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em1i2a3 · 3 months ago

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Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

3K notes · View notes

magnagaruzenmon · 29 days ago

Text

Waterbombed

So a bit of lore. @cosmic-conqueror-diabelos loves Eunbi. Eunbi is his singular favorite idol in all of K-pop and every time he writes he’s forcing himself not to root back to her. Not today though. He saw these pictures and 45 minutes later he had almost half of this done. So we hope you enjoy this and you’ll probably be seeing more Eunbi fics as we go.. peace out

Happy 4th of July may you all have a cool weekend after this very hot waterbomb

It all started on April 25th, 2022.

You were deep into a Monster Hunter Wilds session with your longtime friend Sakura, her laid-back boyfriend Toji, and someone new—Eunbi, Sakura’s friend from her dance crew.

“Unnie, are you having fun?” Sakura asked cheerfully as the four of you tag-teamed a particularly slippery Mizutsune. The fight had been long, but Eunbi was chasing its armor set for what she described as “aesthetic purposes.” In her words, it was “so pretty it hurts.”

“Yeah, Sakura-yah. I love it. And thanks to you guys, I’m finally getting the hang of it.” You grinned, watching your avatar tumble through the Mizutsune’s water blasts.

You hadn’t met Eunbi before tonight, but there was something instantly warm and charming about her. The way she spoke—soft, thoughtful, punctuated with unexpected laughter—made you feel like you’d known her longer than just a few hunts. When you tried to picture her, your brain filled in the blanks with soft edges and big eyes—just… cute.

After a few more runs, Mizutsune finally dropped the last part Eunbi needed. She let out a giddy little squeal as her hunter jogged toward Emma the blacksmith. You smiled, just listening to her hum with excitement through your headset.

About five minutes later, Eunbi returned to the lobby wearing the full Mizutsune set—sleek, iridescent, and very, very pink.

“Whoa, Eunbi, you look amazing,” Sakura said.

“Total fashion kill,” Toji added with his usual dry tone.

You chimed in with a grin, “Honestly? Worth the grind. You look great.”

Eunbi giggled. “Thank you all so much. Seriously, if it weren’t for you guys, I’d still be drowning in bubbles.”

You laughed along with them, but as the clock ticked past midnight, you rubbed your eyes and leaned back in your chair. “Alright, I should call it here. I’ve got actual grown-up stuff to do tomorrow.”

“Wait, Benimaru,” Eunbi said just as you were about to log off. You paused.

“I know I can’t invite Sakura and Toji—Sakura’s got rehearsal for the concert—but… as a thank-you for helping me tonight, I wanted to invite you to Waterbomb.”

You blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

Eunbi’s voice was playful. “Mhm. You in?”

“Yeah… okay.” You weren’t quite sure what you were agreeing to. The name Waterbomb rang a bell, but not loud enough to shake anything loose. You barely had time to ask before Eunbi added:

“Let me get your Instagram.” She sent a follow request a second later and DM’d you the full event details.

You tapped over to her profile, expecting a few selfies and maybe the occasional food post. Instead, you scrolled down and froze.

Clips from previous Waterbomb festivals filled your screen—Eunbi on stage in a soaked crop top, dancing like a tidal wave. Her moves were magnetic, sensual, commanding—and suddenly, your brain made the connection. That Eunbi. The performer. Sakura’s ex leader in izone

Your mouth went dry.

Something primal stirred at the back of your mind, like an alarm clock you hadn’t meant to set.

She had invited you.

The weeks before Waterbomb pass in a rhythm that feels easy. Familiar.

Each night, you and Eunbi dive into Monster Hunter hunts together—sometimes just the two of you, sometimes with Toji or Sakura dropping in between rehearsals. You start recognizing the way she fights: quick, clever, a little chaotic. You don’t say it out loud, but you love watching her win.

After each session, she sends you outfit options. Just little photos, usually mirror selfies or snapshots against her bedroom wall. At first, they’re tame—an oversized hoodie here, a floaty sundress there. She always adds a caption.

“Too boring?”

“Be honest, this makes me look like a grandma right?”

“Cute or just…eh?”

You reply dutifully—sometimes with jokes, sometimes with emojis, and sometimes with a well-placed “Ma’am 😳.” She eats it up.

But the outfits start getting bolder. Skin shows in different places. A crop here, a side slit there. You know the game she’s playing, and even though you’re trying to keep it casual, your reactions start slipping through.

And then she sends that outfit.

A red plaid crop top. A white bra peeking just beneath. Faded denim shorts riding high on her hips.

You stare at your phone for a solid ten seconds, maybe more. You blink, like maybe you imagined it. You did not.

You Facetime her without thinking. She picks up immediately, already grinning.

“So?” she asks, voice sweet as sugar. “How do I look?”

She knows what she’s done. You can see it in her eyes, in the slight tilt of her head, in how she’s trying not to laugh.

You rub the back of your neck, trying to sound composed. You’re not.

“Look… I’m gonna be honest,” you say. “I have nothing polite to say about that outfit.”

You pause, watching her expression shift slightly—just enough for the tension to crack a little.

“…But I promise you—every single thing I have to say is positive.”

Her giggle is quiet but victorious. She bites her lip, smiling like she just won a bet.

And in that moment, you realize two things:

1. You are absolutely not ready for Waterbomb.

2. She’s known that from the start.

A few days after the Facetime call, Eunbi texts you mid-afternoon.

Eunbi:

“You busy this evening? 👀”

You weren’t. Not really. Just pretending to work, letting your thoughts drift toward Waterbomb more often than you’d admit.

You:

“Depends. Are we grinding more hunts or what?”

Eunbi:

“Mmm… not quite. I’ve got rehearsal for the show. Figured you might wanna see how the sausage gets made 😏”

Your heart skips. You hesitate, then type.

You:

“Like, backstage?”

Eunbi:

“More like VIP treatment. Just me, my dancers, and… you 😇”

“I promise to behave. Ish.”

That “ish” does more damage than it should.

⸻

You show up at the rehearsal studio a few hours later. It’s tucked into a side street downtown, barely marked. You find the room by the music leaking through the door—bass-heavy, slick with rhythm, like something dangerous dressed up as fun.

She meets you at the entrance, hair up, skin glowing from sweat and practice. She’s in loose joggers and a tiny sports bra—practical, sure, but something about the way she wears it makes it feel… intentional.

“Benimaru~” she greets, drawing your name out like honey. “You really came.”

“Yeah,” you say, hands in your pockets, trying not to stare. “Would’ve been rude not to.”

She smiles. “Mmm. Well, don’t feel too flattered. I mostly needed a pair of eyes to watch and tell me if I still look hot after sweating through three routines.”

You raise a brow. “You could’ve just sent a selfie.”

She laughs and waves you in. “That wouldn’t have the same effect.”

⸻

The rehearsal is sharp and fast. The choreography is intense—hips, turns, water cannons (yes, real ones), and so much skin. Eunbi commands the space, every movement deliberate, every glance calculated. And every time her eyes flick to you mid-routine, something in your chest tightens.

She’s putting on a show—but only for one person.

⸻

After the final run-through, the other dancers head out, leaving towels and water bottles in their wake. Eunbi walks over to where you’re sitting, dabbing sweat from her collarbone with a towel.

“So…” she says, handing you a bottle of water. “How’d I do?”

“You’re dangerous,” you mutter, too honest.

She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “Mmm. That’s not a no.”

She sits next to you—close. Too close. Her thigh brushes yours, warm and bare. She leans in just slightly, enough for you to catch the scent of her shampoo, faint vanilla and something floral.

“Be honest,” she whispers. “Do you think I’ll kill them at Waterbomb… or do I need to practice that body roll again?”

You glance at her. She’s smiling, but beneath it is a question. A provocation.

You exhale slowly, feeling the heat creep up your neck.

“I think,” you say carefully, “you already know exactly what you’re doing.”

She doesn’t deny it.

She just leans back on her hands, stretches slowly, and says, “Then you better be there when I do it for real.”

It’s a few days before Waterbomb when Eunbi texts you again, this time with something simple.

Eunbi:

“Wanna hang? No rehearsal. No monsters. Just vibes. 👻”

You agree without overthinking it. Which, at this point, is a lie. You’ve been overthinking her since that night at the studio.

⸻

You end up walking through a quiet part of the city together—coffee in hand, the sun going down, summer heat still clinging to the concrete. Eunbi’s wearing an off-shoulder top and loose jeans, but it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing anymore. You’ve seen her sweaty, laughing, mid-performance, and something in your brain rewired after that.

She’s different now. Or maybe you are.

You both talk about nothing for a while. Music. Games. Some idol drama she insists you have to watch. You call her out on her taste. She calls you uncultured. It’s easy. Almost too easy.

At some point, you end up on a bench overlooking the Han River, watching the city shimmer across the water.

She leans back, stretching her arms with a sigh. “You know…” she starts, glancing sideways at you, “if we were in a drama, this would totally be the part where the lead couple starts realizing they like each other.”

You smile, trying to ignore the skip in your heartbeat. “Are you saying this feels like a date?”

Eunbi’s gaze flicks to yours—steady, direct, teasing—but softer than usual.

“I mean… it does feel like one, doesn’t it?” she says. Then, after a beat, “Do you want it to be a date?”

You swallow, pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. You don’t look away.

“…Do you want this to be a date?”

That’s when she says it.

“Yes.”

Just that. No coyness. No second-guessing. She holds your gaze with a clarity that strips away every layer of playfulness between you.

And suddenly, the air around you changes. Thickens.

The casual distance between your bodies feels like an open invitation. Your leg pressed lightly against hers now feels electric. Her hand, resting on the bench close to yours, feels impossibly far and far too close all at once.

She doesn’t move. Neither do you.

But everything has shifted.

The space between you isn’t filled with teasing anymore. It’s full of things unsaid—wants, thoughts, urges that have been building up over weeks of games and glances and barely-there touches.

Eunbi licks her lips once, eyes dropping to your mouth and back again. “You gonna say something, or just keep staring at me like that?”

You don’t answer.

You just lean in slightly, just enough to make her breath hitch.

“I’m thinking,” you murmur.

“Thinking what?”

“If I kiss you now… we’re not gonna make it to Waterbomb without breaking a few rules.”

She smiles again—but it’s slower, darker. Like she’s just waiting for you to stop thinking.

And maybe you are.

The walk back to your place is quiet—charged. Neither of you says much, and you don’t have to. Every brush of her shoulder against yours feels deliberate. Every glance exchanged is heavier than the last.

You unlock the door and step inside, motioning for her to follow. She does without hesitation, slipping off her shoes like she’s been here before. Like she belongs here.

“I like your place,” Eunbi says, looking around, then tossing her bag on the couch like it’s already hers. “Cozy.”

“You’re just saying that because I don’t have gamer chairs and LED strips.”

She laughs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You’re still standing by the door when she walks back over to you—closer than necessary. Her fingers hook lightly into your belt loops as she tilts her head up.

“You were staring at me the whole walk back,” she says softly.

“I was trying not to jump you in public,” you reply, equally soft.

Her eyes spark with something wicked.

“Good.”

You don’t remember leaning in. One second you’re standing there, and the next your mouth is on hers—hot, hungry, and overdue. She kisses you back with that same controlled intensity she dances with—fluid, teasing, just a little bit dangerous.

You press her against the wall, hands finding her waist, her lower back, her hips. She lets you, humming into your mouth like this is exactly what she expected. Your breath is ragged when she breaks the kiss, only to pull you toward the couch, pulling you down on top of her in one smooth move.

Your hands roam without hesitation now—up her ribs, across her bare stomach, fingertips teasing the edge of her bra under that off-shoulder top. She gasps, arching into your touch, lips finding your neck.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” you whisper.

She laughs—low and breathy. “That’s the idea.”

But then, just as your hand starts to slide under her top, she grabs your wrist—firm, but not cold.

You look down at her, confused, lips parted, heartbeat crashing in your ears.

Eunbi smirks up at you, flushed and glowing, eyes glittering with mischief.

“If you’re a good boy,” she purrs, “I’ll show you so much more at Waterbomb.”

You blink, stunned.

She leans up, kisses your jaw, then slips out from under you with ridiculous ease, like she hasn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.

“You’re evil,” you mutter, breathless.

She pulls her top back into place, grinning over her shoulder as she heads for the door.

“Discipline, Benimaru. Delayed gratification.” She winks. “Just imagine what I’m saving for the encore.”

Then she’s gone—leaving behind her scent, her warmth, and your very, very unresolved desire.

You stare at the door for a long moment, exhale hard, and fall back on the couch.

Waterbomb cannot come soon enough.

Waterbomb hit you like a fever.

The day of the festival blurred by in a haze of sun, music, and adrenaline—but mostly Eunbi.

You’d been texting back and forth since morning, her messages a constant stream of flirtation and provocation. Voice notes dripping with innuendo. Selfies that left too little to the imagination. Winks and teasing emojis that felt like fingertips brushing your skin.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the stage scaffolding, you were already breathless—disoriented in the best and worst way. Her energy had worked its way under your skin and into your bloodstream, leaving you drunk on anticipation.

And then the murmurs started.

“Eunbi’s up next.”

“She’s gonna kill it—she always kills it.”

“She’s basically the queen of Waterbomb.”

“Sexy legend, are you kidding me?”

You already knew all of it was true—but hearing it out loud made it feel real. Tangible. Like the whole city was about to see what you’d seen brewing behind her glances and half-smiles.

And then the lights cut. The bass dropped. The crowd screamed.

She stepped onto the stage like she owned the world.

Eunbi was dazzling. Drenched in spotlight and water spray, she moved with the confidence of someone who knew every eye was on her—and who only cared about one.

Yours.

Her gaze found you almost immediately—sultry, knowing, locked in. And then she smiled.

That slow, devastating smile that said: I told you I’d show you more.

The music pulsed around her as she danced, hips rolling in a hypnotic rhythm that felt less like choreography and more like a spell. Her body undulated with practiced seduction, but the way she looked at you? That was personal. Intimate. Like she was unwrapping you, layer by layer, with every beat.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away if you tried.

She moved through her set like a storm: bouncing, spinning, flipping her hair, letting the water soak through her barely-there outfit as the crowd roared in appreciation. But for you, it was background noise. All you saw was her. All you felt was her.

Each verse, each motion, each glance offstage in your direction wound you tighter. By the time her final song ended in a flash of lights and a roar of screams, you were completely undone.

Soaked in sweat. Heart racing. Breath stolen.

Somehow both spent and starving.

And when she blew a kiss to the crowd—no, to you—you knew exactly what the rest of the night was leading to.

You weren’t just watching the show anymore.

You were part of the encore.

You knew it the second your phone buzzed.

Eunbi:

“Come to Relax Bar. VIP section. 💋”

No instructions. No emojis to soften the blow—just a location and the implicit promise of more.

You checked your festival map with shaking fingers and started walking, weaving through crowds still high off the set she had just torched. Music still echoed across the grounds, but your head was full of her—her body, her stare, her mouth wrapped around every lyric like it was meant for you.

By the time you reached the Relax Bar, your heart was pounding all over again.

You didn’t have to wait.

One of Eunbi’s crew was already there, clocking you instantly with a knowing smile. “You’re Benimaru, yeah? She’s expecting you.”

No security check. No waitlist. Just a silent escort past the velvet ropes into a world that smelled of expensive liquor, body spray, and something wild.

Then you saw her.

Eunbi in her element.

She was lounging on a leather couch in the VIP lounge like it was a throne. Legs crossed, drink in hand, hair still damp from the performance, clinging to her shoulders. The red white and blue colors of her outfit had been traded out for something darker now—sleek black with glints of shimmer, clinging to her curves like the spotlight still hadn’t let her go.

She looked like temptation incarnate. And she was staring right at you.

Her smirk bloomed the moment your eyes met. “Well, well. Look who survived.”

You tried to speak, but your mouth had forgotten how. Eventually, you managed:

“You killed me… and somehow brought me back to life.”

She laughed, deep and rich, and motioned for you to sit beside her. As you did, her eyes slowly traced over you—neck to waist and back up again—with absolutely no rush.

“You look like you’ve been through something,” she teased, voice low and honey-slicked.

“I have,” you replied. “You.”

Eunbi tilted her head, clearly enjoying every bit of your wrecked state. She leaned in close—so close you could feel the heat of her breath against your cheek—and whispered, “And you still want more?”

You didn’t answer with words. You didn’t need to. The way your body leaned toward hers, the way your hands gripped your knees to keep from reaching for her—it said everything.

She set her drink down slowly, then slid her hand up your thigh with deliberate, torturous ease.

“Let’s get out of here,” she murmured. “Come back to my place.”

You swallowed hard.

She smiled—sultry, confident, absolutely not innocent. “Don’t worry,” she added, leaning in so her lips just brushed your ear, “I don’t bite… unless you ask.”

Your brain short-circuited.

You could only nod as you stood, following her out of the lounge, out of the festival, and into the night like you’d been summoned.

And maybe you had.

You arrive at her place and you can feel the erotic energy flowing from her. It filled you with desire and need for her.

You enter her apartment, and she is on you before you can think.

She kisses you with the ferocity of a lioness starved for her partner. Her tongue explores your mouth with the vigor of a conqueror trying to tame wild lands. When she breaks the kiss she lifts her top over her head and you are greeted by her magnificent breasts and the rest of her upper body.

Creamy white skin gorgeous curves and of course her breasts that have you feral.

You barely think before stooping down to the left one engorging on its swell. Your head is left in a heady mix of arousal and need. Eunbi moans as you suck on her breasts before pushing you onto the couch. She straddles you before yelping and saying “oh someone is ready.”

She smiles as she opens your pants and with no hesitation wraps her breasts around your cock. You scream in Euphoria as the softness and gentle grace she moves with drives you crazy.

“Fuck you’re gonna make me,”

You say before you explode all over her. The last few days of teasing have left you so primed that she barely needed 3 pumps and you were gone. You cover her tits, face, and neck in your seed. Eunbi smiles though still pumping you through it coaxing you.

“You have more for me right,” she asks her eyes bright and encouraging and you can’t help it you explode all over her again, as your balls ache trying give her everything. You black out as she still fucks you with her tits.

Unable to think or move but receiving her attentions is glorious torture. She gets you there again, and again and again, To the point you think she’s gonna kill you, until she says, “I won’t stop until you can’t get hard anymore,” you groan and whimper as she relentlessly titfucks you again each time Getting a little less out of you.

It’s brutal as she doesn’t stop. She keeps you hard with her filthy language and sinful body. By the time you finally can’t get hard anymore Eunbi has gotten 8 orgasms out of you. Eunbi smiles though still as she is covered in cum at this point.

Before you can pass out Eunb brings your eyes to her and she says, “did you enjoy the encore?”

#k pop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #kwon eunbi smut #eunbi x reader #eunbi kwon #eunbi smut #kwon eunbi

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redeemingvillains · 21 days ago

Text

the mixup - mattheo riddle

summary: one of the house elves makes a mistake with the laundry. or, the time you left four friends speechless and your best friend drooling. word count: 1.3k warnings: this is very suggestive, probably 18+ish, please read responsibly my dears. a/n: just something silly and fun that made me blush and giggle. i love these boys!!!! soundtrack: levii's jeans - beyonce & post malone

"Make it quick, Riddle, we're not going to wait for you" Draco grumbled as he pushed past him.

"Alright, just give me a minute, will you?" Mattheo muttered in reply as he dragged his laundry bag into the dormitory behind him.

His hair was still wet from the shower he'd raced through after quidditch practice ran late and each of the boys was rushing to get their weekend started, their room a chaotic mess of clothes, cologne and a handle of firewhiskey that was making its way between them.

Mattheo swiped the bottle from Lorenzo, grinning and ducking out of his grasp as he took a hefty gulp before it was stolen away again, leaving his lips burning from the liquor as he wiped them with the back of his hand.

In truth he was just as eager for tonight, maybe even moreso than his friends, though for a much different reason; he didn't care about getting wasted, or snagging the best table at the Three Broomsticks to watch the quidditch finals, he was just looking forward to seeing you.

Though if anyone would have asked him, he would have vehemently denied it.

Because you were friends... just friends. Friends like he was friends with Pansy or Astoria... Except that he didn't have endless thoughts about the feeling of their skin under his fingers, didn't smell the lingering scent of their shampoo in the Amortentia he'd brewed last term, didn't study every detail about them from their favorite food, to the color they painted their nails, didn't fantasize about them like he did about you: that one day you'd want him the way he wanted you. Because even though you were inseparable, even though you orbited around each other, even though he swore sometimes he caught you looking at him, your gaze always dissolved into something sweet and friendly and he'd have to remind himself that even though he could confidently have any girl in the school, and had proven as much, you were both the only one he genuinely wanted and the only one that seemed immune to him.

The boys continued in their cacophony of shouting over one another as Mattheo lugged his laundry to his bed and overturned it unceremoniously and Enzo turned on his favorite muggle pop playlist.

"You can't be serious" Blaise commented the second it started.

"Enz, turn this shit off" Mattheo agreed. "Your taste in music is worst than..." he started before fading off.

"...Than what, Riddle? I'm sorry we don't all listen to edgy alternative depressing shit" Enzo chirped to no response. He finished pulling his shirt over his head and then peered around his four-poster to see Mattheo staring silently at the pile of clothes in front of him.

“What’s?—” Enzo started to say as he wandered over until he saw what had captivated Mattheo's attention. "No fucking way" he laughed as he stepped closer and stood beside him.

The emerald comforter of the bed was covered almost entirely in lingerie, soft cottons, delicate lace, bralettes, thongs, floral sets, petal pinks and curve-hugging boy shorts. Enzo bit his fist.

"Fucking hell" he breathed as he reached reverently for a transparent pink bralette before holding it up for the others to see, each immediately stopping what they were doing and making their way over, drawn to it.

