered. Loved the way his touch turned her insides to liquid fire. “Maybe I do,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s grin was predatory, and he moved faster, his hands working her jeans down her legs with practiced efficiency. Y/N lifted her hips to help, her movements unsteady as she tried to balance while he stripped her bare. When she was free of the material, he knelt before her, his hands sliding up her thighs until they reached the fabric of her panties.

“Spread your legs for me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that made her knees weak.

She obeyed without hesitation, her legs parting as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them aside. The cool air hit her skin, and she gasped, her arousal already slick and evident. Lando’s eyes locked onto the sight, his pupils dilating as he drank in every detail.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”

Before she could respond, his mouth descended on her, and the world shattered into a thousand pieces. His tongue swirled around her clit in lazy circles, drawing out her pleasure with agonizing precision. Y/N threw her head back, gripping the edge of the counter for support as waves of ecstasy crashed over her.

“Lando,” she cried out, her voice breaking as his tongue stabbed deeper, hitting that sensitive spot inside her that made her toes curl. “Oh my god, don’t stop!”

He didn’t. If anything, he intensified his efforts, flicking his tongue rapidly against her clit while his fingers probed at her entrance, teasing but not entering. It was pure torture, and Y/N loved every second of it. Her hips bucked against his face, desperate for release, but he held her steady, keeping her right on the edge.

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice pleading. “Please, I need—”

“What do you need, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice muffled against her core but still managing to convey the smug satisfaction of a man in complete control.

“You,” she gasped. “I need you. Inside me. Now.”

Lando pulled back, his eyes glittering with triumph as he stood and stepped closer. Y/N watched as he tugged off his shirt, revealing the smooth, lean muscles of his chest. Her hands itched to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, but she forced herself to wait, knowing he wouldn’t keep her waiting long.

Sure enough, he was removing his jeans in seconds, kicking them aside with a smirk. Y/N’s breath caught as he stepped between her legs, his erection straining against his boxers. He hovered there for a moment, letting the anticipation build before hooking his thumbs into the fabric and pushing them down.

“Look at you,” she breathed, her voice awestruck as she took in the full length of him. “You’re… incredible.”

Lando chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction. “Only incredible?” he teased, reaching for the condom he’d placed on the counter earlier.

As he rolled it on, Y/N bit her lip, her nerves surging once more. This was it—finally, after weeks of tension and teasing, they were going to cross that line. And honestly? She couldn’t wait.

Lando must have sensed her eagerness because he positioned himself at her entrance without further delay. His eyes locked onto hers, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he found was hunger. With a groan, he thrust forward, filling her in one smooth motion.

Y/N cried out, her back arching as the sensation overwhelmed her. It had been so long since she’d felt like this—so full, so wanted. Lando kissed her then, swallowing her gasp of pleasure as he began to move, withdrawing slowly before plunging back in with increasing urgency.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled against her lips, his thrusts growing rougher as he sought to claim her completely. “You feel so good. So tight around me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she clung to him. Every stroke of his hips against hers sent shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through her body, and she could feel the telltale tingling in her lower belly signaling her approaching orgasm.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m close. So close.”

He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside her with ruthless precision. Y/N’s vision blurred as her climax shattered through her, her entire body tensing as she screamed his name. Lando followed soon after, his thrusts stuttering as he spilled himself inside her, his head falling to her shoulder as he panted for breath.

For a moment, they simply stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms as their hearts slowed and their breathing returned to normal. Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, marveling at how perfect everything felt—how right.

The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rattle of a pot handle swaying in the breeze from the open window. The air was thick with the scent of garlic and rosemary, but beneath it all lingered something sweeter—something undeniably intimate.

Y/N lay sprawled across the counter, her legs still wrapped around Lando’s waist, though he had shifted to rest his weight on his elbows beside her. His chest rose and fell heavily, his skin glistening with sweat, while she traced lazy patterns over his back, savoring the warmth of his body against hers. Their breaths mingled, slow and steady now, as if they were both reluctant to break the spell that had just passed between them.

“That…” Lando began, his voice low and rough, “was incredible.”

She laughed softly, a sound that was tinged with disbelief. “You don’t have to say that.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t have to, but I want to. You feel amazing, Y/N. You always do.”

Her cheeks flushed at the intensity of his gaze, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Well, you’re not so bad yourself.”

He grinned, that familiar glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “Only when I’m with you.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Instead, her fingers found their way to his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his stubble. “Lando…”

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “Yeah?”

“What even is this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Between us, I mean.”

His grin faded, replaced by a look of genuine consideration. “What do you want it to be?”

She hesitated, her mind racing. What did she want? She wanted to say everything, to demand he commit to her fully, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she settled for honesty. “I don’t know. But right now… it feels like something.”

Lando nodded slowly, his expression softening. “It does. And I think… I think maybe we should figure it out together.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed hard. “Together?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice confident yet gentle. “I like being with you, Y/N. A lot. And I don’t want to stop. Not unless you tell me to.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. Part of her wanted to ask him what he meant, to press him for more details, but another part of her—the stronger part—just wanted to let it go. To live in this moment and trust that whatever came next would unfold naturally.

“Okay,” she whispered finally, her voice trembling with emotion.

Lando’s lips curved into a slow smile, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Okay.”

They fell silent again, the tension between them shifting from sexual to something deeper, something almost sacred. Y/N felt his hand slide down her side, coming to rest on her thigh, and she shivered at the gentle touch.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmured, his tone laced with awe.

She shook her head, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “No, I’m not. I’m just… me.”

“Exactly,” he said firmly. “And that’s all I need. Just you.”

Her chest tightened, and she looked away, afraid that if she met his gaze, she might burst into tears. Stop it, she scolded herself silently. Don’t ruin this.

“Hey,” Lando said gently, tipping her chin up until their eyes met. “Don’t hide from me, okay? Not now. Not ever.”

“I’m not hiding,” she lied, her voice cracking slightly.

He sighed, clearly unconvinced. “You are. And that’s okay. I get it. Trust me, I do. But I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. So you can take your time. Just… don’t push me away.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, his smile returning. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was soft and lingering, a contrast to the intensity of their previous encounter. It was tender, affectionate, and it left her breathless in a completely different way.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N felt lighter, as if a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. She glanced around the kitchen, noting the dishes they had abandoned earlier and the flour dusting the counter where they had worked side by side.

“We never finished our dessert ,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Lando chuckled, following her gaze. “I guess not. But honestly, I’m not sure I could eat anything after that.”

“Me neither,” she admitted, blushing slightly. “But we should probably clean up before someone walks in and thinks we’ve gone completely insane.”

He smirked, reaching for a towel. “Insane? Nah. We’re just having a good time.”

She shot him a playful glare. “Right. Because setting the kitchen on fire would be totally normal.”

“Hey, I didn’t set anything on fire,” he protested, draping the towel over his shoulder. “You’re the one who got distracted.”

“Distracted?!” she exclaimed, her voice rising an octave. “Lando, you literally pressed me against the counter and—”

He cut her off with a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, fair point. My bad.”

As they cleaned up and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, the banter continued, though now softer and less charged with the heightened energy that had fueled their earlier interactions. There was a new layer to their connection, one that made Y/N feel incredibly seen and understood in ways she hadn’t expected.

When the last dish was put away, Lando turned to her, his hands resting on her hips as he pulled her close. “So… what now?”

She tilted her head, considering his question. “Now… we see where this goes. Together.”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “Sounds perfect.”

As his lips descended to meet hers once more, Y/N felt her resolve strengthen. Whatever came next, she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t ready to walk away from this. Not yet.

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