"Who's is it?" Blaise muttered, reaching for the laundry bag and turning it over in his hands. "S'got your name on it..."

"You holding out on us, amico?" Theo smirked as he nudged Mattheo's shoulder. "A little amorina on the side?"

"I wish" Mattheo said, his eyes locking on a rosy thong that had him swallowing.

He was completely transfixed, unable to tear his gaze from the pile of pink in front of him, certain that not a single classmate he knew could be wearing stuff like this because surely he'd know, surely one of them would know... right? But something about the colors, the style, tickled something in the back of his mind and made him want to tell his friends to keep their hands off of it.

"Theo, you're telling me even you have no idea whose this is?" Lorenzo confirmed.

"Nooo" he drawled. "Trust. I would not forget this" he said, picking out a peach thong that was barely more than a string as Draco let out a low whistle.

And then they heard voices in the hallway, a murmur and the high-pitched squeak of a house elf.

"Penny is so very sorry, Miss. Penny must have switched the bags. Penny will make it right, Miss."

And with a soft knock you pushed the door open to see all of your guy friends standing around a pile of your lingerie, your bra in Enzo's hands, your thong between Theo's fingers, each of them looking genuinely guilty and completely shocked at the sight of you; Draco's mouth hung open and Mattheo's eyes were as wide as galleons. Enzo and Theo slowly lowered the pieces back to the bed and you swore you could hear the fabric hit the comforter for how quiet it had become.

"Awww, thanks, boys!" you said, completely unphased as you dropped the laundry bag you’d been holding and strode towards them.

Five sets of eyebrows hit the ceiling.

Draco mutely picked up the bag with Mattheo’s name mistakenly printed on it and held it out, his eyes never leaving you.

You accepted it and began grabbing handfuls of your delicates, stuffing them back in the bag. With a muffled cough and a murmur, the boys shuffled away leaving you with Mattheo who was physically incapable of moving as he watched you grab fistfuls of your underwear off his bed. It was without a doubt the hottest shit he'd ever seen and would never ever unsee, in the outline of your fitted t-shirts, in your leggings, beneath your oversized sweaters that tended to slip off your shoulder.

"Sorry for the mixup" you said, your eyes focused as you stuffed the last of it into the bag, “I brought yours back, it’s over there” you nodded towards the door.

"Y-yeah s'no problem" he muttered, tearing his gaze away for a second, his voice sounding alien to his own ears.

And then the bed was clear and you were standing in front of him, the bag against your hip, smiling up at him as if your thongs hadn't just touched his sheets.

"See you in a few?" you asked.

He swallowed.

"...Yeah..." he mumbled as he watched you leave, your hips swinging as five heads turned to watched you go.

That night Mattheo tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about it, about you, about the lace and the cotton and the way they'd sit against your skin, about how the entire night he wondered what was under your dress and how he was sure your perfume lingered against his sheets even though you hadn't been here for hours.

He buried his head into his pillow and moved to hug it when his fingers brushed something beneath it. He grasped it and pulled it towards him to see a baby pink lace thong. But how could it possibly have gotten under his pillow?

Unless...

Had you...?

He didn't get a wink of sleep.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

The following morning he wandered, exhausted, into the Great Hall to see you wearing one of his hoodies, his favorite hoodie, in fact, engulfing you so perfectly that it made his heart dip and swoon so fast he bumped into the Ravenclaw in front of him.

He shook his head and pushed them out of the way as he righted himself and strode confidently to the Slytherin table and slid in beside you.

You turned to him and your eyes fluttered under your long lashes as you searched his face; you could see faint bags beneath his eyes and a darkness in their amber depths that tangled with a warmth you were well familiar with.

"Hope you don't mind...." you said as you rolled your bottom lip into your mouth and bit it gently.

His eyes tracked every movement.

"...Looked too comfy to give up" you smiled.

"Not at all" he conceded, breaking your gaze to reach for the coffee, which he poured and took a long sip from before he leaned over to you, his lips lingering against your ear in a way that had goosebumps running up your arm.

"But if you get to keep that, then I get to keep what you left me."

You flushed beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt, beneath his gaze, beneath the feeling of his breath on your cheek even as he pulled back, though not far, your noses nearly touching.

"Or" you whispered as you rested your hand on his thigh that flexed in response. "Maybe I could come by later tonight and trade you for the pair I have on?"

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco, @wybieivy, @itznotsophia, @cipheress-to-k-pop, @aur0ral1ghts, @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x you #slytherin boys

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beargyu313 · 1 month ago

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We be outside 𓇼 𓂃 𓈒𓏸

Untie my leash, take off my mask, This world flips, turned into a bad love

⋆⭒˚.⋆Summary: what better way to meet your boyfriend’s friends than going on a trip with them, right?

Pairings: Sunghoon x you (couple), Niki x you (side piece),

⋆˚꩜｡WC: 17.2k (guess this is my new norm…) ⋆⭒˚｡CW: this story includes CHEATING/homie hopping, if this is something you don’t like then simply don’t read the story. Obviously, I don’t condone cheating irl and am hence using fiction to explore a fantasy…

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ Tags: Cheating, cockwarming, sexual tension, semi-public sex (Niki fucks you in the living room while everyone’s watching a movie), fingering (m!giving, f!receiving), sneaking around, heavy petting, teasing, talk of anal,, dick size comparison, marking, light choking, hair-pulling, size kink, praise kink, jealousy (from both lol), pussy licking, crying during sex

𓆉⋆.˚𓆟A/N: apologizes for not posting sooner, just been in a weird funk, reblogs and likes are as always appreciated<3 also next in the making is Jake with the trope of friends to lovers (After a tipsy kiss, you both agree to "see what happens" with strictly no feelings. (Spoiler: There are so many feelings.))

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You watch Sunghoon wrestle a large silver suitcase out from under his bed, the corners bumping against the frame with a dull thud. His brows are drawn in concentration as he unzips it and starts mentally organizing stuff—socks, chargers, skin care.

You sit cross-legged on the floor beside him, back resting against the edge of the mattress, your phone glowing in your lap. You scroll idly until a notification catches your eye.

“Who’s ‘h1seungsgirl’?” you ask, squinting. “She just sent me a follow request.”

“Hmm?” Sunghoon doesn’t look up. He’s busy tucking his cologne into a small pouch. “Oh. That’s Heeseung’s girlfriend. She just joined the group chat.”

You tap into her profile, skimming. Her feed is warm-toned, curated, clean. Sun-kissed selfies, gym mirror shots, a laugh caught mid-frame. She’s pretty. Like... really pretty.

“Is she the one he met on twitch?” you ask, glancing over the phone at him.

“I think so.” He shrugs, casually. “She’s cool. You’ll probably like her.”

“Yeah, she seems sweet… Wait- Jay just added me too.” Your thumb flicks upward. “That’s…?”

“Jungwon’s boyfriend.” This time, he does glance at you, briefly. “You met him at that rooftop thing, right?”

“Oh, yeah. With the guitar,” you say, smiling faintly at the memory. “He was nice.”

“Mm. They’re inseparable. They’ll be in the other bungalow.”

“So it’s them, Heeseung and his girl... and us?”

Sunghoon pauses just long enough for you to notice. “Technically. Niki’s with us.”

You try to sound casual, try to keep your pulse steady.

“Right. Of course.” As if you hadn’t spent the last few nights spiraling down his Instagram, heart hammering at every pic he’s in, every grin, every blurry photo of him at a club (yes you also went through his tagged photos). (It’s not a big deal – you just like his aesthetic)

Sunghoon pauses, glances at you like he’s trying to remember something.

“You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” Sunghoon asks offhandedly, now folding a hoodie into a tight square.

“Once or twice,” you murmur. “Very briefly.”

A silence settles. It’s not tense, just familiar. You start to wonder if you’ve run through your daily word limit with him when he speaks again.

“He can be kinda weird with people he doesn’t know,” Sunghoon says, not looking at you. “Just ignore it if he’s awkward.”

You tilt your head. “Weird how?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. He’s just... Niki.”

Your phone buzzes again, and this time it’s from the group chat — the one you were only added to yesterday. Seven unread messages. You scroll past a selfie from Heeseung’s girlfriend and some chaotic voice notes from Jungwon until you reach the newest one.

ki005__ ok but who’s driving with who tmr lol i’m not tryna get squeezed into jay’s clown car again

You snort softly, thumb hovering over your screen.

“Group chat’s already getting spammed” you say, glancing up at Sunghoon. “Niki just asked who’s riding with who.”

Sunghoon doesn’t pause in his packing. “He should just go with us.”

You tilt your head. “Do we have space?”

He zips the suitcase halfway and nods. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” you say, a beat too quickly. Then you add, more casually, “Honestly, we might as well. Makes sense.”

You type out a reply: you can ride with us if that’s easier,, plenty of room

Sunghoon, kneeling by the suitcase again, barely glances over. “I thought you said you didn’t like long drives with other people.”

You scroll, pretending not to hear that. On the screen, Niki’s typing…

ki005__ bless ur soul 🙏 see u two losers at 10?

You feel the corners of your mouth pull upward, slow and involuntary. “Ten okay with you?” you ask, not looking up.

“Sure,” Sunghoon says, then stands to stretch, like the conversation's already over.

Your screen lights up again.

ki005__ shotgun btw don’t fight me

You laugh under your breath. Sunghoon doesn’t ask what’s funny. You don’t tell him.

The next morning, Sunghoon’s alarm blares, slicing through the silence of his dim bedroom. You blink awake slowly, watching him stretch one arm toward the phone. He shuts off the sound, sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, you think he might turn toward you, maybe brush your hair out of your face like he used to. But he doesn’t. He just stands, yawns, and walks into the bathroom without a word.

“Morning to you too,” you mutter under your breath.

You both get ready in now-familiar silence, trading only the essentials, such as

“You packed your swimsuits?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

By the time you’re lugging your bags to the car, you feel like you’re with a roommate rather than with your boyfriend. Everything is just too… habitual, stale almost.

You help Sunghoon fit the luggage into the trunk, neither of you offering much more than grunts of effort. Once seated, with Sunghoon in the driver’s seat and you in the passenger, you unlock your phone and connect it to the car’s Bluetooth.

You scroll for something upbeat. Maybe something to lift the mood. But just as the opening bars of the song start playing, Sunghoon taps the steering wheel screen and changes it to something else. A playlist of low-effort indie tracks he listens to when he’s zoning out.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t explain. Just... switches it. You sigh, long and quiet, and turn to the window. Pull out your phone again.

A notification lights up your screen: @ki005__ liked your photo.

And then — a second later — unliked it.

You bite back a smile, heart kicking up a notch against your will. You try not to read too much into it. You fail.

Turns out, Niki only lives three minutes away. As you pull up outside his building, you automatically sit up straighter in your seat, fixing your hair in the rearview mirror without really thinking.

He’s already outside, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, matching sweat set hanging off his tall and lean frame. Messy blonde hair covering his face. Sleepy-eyed with pouty lips. Effortlessly attractive.

He opens the back door and climbs in, pushing his platinum hair out of his face with one hand. The scent of his cologne filters through the car as he settles in.

“Yo,” he says easily to Sunghoon and you.

Sunghoon glances at him through the rearview. “Right on time. Proud of you.”

“Only because I didn’t sleep,” Niki replies, voice even deeper than you remember. His eyes flick to you briefly, and for a second just a second you swear his gaze lingers before he looks away.

About forty minutes into the drive, Sunghoon pulls off at a gas station. The three of you had just settled into a comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the radio filling the car. You were almost asleep as the car stills with a gentle jolt and Sunghoon parks. He yawns mid-sentence.

“I’ll go pump and pay. You two good?”

You nod, already checking your phone. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Niki’s voice comes from the backseat. “I’m good.”

The door thuds shut behind Sunghoon, and the hum of the engine is replaced by a quiet kind of stillness. The type that immediately makes you aware of every movement, every breath.

You feel Niki shift in the backseat, the soft rustle of fabric as he stretches his legs out. “You always sit that still?” he says after a beat.

You glance at him through the rearview mirror. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You just got all… proper. Like you’re waiting for roll call or something.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile threatening. “I’m literally just sitting.”

“Yeah, but it’s very... formal,” he teases. “I feel like I should be speaking in full sentences or something.”

You huff a laugh. “Sorry I don’t slouch dramatically the second I sit down.”

“Oh, this is dramatic?” he leans his head back against the seat, totally relaxed, baring his long neck. “This is me conserving energy.”

You give him a sidelong look. “Sure. You’re the picture of restraint.”

He hums, smile still tugging. “So you’ve noticed.”

You don’t answer right away. The inside of the car suddenly feels smaller.

Before either of you can say more, you spot Sunghoon heading back. You shift slightly in your seat, eyes flicking to the window. The moment passes. Light and forgettable, except for how it settles somewhere under your belly.

“Let’s go,” Sunghoon says, his mood noticeably uplifted now that he’s returned. The car hums to life and you guys spend another hour or so driving on the highway, the sun setting high in the sky.

Sunghoon’s hand rests on your thigh as the car crawls to a stop, fingers warm and absent-minded, more of a habit than a gesture. You barely notice—you’re too busy staring out the window.

The afternoon sun streaks gold across the sky, bleeding into the ocean just visible beyond the trees. The air is warm and thick with salt, the kind of coastal humidity that makes your clothes stick and your skin feel sun-kissed even before hitting the beach.

Ahead of you, two bungalows sit side by side, like mismatched siblings. The one on the left is signed as B2 and is clearly the nicer of the two, it’s slightly raised on stilts, white wooden siding faded just enough to look effortlessly aesthetic. There's a wide patio lined with string lights and a grill already set up near the steps.

B1, the one you’re pulling into, is smaller. Cozier. A single narrow porch leads to the front door, and you can already tell from here there isn’t a lot of space. You imagine the living room will barely hold three people, let alone host them.

Sunghoon shifts into park.

“Welcome to paradise,” he says, removing his hand from your thigh as he leans over to turn off the engine. You don’t answer, your eyes are already on the two cars in the driveway, the figures moving around them.

The second the doors open, chaos spills out.

“I swear if someone forgot the speaker—” Jungwon’s voice rings across the driveway before you’ve even unbuckled your seatbelt. He’s halfway out of his car, waving a pair of flip-flops in one hand like a flag.

Jay hops out after him, laughing. “Why are you yelling like we’re not all within three feet of you?”

Heeseung leans against his trunk, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His girlfriend stands beside him, cool and quiet, scrolling on her phone. She barely glances up as people start unloading bags, her vibe unreadable but somehow calm amidst the noise.

You open your door and stretch your legs. The drive wasn’t long, but sitting between Sunghoon’s silence and Ni-ki’s quiet energy in the backseat had left you buzzing.

You glance around just in time to see Niki hop out of the back. He pulls his duffel bag over one shoulder and pushes a hand through his hair. His hoodie’s half-unzipped, sleeves pushed up. You try not to stare at the way the tank top underneath the hoodie hugs his waist, as he blinks into the sun, the breeze catching his platinum hair.

“Yo! You finally made it,” Heeseung calls out to the three of you.

“Traffic was ass,” Sunghoon replies, grabbing both your suitcases from the trunk before you can even protest.

Jay points to B1. “That’s yours, right? The little one? Y’all better cuddle tight.”

You force a laugh. “Guess we’re the cozier bungalow.”

Niki gives the house a once-over, then squints. “Damn. Tiny thing.” His voice is light, but there’s a subtle lilt of irony and when his eyes flick to yours briefly, you feel your stomach flutter.

You pretend not to notice.

The group starts dragging bags toward the houses, voices overlapping again as flip-flops slap against the pavement and someone cranks the volume down on the speaker.

“Okay” Heeseung holds up his phone, squinting at the Airbnb confirmation as everyone crowds loosely around him. “Let’s figure out who’s sleeping where before someone tries to claim the grill as a bed.”

“If I snore, me and Won should get the master as a courtesy to the rest of you,” Jay says, tossing his bag over his shoulder and leaning into Heeseung’s space. “It’s a kindness, really. You don’t wanna hear what happens when I hit REM.”

Heeseung’s girlfriend lifts her head from her phone just long enough to give Jay a side-eye.

“Dream on, man.” Heeseung scrolls with his thumb, then looks up. “Me and my girl have the master in B2. Y’all can fight over whatever’s left.”

Jungwon groans. “If I end up on the floor I’m spooning someone, no discussion.”

“As long as it’s not me,” Jay mutters, already heading up the steps.

“Yeah right,” Jungwon says, playfully slapping Jay’s ass, a soft fondness in his eyes as he does so.

You trail after Sunghoon, letting the rest of them peel off toward B2 in a wave of teasing and mock complaints. You can hear Jungwon’s voice bouncing off the side, something about who packed the best snacks and whether or not cold brew counts as hydration.

Sunghoon stops just short of the door to B1 and turns toward Niki, who’s lingering a few steps behind you, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Bedroom’s ours. You’ve got the couch.”

Niki lifts a brow, clearly unfazed. “As long as it pulls out. Or doesn’t.” He glances at you, just for a second.

Jungwon snorts loudly from the other porch. “Niki, you’re disgusting.”

You pretend not to catch the innuendo, but your face feels warm.

Niki just grins and kicks at a loose pebble by the steps. “I’m easy, anyway. You could toss me a towel and I’d make it work.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, turning the key in the lock. “You say that like you didn’t once refuse to sleep in a tent because it ‘smelled like nylon.’”

“Okay, first of all, it reeked like wet socks and shame,” Niki shoots back, following him up the porch. “Second, you promised there’d be a cabin.”

“I lied,” Sunghoon shrugs simply.

You trail behind them, amused. “Didn’t you also say he whined the whole hike up Mount Seorak?”

“That was different,” Niki says quickly. “I had altitude-induced existential dread. You can’t control that.”

You lag behind as the door swings open and your eyes scan the inside. The bungalow’s exactly as expected. Modest and slightly cramped. The living room couch is a muted beige, already half-unfolded, and the small hallway beyond it leads to a single bathroom and a closed bedroom door. A window unit hums quietly, cutting the humidity.

You step inside last.

There’s something about the space. How close everything feels. How there’s no room to hide if anything starts to unravel.

Sunghoon snorts as he pushes the bedroom door open. “You had blisters.”

“Blisters and dread,” Niki corrects, glancing over his shoulder at you with a lazy smile. “She gets it.”

You raise your brows. “I’m not taking sides until I see who actually makes the best barbecue.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Niki grins, brushing past you, “I hope you like your chicken emotionally charred.”

Sunghoon mutters under his breath as he steps in behind you, “That’s rich coming from the guy who once set noodles on fire.”

“I was experimenting,” Niki defends. “Creativity can’t be contained.”

You spend the afternoon like that, bantering with each other. The sun is starting to set as you change into a pastel linen set compromised of shorts and a crop top. You felt pretty as you brushed your hair, spritzing light perfume on before joining the rest of the group outside, by the grill.

The patio of B2 was bathed in golden hour light, the grill heating up and a portable speaker was playing something upbeat. Laughter and beach air are thick in the atmosphere. There are coolers, soda bottles and bags of half-opened chips.

As you step out you already hear Jungwon. Jay is already holding a spatula he definitely wasn’t asked to touch.

“I swear if someone forgot the buns again!” you hear Jungwon shouting.

Jay is grinning as he waves the bun bag around, “Your savior has arrived.”

Heeseung’s girlfriend is leaning against the railing, sipping from a can and listening quietly as Heeseung frowns at the grill knobs like he’s diffusing a bomb.

“Why is this one hissing?” Heesung asks her.

“Because you turned the wrong burner,” she deadpans, moving to show him how to do it right.

“It’s gonna be a long weekend,” you hear Jay mutter as he huffs over to Sunghoon. Who you’re sitting next to at the edge of the patio bench. As soon as you stepped out Jay handed you a cold can of probably beer, that you’re nursing in your lap.

Even as you’re sitting next to Sunghoon he’s mid-conversation with Jay and doesn’t notice when your knee touches his. Just as you were starting to feel awkward only listening in to their conversation Niki slides onto the other side of you.

He was close enough for you to smell his cologne, but not close enough to touch. He took his hoodie off now, sporting a black tank top that hugged his frame – leaving nothing to the imagination. His skin golden under the last of the sun looked inviting and you do your best to gather yourself.

A moment passes.

Your thigh brushes his. He doesn’t move away.

He’s talking to Jungwon about some movie, but you swear you feel the pressure shift. It’s like he leans into the touch just a little more deliberately. Or maybe you’re imagining it. Your drink suddenly feels warmer in your hand.

Sunghoon laughs at something Jay says — something about their shared gym horror stories — and you smile faintly, eyes drifting as Heeseung fiddles with the grill knobs again, one hand shielding his eyes from the low sun.

Heeseung calls out, increasignly more annoyed, “Who said they were good at grilling and lied?”

“I never said I was good. I said I was confident,” Jay tells him with full mouth.

A small gust of sea breeze picks up, carrying the scent of salt and charcoal. The sky’s starting to stain dark red at the edges.

Niki shifts beside you to grab a paper plate from the stack in the center of the table. His knee bumps yours, firmer this time. And again, no apology. Just a tiny glance your way, unreadable. Then he returns to his casual lean, resting his forearm along the edge of the bench, figertips grazing your shoulder.

Just then, Jungwon loudly appears with a bag of ice in his hands, “We need drinks, or I’ll start chewing on these hot dog buns out of boredom.”

“You say that like you haven’t done it before,” Niki deadpans.

Jungwon shrugs, “A man’s gotta survive.”

Everyone laughs. Sunghoon stands and takes the plate from your lap without saying anything, walking over to help Heeseung. You’re left sitting with Niki, who doesn’t move.

“He usually like that?” Niki playfully asks, as he leans a bit into you, his voice low so only you hear him.

You glance at him, confused. “Like what?”

Niki shrugs, his lips spread into a half-grin “A little… married already.”

You snort, it slips out before you can catch it.

“I guess he’s just focused.”

Niki hums, “Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “You don’t seem very focused.”

Your brows lift. “Excuse me?”

Niki fully grins now, staring forward, “Just saying. You keep…” he pauses and looks down at your joined legs, “…accidentally touching me.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you glance down and gulp as your eyes trace over his legs, noticing how much bigger Niki seemed to be than you. It gave him the effortless ability to make you feel small. And horny, you wonder what else-

“You always this quiet in groups?” he casually asks, almost crowding your smaller frame with his much bigger stature.

You shrug, noncommittal. “Depends on the group, I guess.”

You glance at him. Hold it a little too long. He smiles, just a little. You unknowingly lean your head to the side, admiring the slight blush covering his cheeks.

Jungwon across the table from you two, loudly laughs at something unrelated, but still he notices the moment between you and Niki, “Damn, she’s studying him like she’s about to write a dissertation.”

You immediately look away, biting back a smile. It’s a joke light and harmless but it makes Niki huff out a laugh.

“Better get my citations ready, then,” Niki quietly huffs, just loud enough for only you to hear.

You don’t answer. But your thigh presses just a little closer to his under the table. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel his warmth seep into you.

At the cooler, Sunghoon tosses a cold can toward Niki. Niki catches it with one hand.

“You still drink this crap?” Sunghoon grins.

“Only when I’m pretending I’m happy to be here,” Niki fires back.

They grin at each other, an old rhythm. Laughter hums around the table. Bottles clink. You're halfway through your drink, Sunghoon’s angled toward Jay and Heeseung, deep in some debate about gas prices or whatever. You’re not really listening.

Niki shifts beside you to reach for the last can in the cooler. His fingers brush over yours deliberate or not, you can’t tell. He pops the can, leans back with a low sigh.

Just then Jungwon from across the table proclaims, “I call not washing dishes tonight.”

“You didn’t even cook anything,” Jay points out, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Yeah, because I bring vibes.”

“You bring crumbs, bro,” says Heeseung with tongs in his hands. He’s by the grill flipping the last few pieces of meat left over, “These aren’t cooking fast enough.”

“That’s cause you’re sober, bro,” says Jay, holding up a can of beer.

Once you’re all sat down Heeseung declares “I did the meat,” arms crossed like a judge.

“And I chopped stuff,” says Sunghoon, leaning back in his chair.

“I set up the table,” Jay chimes in, reaching lazily for another chip even though dinner is clearly over.

“I brought vibes,” Jungwon adds with a grin, mouth half-full.

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally showed up with a bag of ice.”

“Exactly,” Jungwon says, smug. “Essential.”

You glance at the pile of dishes accumulating on the patio table. Bowls of melted ice cream, skewers, empty soda cans and beer bottles.

“So, who’s cleaning?” you ask, even though you already know where this is going.

Jay waves a lazy hand. “Not it.”

Heeseung’s girlfriend stands, already brushing off her shorts. “I helped cook. I’m off-duty.”

Jungwon taps at his phone. “I’m on aux. Very important.”

There’s a pause. Then everyone looks at you.

And then at Niki.

“Fine,” you mutter, pushing your chair back. “I’ll start rinsing.”

Niki’s already gathering plates with one hand, sipping from a half-empty can with the other. “I’ll help,” he says, eyes flicking toward you — casual, like he’s not secretly delighted.

Sunghoon doesn’t comment.

In the small bungalow kitchen of B2, you pile dishes beside the sink while Niki turns on the tap. He nudges your elbow as you reach for a bowl. “You dry. I’ll rinse.”

“So bossy,” you mutter, grabbing the towel anyway.

You fall into a quiet rhythm. Steam curls from the hot water. The only sounds are dishes clinking and the faint bass of music still playing outside.

He hands you a plate, fingertips brushing yours.

Then the next.

Then—

“You’re kind of… small, huh?”

You blink, caught off guard, still holding the bowl he passed you. “Excuse me?”

Niki doesn’t look at you. He’s smirking at the faucet. “Not in a bad way. Just—” he shrugs, “Everything about you’s tiny.”

Your jaw drops slightly, face burning. “That’s not— You can’t just say that.”

“You can’t tell me I’m bossy and then act offended when I observe facts,” he says, playfully bumping his shoulder into yours. You sway at the contact, Niki smiles.

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips. He sets the next plate in the drying rack, then finally turns to look at you.

“Your hands are small too,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought. “Here—” He holds his palm up. “Let me see something.”

You hesitate, heartbeat quickening, then lift your hand to his.

Your fingers meet. His are thicker, longer, they swallow yours easily.

Niki tilts his head, watching the contrast. “Thought so.”

You say nothing, but you’re very aware of how warm his palm is against yours. And how long he lets it linger before pulling away. Aware of the way he has to look down, and the way you have to crane your neck to look up at him when he’s this close.

You take a deep breath, a familiar heat spreading through your lower belly. Your mind is in overdrive, dizzy with a growing need and you wonder if Niki can feel it too, can feel the electricity between you two.

Outside, a burst of laughter is heard. Jay probably dropped something.

Niki gives you one more plate. “Last one,” he murmurs. Your fingers brush again. Neither of you moves when your shoulders touch, standing just a bit too close to each other to be considered platonic.

After the kitchen is finally cleared, the two of you now also joined with Sunghoon, drift back toward B1 with the sort of wordless quiet that only comes after hours in the sun. Flip-flops slap softly against the concrete path. You trail a little behind, watching Sunghoon and Niki.

Thoughts of comparison sneak into your mind before you can stop them. They’re both very tall, but Sunghoon never made you feel tiny and you couldn’t understand why Niki, who’s at most 5cm taller than your own boyfriend continuously made you feel this way.

It wasn’t just the height, Sunghoon was a good boyfriend, but you couldn’t deny that recently your relationship started to feel a little stale, too familiar. Niki on the other hand intrigued you, he was quiet but not shy. Reserved, but not apathetic. Filled with endless oxymorons that you wanted to pick apart until you understood him fully.

You glance at their backs. Same broad shoulders, same lazy stride. But when Niki walks, it feels like the air shifts. Like you’re meant to follow.

Sunghoon is the first to speak again, voice low as he thumbs through his phone. “Jungwon’s making me download some old movie for movie night. Like, black and white old.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said it’s ‘actual cinema.’”

Niki lets out a snort. “Bet it’s boring as hell.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Sunghoon mutters, fiddling with the door key.

“He probably already knows,” you say with a small laugh.

Inside, the bungalow is darker and cooler than outside. You click on the hallway light and a soft glow spills across the small space. The couch is still pulled out halfway, pillow already set up, and a folded blanket rests on top. Someone probably Sunghoon tossed it there earlier without comment.

Niki toes off his slides and heads straight for it, dragging the blanket to one side as he drops onto the cushions.

“I got couch,” he says, almost too casually, pulling the pillow under his arm. “You two go pretend you’re dating.”

You roll your eyes, but Sunghoon just stretches. “Not pretending,” he mumbles, already heading to the bedroom. “She steals all the covers.”

“You snore,” you call after him.

He doesn’t deny it.

The bathroom door creaks open and closed as Sunghoon steps in to brush his teeth. You hover by the small hallway shelf, fidgeting with your toiletry bag, but your eyes drift back toward the couch.

Niki’s tossed his phone on the edge and is flipping through the TV menu, blanket over his lap like he’s done this a thousand times before. He doesn’t look tired. Just… calm. Settled.

You pause for a second longer than you mean to.

He glances up, catching your gaze. His voice is quieter than before, almost lazy. “Don’t worry. I won’t snore.”

“I know where to come then, if Sunghoon gets too loud.” You mean it as a joke but it comes out more suggestive than you intend.

Your face burns as Niki raises his eyebrows, a slight smirk stretching across his lips.

“You might regret that. I’m not great at sharing space.” He lets it sit for a beat, then adds with a half-smile, “I do like to cuddle though.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. You laugh a little too quickly.

“Just as long as you're not a blanket thief…” it slips out before you think, and now it’s your words hanging between you like smoke.

His eyes flick up. The moment stretches.

You scramble to fill it.

“I— I mean, not that I’d actually, like… come over. That’d be— weird.” You’re already backing up a step, fingers twitching at your hair.

“Right?”

He doesn’t say anything, he just watches you, unreadable, lips still curled.

Heat creeps up your neck.

You turn before he can answer. Practically flee into the bedroom.

Behind you, you hear his soft laugh low and amused, followed by the gentle click of the TV remote, the hum of something starting to play.

Not much later, after you’ve both freshened up in the bathroom, you slip beneath the covers beside Sunghoon. Your thighs ache annoyingly and betrayingly. You replay the memories of Niki, all the teasing, all the quiet touching. You shuffle closer into Sunghoon, hoping he can eradicate any thoughts of other men. You cuddle into his side and nuzzle your face into his neck.

He lets you, wrapping an arm around you. As you kiss his neck he stiffens, “babe, Niki’s right next door.”

“So?” you ask, moving to straddle him as he continues laying down.

“It’s fine, we closed the door,” you say, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. It lands somewhere behind you.

Sunghoon rests his hands on your hips, satiated with your excuse. You can feel him getting hard under you and you smirk.

You lean down, enveloping his lips in a passionate kiss as your hands move under his shirt, softly scratching at his plush skin.

“You’re really needy tonight, huh?” Sunghoon comments, more to himself than you.

“Can’t help it when I have such a hot boyfriend,” you say, rocking your hips against him. Willing yourself to stay grounded in the moment and not let your thoughts escape to a taller man, a man who was in the next room.

Sunghoon groans softly, the sound caught in his throat as you roll your hips again. “Fuck… babe…”

“Did you bring condoms?” you ask, as you already move to his suitcase.

“Yep, left corner at the bottom,” he tells you, and when you’re back on him you’re both naked. You rip the wrapper open with your mouth before rolling it onto his hard length.

You watch as his eyebrows pinch together and squeeze him a bit, just the way he likes.

Sunghoon softly groans as he throws his head back, allowing you to essentially play with his dick. And you do, gripping it and jerking it as you please.

Your hand can just barely envelop his girth, he was big but since Niki was bigger in all other aspects would that also mean he’s… you shake the thought away, and rock your wet folds against Sunghoon’s dick, almost laying down on him.

He watches you, flexing his abs in quiet restraint.

You knew your boyfriend and you knew if Niki wasn’t behind closed doors Sunghoon would’ve already had you the way he likes it. Passionately, deeply and roughly.

Which was why you wanted to tease him more, not getting this opportunity often, but alas your impatience drives you into sinking on him too quickly. You both groan, trying to stifle any noise as you adjust – you to the stretch of his dick, and Sunghoon to how tightly your little pussy wrapped around his dick.

The mattress creaks beneath you, old springs giving way with every motion. It’s subtle at first, but soon it starts sounding unmistakable. Rhythmic. Inescapable.

From the other side of the wall, the TV volume suddenly clicks louder.

You freeze for half a second, not stopping entirely, just… aware that Niki definitely knew what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. Your breath catches.

Sunghoon notices. He laughs a little, low and amused, his hands squeezing at your hips. “What, getting shy now?” he murmurs, his voice brushing warm against your collarbone.

You don’t answer but your eyes flick toward the wall.

Sunghoon’s grin is slow. He’s misreading it. “C’mon,” he says, lifting his hips to meet yours again. “I’m sure Niki doesn’t mind hearing your pretty little moans.”

Your body jerks involuntarily. Your thighs clench tighter around him. He feels it.

His voice drops, half teasing, half turned on. “Oh… you like that?”

You try to play it off, but your face is already hot. You look down, lips parted.

Sunghoon sits up slightly, flipping you two, so he’s on top of you.

His mouth brushes your jaw possessively, like he’s a predator guarding his prey and it turns you on, thoughts of Niki eradicated. For now.

“You want him to hear us? Want him to know how soaked you get just from riding me?”

Your breath shudders out, lashes fluttering, “Yes” you dreamily sigh.

He groans, voice rougher now, “Dirty girl…”

You moan into his mouth as he kisses you again, this time rougher, his hands gripping harder as you move together, it’s messy and heated. The bedframe knocks softly against the wall.

The TV volume clicks up again.

Your eyes squeeze shut. You imagine Niki with his hands down his pants, listening to you. Playing with his hard dick and wishing you were in the living room with him instead.

You moan loudly. Sunghoon growls in a possessive warning to be less loud. But it does nothing to stop your mind from picturing Niki on top of you.

Ater all is done and you sloppily clean up together Sunghoon dozes off, spooning you from behind.

You on the other hand can’t sleep. The ache between your thighs is still present, even more intense now. You can’t stop thinking about Niki, his bigger frame, his dark eyes, the way he always seemed to be close to you or watching you…

After more tossing and turning around in the bed you finally manage to fall asleep to Sunghoon’s soft snores, the even and familiar rhythm lulling you to sleep.

You wake to a soft rustle of sheets and the sun warming the back of your neck.

Sunghoon is curled around you, one arm snug at your waist, his chest rising and falling against your spine. His breathing is steady, calm. He smells like salt and warmth and the lingering sharpness of last night.

Your body aches, pleasantly sore from last night but something inside still gnaws. That deep, low ache hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now.

You squeeze your thighs together, as if that’ll ease it. It doesn’t. It’s not Sunghoon’s fault. He was good, sweet, and familiar. The kind of rhythm you knew by heart. But it still wasn’t enough. Because someone else is in your head.

Still.

You finally slip out of bed once you’re sure Sunghoon’s breathing has evened again, brushing your teeth in the tiny bathroom and rinsing your face with cold water in hope it clears your thoughts. It doesn’t.

You step out into the main room only to stop short. Niki is already up. Sitting sideways on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped over the backrest. His hair’s a mess. A thin silver chain around his neck. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looks like he didn’t sleep or like he hasn’t been to bed at all.

You hesitate, but he doesn't look at you. Doesn’t even flinch.

You go to the kitchenette, grab a mug, pour some coffee from the thermos left out by Heeseung when they made the first pot before heading to B2. The silence stretches long. Too long.

You glance over again.

He still hasn’t looked at you. Just staring blankly at something on his phone. His expression is unreadable, still and blank in that way he always is, like there’s something going on inside and he just won’t let you see it.

The coffee’s hot against your tongue. Too hot. You burn your mouth slightly but don’t react.

He speaks just as you’re lifting your mug again.

“Sleep okay?”

You nearly drop it.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. You?”

Niki hums. Barely.

“Not really, t’was kinda noisy, I heard you.”

The mug clinks against the counter. You choke a little. “Heard…?”

Niki finally looks at you.

His eyes are dark not sleepy, not soft. Just focused. Direct.

“Sunghoon,” he says simply. “He snores.”

You exhale too loudly. Your laugh is brittle, cut at the edges. “Oh. Yeah, he does that sometimes. I’m used to it.”

He nods once, looking away again. But not before his gaze drops just briefly to your legs, bare beneath your oversized tee. His mouth twitches like he was going to say something else but thought better of it. You pretend to busy yourself with stirring sugar into your cup. Your hands are shaking. You tell yourself it’s the caffeine.

But you can’t stop thinking. Did he hear more than snoring? Did he hear you moan? Did he want to? His voice was unreadable. But his eyes… There was something there.

You go back to the room after that, crawl back into bed where Sunghoon sleepily tugs you close again. You let him. You even kiss his cheek, nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck.

But your pulse is still skipping. Your body is still awake. Your mind is already elsewhere. And you know exactly who it’s with.

When you step into the kitchen for the second time today, it’s already a little warm from the early sun. Sunghoon’s already poured your coffee. You sit beside him, trying not to look like you didn’t sleep or like your brain has been replaying someone else’s face since 2AM.

Niki walks in a moment later. His hair’s damp from a shower. He’s shirtless again, wearing only swim trunks, towel over one shoulder, phone in his hand. You don’t look directly. You can’t. But your pulse stutters when he brushes past you, reaching for a mug.

"Groupchat says beach by eleven," he says casually. “Jay and Jungwon are already down there. Heeseung’s girlfriend brought one of those fold-up coolers.”

Sunghoon leans forward to check his phone. “Sick. We can just bring drinks and chips or something.”

Niki nods, noncommittal. He sits across from you, sipping quietly. You feel his eyes once. Just once. Why does he sound so casual, but look like—

No. Stop. You exhale. You’re imagining things again.

...Aren’t you?

After breakfast is finished, you dig through your suitcase for your black one-piece swimming suit. The safe one. The covered one. The one Sunghoon likes and specifically asked you to take. But your hand hits string. Ribbed fabric. Triangle cups. Your stomach drops.

“Shit…”

You’re still holding it up dumbly when the bedroom door creaks open behind you.

“You almost ready?”

You turn. Sunghoon’s leaning against the doorframe, rubbing sunscreen between his hands. You hold the bikini by the strap, like it might explain itself. “I thought I packed the one-piece.”

He pauses. Then frowns. “That’s not it?”

You nod. “They’re both black. I grabbed the wrong ones.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, pointedly he asks “…You’re really gonna wear that?”

Your brow lifts. “I mean… yeah? I only brought one swimsuit with me.”

“I just—” he laughs under his breath, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t think you’d bring the tiny one.”

“It’s not that tiny,” you huff.

He raises an eyebrow.

You cross your arms. “It’s just a bikini, Sunghoon.”

“Yeah, but—” He sighs. “Come on, baby, like—the guy’s are gonna see you in that.”

That catches you. Sharp and immediate. Your eyes narrow. “So? It’s not like I took them on purpose.”

Sunghoon’s tone shifts, it’s still soft, but strained. “I just don’t like the idea of them seeing you like that.”

You pause.

“Then don’t look,” you say, turning away.

You walk to the bathroom with the bikini still in hand. Behind you, Sunghoon exhales but doesn’t further comment.

From the couch in the next room, Niki doesn’t say anything. But you’re sure he heard.

You glance at him just once and catch him watching the TV, expression unreadable, remote still in hand. Too focused for it to be natural.

His eyes flick to you as you pass, just for a second. Just long enough to make you heat up, shyly speed up your step. But neither of you speak. You feel his gaze on you as you enter the bathroom, heartbeat spiking and you can’t deny it. You’re secretly looking forward to him seeing you in this set.

By the time you’re walking down to the beach, the sand is still cool beneath your feet. It’s an easy silence. Or at least it would be, if not for the way Sunghoon keeps close to your side, hand occasionally brushing yours, like he’s reminding everyone who you belong to.

You feel Niki fall into a step behind you. Not quite trailing. Just… not rushing. You don’t turn around. Not at first. But then, a whisper of fingertips grazes the small of your back. Just one second. Maybe less. A ghost of touch, light as air.

You jolt barely and glance back, pulse ticking up.

Niki is looking straight ahead, board tucked beneath one arm, mouth unreadable. Not a smirk. Not even a glance. He could’ve brushed past you by accident. You could pretend it was nothing.

But your skin is burning where he touched. You bite the inside of your cheek. Keep your face neutral. Force your eyes back to the ocean in the distance. But your heart is hammering.

Sunghoon doesn’t notice a thing. “Did you remember sunscreen?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna need a lot in this tiny thing…” he dryly comments, still sulking that you’re wearing it.

You glance down at yourself. Black, tiny, sure, but everything was covered. Even if you could feel the bottoms digging into your asscheeks, even if you had to keep adjusting your top so you wouldn’t flash anyone by accident.

“I already told you thought I grabbed the other one,” you sigh, annoyed. “They’re both black. I got confused.”

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “Well, now every guy here is gonna get confused too.”

He drapes a towel over your shoulders, tugs the ends together at your chest like it’ll hide anything. It’s not that you don’t appreciate the sweetness. But the tension in his jaw makes it feel... like a leash. You let the towel fall back open.

Just then, Jungwon whistles as you approach.

“Damn girl,” he grins, lounging on a towel next to Jay, “you’re making the beach jealous.”

Niki snorts. “Don’t start.”

You barely have time to laugh before Sunghoon throws a look that could slice steel. Jungwon lifts his hands innocently, grinning wider.

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything just steps closer, wraps an arm low around your waist. You stiffen a little. Smile for show. And feel Niki’s eyes before you see them.

When you finally glance his way he’s not subtle. His eyes are already sliding back up your legs, past your hips, then lingering just long enough on the line of your chest to make heat spark beneath your skin.

And when your eyes meet, he doesn’t glance away. He just looks at you like he’s thinking about something. Something he shouldn’t be.

Your stomach dips.

You force your attention forward. Pretend the air isn’t suddenly warmer. Pretend your thighs aren’t pressing a little tighter together beneath the towel slung around your waist.

So, when you all move to the water, you angle yourself away from him. Playfully splash at Jay. Duck behind Sunghoon. Anything to stay far, far from him.

It’s working.

Until it’s not. Jay lunges at someone — Jungwon shrieks — a huge wave rolls toward you, foam curling at the top. You brace, but your foot slips, and in the brief chaos, something catches you.

No—someone.

Hands, firm at your waist, steadying you.

You freeze. You know who it is before he speaks.

“Careful,” Niki says, voice low. You feel it in your core. His breath brushes your ear. His grip firms for just a second, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you how much larger he is. How easily he could move you if he wanted to.

You’re painfully aware of the way your body fits against his. Your head barely at his shoulder, your waist swallowed in his palms.

You turn to look but he’s already gone. Already stepped away, drifting toward the others like nothing happened.

Your heart pounds. Your pulse thrums between your legs. You’re not imagining it. Not anymore. Later, when you’re drying off, you catch him watching again. And this time, you don’t look away.

Everyone’s sitting around on the beach towels, casually snacking on fruit and sandwiches. The group’s easy laughter fills the air, but your eyes keep drifting to Niki, who sits a little apart, fiddling with a seashell. Heeseung leans over Jungwon, nodding toward you and Niki. “You notice how these two barely talk? Like, they’re around each other but kind of distant?”

Jungwon shrugs. “Yeah, it’s weird. You guys don’t really vibe with each other, huh?” He tells you and Niki. But before either one of you can say something in response, Jungwon continues.

He turns to Heeseung, “but I figure they’re just not that close or maybe still getting to know each other?”

Jay chimes in, grinning, “Definitely not like the rest of the gang. They’re like… polite strangers.”

Heeseung’s girlfriend laughs softly. “Maybe they’re just on different wavelengths or something.”

Sunghoon catches the comment and smirks. “Probably. You know how some people just don’t click right away.”

You nod, chewing your sandwich, feeling a strange mix of relief and frustration. It’s true you and Niki do act different around each other. Not quite awkward, but definitely not easy either.

Niki glances over briefly, and you quickly look away. The group moves on to another topic, unaware how loaded that quiet distance really is between you two.

You clear your throat and stand up, forcing a smile. “I’m just gonna grab some more snacks and water for everyone.” You grab your bag and head toward B1.

A minute later, you’re pulling out some bottled water out of the fridge and a bag of gummy worms. You’re rifling through the small plastic bag of snacks when you hear footsteps behind you.

Niki’s voice follows a second later, low and casual. “So… we’re polite strangers now?”

You nearly jump, hand still buried in the bag. “I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, turning your head over your shoulder. “And they’re just being dramatic. We’re not strangers.”

Niki leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed. “Polite, though?”

You huff a small laugh, plucking out a gummy worm and popping it into your mouth. “Only to keep the peace.”

He nods slowly, watching you chew. “Mm. What flavor was that?”

You hold up the bag. “The best one. I only like the red ones, so I’m picking them out before the others get to them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re hoarding gummy worms?”

“I’m curating an experience.”

“Uh huh,” he murmurs, slipping a hand into the bag before you can stop him.

“Wait—!” you lunge for it, but it’s too late. He’s already fished out a red one with unholy accuracy, grinning like he planned it.

“This one?” he asks, holding it just out of reach. You reach again, but he easily steps back, long arm lifting the candy above your head like it’s a game. Because for him, it is.

You scowl. “That’s mine.”

“Then come get it,” he murmurs, voice dipping low, teasing. “Come on, pretty. You want it, don’t you?”

You poorly try to snatch it again. His height makes it a joke. One hand to your shoulder, one holding the worm, he keeps you at bay like you weigh nothing.

“You’re so tiny,” he teases, smirking. “It’s cute. Like watching a kitten try to climb a cabinet.”

You glare, lunging again, and he just shifts his arm higher with obnoxious ease.

“Oh no,” he adds mockingly, eyes gleaming. “The ground-level threat is back.”

You huff, stepping in closer, pretending to try again but this time you shift the game. Your hand slides along his side, just below his belly button, fingers grazing the skin just above his waistband. You feel it immediately. His sharp inhale, the flinch in his posture. His muscles tense under your touch like you flipped a switch.

His smirk drops. His whole body stills. You look up at him through your lashes, playing innocent. “Problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares down at you, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then he moves.

In one step he’s crowding you back against the counter, towering over you, voice a low scrape of gravel. “Fine, you want it? Then open your mouth.”

You freeze. The tone is different now. Serious. Darker. Your lips part instinctively.

He slides the gummy worm between them, slow, deliberate. His fingers brush your tongue.

You close around them. Suck just faintly. Purposefully.

His jaw tightens. His breath catches. His hand curls tight around the counter behind you. “Good girl,” he mutters, low and rough, like the words cost him something.

Your mouth pulls into a slow smile as you chew. “You shouldn’t have teased me,” you murmur, voice light but your eyes say something else entirely.

He exhales hard.

“You drive me crazy,” he mutters to himself, thinking you wouldn’t hear it (but you do), already turning to leave. He grabs the big water bottle from the counter and walks off, shoulders tense.

When you join the group outside a few minutes later, with cheeks flushed and heart pounding, you settle beside Sunghoon. But you feel Niki’s eyes on you. You’re on edge for the rest of the day, jumpy, too observant. The restlessness follows you into nighttime.

One again you’re tossing and turning in the bed, unable to sleep. Sunghoon’s snores don’t help lull you to sleep this time. Instead, they act as a bigger distraction to your lack of sleep. You sigh and grumble to yourself before sitting up.

You contemplate for a moment and then you’re off. Wrapping your silk summer robe over your naked body you quietly shuffle out of the bedroom. The purpose? Getting water. Water that’s located in the kitchenette, but to get there you have no choice but to pass through the living room. Where Niki was.

You just had to open the bedroom door and you’d be in the living room. A small hallway that could barely classify as that was where you’d have to pass to see him. A door and 5 steps. That’s all that separated the two of you. You’ve been avoiding him ever since the incident today. Constantly reminding yourself that you have a boyfriend, like it’s a mantra.

You walk painfully slow past him, padding softly on your tippy toes and slightly hunched over. At any other time you’d look hilarious, but you’re too nervous tonight to think about that. You don’t want to wake him up. You don’t even dare glance at him, knowing that knowing what he looked like while he was sleeping would consume your mind, the image etching itself deep into your brain.

Which was why you don’t notice that he’s awake, scrolling on his phone, only wearing his boxers, also unable to sleep. His eyes follow your figure all the way into the kitchen, watching, calculating… The fridge hums behind you as you fill a glass with water, your silk robe barely clinging to your skin. The quiet should be peaceful.

It isn’t.

“You really weren’t gonna say anything to me all night?”

Your hand freezes. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

Niki’s voice is low. Hoarse. Just behind you in the dark.

You whisper, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I was.”

Silence stretches.

“I watched you walk past. Slow. Quiet. Pretending you didn’t feel me watching.”

Your pulse kicks up. You clutch the glass tighter. “Please don’t start—”

“Start?” he cuts in, voice soft but deadly. “Sweetheart, you started this. Every time you run, you’re the one starting it all over again.”

You finally turn to face him.

Niki’s leaned against the counter now, towering over you. His hair is messy from sleep. His eyes stormy. Wild. “You think I don’t notice?” he murmurs. “The way you react whenever I touch you. Your body doesn’t lie.”

“Niki—”

He steps forward. Just one slow, measured step. “Do you have any idea what it’s doing to me?” Another step. You’re backed up to the wall now, between the fridge and hallway, cold tile against your calves.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t fucking breathe around you. And you know what makes it worse?”

He leans down, lips near your cheek. “It’s that you want me just as bad. And yet you still go back to him.”

You whisper, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But he’s not me,” Niki says like a sin, like a prayer.

You open your mouth to reply, but he beats you to it.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it. How good it felt when I touched you. When I put that candy in your mouth and you sucked on my fingers.”

He exhales hard. “Fuck—You looked up at me like you’d let me ruin you right there.”

Goosebumps raise on your skin. His voice, even deeper than usually, was finding home somewhere deep in your belly. “I shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, trying to escape but Niki’s bigger frame has you caged in place.

“But you are.”

He slips one naked thigh between yours. “You’re not wearing anything underneath this robe? Don’t act like this was innocent.”

His voice drops lower, slight growl to his words, the desperation slipping through his nonchalant facade. “You still wanna be a good girl for me, right?”

He cups your jaw, tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “You wanna be my good girl so bad it’s killing you.”

You nod once, barely breathing.

His lips brush yours in a not-quite a kiss. Not yet, even though you chase his lips. But he stops you, speaking. “Then be good for me.” His hand slips under your robe, up your thigh, to your soaked center. “But you don’t get to cum.”

Your breath stutters. He’s already pressing his middle finger into you slow, hard, firm. “Not here. Not yet.”

You let out a soft sigh, spreading your legs in silent consent for him to continue. He bites your earlobe gently. “You’ll cum when you admit who you really want.”

You shake your head, your eyes squeezed shut, lips trembling. You grab onto his forearm that’s between your legs, grinding onto his finger. But he doesn’t move.

“Say it,” Niki whispers, grinding you into the wall. “Say my name. Say it and I’ll let you fall apart on my cock right here outside his door.”

His body is so close now, it’s all you can feel. His thigh between yours, his hand under your robe, the heat of his mouth against your ear.

“Niki,” you silently cry out in a desperate plea. You feel him slipping another finger into you. Your wet velvet walls sucking him. Fuck. If his fingers felt so thick in you, then you couldn’t wait for his dick. You clench around his fingers at the thought and Niki’s towering frame leans down, close to your ear.

“Still pretending this means nothing?”

“It doesn’t—” you moan out, barely controlling your volume. His thumb grazes your clit. Your eyes shut as you cover your mouth with your hands to prevent any noises from escaping.

“Bullshit,” Niki hisses, he pinches your clit, pressing it with his thumb into the side of his palm in punishment. It makes your walls tighten even more. A sob escapes you when he presses his hips against yours.

“You don’t even believe that. You’re dripping. And your boyfriend is nowhere near, you thinking of him or me right now?”

You flinch. Shame and need twist in your gut. But they’re squashed by an overpowering and ever growing need for Niki.

“I shouldn’t—”

“But you are. You came out here wearing nothing under this robe. You walked right past me, like you wanted me to stop you.”

You close your eyes, head tilting back as he curls his fingers, finally pushing them in and out. “Niki…” you choke out in a broken whimper, hands curling around his biceps to steady yourself.

His mouth is at your neck now, kissing, claiming you. “There it is.” He rasps, biting you just under your throat softly. You squeeze his bicep in warning. He just licks over the bitten spot.

“Say my name again,” he says, sounding utterly destroyed already.

“Niki—” you whimper, quietly. Too quietly.

Through gritted teeth, “louder.”

You hesitate. He drags his fingers along your slit, barely there. Not enough. It’s maddening.

“Niki,” you quietly whimper, squeezing your walls when Niki changes the current rhythm. The speed picking up with your growing desperation.

“Fuck—say it like you mean it,” he breathes, sharp and strained.

You whimper as starts rubbing circles over your clit as he’s still fingering you. Your hands claw at his chest.

“Please…”

“No.” He stills his hand. “Not until you say it.”

You’re walking on the edge of tears and pleasure, too dumb to think about anything, anyone other than Niki,“Say what?”

“Say you want me,” he says, lips against yours, not kissing you yet.

He strokes deeper. Your knees buckle. He catches you, arm wrapping around your waist.

“I want you,” you pant, grinding on his hands. Your eyes burn and you can feel a tear slip down your cheek.

“Not enough.”

He stops again. Cruel. Controlled.

You pout up at him, he bites his lip, eyelids dropping slightly. He leans into you. “I want you, Niki. I want you,” you breathe your voice breaking and cheeks wet with your tears.

His breath leaves him like a punch. He back-walks you gently into the hallway against the wall. The wall that separates the bedroom from the rest of the house. Where Sunghoon is sleeping.

No hesitation now. The robe slips open just enough. “That’s all I needed.” He pushes down his boxers, his cock springing free. He doesn’t give you any time to look at it, sliding his cock inside you. He’s slow, thick, unbearable.

Your robe bunches up at your waist, you feel his cock dragging between your folds, veiny and heavy. Thicker than you expected. The kind of thick that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Shit—” you whisper, body trembling.

Niki chuckles low behind you. It sounds dark, satisfied, already flushed. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, guiding his cock to your entrance. “You haven’t even felt the whole thing yet.”

You brace yourself, hand gripping his shoulders. “You’re not small.”

That gets a sharp exhale out of him. He leans forward, his chest brushing your back, his voice dipping into your ear like a secret. “You’ll take it. You’re already soaking for it.”

“God—” you half sob, your walls continuously clenching down on him as you try to adjust to his thick length, splitting you apart.

Niki’s voice cracks with restraint, “don’t move.” His hand clamps over your hip. His forehead presses to yours. “Just stay like this.”

“Why?”

Niki’s barely breathing, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat as he tries to calm his ragged breathing down, “Because if I fuck you the way I want to… we’re gonna wake your boyfriend up.”

You gasp. He smiles. Dark, unhinged, wrecked.

“So be good. Take it. Feel me.” He rolls his hips once. Slow, still not fully in you. Deep. “You’ll cum when you admit I’m the only one who gets to have you.”

Your head falls back. Eyes flutter. His thumb catches a tear tracing your cheek.

“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your eye. “So pretty when you cry for me.”

He cups your jaw, then your breast roughly, wordlessly claiming. You hiss as he squeezes hard, too hard but he’s already pulling you forward, sliding out.

You make a strangled noise, empty without him. Niki doesn’t pause.

He shoves your robe up, pushes you over the couch. Your knees dig into the cushions. One hand braced on the backrest.

You hear the sound of him spitting in his palm. The slick stroke of him lining up again.

A moan, low and raw, as he grinds the head of his cock between your folds. “Every fucking night,” he mutters. “I think about this. About bending you over like this. Filling you up so deep you forget how to lie.”

You whimper. He grabs your hips, hard enough to bruise.

“You were made for this,” Niki breathes, more to himself than you. “Made for me.”

He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch near unbearable. You’re choking on your own gasp, trying to breathe through it, but your walls spasm around him, trying to force him out.

Niki groans, it’s a sound full of restraint and disbelief. “Fuck. You feel like this for him?” He starts to push deeper, jaw clenched. “No… you don’t. You can’t.”

You moan but it sounds more like a sob. His size splits you open, the burn meeting something deeper, something you don’t want to name yet.

He sinks in all the way. Your hips jerk forward, eyes fluttering shut. “Such a good girl for me,” he pants. “That’s it. Let me fill you.”

His hands spread across your waist, holding you steady like you might run. But you’re not running. You’re melting.

“God—Niki—” you whisper, your fingers clenching the cushion.

“Too much?” he asks but the smirk in his voice is already smug.

“No—just… just big,” you confess, voice cracking.

That shatters something in him.

“Say that again.”

“You’re… big,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I can feel it in my stomach.”

He snarls softly behind you, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing you deeper into the couch as he starts to move. Slow, dragging strokes that scrape along every nerve ending inside you.

“This pussy’s mine already,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You moan like you’ve been waiting for this.”

“I haven’t—” You’re cut off by a sharp thrust that knocks the breath out of you.

“No? Then why’d you keep looking at me every time he touched you?”

His voice is venom and honey, seething and smug. “You’d kiss him, and still look at me like you wanted more.”

Your whole body tenses. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You meant it,” Niki snaps, grinding deeper into you. “You wanted me to notice. You wanted me to get jealous.”

He yanks your hair back just enough to turn your face, so he can see your lips parting in a moan you’re desperate to hide. “And I did. I noticed everything.”

He slams into you harder, rougher now. You whimper it’s too much, too deep, and somehow still not enough.

“I see the way he touches you. All careful. Like you’ll break.”

He bites the shell of your ear. “I won’t be careful.”

Your orgasm builds fast, overwhelming the stretch, the fullness, the jealousy behind his words. You’re panting, desperate.

“I can’t—Niki, I’m gonna—”

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush to him as he fucks you through it murmuring filth into your ear while you shatter.

“That’s it. Come for me.” His voice breaks. “Show me this pussy is mine.”

You cry out, body convulsing as you clench down on him. His pace stutters, cock throbbing inside you.

He follows with a low groan, spilling inside you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Just heavy breathing. Sweat-damp skin. Your body pulsing around his.

Then, quieter Niki presses his forehead to your spine. “You ruined me,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But your hand reaches back trembling to find his. And he laces your fingers together. You stay like that for a while. Folded over the couch, skin damp, heart pounding.

Niki doesn’t move. He’s barely still inside you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you trembling with the aftershocks. His hand is still locked in yours. His breath hits the curve of your shoulder, ragged and hot.

No words.

Slowly, silently, Niki pulls out and you both gasp like it hurts. You don’t dare look at him as you pull your robe down and sink onto the couch, legs tucked under you. You feel stretched, sore, leaking.

You feel ruined.

Niki leans against the wall across from you. His hair is a mess, sweat shining on his chest, and his eyes they’re not smug anymore. They’re starved.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod.

But your eyes don’t meet his.

You fix your robe. Run fingers through your hair. Like if you’re fast enough, no one will know what just happened.

“I should go,” you whisper. “Sunghoon might wake up.”

His jaw ticks. He hesitates. For a second, it looks like he might say something else, something too real. But then he exhales, pushes a hand through his hair, and doesn’t say anything as he watches you leave.

Your body is warm. Too warm.

It takes a second before you remember where you are, who you’re with and why your thighs ache. Sunghoon shifts beside you, arm slung lazily over your waist, his chest rising and falling in slow, peaceful rhythm.

He mumbles your name. It should be comforting. And it is. But it also feels like being caught. You stare at the ceiling.

You did it. You crossed the line. And it wasn’t a mistake. And you have a feeling it wouldn’t be a one time thing either.

Your fingers twitch. You can still feel Niki’s breath in your ear. The rough press of his palms all over you. Sunghoon sighs again and pulls you closer, nuzzling the back of your neck like instinct.

You feel different now. Like you’re split in two halves. The girl who touches her boyfriend like nothing happened... and the girl who can still feel Niki’s fingers between her thighs.

You tie your robe tighter and pad out, barefoot on cold tile. Your hair’s a mess. You haven’t even washed your face. The kitchen’s quiet but not empty.

Niki stands near the counter, tousled bedhead, glass of juice in one hand, phone in the other. He looks up.

“Morning,” he says low, unreadable.

You swallow.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Like a rock,” you say, forcing a brittle smile, reaching for a glass of water.

There’s a slight pause.

“Yeah,” Niki murmurs, gaze flicking to your mouth. “You looked wrecked when you left.”

The glass nearly slips from your fingers.

But Niki doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Just sips his juice and scrolls casually, like he didn’t just ruin your nervous system in three words. Sunghoon joins you two just then. And the three of you have breakfast, the two guys seem to be in a good mood, bantering and teasing each other.

The sun’s high already when you three join the others on the beach.

Your bikini feels too small the minute you leave the house — or maybe it’s the way Niki looked at you when you stepped out. Not directly. Not for long. Just… long enough to know he noticed.

You hold Sunghoon’s hand like it anchors you to the right version of yourself. You laugh too loud at his joke. Kiss his cheek too quickly. You’re trying.

Maybe if you play the part well enough, you’ll forget what you did. Who you became.

Sunghoon’s still talking, half-focused, half-scanning the crowd. “Okay, so we rotate after every point, right? Heeseung always forgets that. Also, snacks. We need more of those sour gummies—”

He pauses, eyes flicking toward where Niki’s lounging in the sand, shirtless, arms behind his head.

Then he grins and nudges you lightly. “And someone better remind her to reapply. Last time she turned into a tomato.”

You roll your eyes, faking a yawn. “I’m fine.”

But Sunghoon’s still looking at Niki as he adds, teasing, “If she burns, it’s your fault too.”

Your stomach flips.

Niki grins slow, deliberate but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

You almost choke on your water at the implication. Sunghoon just laughs, oblivious.

As you all lay your towels down, Sunghoon starts rubbing sunscreen over your shoulders, he’s sweet, focused, unbothered. Niki watches briefly, jaw tight, before tossing him a comment.

“You missed a spot,” he says, touching the place he means, the dip just below your bikini bottoms. “That’ll definitely burn.”

He says it like nothing. But you know. He knows you know. You meet his gaze over your shoulder for just a second. And something sharp passes between you, an unspoken possession.

Like a warning.

The volleyball net is up by the time the two guys deem you protected enough from the sun. Jungwon’s already flinging a ball into the air like a golden retriever with caffeine in his system. Everyone’s loosening up, laughing, yelling across the sand.

You’re standing with Sunghoon, sipping from his can of soda, and trying very hard to subtly adjust your bikini top like it’s not deliberate. But it is.

It keeps slipping a little, well not off, just… shifting. The fabric is damp from ocean water, clinging to the peaks of your nipples. You tug it up again.

Sunghoon notices. But so does Niki.

You catch both of them watching you at different times. You feel their eyes burn as they trail over your chest, down your waist, over your thighs. It’s hard to breathe, but you smile anyway.

You lean into Sunghoon. Kiss his cheek. He grins, tapping your nose. But Niki’s sunglasses tilt up slightly from where he’s standing. You feel his gaze rake your body like a challenge.

Just then Jay starts calling out teams.

“Alright, me, you” he points to you, “Niki, and Jungwon. Let’s go.”

You pause for half a second, not enough to be noticed, but just enough to feel it in your spine. Niki steps forward, tugging his shirt off in one fluid motion. He spins the volleyball once in his hand and smirks faintly.

Jay tosses him the ball. “We good?”

Niki shrugs. “Yeah.”

No snide comment. No suggestive grin. Just calm. Unbothered.

But when you brush past him to join your side of the net, your shoulder grazes his chest and you swear you feel him inhale.

It’s subtle, but he doesn’t look away.

The court's uneven, half-sand, half-sunbaked grass. The net’s a little crooked. No one cares. Jay serves first; sharp and fast. You barely get your hands up in time, but the ball pops cleanly into the air. Jungwon tips it up. Niki lunges, spikes.

Cheers erupt. “Nice!” Jay claps him on the back.

Niki smiles, his eyebrows subconsciously quirking up, but his eyes flick to you lightning-quick.

Across the net, Heeseung groans. “Alright. No mercy.”

His girlfriend laughs, nudging him.

Sunghoon wipes sweat from his jaw and grins. “Let’s go.”

The game rolls out in bursts sand kicking up, laughter breaking through competitive yells. You’re too aware of everything.

Niki’s footsteps behind you.

The way he moves to cover your side, even when he doesn’t have to. The sharp grunts when he jumps, muscles flexing under sun-warmed skin. How he murmurs “mine” when the ball arcs high, and every time, it hits harder than it should.

You almost trip once trying to pivot.

Niki’s hand touches your back, steadying you, it’s fleeting but firm. You flinch like you’ve been burned.

He says nothing.

But later, when you call out a ball and dive for it, squatting before bending over as you serve the ball lowly, Niki swears low and hard not at the game.

At you. Or maybe for you.

You need water. Not just to drink but to cool down. Everything is hot. Your cheeks, your chest, the way Niki’s eyes follow your movements even when he’s pretending not to.

You step toward the cooler, reach down to grab a bottle.

That’s when you feel it. A whisper of heat. His fingers graze your lower back. Barely. You freeze. He’s behind you now, one arm resting on the lid of the cooler. Not blocking you. Not touching you again. Just close.

His voice is low “Avoiding me again?”

You suck in a breath. Fumble slightly with the cap.

You want to say something biting. Sharp. Dismissive. But your voice comes out too soft, too unsteady.

“I’m not.”

Niki leans in, just an inch closer. “Mm, you always shake this much when you’re not avoiding someone?”

You grip the bottle too tight. “I have a boyfriend.”

His smirk returns slow, almost cruel. “That didn’t stop you from moaning into my mouth last night.”

Your eyes snap up to his, but he’s already walking away. You stand there, holding the water bottle like it might explode.

After the game of volleyball ends (with Sunghoon’s team winning), everyone’s collapsed on the beach towels, salt-streaked and lazy. Jay’s half-asleep. Jungwon’s playing something on his phone. Sunghoon lies beside you, propped up on an elbow.

You’re restless. Overcompensating again. You reach over and thread your fingers into his hair. Lean down to kiss him a bit longer than necessary.

Your tongue just barely traces his bottom lip.

Sunghoon flinches back, blinking.

“Babe,” he says, confused but sweet, “not in front of everyone.”

You smile, trying to play it off. But your mouth is dry.

“Sorry. I just…” You shrug. “Felt like kissing you.”

Sunghoon grins and kisses your cheek instead. Harmless. Soft.

But behind your back, across the circle of towels, Niki’s watching again. Still shirtless. Still silent. His jaw tight, his fingers curled loosely in the sand. He sees everything. And you feel everything.

The sky begins to shift then, almost too fast. What was golden and hazy becomes gray and heavy. You glance up. Thick clouds roll in over the water, veiling the sun. Thunder grumbles low in the distance. A breeze lifts the ends of your hair.

Someone groans.

“Seriously? This early?” Jay complains.

“Guess the ocean playlist’ll have to wait,” Jungwon pouts.

A sudden gust sends sand flies into your shin. You wince, brushing it off.

Sunghoon nudges your side, “movie night?”

You nod automatically, but your eyes flick again to Niki.

Within minutes the group’s scattering, grabbing towels, speakers, empty bottles.

“B2, thirty minutes. Everyone shower unless you wanna smell like death,” Jungwon says, a comically large towel wrapped around his waist as he tries fit five different things in his arms. Heeseung groans but agrees, already hoisting up a cooler.

The mood lightens. Laughter, teasing, towel snaps echoing around you as people head back toward the bungalows.

You stay quiet. Let Sunghoon lace your fingers with his, pull you toward the path. But you can feel the shift in the air. It isn’t just the weather. It’s something heavier. Louder. Waiting to break.

By the time you’re all piled into B2, the rain’s already started. Soft and steady, threading down the windows like something cinematic. This bungalow’s a little bigger than yours, meant for hosting, maybe. The open-plan living room spills into a small kitchen, sleek and sunlit even with the storm outside. At the center of it all is a small burgundy couch. It’s deep enough to sink into, angled so one side stretches toward the kitchen, and the other points toward the mounted flatscreen.

A shaggy rug softens the wood floor. Throw blankets are everywhere, tangled and half-folded. Someone’s dumped a few pillows in the corner. A string of fairy lights buzz faintly over the windows, casting a soft gold haze now that the lamps are off.

It’s cozy. Safe. Or it should be.

Just before the movie starts, you’re rinsing strawberries in the kitchen when Heeseung catches your wrist. Not harsh just enough to pause you.

“You good?” he asks you.

You blink, startled. “Yeah. Why?”

He tilts his head slightly. That familiar half-grin on his lips but his tone’s changed. He’s watching you.

“You and Ni-ki aren’t… weird, right?” he asks, eyes full of sympathy.

You laugh. Too fast. Too thin. “What? No. Why would we be?”

His gaze lingers. Not unkind. But not letting go, either. Heeseung carefully explains, “I noticed he keeps trying to talk to you. You keep slipping away. And honestly?”

He shrugs, “You’re being weird with Sunghoon too. If we’re being real.”

You stare at the cabinet. Like it might open up and swallow you whole.

“I don’t care what’s going on. Just don’t let it get messy. Especially not here.” He softens it with a small smile. Like he’s giving you room to save face.

You nod too quickly. Your palms sweaty. And then you join the rest in the living room, plopping in the center of the couch.

By the time the movie starts, the seating’s already sorted. Jay and Jungwon are curled up on the floor with a blanket pulled over their legs, sitting cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn between them. Heeseung and his girlfriend are on the smaller love seat, arms tucked around each other, their view of the TV clear, but not the couch behind them.

And then there’s the main couch. It’s closest to the kitchen, and furthest from the screen. You, Sunghoon, and Niki end up there.

It’s kind of crowded.

Sunghoon claims the far side, legs kicked out. His arm stretches behind your back, lazily. You squeeze into the center cushion. Niki takes the end.

He doesn’t say much. Just sits there. One arm draped along the top of the couch, the other curled into his lap. Eyes half-lidded. Calm.

Rain lashes against the windows as the movie starts, some pretentious black-and-white thing Jungwon begged for. Everyone’s piled into the main room of B2, wrapped in throw blankets, half-limp from sun and salt and too many chips.

You hear a few groans as the movie opens up in a black and white picture and Nosferatu – the oldest version, starts playing.

There’s barely space. The couch is too small. You’re wedged between Sunghoon and Niki. Sunghoon tuggs you into his side, his arm around your shoulders. Niki shifts closer, silent. The blanket from the back of the couch gets pulled over your legs, accidentally shared.

You should say something.

But you don’t. The movie drones on and on. Someone snores lightly. A bowl clinks from the kitchen.

You feel the blanket shift. Niki’s hand brushes yours under the fabric. You flinch but don’t pull away. He pauses, but when you don’t pull back, he takes your hand. Guides it down, slow and steady, until your palm is cupping him through his shorts.

He’s already hard.

Your breath hitches. You glance once toward Sunghoon. He’s half-asleep, lips parted, breath warm on your neck .

Niki leans in, mouth near your ear. “Go ahead. Pretend you’re not dying for it,” He whispers, his breath tickling you neck, goosebumps rise.

His fingers slip beneath your waistband. Push inside.

You gasp, barely. Bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck. “Are you this soaked from playing the perfect girlfriend? Or because you know I’m going to fuck you right here?”

Niki’s fingers on your clit are slow. Cruel. Tiny circles, teasing, not giving you enough. Just reminding you who can make you this way. Turned into a puddle through simple touch.

The room is dark, except for the flickering light of the movie and the occasional flash of lightning outside. Thunder rumbles low and slow, like it’s warning you. Across from you Heeseung and his girlfriend, curled on a love seat, half-asleep. Jungwon and Jay are tangled together on the floor under a mountain of blankets. And beside you, too close is Sunghoon, with his arm still lazily slung over your shoulder.

Your head is spinning.

You grasp Niki through his shorts, fondle him. A smile tugs on your lips when you feel him twitch under your touch.

He presses down on your clit more firmly now, finger sliding down your slit to your hole. You subtly scooch closer to him. Sunghoon’s arm around your shoulders slides off, but before he can say something you angle your body towards him and slightly lay your head on his shoulder/bicep. It’s somewhat awkward since you’re’ still in an upright sitting position but you don’t notice any discomfort.

Because Niki’s starts pushing your panties aside. Then, he slowly, forcefully bullies his dick into you. No prep. No fingering.

You nuzzle your head into Sunghoon to prevent yourself from making any noise. He thinks you’re scared of the movie, patting your head while whispering a small ‘cute.’

Meanwhile Niki sheaths himself into you so deep you’re shaking from the stretch. From the silence. From how still he is.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. One arm’s casually thrown over the back of the couch. The other is under the blanket. Hidden, anchored around your hip like he owns it.

Owns you.

And in a way he does, because he starts pulling you closer to him. So much bigger than you, it’s easy for him to do that. You couldn’t stop him now even if you wanted to, your brain turned into mush because of the dizzying and pleasurable stretch of Niki’s dick deep inside you.

“Feel that?” he murmurs near your ear, low enough only you can hear. “No one has a clue. You’re so tiny, I can get away with anything.”

You clamp down unintentionally. He feels it.

His breath stutters. “God. You’re so fucking tight.” He bites down on your shoulder to stop himself from moaning.

You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut. But the tension in your body gives you away. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His lips graze your ear again, words like smoke and sin “They’re all right here. Sunghoon. Jay. Heeseung. If one of them turns around…”

He shifts inside you, just a little. Grinding his hips frustratingly slow into you “…they’d see the way I’ve got you stuffed full. Dripping. Shaking.”

You dig your nails into his thigh under the blanket. He doesn’t stop.

“I could make you come like this,” Niki breathes, voice darker now. “Without moving. Without touching anything but this.” He squeezes your hip possessively. “You’d fall apart, right in front of your boyfriend. And he’d never know.”

You want to scream. Instead, your breath comes in shallow, silent waves.

“Ignored me all day,” Niki murmurs, his tone bitter now, jagged. “But now you’re letting me fuck you inches from his face?”

The weight of it presses down on you, the reality. The risk. If Sunghoon moved just a little… leaned forward even slightly… They’d all know.

Niki’s hand slides up past your stomach, under your shirt, palming your breast. Rough. Familiar. His fingers pinch your nipple hard and you twitch.

“Say his name,” Niki growls into your neck.

You whisper it. Quiet. Shaky. Like you’re afraid it’ll break the spell.

His grip tightens. “Now say mine.”

You don’t. So he thrusts once. Deep. Sharp.

Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering. A quiet noise escapes before his hand slaps gently over your mouth.

“Say it.”

You do. “Niki.”

His head drops to your shoulder and you feel it in the way he exhales against your skin. Like your voice undid him. Like hearing his name on your lips makes it all worth it. His dick feels even stiffer in you, you push back against his strong frame.

Outside, the rain’s gotten louder, wind pushing against the glass. Inside, the couch creaks once. But no one stirs.

And that’s when he starts to move. Tiny thrusts. Barely-there movements. But you feel all of it. The stretch. The pervertedness. The weight of him claiming you in the same room as everyone else.

He fucks you like it’s punishment. And it kind of is, for running, for pretending, for not saying his name sooner. One hand over your mouth. The other wrapped firmly around your throat, fingers curled just under your jaw like a tether.

And you. You’re falling apart. Silently. Desperately. Completely. Because this isn’t just sex. You’re his. Even here. Even now.

Especially now.

He spills inside of you, biting on your shoulder as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut so hard the room spins when you open them again. You stay connected like that for the rest of the movie. Niki’s length has gone flaccid, but his girth, his thickness… you still felt too full of him.

By the end of the movie, the room is nearly silent. The credits flicker across the screen in eerie black and white, accompanied by soft thunder outside. Niki slips out, fixing your panties and his boxers. You feel cum ooze out of you, sticking to your panties. Jay’s asleep on the floor. Jungwon’s curled under a blanket, half-awake. Heeseung and his girlfriend are whispering something to each other, focused completely on one another.

But on the couch you, Sunghoon, and Niki have somehow ended up tangled together.

Sunghoon’s arm is back around you, head heavy against your shoulder. Niki’s hand rests loosely on your thigh, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just ruin you in the shadows of this very couch. You’re stiff between them. Smiling. Laughing at something dumb Jungwon muttered as the lights come back on.

You play your part. You always do.

Everyone stands. Stretches. Groggy and full of popcorn, ready to go to bed and collapse. You follow them, grabbing your phone off the counter. Just before you head out, it vibrates.

[seungie 🌀]:

hey glad you and niki are good now things feel less weird hoon looks happy too proud of you 🫶🏽

You stare at the screen. Three words echo in your head like a curse ‘proud of you’. Your heart sinks. Your stomach flips. Niki brushes past behind you as you freeze and you feel the smallest tap of his fingers against your back.

A reminder. A thank-you. A secret. You smile. You type back.

[You]:

yeah. all good now :)

And you follow Sunghoon outside.

You feel different in the morning. You wait for the guilt to hit you, wait for the sense of responsibility to weigh down on you. But it never does.

You feel happy, Sunghoon sees it too, as you eat breakfast with the boys like your body doesn’t still ache from what happened on the couch hours before.

Sunghoon nudges your arm with his and grins around a mouthful of toast.

“Damn, baby. This vacation’s been good to you. You look all… glowy and relaxed.”

You glance at him, hiding a smile in your coffee.

He leans in, peering at your face.

“Like, really pretty. I don’t know — it’s cute.”

You blink innocently. “Must be the ocean air.”

Across the table, Niki doesn’t look up from his plate. He spears a slice of mango, pops it into his mouth.

Then, effortlessly he says “Yeah, she looks good when she’s been taken care of.”

Your breath hitches.

But Sunghoon just nods in agreement, oblivious. “Right? I knew this trip would be good for her.”

Niki’s eyes flick up. Just for a second. Right at you.

And there’s nothing innocent about the smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

Your stomach flips. Not with guilt, not anymore. That’s the strange part. The guilt should be there. But it isn’t.

Maybe it burned off sometime in the night, in the warmth of Niki’s breath on your neck, the ache of him inside you while Sunghoon’s arm was draped over your shoulder. Maybe it’s because Sunghoon still smiles at you like nothing’s wrong. Maybe it’s because nothing feels wrong.

Niki’s just helping you scratch an itch you could never ask anyone else to touch. It’s only physical and you would make sure it would never be deeper than that. You were still Sunghoon’s. And Niki, he’s just helping you scratch an itch. A very deep and needy itch.

You take another sip of coffee and peek at Niki. He’s licking mango from his thumb. It’s ridiculous, how something so small makes your thighs press together under the table.

“You want the last one?” he asks casually, holding up the final piece.

You shake your head. “All yours.”

His smile is lazy. “Didn’t know you weren’t into sharing.”

Sunghoon, doesn’t look up from his plate. “She’s not. Don’t let her fool you — she’ll stab you over fries.”

“Only if they’re mine first,” you add sweetly, leaning toward Niki just slightly. His knee bumps yours under the table. You don’t pull away.

Eventually, Sunghoon pushes his plate back and stretches. “Alright, I’m gonna shower. You guys start packing, yeah?”

“Sure,” you chirp, too fast.

The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, you glance at Niki.

He’s still chewing, watching you with slow, cautious eyes. Like he doesn’t want to assume anything. Like he doesn’t believe this is real yet.

You stand. Don’t think. Just move.

You pad down the hallway. Leave the bedroom door open just long enough for him to see you slip inside. And you don’t wait.

You strip your shirt first. Then your shorts. By the time he reaches the doorframe, you’re sitting in your and Sunghoon’s bed in nothing but your panties.

He exhales something between a laugh and a curse. Steps in. Closes the door.

“You’re not serious.”

You cock your head. “I’m naked in his bed. What do you think?”

He walks to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

His voice is low. Rough. Almost reverent. “You really want this?”

You nod. “I want you.”

His gaze dips to the mattress beneath you. His mouth twists like he’s trying not to smile. “In his bed,” he mutters, half to himself.

You smile, slow and wicked. “Didn’t want you thinking I’d change my mind.”

Niki lets out a breath, close to shaking. Then he laughs, low and stunned.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he says, moving closer. But there’s something in his voice, something cracked open. Relieved, like he was afraid you would run away from him again. It’s like he’s finally sure. Like he finally believes he’s not just your secret, he’s your choice.

You go on all fours, angling your ass towards him. Niki steps closer, softly fondling your ass, as if he’s trying to memorize every curve, every dip.

“Fuck,” he breathes, climbing onto the bed like a man starving. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

He flips you so you’re laying on your back and you grab him by the shirt and pull him down to kiss you.

It’s filthy instantly all tongue, no hesitation, teeth clicking as you both try to taste too much too fast. He groans into your mouth and presses you back into the mattress, body already hard against you.

He bites at your jaw.

You grab his hand and shove it between your legs. “I’ve been wet for you since I woke up.”

His breath stutters.

Then he flips you fast, chest to the mattress, ass in the air. His palms spread your cheeks without hesitation. And he laughs. Dark. Disbelieving.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters. You hear a ripping sound, your panties slipping off of you. And Niki doesn’t even apologize, he just bends down, your ass in his face.

You whimper as his mouth drops down, tongue sliding over your folds, teasing, tasting. Until he’s devouring you from behind. Tongue fucking your pussy, then higher, licking over your asshole like he’s lost all control.

“Niki—fuck—” you gasp, he pushes his middle and ring finger between your mushy walls.

“You let me do this in his bed,” he groans. “So filthy. You want me to fuck you here?”

“Yes—please—” you plead, in hurry now too, Niki scissors inside of you. Prepping you for his thick length.

When he pulls back, he’s stroking himself slowly.

“Bet you’d let me in your ass if I asked nicely.”

You whine, burying your face in the sheets.

His hand comes down on your ass, a soft slap. “Don’t hide now. Not after this.”

“Next time,” you manage. “Just—fuck me. Please.”

“Oh, baby,” he grins, lining up behind you. “I’ll make you beg for it next time.”

And then, he pushes in. All of him, all at once.

No fear of being caught, knowing Sunghoon needs at least 20 minutes to shower. No need to muffle the way your breath breaks. You moan into the mattress, and he just holds your hips tighter.

“So tight,” he growls. “Like your cunt knows who owns it.”

He fucks you hard, dragging your body back into each thrust, hair wrapped in his fist so your mouth brushes his ear when you moan.

“Say it again,” he pants. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Louder.”

“I want you.”

He flips you again. Your back hits the mattress. Your legs spread wide.

He thrusts in deep and holds.

“Look at me.”

You do.

Eyes locked, he fucks you like it’s the last time. Hard, slow, deep. Like he’s memorizing every sound, every clench, every twitch of your hips under his.

He doesn’t break eye contact. Not even when you come.

Not even when he does, pulling out and finishing across your chest with a grunt, panting above you, his name still wet on your lips.

You don’t wipe it off. You just pull him down. Kiss the corner of his mouth. And stay.

Because now?

Now you’re not pretending. Now you both know the truth. The sheets are still warm when you slip out of bed. Your legs ache. Your chest is sticky. And your heart is an echo chamber. Loud and quiet at once. You don't say anything to Niki as you wipe yourself clean. He doesn't try to stop you. You think he gets it. That you have to reassemble the version of you that belongs to someone else.

By the time Sunghoon comes out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, you're in a hoodie. Hair damp. Smile practiced. Niki’s gone from the bedroom, like he never came at all.

The front of B2 buzzes with the quiet chaos of departure. Suitcases thud against gravel. The sky is overcast, the air heavy with leftover rain and that weird post-vacation stillness like everyone’s trying to delay the inevitable.

Jay and Jungwon are finishing their last photo op, laughing at the blurry selfie timer results. Heeseung’s girlfriend is squatting next to the trunk trying to zip her overstuffed duffel while muttering under her breath.

Niki is arguing with Sunghoon over who left the aux cord behind. Loudly.

“Bro, I swear I gave it to you yesterday.”

“No, you left it on the porch table. Like a dumbass.”

“You were literally DJing from my playlist.”

“Yeah, because your music’s decent for once.”

“You’re welcome.”

You smile into your hoodie, watching them shove each other lightly between loading bags. There’s no tension between them. No suspicion. If anything, they’re closer after this trip.

A hand on your shoulder pulls you out of the moment.

It’s Heeseung.

“You good?” he asks softly.

You nod, almost too quickly. “Yeah.”

His gaze holds steady. “You seem lighter.”

You blink.

“Whatever was going on before…” He glances toward Niki who’s now making a dumb face at Sunghoon behind the car, then back to you. “Glad you figured it out. You look better.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You smile, soft and quiet. “Thanks, Heeseung.”

He just nods.

Eventually, the group breaks apart with lazy goodbyes. Jay hugs you like a big brother. Jungwon thanks you again for organizing everything. Heeseung’s girlfriend waves from the passenger seat, already applying lip balm.

And then it’s just the three of you left.

Sunghoon slaps the roof of the car like a dad and grins. “Alright, losers. Time to hit the road.”

You’re halfway to the front seat when Niki tugs the door handle ahead of you. “Shotgun.”

Sunghoon narrows his eyes. “You’re seriously calling it?”

“You drove my playlist into the ground,” Niki shrugs, already sliding in. “This is penance.”

Sunghoon groans but gives in, climbing into the driver’s side. “Unreal.”

You climb into the back, the leather still warm from the sun.

Niki glances back at you briefly. “You sure you don’t wanna swap?”

You smirk. “I’m good for now.”

Sunghoon starts the engine, windows cracked to let in the humid breeze. As he pulls onto the road, the bungalow shrinking behind you, Niki kicks his feet up.

“Try not to get carsick this time. I’m not cleaning anything,” Sunghoon tells him, teasingly.

“I’ll throw up on your playlist.”

Niki glances back at you, smirking. “Last chance, you sure you don’t wanna sit up front? Might get lonely back there.”

You smile lazily, stretching out. “I like the view from here.”

“Thought you get crancky in the back,” he says, twisting around in his seat just a little.

You tilt your head. “Only when I’m bored.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So basically whenever Sunghoon talks.”

“Hey,” Sunghoon says, starting the engine. “Disrespecting your driver? Bold move.”

“You’re not a driver,” Niki fires back. “You’re a menace with a license.”

“Keep talking and I’ll hit every pothole from here to Seoul.”

You laugh, light and unbothered, resting your head against the window.

Niki glances back at you again, conspiratorial. “If I end up puking, I’m aiming for your knees.”

You deadpan, “Joke’s on you. I brought wet wipes.”

He mock-gags. “You’re disgusting.”

“You started it.”

Sunghoon cuts in with a snort, shaking his head. “God, you two are so annoying.”

But there’s no edge to it, just fondness, worn-in and easy. You catch the way his reflection softens in the rearview mirror, eyes crinkling slightly. His shoulders relaxed.

He’s happy. They both are. And so are you.

The road curves out of the bungalow’s driveway, tires crunching over wet gravel. Trees blur past. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the soft playlist Sunghoon has playing. One of those moody acoustic mixes. Your throat tightens at the lyrics.

Niki shifts in the passenger seat beside Sunghoon, exhaling sharply. He leans his head back against the headrest, eyes squinting toward the window.

“Dude,” he says after a beat, voice low and a little strained. “I think I’m getting carsick again.”

Sunghoon turns briefly to glance at him, brows pinched. “Seriously? You were fine earlier.”

“Yeah, well,” Niki sighs. “Something about your tragic-ass music and winding roads. Not vibing.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Sunghoon mutters, but he’s already pulling over.

You stay quiet, curled against the side window in the back, pretending to be asleep.

“Is she out?” Niki asks, peeking behind the seat.

Sunghoon lowers his voice. “Looks like it. Just crash back there, it’s fine. But if you puke on my upholstery—”

“I won’t,” Niki says, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll aim for your sweater.”

Sunghoon groans as Niki climbs out and slides open the back door. You don’t open your eyes, just shift slightly, your legs curled up.

Niki settles in next to you without a word, sitting directly behind the passenger seat (you’re behind the driver’s seat). Carefully. Quietly. The door shuts, muffling the outside world again.

“Better?” Sunghoon calls back once they’re moving again.

“Yeah,” Niki answers, voice relaxed now. “Much.”

You don’t reach for Niki. Not at first. Not until twenty minutes pass and the silence gets thick again. You shift in your seat. Let your hand rest on his thigh.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

You lean in anyway, close enough for your breath to brush his jaw. “You’re quiet.”

No answer. You squeeze gently. “Pretending to sleep?” A beat. “Or just sulking because I didn’t kiss you goodbye?”

You feel it, the slow inhale. The way his body tenses just slightly under your touch.

“You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he murmurs finally. Voice low. Rough. But quiet enough that Sunghoon, humming along to some song up front, doesn’t notice.

You smile. Let your fingers trace idle shapes over his thigh. “You knew what this was,” you whisper. “You knew I wasn’t done with him.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t argue. But after a second, he turns his head, eyes half-lidded and focused fully on you. “I didn’t think you’d do this.”

You just tilt your head. “Do what?”

“Pull me into his bed,” he says, voice like gravel, “then hold my hand in the car like nothing happened.”

You shrug, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

A dry laugh escapes him. No humor, just surrender. “I don’t even know what I am to you.”

You lean in. Closer. Your lips graze the edge of his jaw.

“You’re mine,” you say softly. “Even if I don’t belong to just you.”

His hand finds yours again, locking your fingers together, tighter this time. Not asking, just taking. Letting himself want, even if it’s not enough.

“You’re messed up,” he mutters, almost fondly. “You know that?”

You grin. “And you’re still here.”

He huffs a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m still here.”

And he will be. Even if he’s just your secret. Even if it eats him alive. Because this time, he doesn’t let go. And neither do you.

2K notes · View notes

chuluoyi · 2 years ago

Text

LOVER'S QUARREL

- fushiguro megumi x reader

“i can't do this anymore.” you and megumi are just too different; he's stoic, you're bubbly, he prefers solitude, you love being social. it starts with fights, words you don't mean, and ends with an event that would haunt him for a long time to come.

genre/warnings: angst, breaking up, post-breakup feelings, mentions and description of injury and blood, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end (you make up!)

note: dear god i’m finally getting this out of my drafts. loosely inspired by real life events i’ve seen around my friend’s relationship sooo it might hurt a bit 🤏🏻 but who can say no to angst to eventual fluff? tagging @lees-chaotic-brain and @kasumitenbaz (as per request in the ask!), you two are always here for my megumi works, thank you!! :3 and thank you for dropping by for the event!

a part of 1K MILESTONE EVENT

general masterlist

Everyone pointed it out as a joke, that you liked him way more than he did you.

And you used to never let it ruffle you. To you, Megumi’s sternness and silence meant that he was comfortable with you. You never wanted him to change his ways just because now you were seeing each other.

But when you thought it over now, as you stood before him with an aghast expression and knives stabbing your kind, soft heart, you couldn’t help but do a double-take.

You were the one who confessed first. Most of the time, you were the one who initiated dates. You always texted him first, asking about his day, and even when he brushed you off, you would keep being this ball of sunshine and wished him a good day.

You never realized it before… that through everything, it has always been you. Unfailingly.

So how dare he spout this now?

“I can't do this anymore.”

"You... can't?" you spat out, feeling the first tendrils of anger course through you. "What exactly it is that you can't do? What do you even mean?"

"Look," Megumi stared at you squarely, and you thought now, that it was the coldest of eyes, straight and true. "It's always been like this between us lately. It's only right that we end this."

This, he said. He didn't even want to define your relationship anymore.

You scoffed. "And why do you think we always end up this way? Have you ever considered, even once, that it's because you make no effort at all?"

"I'm trying," Megumi quickly replied, almost in a hiss, and you almost recoiled. "But I just see that we'll end up nowhere, that's why I'm bringing this up now."

Oh, that freaking hurts. You boyfriend had just told you that this relationship would go nowhere. Right in your face.

Your eyes stung with tears, yet you fought to hold them back, fixing your gaze on the lamp overhead and inhaling deeply.

"You're... selfish," you stated, filled with ire. "You're always walking around eggshells around me, never telling me what is it that you really want—"

Megumi's unclouded eyes fixed on your trembling form. "We just disagree on a lot of things. You know it and it bothers you. It bothers me too. Rather than forcing our relationship, I think it's better—"

"It's always me!" you yelled then, lips quivering and eyes watering, unable to hold your emotions back any longer. "All dates, lunches—everything!" you locked your eyes with him, in mocking disbelief. "How can you say you're trying when, in truth, I'm the one putting in so much for us?!"

In that very second, Megumi thought that he hated seeing you like this. You were supposed to be the cheerful one in this relationship, and when he agreed to go out with you, he made an unspoken commitment to himself that he would at least not make you miserable.

And yet...

"...I'm sorry."

Came his reply, and you were sure that this was it.

And to rub the salt in your wound, he added, "I can't lie to you and say I haven't thought this for a while too."

As tears welled within you, you wondered and questioned what you lacked that led to this. However, the overwhelming sense of betrayal consuming your thoughts ultimately prevailed over any other emotions.

Now he could've appeared before you as a stranger and you wouldn't bat an eye, as the cold steel in his tone said, "And if blaming me is what it takes to make you feel better, then so be it."

You couldn't pinpoint the source of your sudden boldness, but in the next hot minute, you marched past him, your shoulder harshly colliding with his in a deliberate, almost spiteful manner—which, indeed, was your intention—and then you ran.

Which led to the next scene: you found yourself bawling your eyes out in the girls' lavatory.

Yuji and Nobara saw everything unfolding right before their eyes. They hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but you and Megumi were literally breaking up right the middle of their shared classroom, and it was hard not to follow the discourse until the end.

"Are you okay?" Nobara had come to your side, ensuring privacy by locking the restroom door out of your consideration. You were a sobbing mess, attempting to wipe the overflowing tears away while letting out all your emotions.

"He's..." Your voice faltered amid sobs as you gazed at your steadfast friend, your throat clogging up. "He said... he's been wanting t-to... break up with m-me..."

"That's okay, that's okay..." Nobara brought you to her arms, patting your back in reassurance. "Fushiguro is insensitive like that... don't cry over him now. He's just a wimp, okay?"

"Why is it me?" you asked her, voice brittle, still shaking with tears. "I t-tried everything! Being the supportive girlfriend..."

"If he can't appreciate what you did, then the problem lies with him," your friend stated, traces of irritation brewing in her resolute gaze. And as she firmly grasped your wrist, her next words resonated. "Not you."

. . .

"Do you really have to break her heart like that?" Yuji fidgeted with his hoodie, staring at his best friend with a blend of confusion and sympathy.

Megumi sighed, finally ruffling his hair into a mess, as if expressing his own state of mind. “This is for the best.”

Yuji’s eyebrows visibly creased. “How is this ‘for the best’? She’s miserable, and you…” he assessed him, scanning him from head to toe, “it doesn’t seem you’re faring any better too.”

“The longer she is with me, the unhappier she will be.” Megumi glanced at the bathroom’s direction. “She can deserve better.”

He was always too quiet, too boring, not able to match your energy too. He couldn’t fault you for expecting more, whereas he was just not exactly built for your expectations.

Megumi really thought he wanted it to end. At one point, it even felt like a chore, but…

How strange. Why did it feel like something was clawing at his chest?

Time heals. Megumi knew that by theory, but he really did see it firsthand when he saw you all giggling and happy again three weeks after he initiated the breakup.

With Hakari.

“Yo, what are you glaring at?” Panda asked, but Megumi didn’t pay him any mind.

An upperclassman, Hakari Kinji, was naturally cool and talented. He was laid back, knew how to have fun—all in all, a total opposite of Fushiguro Megumi altogether.

Three weeks. It’s only been three weeks since then.

“Megumi?”

Wait… Aren’t three weeks too fast to get over your ex?

“Megumi!”

“Huh?” he turned to the sentient panda with a jerk. “Oh, what is it?”

He looked at him with a concerned gaze. "Why do you look so scary? It's almost as if you're about to punch someone..."

But who was he to argue? He had no right to be upset now.

"Is it Kinji?" Panda gasped, finally putting two and two together when he followed his line of sight. "Oh Megumi... but you—"

"Just shut up, please," he blurted then, a hint of annoyance in his tone. With that, Panda didn't pursue it further, leaving him with his thoughts.

From where he was at the field, he could clearly see your radiant smile for Hakari. It was clear that the two of you shared a degree of friendship, but Megumi never knew that you two were that close.

...huh?

Why did the sight irritate him so suddenly? Why did his chest twinge again?

What a fool. You're the one driving her away, you idiot.

Suddenly these memories popped up one by one—

Of you suddenly hugging him from behind in an attempt to surprise him.

How he pressed his lips on the crown of your head when you fall asleep on his shoulder.

How you would give him that dopey smile when he pulled you close.

But on harder days after missions gone wrong, he’d ignore you altogether— the slight disappointment in your smile then. How your expression fell when he told you to go. How you slumped and looked back in hopes of him changing his mind.

“Haaaah.” Megumi turned away, unwilling to keep watching you any longer. Why? Why hadn’t it occurred to him before now?

Why did he long for you now? Why not before, when you were still his?

They were right. It seems people tend to desire what isn't meant for them.

What could have been more painfully awkward than being sent into a mission with your ex-boyfriend?

You would kill Gojo for this. Or at least give him the lowest possible score in his teaching evaluation for the year. How could he? Your breakup was an infamous public spectacle, so this setup was undoubtedly intentional!

You were losing your head over this, and yet your ex-boyfriend...

"Keep your guard up," Megumi reminded curtly, in a warning tone. He looked as vigilant and straight as always, as if he wasn't even bothered.

You threw him a dirty look, offended. "You don't have to tell me twice."

This just cranked up the discomfort to an excruciating level. The mix of unresolved tension and memories—okay, you might be an emo, but how were you supposed to be cool with all of these hanging in the air?

Your site of exorcism was an abandoned warehouse, and the cursed spirit in question was supposed to be a grade 3. You two were grade 2 sorcerers now, so you were a perfect fit to exorcise it. But there was indeed this unease in the air that you couldn't put your finger to.

"Isn't it awfully too quiet?" you unwittingly muttered, staring at the darkness of the wall. You couldn't feel any cursed energy belonging to any possible malevolent entity, and that was what unsettled you the most.

Megumi frowned at your line of sight. "It is. Stay close."

You blinked at what he said, and before you knew it, the familiar scent of him being near to you made your entire body burst with this equally familiar warmth. When you looked up to him, seeing the solid sharpness in that dark eyes of his and his jaw set, dead butterflies in your chest rose back to life again, against your heartbreak and better judgement.

Stay close, he said... So he is worried...

And in an attempt to hide how flustered you were, you looked down.

You walked a few good steps, when suddenly he asked, "So, are you with Hakari-senpai now?"

"Huh?" You spun around, your expression a mix of surprise and confusion.

"You two seem close."

Seem close? Seem close... wait, so Megumi had noticed...?

Suddenly, you felt incited and it made you angry. "That's none of your business," your voice carried a sharp edge, hissing. And you knew you were being a bit mean by adding, "You broke up with me, so why do you even care?"

In that moment, Megumi could've sworn his chest throbbed. Your cutting tone pierced directly into his heart, lodging itself there.

You had all rights to be annoyed, and he knew that. Why did that question even slip out of him?

"Nah, nevermind," he mumbled in response, looking away.

Awkwardness lingered afterwards. You hated this, but no, you weren't above being petty. He had broken your heart and it still stung even now. If your intentionally biting words did to him even a fraction of what he made you feel, then you would find a small sense of satisfaction in it.

But you weren't able to ponder about your mess of feelings further when Megumi abruptly yanked your arm, his voice soaking with urgency, "It's here!"

Sure enough, the grotesque cursed spirit with the shape of a giant bee broke through the walls with a bang. The two of you immediately readied your fighting stance. Megumi was ready with his divine dogs, while you with your cursed weapon.

For a while, you engaged the cursed spirit with all you had. You were trying to focus on the enemy, but you couldn't help but notice the way Megumi always looked at you every few seconds, checking for any signs of injury or harm.

Frankly speaking, he trusted your strength and knew that you were a capable sorcerer. You had been paired in a mission before and he knew both your potential and shortcomings. It was just there was something about this place that had his senses on high alert.

And his fears were proven true when you yelped and were flung onto the grimy floor. "Y/N!"

"I'm fine!" you shouted in a rush, scrambling to your feet. However, as you spun towards him, your scream tore through the hall as you caught sight of the bee lurking behind him. "Megumi!"

He got distracted. The bee quickly latched onto him and almost stung him, until he wrestled it off and summoned Nue and exorcised it.

You went to his side that instant. "Are you okay?!"

"I am." But then he winced and almost fell on his knees if you didn't have a secure grip on him. He savored your touch and breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that now you two were safe.

"Megumi! Oh god!" Panic surged through you as you pulled him close. His side was bleeding, and you widened your eyes at the sight.

"I'm okay, I promise," he rasped, looking you in the eyes. "What abo—"

Then you saw it, the flicker from deep from that corner of platform, and suddenly, you grasped the source of the unease that had been lingering within you all this time. It wasn't the bee Megumi had just exorcised—

At that moment, there was no room for thought, one thing was certain: you didn't want him to get hurt more.

He didn't manage to finish his sentence when suddenly you pushed him away with so much force he never thought you had. Everything crashed so suddenly, he didn't have the time to brace himself or grab you with him, as another cursed bee appeared out of nowhere and—

Reality flashed before his eyes as he stared at you in sheer horror. At how the cursed spirit tore your body, sinking its hollow stinger in you.

You didn't really know what happened next. Everything was muffled—the frantic movements around you turned into a blur, along with Megumi's yells. Otherworldly pain coursed through your entire being and your ears rang, then everything in your line of sight became distorted and faded, along with your consciousness. Next and the last thing you knew was Megumi's battered face, a final imprint before you succumbed to the void.

Megumi had exorcised the remaining cursed spirit and staggered to his feet—falling a few times, but he made his way towards you through gritted teeth. You are hurt. He forced himself to get to you and pull you into his arms.

And suddenly, suddenly, nothing mattered anymore as overwhelming terror consumed him upon seeing you. Blood streamed from your abdomen so much that it made a continuous pool.

"You stupid—!" He choked out, voice hitching. You were no longer conscious and it devastated him even more. "Hey, hey? Wake up—hells—"

You, who did everything you could to save your relationship. You, who cried tears for him when he blatantly broke your heart. And you, who put himself first—and now facing the consequences.

It crashed upon him in that very second, the clarity. What was he thinking back then? He still loves you.

"If you die on me, I won't forgive you."

Megumi scooped you in his arms, pressing you close to his chest, the blood seeping from his wound be damned as he looked at your serene face. His heart shattered in the worst way possible and he almost wheezed at the sticky sensation of your blood—and how lifeless you felt in his grasp—but he willed it away.

"Don't," his broken rasp echoed the walls as he took each step to get both of you out of this hellhole. He winced and hissed at his own injury, chewing his lip in frustration, at how helpless he was.

"Don't leave me."

It was like a distant, hazy memory.

Was it a memory though? No. It seemed far too real for that.

The throbbing headache pounding through your skull and shivers that wracked your body pulled you back to reality. There was a heavy pressure on your abdomen and any movement sent sharp pain shooting through you.

You gradually opened your eyes, squinting against the brightness. You were in a hospital gown, an IV was injected on your arm, and the sterile scent made your stomach twist, as nausea creeping through your guts. Your vision was still blurry as you tried to look around to find someone who waited for you. As you slowly turned your head to the side, you saw him, sitting in the chair right next your bed.

Megumi was sleeping in such uncomfortable position, his head resting on the edge of your bed. He appeared peaceful, almost childlike, devoid of his usual stoic demeanor.

Your heartstrings were tugged at this rare sight. He also sustained injuries and yet... he was waiting for you to wake up, here.

Your chest swelled with warmth, which was quickly followed by a sting of heartbreak. Still, you two broke up...

You jolted, and the inadvertent movement sent a wave of pain that seemed to paralyze your nerves, causing you to whimper. The noise woke Megumi from his slumber, as he shot his eyes open in alarm, catching your hand in his.

"Hey... Are you okay?" Megumi worriedly looked down at you with a visible frown, and the grimace of pain on your face, accompanied by trembling lips, was enough of an answer. He hastily scrambled out in slight panic, "I'll get Ieiri-san."

When Shoko came and got you the painkillers, your pain receded somewhat. Through it all, Megumi stood there, casting concerned glances in your way.

"Bedrest for the week," Shoko stated firmly, assessing your wound with a no-nonsense expression. "Your injury isn't minor—it's serious enough that you're strongly advised against excessive movement."

You could only nod in response. Megumi bowed. "Thank you, Ieiri-san." Once the doctor departed, silence settled over the room once more.

“Why did you do that?” he quietly asked then, referring to what you did for him. And when you turned to him, you saw it clearly.

He looked pale, and there was this haunted look in his eyes. It broke your heart a little.

"You were hurt." Your voice came out dry, and you realized firsthand just how parched you were. Seeing Megumi looking down never quite sat right with you. He was meant to be an unwavering presence, someone strong enough to sway your convictions.

However, a pang struck when he countered with stern eyes, "You didn't have to do that."

...he was right. You didn't have to. What he didn't know was that you were still holding on these stupid feelings, which drove you to shield him. It made you ponder: if your roles were reversed, would he not step in to protect you at all?

"Why are you here?" You weren't sure if the bitterness in your tone was evident, but you continued anyway. "You don't have to be here either."

"Don't have to?" His gaze bore disbelief, as if not believing your words. "I'm—"

"If it's because I saved you, Megumi—"

“Do not even think, even for a moment, that I won’t be concerned over you.” His voice, deep and hoarse, struck you to the core, silencing your words. “Never. I always, always want you to be safe.”

Your mind became a blank slate. Suddenly, all that mattered was his voice.

"Don't you realize how terrifying it was? Seeing you like that?" Megumi spat, his green eyes shining with intensity, teeth gritted and fists clenched. "How could you even think that I wouldn't be here—" his breath hitched, and then his lips trembled slightly, "—for you?"

You blinked quickly, a feeling stirred within you—stemming from that cursed, fragile heart of yours to be exact, evident from the rapid thumping in your chest.

You dumbly uttered, "But we are—"

"Oh, Goddamnit." Megumi cursed, and honestly you were taken aback. It wasn't really in him to swear, so this really bugged him. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and despite the situation, your heart skipped a beat at the sight. Even a mess in a hospital gown, your ex-boyfriend was still undeniably attractive.

He stared at you squarely in the eye, unflinching, steadfast and true, the very image of Fushiguro Megumi you admired from afar and fell in love with in the first place half a year ago. "You don't have to... say anything, if you don't want to. Right now... just hear me out."

And the things he said next... all of them, you could say, caught you entirely off guard.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not trying hard enough, and—damn it, for making you sad. I never, ever wanted to see you that upset."

Megumi drew in a sharp breath, averting his gaze. "And for days, I've wondered if you and Hakari-senpai are now a thing... and you know what? I hate it so much. I know I have no grounds to feel this way, after what I did, but..."

And like a train wreck, his final words hit you hard. Tears welled up in your eyes in immediate response.

“I'm a loser, and a coward too, maybe,” he shrugged, a tinge of self-deprecation in his tone. “And I suck at telling people my feelings, but I love you. I still do.”

A sob slipped out of your throat and you hastily pulled the blanket over your face, much to his surprise. He thought he had worsened things, with the way you were turning away from him.

But then, from beneath the blanket, in a croaky voice, you proclaimed, "Fushiguro Megumi, you're a complete and utter idiot."

And Megumi didn't know that he had been holding back his breath as he chuckled heartily, relieved that you would still take his ass back after this prolonged mess. He knew he still had a lot to make up for and was determined to show it through his actions.

"Maybe I am, yeah."

"That's possibly the longest shit you have ever spouted in one breath."

"Yeah..."

But he got his chance back, and he knew that you would be alright. Both of you are.

On one sunny day...

"Hey, are you alone?"

Megumi glanced up from his phone, only to be met with a random girl standing in front of him, batting her eyelashes with an ambiguous intent. He blinked at her curiously.

"No. Can I help you?"

The girl twirled her hair suggestively. "Ah, you see... I see you all in your lonesome and I think you're quite cute—"

The hell? Megumi frowned, and he was really about to give this bimbo a piece of his mind when—

Oh, oh. Forget that. Megumi's attention snapped to you on the opposite side of the crossroad. All pretty and dolled up with that crop tee and miniskirt he once mentioned would look great on you by a slip of tongue—that accidental comment earned him your teasing quips for weeks already.

"Sorry, I'm here for my girlfriend. Bye."

Abruptly dismissing the girl, he didn't catch how comically offended she was for being turned down in a span of 20 seconds. He took big strides towards you, as you crossed the street, and you immediately beamed when you caught the sight of his face.

"Megumi!"

Ah, this is going to be a good day, he thought. As he gazed at your pretty face, and caught your hand in his, clasping it tightly, reveling in your scent and the warmth of your presence beside him—

He was content, and once again it dawned on him, that he likes you so, so damn much.

"Let's get started on our date, shall we?"

10K notes · View notes

osarina · 2 months ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it.

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them.

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him.

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name.

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this.

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work.

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible.

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.”

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?”

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked.

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile.

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you.

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper.

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.”

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?”

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?”

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?”

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him.

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly.

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?”

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies.

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again.

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly.

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines.

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready.

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember. It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right.

Each time you’re disappointed.

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin.

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized.

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen.

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him.

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves.

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more.

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips.

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?”

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off.

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?”

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly.

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again.

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again.

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly.

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release.

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him.

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his.

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously.

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly.

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?”

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?”

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song.

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it.

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia. Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?”

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen.

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches.

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning.

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him.

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly.

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him.

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache.

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?”

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him.

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens.

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

hello hello!

lewis has hinted at having a secret family for years, but no one has ever seen them. her kids like him but still cant fully connect with him until his wife/their mom has a very important meeting out of town and lewis decides to take his step-kids with him with a grand prix weekend.

maybe 2 or 3 kids with an age gap

𝒫𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hey all! Another one-shot completed. I didn’t intend to post this late but I studied a lot longer today than expected. Also Lewis looking mighty fine arriving at Silverstone. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis never truly hid his family. He simply protected them, quietly weaving subtle hints into interviews and moments over the years, leaving the world to wonder but never fully see.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ �� ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You met Lewis on a rainy Tuesday. Not the poetic kind of rain. No soft mist gliding down windows, no moody puddles reflecting neon signs. This was the chaotic kind: umbrellas turning inside out, coats clinging wetly to your shins and the wind yanking your dignity one gust at a time. The United Kingdom always had a way of feeling theatrical when the weather was miserable and you were in no mood for the spotlight.

You stood outside a hotel lobby, bracing yourself with a pathetic excuse for an umbrella the kind you buy last minute from a convenience store and immediately regret. The networking event had been your colleague’s idea, fuelled more by stale champagne and tiny quiches than any noble pursuit of professional connections. You’d already plotted your escape when the rain decided to turn vertical.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Not because you were laughing like you belonged there. Not because you gravitated toward fame like a moth to a racing flame. In fact, you hadn’t even realised who he was. This charming stranger whose hood hung crookedly, whose sneakers were definitely not waterproof and who looked mildly confused by this weather and the concept of mingling with people who said things like, “Let’s circle back on that.”

The rain angled viciously. You instinctively shifted, nudging your sorry excuse for an umbrella over him.

“You’re going to get soaked,” you said, tugging it his way. “It’s only polite to share.” He glanced at you, amused. “Is it polite, or is it that you didn’t want to stand here alone?” You gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe a bit of both.”

That was it. No lightning bolt. No orchestral swell. Just a tiny spark with a stubborn heart like a tea light that wouldn’t give up in the wind.

And soon enough a spark lingered from that day. The two of you exchanged numbers and it began quietly from there.

Dinners in cozy places with flickering candles and laminated menus. Phone calls that started with harmless chatter and dissolved into sleepy confessions. You tiptoed into each other’s lives with the grace of people afraid to knock over anything too precious.

When you told him about your kids, your voice wobbled just a little.

“I have children,” you said like you were handing him a box labeled ‘Handle With Car’.

He blinked. Paused. Then asked, “What are they like?” Not where’s their dad. Just curiosity, kind and uncomplicated.

You fiddled with the edge of your napkin. “The oldest is fourteen - reserved, keeps their guard up. The middle’s ten, all questions and side-eyes. And the youngest is five.” You laughed softly. “That one’s a barnacle. Sticks to me like glue.”

His smile was immediate, soft. “They sound like good kids.”

Meeting the kids was let’s be honest a sitcom episode.

Your eldest held the posture of someone conducting a very serious internal audit. Their arms folded, their eyes narrowed. If they'd had a clipboard, Lewis would've been under evaluation.

Your middle child regarded him like a puzzle with missing instructions. “So…you drive cars but you can’t figure out how to open a juice box?” Your youngest clung to your leg stubborn, refusing to speak, blink, or be perceived.

Lewis, who could slice through corners at 300 km/h with nerves of steel, suddenly looked like a man asked to perform karaoke in a language he didn’t speak.

But he didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t try to be ‘The Cool Guy’. He just kept showing up with food, a completely incorrect understanding of Pokémon lore and an impressive ability to lose at Uno.

He helped with school projects like he was preparing for an engineering exam, stayed calm during meltdowns and didn’t flinch when glitter got involved. When your youngest finally reached for his hand, you saw it a shift, gentle and profound. Like something inside him had quietly unlocked.

The turning point wasn’t the big stuff. It was a Saturday morning that smelled like burnt toast and mystery stains.

You were sick like can barely move sick. Lewis tiptoed into dad mode, clearly untrained but wildly enthusiastic. He packed lunches. Brushed hair like he was defusing a bomb. Forgot water bottles, but gave pep talks about friendship bracelets. The kids giggled and you half-dead in bed listened with a heart that thudded out gratitude like a drum-line.

Later that night, your eldest whispered, “He’s kind of useless but he makes mum smile.”

And that was everything.

The proposal wasn’t fireworks and helicopters. It wasn’t live streamed or captioned for Instagram. It happened in your living room, amid the couch, sippy cup and a stray sock somehow taped to the ceiling (you never figured out how).

Dinner had ended in giggles and spilled water and your youngest had fallen asleep in Lewis’s lap with spaghetti sauce on one cheek and a toy dinosaur in one hand and Mr Waffles in the other.

He looked across the room, soft eyed, his voice like the hush that follows laughter. “I think we already are a family,” he said. “I’d just like to make it official. You know. Legally. Emotionally. Dinosaur and Mr Waffles included.”

You laughed. Ugly cried a little and said yes. Of course you said yes.

Even with rings on fingers and documents signed, he had his quiet doubts. He still tapped his fingers nervously on the counter when he thought no one was watching, still asked you if he was doing enough. But he never tried to take anyone’s place. He just stayed.

And eventually, that was everything.

He didn’t hide you from the spotlight. He just held up an umbrella when it poured. Tucked you and the kids into a corner of the world where laughter could grow quietly.

He never tried to dim your light. He simply learned how to dance beside it awkwardly, lovingly, sometimes while tripping over Lego.

The first time a journalist asked Lewis about his plans for life beyond Formula 1, he gave one of those trademark Hamilton smiles soft at the edges, just a little bit secretive, like he knew something no one else did. “There’s more to life than F1,” he said, his voice casually laced with truth. “I’ve got my people.”

His fans assumed he meant his engineers. His pit crew. His growing entourage of stylists and strategists. Some speculated he was talking about Roscoe, his beloved bulldog who’d become something of a cultural icon in the paddock. But Lewis had glanced off to the side after saying it, eyes flickering somewhere far away somewhere gentler.

Because really? He meant you.

He meant the half finished drawing taped to the fridge. He meant the matching socks he’d proudly packed for the kids only to discover later they weren’t matching at all. He meant bedtime giggles and pancake disasters and the soft chaos that filled his home. His people were the ones who didn’t care how many podiums he’d stood on. They just wanted extra syrup on waffles and help tying shoelaces.

When another reporter asked about his favourite place in the world, Lewis didn’t even blink. “Wherever they are,” he said simply. The room chuckled. One journalist made a comment about jet-set lifestyles and luxury villas. Someone else said, “You mean Roscoe, right?”

Lewis just smiled again, wide and fond and untouched by fame. But if you were paying attention, his expression softened not for cameras, not for stories, but for something quiet and sacred. Something waiting at home in mismatched pyjamas, asking if he remembered to bring snacks.

Soon, press conferences became a game reporters poking around gently, curious about the man behind the helmet.

“What’d you do during the midseason break?”

“Oh, just spent time with my family. They keep me grounded.”

He never elaborated. Never corrected anyone. They thought he meant extended family. Maybe cousins, a sibling or two.

He didn’t say otherwise.

When asked who inspired him most, he smiled again.

“My family. My wife. My kids.”

A reporter leaned in teasingly. “Wait kids? You’ve got kids now?” He took a sip of water, glanced at the ceiling like he was counting blessings, and let the silence wrap around the moment like a warm scarf. He never confirmed. He never denied. And somehow, that made the mystery even sweeter.

Fans became amateur sleuths. They poured over his Instagram posts like detective novels:

• A dinner photo with five place settings but only four guests.

• A hotel room snapshot where a plastic toy car peeked out from behind a laptop.

• A blurry, late-night video interrupted by soft, high pitched giggles off camera. Lewis had smiled without turning around and murmured, “Back to bed, little one. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The internet exploded.

The hashtags trended:

• #HamiltonFamilyMystery

• #SecretDadLewis

• #RoscoeAndHisSiblings

Speculation ran wild. Reddit threads popped up analysing bookshelf contents and background reflections. One fan insisted they heard someone call him “Lew” in a race day vlog. Another pointed out he always wore the same beaded bracelet a friendship gift, they guessed from a child.

And yet, Lewis never fed the fire. He didn’t tag anyone. No faces. No names. Just crumbs sweet, soft and intentional. Because the truth wasn’t theirs to consume. It was the blanket forts in the living room. The giggles in the hallway. The macaroni art he once tried (and failed) to frame.

Sometimes, the other drivers slipped.

Valtteri Bottas once casually mentioned, “Yeah, Lewis had to rush off for bedtime. His little ones keep him busy.”

The interviewer blinked. “Wait it’s offical Lewis has kids?”

Valtteri’s eyes went wide, a sudden panic flashing across his face like he’d just revealed the ending of a very personal novel.

“Oh - I mean his dog! Right? Roscoe’s basically his kid. Ha…ha…” Too late. The seed had been planted. And Lewis? He never corrected it. Just smiled that knowing smile, like someone carrying the world’s sweetest secret.

In an age where every moment is documented, filtered, and dissected, Lewis had carved out something rare: a sanctuary. He held the world at arm’s length while holding you all closer.

Behind the speed and spectacle was a man who read bedtime stories in silly voices. Who burnt toast on sleepy Sundays. Who danced in the kitchen with mismatched socks and a spoon microphone. If anyone had truly listened they would’ve known.

He didn’t hide his family. He just never handed them to the world. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun drapes itself lazily across the floorboards, casting soft golden stripes through the sheer curtains. It’s the kind of light that should feel peaceful like the start of a slow, gentle day. But your brain is already sprinting.

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the email you’ve read five times now. Final confirmation. It’s no longer optional. This meeting it’s the meeting. The culmination of years of late nights, half finished coffees and doing your best to be everything to everyone.

You sigh, dragging your palm down your face, already aching with the familiar cocktail of guilt and anticipation. A whole weekend away. Away from home. From the kids. From Lewis, whose voice is now coming through the hallway like a game show host narrating a pancake apocalypse.

“Mum?” You look up, startled from your thoughts. Your eldest stands in the doorway, school bag slung over one shoulder, expression calculated but polite always the little diplomat. “Hey, sweetheart. You ready?”

They nod, but hesitate. The lip-biting is your first clue something’s brewing. “Lewis said he’s making pancakes,” they announce solemnly. “He’s…trying again.” You snort softly, tugging on your hoodie. “Trying, huh? That bad?” Their eyes flick upward, as if searching for divine patience. “Let’s just say the smoke alarm’s on standby.” You ruffle their hair gently as you pass. “Go easy on him. He’s already fighting for his reputation this morning.”

The kitchen is a battle zone.

There’s flour on the counter, syrup dripping from spoons and a suspicious crater in the stack of pancakes that suggests someone attempted a flip and failed dramatically. Lewis stands in the eye of the storm, sporting sweatpants, wild bed hair and the wary confidence of a man who’s watched one cooking video and thinks he knows everything.

"Before you say anything," he says, turning to you with the spatula raised like a white flag, "I meant for that one to be crispy."

Your youngest sits on the counter, their legs swinging freely, a glob of syrup painting a sticky trail down one cheek. “Crispy is a nice way of saying it’s dead, Lew,” they chirp.

Lewis gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally betrayed. “Et tu, little one?”

You lean against the doorway, just watching how easily he laughs, how naturally he fits, even if the pancakes aren’t cooperating. Your heart softens. This is what you built together. Imperfect, chaotic, beautiful.

But there’s still a distance. Especially with your eldest.

Lewis never pushes. He’s all warmth and patience, a man who’s memorised everyone’s favourite cereal and knows which child likes bedtime stories with voices and which one prefers quiet. But the invisible line the one your eldest keeps drawn between like and belonging is stubborn.

You see how Lewis notices. How his shoulders fall just a touch when your eldest offers polite thanks instead of a hug. How he watches them with quiet hope.

“Hey, babe,” you murmur, stepping closer as the kids enter a spirited debate over syrup rations. “Can I talk to you for a second?” He turns instantly, brows pulling into concern. “Is everything okay?” You lead him to the hallway, just out of sight. “That meeting I told you about? It’s confirmed. I fly out Friday morning back late Sunday night.”

Lewis nods slowly, the corners of his mouth dimpling thoughtfully. “Got it.”

“I hate being away like this,” you whisper. “Especially now. I don’t want to dump the kids on you -"

“You’re not dumping them,” he says, gently cutting you off. “They’re our family. Our messy, pancake-loving, toy-leaving-on-the-stairs family. I’ve got them.”

Your throat tightens. The word our lands heavy and perfect, like the final piece in a puzzle. “I just worry,” you admit. “It’s not always easy. The walls are still up, especially -”

“Especially with the eldest,” he finishes quietly. “Yeah. I know.” He rubs the back of his neck, then perks up like he’s just unlocked a cheat code. “What if I take them with me to the race this weekend?” You blink. “Seriously?”

“I’d love to. Let them see what I do. The team, the garage, the noise maybe it’ll help. Just me and them. No pressure. No Mum buffer.” He grins, but it’s soft around the edges, full of something vulnerable and brave.

You hesitate. Cameras, crowds, noise it’s a lot. But so is Lewis’s love. You’ve always trusted him with the big things. The loud things. But he’s proven himself with the quiet ones too. “They’d love that,” you whisper.

He smiles big and proud, the kind of smile that steals air right from your lungs. “So would I. I’ll even pack matching socks this time. I’ve learned. I’m evolved.” You wrap your arms around his waist, sinking into the warmth and cinnamon-scented chaos of it all. A pancake flops from the spatula behind you. “You’re a brave man.”

“I’ve faced Verstappen wheel to wheel. I can survive three kids armed with glitter glue and emotional turbulence.”

From the kitchen - a crash, followed by your middle child yelling, “Syrup should not be used as face paint!” Lewis winces. “Okay, maybe pray for me. Just a little.” You chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder. And in that moment in a house that smells like syrup and burnt batter you feel something shift.

Not everything is fixed. Not every wall has fallen. But something’s starting. Something new. Something healing. And maybe, just maybe, this weekend will be the beginning of the belonging you’ve all been waiting for.

Soon enough the next morning is a whirlwind of movement. Socks are being hunted like endangered species, toothbrushes misplaced and re-found and somewhere in the chaos, Lewis manages to balance packing for a Grand Prix weekend while simultaneously tying shoelaces and rescuing a juice box from imminent explosion.

“Lewis, are you sure you’ve got everything?” you ask, half inside a duffel bag, half emotionally unraveling as you do your third round of bag-checking. “Baby,” he says, reaching over and tugging you gently toward him by the waist, “it’s a Grand Prix, not a jungle expedition.”

“Grand Prix with children,” you correct, raising an eyebrow. “That’s practically a jungle.” He grins, kissed by chaos, eyes warm. “I’ve raced through actual rainstorms. I can survive snack time meltdowns.”

You glance down at your youngest, who’s standing like a proud sentinel by the door, wearing mismatched socks and clutching Mr. Waffles the beloved stuffed bunny who’s been through more adventures than most grown adults.

“Do you have Mr. Waffles?” Your youngest beams. “He’s ready to see you win, Lew.”

Lewis crouches instantly, eye level with them, pressing a soft kiss to their sticky forehead. “I’m counting on Mr. Waffles to bring me good luck. He’s got magic fluff, right?”

“Super magic,” they whisper solemnly.

Your middle child zips past, lugging a backpack half their size and mumbling about how they packed snacks, but not sharing them with Lewis unless he “behaves like a responsible adult.”

Your eldest lingers, earbuds in, staring at the floor as if it's made of complicated math. They're at the age where enthusiasm must be cool and emotions come with disclaimers. But you catch the subtle glances they sneak toward Lewis. The almost smile twitching at the corner of their mouth.

Lewis turns, offering his classic lopsided grin. “You ready, champ?” They shrug, arms crossed. “Yeah, whatever.” Lewis doesn’t flinch at the cool exterior. He just nods like they handed him a full sentence. “Right, ‘whatever.’ I’m counting on you to keep me sane this weekend.”

“Good luck with that,” they reply, but this time - this time there’s a glint of amusement in their eyes. A crack in the armour. You swallow the lump in your throat and feel your heart clench in that tender way only parents understand. This is new territory for all of you.

“You’ll call me?” you ask Lewis quietly, pressing your hand to his chest as the kids make their way out to the car with the kind of energy that implies someone forgot their charger again. “Every night,” he promises, his hand resting atop yours. “They’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes at first, but then he gives that wink - the wink and it does.

A few hours later they arrive at the paddock. If Earth had a heartbeat, the paddock would be it. Tools clinking, radios squawking, feet moving with rehearsed urgency. The air buzzes with anticipation and the scent of rubber, metal, and tension.

Lewis slips into his element effortlessly. The kids, however, look like they’ve stepped into another dimension. Your middle child stops in their tracks, eyes wide as saucers. “Whoa. This is where the cars sleep?” Lewis laughs. “They don’t exactly sleep. But yeah, this is their home base. Like their clubhouse.”

The youngest waves at a crew member, who waves back and throws in a theatrical thumbs-up. Another tech holds out a water bottle like a peace offering and Lewis mentally makes note to send them all care packages shaped like chocolate bars and gratitude.

He kneels down to the smallest one again. “Listen, there’s a rule, okay? You go anywhere with me or Angela, but no solo missions. This place is basically a maze designed by a hyperactive robot.”

“Got it,” they nod, gripping his hand tighter and then whispering, “I think Mr. Waffles can be our guide.” Angela greets them like she’s been rehearsing all week. “Finally brought your team, huh?” Lewis laughs, gazing at the three little bodies wobbling around in oversized headphones. “Yep. The most important one.”

Angela crouches down, all sunshine and charm. She instantly starts cracking jokes about Lewis being more high-maintenance than the car engines and how she deserves a gold medal for dealing with his ‘fashion emergencies.’ Your eldest, who had been hovering stiffly in the background, lets out a surprised laugh. It’s short. Quiet. But genuine.

Lewis freezes for half a second, like someone just handed him an award. Then he casually shrugs and says to Angela, “Told you they had an awesome sense of humour. Just needed proper bait.” Angela, without missing a beat, adds, “And apparently that bait is Lewis slathering on too much moisturiser before race day.”

It’s messy and loud and fast and Lewis is glowing. You’re not there, but if someone paused the scene and zoomed in on him, they’d see it: the softness in his eyes, the care in every movement, and the quiet pride blooming with every laugh and every curious question asked about tire compounds and steering wheels.

And for the first time, your eldest doesn’t just exist in the background.

They step forward. They watch. And maybe they’re starting to see something in him that’s worth believing in.

The days blurred in the best way. Each moment stitched seamlessly into the next like a family quilt messy, warm, imperfect, but stitched with so much care it practically glowed.

On Friday afternoon, the pit lane walk turned into a spontaneous Q&A session with your middle child turned Button Detective. They peppered Lewis with questions in rapid-fire succession:

“What does this button do?”

“What happens if you press this during a turn?”

“Why are there so many?”

Lewis, confident at first, started strong explaining tire modes, overtake buttons, energy deployment like a man who definitely studied. But by question eleven, he blinked and laughed out loud. “Okay,” he said sheepishly, pointing to one mysterious toggle. “I have no idea what that one does. I’ll get back to you. But don’t tell Fred I said that.”

They cackled, delighted by this chink in the cool driver armor. And your eldest? Quiet, arms crossed but Lewis saw it: the corners of their mouth curled just slightly. Amused. Intrigued.

Saturday’s karting adventure was unhinged in the best way. Lewis took everyone to a local track not fancy, not polished. Just the kind of worn-in place where kids could let loose and helmets didn’t quite fit right.

He made a dramatic show of stretching before racing your middle child, shouting, “Prepare to meet your fate, young warrior!” Then he deliberately lost. Loudly. Hamming it up with gasps of defeat, fake tears and Shakespearean monologues about being dethroned.

Your eldest, who had spent most of the morning pretending to be unimpressed, snorted. Loud. It startled both Angela and your youngest, who immediately tried to recreate the sound.

Lewis caught the moment a tiny glimmer of connection and didn’t say a word. He didn’t push. That was his quiet superpower: waiting, gently.

Saturday’s breakfast was slow and sacred. The hotel dining room was quiet, just the hum of morning clatter and half-awake conversations. Lewis stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Your eldest sat across from him, cereal spoon moving in lazy circles.

“I guess your job’s kinda cool,” they muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Lewis didn’t smile. He just nodded like this wasn’t a revelation but a truth they’d always known. “Yeah?”

They shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d, like.. hang out with the engineers. Thought drivers just show up and race.”

“Nah. It’s a team. No one wins alone.” That lingered in the air. The words meant for more than racing. Your eldest’s lips pressed together like they wanted to say something else. Lewis just let it sit. Let them breathe.

Then came race day. The garage was alive buzzing with tension and caffeine and technical jargon shouted in three languages. Angela tucked the kids safely into their corner. Each got a headset too big for their heads and a crash course in “not touching anything.”

Lewis paced his pre-race routine, glancing over now and then. His heart pounded not from the grid pressure, but because they were here. His people. Before the lights went out, his race engineer chimed in over radio: “You’ve got three very special guests watching you today, mate.” Lewis, helmet on, focused, smiled beneath the visor. “I know.”

Mid-race, something unexpected crackled over the team frequency. A voice tinny and tiny cut through the static: “Go fast, Lewis! Mr. Waffles says you can win!”

Your youngest, somehow commandeering a mic, sent a message straight into his bloodstream. Lewis laughed mid corner, nearly botched a gear shift because how do you stay cool when your lucky stuffed rabbit just gave you a pep talk?

Even your eldest head down, pretending to scroll through something “more important” inched closer to the screen. Their eyes followed the timing tower with intent. Lips moving like they were silently willing the seconds forward.

When Lewis crossed the finish line P2, sweaty, tired, electric it wasn’t the podium he was thinking about. It was them. Back in the garage, surrounded by shouting engineers and celebratory claps, Lewis found his three. Arms wide, heart fuller than any champagne spray could match.

He knelt and pulled them close, hugging all three like he’d been waiting a lifetime. “You did good,” your eldest said, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks pink. “I, um I liked watching you.” Lewis leaned back slightly, resting his hands on their shoulders, eyes soft. “I liked having you here.”

There was a moment. Small. Powerful. “You can call me Dad, you know,” he offered. No pressure. No expectation. Just a space held open. Your eldest hesitated. A flicker. “Yeah maybe.” And Lewis knew what maybe meant. It meant the wall was thinner. It meant “not yet” but “not never.” It meant someday. And someday was a gift.

You hadn’t even made it home before your phone buzzed like it was possessed.

News alerts. Texts from friends who never cared about racing. Group chats exploding with caps lock.

LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH THREE CHILDREN IN THE PADDOCK WHO ARE THE KIDS? SECRET FAMILY? SWEET MOMENT ON TEAM RADIO WHO IS MR. WAFFLES?

You stared at blurry headlines, your stomach a riot. The photos were grainy. Taken from behind. No faces. No names. But enough. Speculation poured in like stormwater through a cracked roof. You called him. Ring two.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis said, like he was answering from a safe space just meant for you. “Lewis.” You could barely breathe. “The photos. The news. It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” he said, voice calm. “I saw them.”

“And you’re okay?” A pause. And then: “I’m more than okay.”

You sat down, the hotel bed hard under you, your heart clawing at your ribs. “This could get out of control. The kids -”

“I protected them,” Lewis replied, steady. Gentle. “You know I did. Their faces aren’t out there. Their names. No one knows who they are.” You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since takeoff. “But now people know you’re not alone.”

His voice softened. “Maybe it’s time they did.” Silence hummed between you. Heavy. Intimate. “I don’t want them dragged into this,” you whispered.

“They won’t be,” he promised. “I won’t let them be.”

Then came the press conference.

Journalists leaned forward like cats ready to pounce, flashing cameras blinding, buzz thick enough to touch.

One brave soul finally asked: ��Lewis, we noticed you had some special guests with you this weekend. Care to comment?”

Lewis smiled a quiet one. The kind that meant something. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re my family.”

Murmurs. The room shifted. Another asked, cautiously: “You’ve kept your personal life incredibly private for years. Why now? Why bring them into your world?”

Lewis leaned in, elbows on the desk, voice even but firm. “I’ve always protected the people I love. I’m still doing that. You won’t see their faces. You won’t hear their names. But I’m not going to pretend they don’t exist.” He paused. Let the silence bloom. “They’re my family,” he repeated. “And they’re the best part of my life.”

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@F1Fanatic Lewis Hamilton has a secret family?? And he’s been lowkey dropping hints for YEARS?? I’m emotionally unwell.

@PaddockInsider Respect to Lewis. He set boundaries, protected the kids, and still spoke his truth. Class act.

@DriveToSurviveDrama Me: Crying over Lewis saying his family is the best part of his life 😭😭

@MomsofF1 Protective dad Lewis Hamilton is my new Roman Empire

Then your phone pinged with one final message. From Lewis: Don’t worry about the noise. I’ve got them. I’ve got us.

That afternoon -

The front door creaks open and it’s as if the entire house exhales its bones stretching, its walls leaning in. For two long days it had felt hollow, like the quiet between chapters, like a stage waiting for the actors to return.

Now they’re home.

Shoes are launched mid stride one bounces off the staircase wall, the other lands heroically beneath the living room couch. Jackets fall in puddles of fabric, abandoned like forgotten stories.

Backpacks crash to the ground like weary travellers, half zipped and overflowing with racing stickers, snack wrappers, and the distinct aroma of fizzy drinks and hotel mystery muffins. Laughter rings out in sudden bursts, round and real and impossibly loud. The kind of laughter that shakes dust out of ceilings. The kind that means they were happy.

You're still adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag when you’re swept into a storm of limbs and excitement.

Your middle child bounds forward, practically vibrating. “Mum! You know how race cars go, like, really really really fast?” Their eyes are wide, hands flying through the air to mimic the curves of the track. “Lewis let me sit in the simulator! I almost crashed! Twice! And guess what he didn’t yell at me. He cheered. He said I was fearless!”

Before you can marvel at that, your youngest slams into your shins like a very determined koala. “Angela bought me ice cream,” they announce with reverence. “Before dinner. With chocolate sauce. And sprinkles. And she didn’t tell Lew until after! And guess what else” they lean close, eyes gleaming, “I’m basically famous.”

You kneel instinctively, brushing a curl from their sticky cheek. “Famous? How?”

They beam, clutching Mr. Waffles like a microphone. “I was on the radio. The real radio. Lewis said my message helped him drive faster. Even Mr. Waffles heard me. I’m probably in the paddock hall of fame now.”

And then through the flurry of children appears Lewis.

Backpacks hanging from each shoulder. A crumpled hoodie slipping off one arm. His shirt is inside out, headphones trail from a wrist, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste across his collarbone. He looks like he sprinted through an airport, wrestled with a vending machine, and wrestled children into seatbelts but he’s glowing.

You raise your eyebrow with mock severity. “Ice cream before dinner?” He sighs in surrender, hands raised. “Angela bribed them with cones. I was powerless against mint chocolate chip and moral compromise.”

But then it shifts. As quick and quiet as breath between sentences.

Your eldest leaning against the banister, still and thoughtful has been watching. Their arms hang loosely across their chest, not in defence but like they don’t know where to place all they’re feeling. Their face is unreadable but softer than usual, washed in something between curiosity and uncertainty.

You speak gently. “Did you have a good time?” They glance over at Lewis, still distracted by a half empty bag and the eternal mystery of forgotten toothpaste.

Then, unprompted and low, they say: “Dad let me help with the pit board.”

Time halts.

A toothbrush hangs suspended in Lewis’s hand, caught mid-grab. The youngest turns with wide eyes, clutching Mr. Waffles tighter. The middle child gasps genuinely, dramatically like someone just revealed the twist ending of a beloved movie.

“Hey!” the middle child shouts, scandalised. “You got to say it first? That’s not fair! I called dibs in the car!”

The youngest, arms crossed and lower lip jutting, frowns. “I was saving it. It was supposed to be cinematic. Like…when he wins a race and lifts me in the air like a trophy!”

Your eldest freezes. “Sorry,” they murmur. “I didn’t mean -”

Lewis straightens, toothbrush now forgotten. He turns slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away. His expression is unlike anything you’ve ever seen wide-eyed, heart-in-throat, like someone stumbling upon buried treasure in their own backyard. “You called me Dad,” he says, voice barely above a breath.

Your eldest hesitates. “Yeah I guess I did.” It’s not dramatic. It’s not bold. But it lands like thunder. Lewis crosses the space and gently wraps them in his arms. No speeches. No performative emotion. Just arms. Just presence.

A moment later, two smaller bodies collide into the hug like bowling pins. “Fine,” the middle child grumbles. “You’re Superdad now.”

“I’m sticking with Lew,” the youngest mumbles, patting his cheek. “For now. Trial basis. But if you give Mr. Waffles a tiny helmet, we’ll see.”

Lewis laughs a laugh that crumples at the edges, eyes shining, shoulders trembling. “Sounds fair,” he whispers. “I’ll earn it.”

Dinner that evening is beautiful chaos.

Spaghetti twirls midair, interrupted by stories about race radio bloopers and karting crashes. Nobody finishes their plate because the laughter keeps interrupting and Lewis keeps forgetting which bowl is his. The atmosphere is syrup-thick with joy, bubbling with inside jokes and sideways glances full of new trust.

Bedtime is long and meandering. Stories layer over stories. The youngest insists on two chapters of their favourite book because Mr. Waffles “needs context.” Your middle child insists they’re drafting a race car design that will “definitely be faster than Lewis’s, no offences.”

And your eldest? They linger. They double-check the charger placement beside their bed. And when Lewis passes by with a sleepy wave, they don’t pretend not to notice. They nod. Just slightly. And it means everything.

Later, as you tuck the youngest in beneath the mountain of blankets and bedtime creatures, you hear the gentle creak of the hallway floor. Lewis is there.

Leaning against the doorway, hands folded softly, gaze shadowed with something heavy and golden. You walk toward him quietly. “You okay?” you ask, threading your arms around his waist.

He melts into you instantly, his face finding the curve of your neck. His breath trembles, fingertips gripping fabric like he needs something to hold him up. “I’m good,” he murmurs. “Really good. They called me Dad.” The word is still new in his mouth. Reverent. Fragile. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear that.”

You press your forehead to his, letting the quiet wrap around you both like a favourite blanket pulled straight from the dryer. “I don’t care what the world thinks,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Let them speculate. Let them question. I’ve been guarding this love like glass, terrified the spotlight might shatter it. But hiding it didn’t protect it. It dulled it.”

He swallows hard. “I missed pieces I didn’t know I was allowed to have.” You brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “They’re mine,” he whispers again. “You’re mine. And I’m not hiding anymore.”

And somewhere down the hall, a small voice calls sleepily -“Superdad, can Mr. Waffles have a cape?”

Lewis smiles. “I’ve got them,” he says softly. “All of them.”

Morning eases into the house like a sigh. Light rolls gently across the ceiling, brushing past walls and tucked-in corners, casting a pale glow across tangled bedsheets and sleepy limbs. You blink your way into consciousness slowly, wrapped in warmth and Lewis.

He's beside you, one arm lazily thrown over your stomach, the other curled beneath his pillow. His breath is slow, steady, and faintly tickles the curve of your neck. His nose grazes your shoulder, the duvet still pulled high and soft around your hips. He’s warm like sunlight. Familiar like home. And beautifully, blissfully quiet.

You shift just a little, and Lewis responds instinctively pulls you closer, nose buried now in the crook of your shoulder. His voice is raspy and sleep-drenched.

“Mmm. We don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” you whisper. “The tiny tornadoes are coming.”

As if summoned, there’s a thud.

And then - Giggles. Frenzied hallway footfalls. And then the door bursts open like a weather event.

“LEWWW DAAAAD!” your youngest cries, already airborne, launching themselves onto the foot of the bed with no regard for blanket stability or personal space. Mr. Waffles trails behind like a parachute, landing headfirst in a tangle of covers.

Right behind them, your middle child arrives with blanket cape flowing, pointing dramatically like a general leading a breakfast rebellion. “Today is a scrambled eggs day! Rise and sizzle, Superdad!”

Lewis groans and buries his face into the pillow. “How did they find me? Roscoe, you were supposed to keep watch.”

Roscoe lying stoically at the end of the bed lifts his head, blinks once with world-weary judgment and lets out a long, audible sigh. Then he drops his head back onto the comforter and resumes snoring. Clearly, he’s retired from security detail.

The youngest wiggles between you both, burrowing with stealth. “We smelled toast in our sleep. Real toast. Not burnt dreams.”

“I taught the herbs to love,” Lewis mumbles, trapped under blankets and giggles and small limbs. “Breakfast will be edible. Possibly inspirational.”

You snort into his shoulder as your middle child attempts to grab his arm and tug him toward destiny the kitchen. “Come on, Lew Dad. The masses demand nourishment.” Lewis rolls dramatically, tugging you into his chest. “Betrayed in my own bed. Mutiny in pyjamas.”

“You promised eggs,” says your middle child.

“You promised toast,” adds your youngest.

“You promised warmth and safety,” Roscoe probably thinks, still snoring.

Lewis presses a kiss to your temple and sighs. “Fine. I shall rise and cook heroically.”

“You’ll rise and cook hastily,” you correct, sitting up as both kids tumble off the bed and scamper down the hall in a flurry of cape flapping and bunny-flailing. He lingers a second longer watching you. “I love this,” he murmurs. “All of it. Even the toast demands.”

And then he stands, stretching dramatically like someone preparing to lift the weight of a skillet and three wildly hungry children.

The kitchen is already a battleground of joy by the time you arrive early morning sunlight pouring in like golden syrup across the floor, illuminating yesterday’s trail of cereal boxes, abandoned socks and a toppled stack of race-themed stickers.

Lewis stands centre stage at the stove, armed with spatula, ambition and his signature “Pit Stop Chef” apron, which now boasts a fresh tomato stain like it earned itself a merit badge overnight.

He’s surrounded besieged by the younger two, who orbit him like sugar-fuelled satellites.

“I want eggs not scrambled,” declares the middle child, gripping a fork like a tiny food critic.

“I want toast with personality,” adds the youngest, who’s now assigning motivational affirmations to each slice: “You are brave,” they whisper to one. “You are worthy,” they whisper to another. Lewis flips a slice heroically. “This one shall be extra crispy confidence.”

You stifle a laugh, sliding over to butter the toast with the practiced rhythm of someone who’s lived through sticker attacks before breakfast.

The fridge becomes a makeshift bulletin board: three drawings taped in crooked clusters, all featuring Mr. Waffles in various racing uniforms. One shows him mid-air in a parachute, another coaching Lewis from the pit wall. In one corner, someone’s scrawled: Mr. Waffles believes in you. So should you.

Your eldest walks in sleepily, squinting at the scene. “Is breakfast going to be edible or... theatrical?”

“Yes,” Lewis says without missing a beat.

Roscoe trots in, surveys the chaos from his usual spot near the kitchen rug, and lets out the world’s slowest blink. He sinks onto his haunches, then flops sideways with the weary drama of a man who knows this circus all too well. One soft snore later, he’s out cold again.

Plates begin to fill eggs, toast, fruit slices shaped vaguely like race cars. The kids fight over juice cups, complement Lewis’s “chef posture,” and tape a sticker to his apron that reads WINNER OF BREAKFAST GRAND PRIX.

You lean against the counter with your tea, watching Lewis help the youngest scrape jelly onto toast and point out which herbs he definitely didn’t identify correctly. And somehow, in between the mess and the music, it feels like everything important is already here.

The rest of the day unfolded not in grand declarations or shining spotlight moments but in the quiet, radiant hum of belonging. Nothing scripted. Nothing filtered. Just warmth, laughter, and a rhythm that only a family in sync could share. The kind of afternoon that feels like it’s wrapped in thick wool blankets and crayon fingerprints.

Lewis survived breakfast. Barely. But “barely” was a win.

Not a single piece of toast burned a victory so monumental your middle child declared it “a golden age of breakfast.” They slapped three glitter stickers on his apron in celebration and fashioned a confetti toss from napkin scraps and stray cereal puffs. The youngest dubbed him “Egg Champion of the Universe,” and bestowed upon Mr. Waffles the honour of “Toast Deputy.”

Lewis bowed like a knight in syrup-splattered sweats.

The early afternoon evolved into blanket fort diplomacy. Using two couches, one armchair, a laundry rack, and every spare bedsheet not currently in the wash, your children engineered a fort that qualified as a minor architectural achievement. Pillows served as diplomatic borders. Roscoe’s usual nap zone was absorbed into the territory as “Bulldog Valley” which he surrendered only after Lewis bribed him with a peanut butter biscuit and a solemn vow that the youngest wouldn’t tape any flags to his tail again.

Inside the fort, rules were loose. Time was slower. There was a flashlight treaty, a sticker tax system, and an invisible force field “to keep adult stress out.” Your eldest lingered just outside. Not quite within the chaos, but definitely nearby. Lewis saw them of course he did. He always did. “Need a mission?” he asked, his head poking out of the blanket folds like a spy.

They shrugged cool, cautious then slid down beside him. Lewis handed them a flashlight, leaned in with a wink, and whispered, “Guard the Waffles Zone. No intruders allowed.” They took it seriously. Even when the middle child tried to redecorate the area with glitter tape, your eldest held the line.

Soon came stories.

You read aloud from a family-favourite book, your voice dancing between characters as everyone nestled under the sagging roof. Lewis lay sprawled on his back like he’d been defeated in battle your youngest curled on his chest, middle child lodged under his arm like a cat, your eldest next to you but inching just a little closer with each chapter.

Roscoe snored loudly through the entire session, earning the honorary title of “Emotional Support Bulldog.” Lewis whispered, “He’s dreaming of breakfast awards. I saw his acceptance speech.”

By golden hour, the fort collapsed under the weight of joy and ambition and nobody cared. It dissolved into a backyard race, where Lewis armed with a soccer ball and a backpack full of juice boxes led the charge. Shoes were optional. Rules were invented mid-play.

The youngest, self appointed team captain, waved Mr. Waffles like a rally flag and declared that “every goal counts triple if you yell toast!” Your middle child acted as referee, issuing penalties for “excessive bragging” and “dad wearing socks outside.” Your eldest took their role seriously as strategy advisor, coaching the game from the sidelines and occasionally heckling Lewis with surprising efficiency.

“Penalty for talking too much,” the middle child yelled mid-game.

Lewis gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Freedom of speech!”

Your eldest smirked. “Freedom of silence, maybe.”

Then came the slip.

Lewis attempted a heroic slide tackle (which had no purpose or audience), lost his footing, and landed flat on his back in the grass. For one terrifying second, the chaos paused.

Then he raised both thumbs skyward. “I’m fine. Just testing gravity.”

The youngest rushed to him in a panic, the middle child started giggling hysterically, and your eldest somehow already composed walked over and handed him a juice box without a word.

And for a heartbeat, they all stood there. No spotlight. No cameras.

Four hands resting against grass. Laughter shared between breaths. That soft, sacred kind of togetherness that feels like it might live forever.

Later that night, after bubble chaos and bedtime giggles and toothbrush races that ended with toothpaste on the ceiling, the house settled. Peace crept into corners like candlelight. Roscoe was curled in his bed, snoring like a freight train lost in dreamland. The kids were tucked into their blankets, Mr. Waffles clutched with sleepy reverence. The air was still. Safe.

You found Lewis outside on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, head tilted back as he studied stars he probably couldn’t name. But he was quiet not the silence of absence, but the silence of awe.

You didn’t speak. You just sat beside him, shoulder against his, letting the night settle around you. “They’re asleep,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Too quiet?”

He smiled softly. “Not too quiet. Just still. Still feels like the world’s finally exhaled.”

You watched the way his eyes reflected starlight. The way he looked more content than you’d ever seen him. Like someone who finally found the thing they didn’t realise they were looking for.

As the two of you slid beneath the duvet, Lewis turned toward you and pulled you close. “You know,” he whispered into your hair. “I never imagined this.” You nestled into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “This?”

“This life. These tiny humans calling me Dad. A fridge covered in stickers and half-finished art. Roscoe looking personally betrayed when someone sits in his spot.” You laughed quietly, tears brushing your lashes.

“It’s better than anything I’ve ever chased,” he said, voice thick. “Faster than any win. Louder than any applause.” You pressed your lips to his jaw, words catching in your throat. You didn’t need to respond. He already knew.

“And now?” you whispered eventually. He looked down, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and sure. “Now I know what it feels like to truly arrive.”

The world would keep buzzing. Cameras might flash. Tweets might trend. But in this small corner of the universe with love stitched into every blanket, laughter embedded in every creaky floorboard, and quiet joy humming in the gaps between it wasn’t about winning anymore.

Lewis had found home.

And that, he knew, was the only finish line that ever truly mattered.

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astars-things · 3 months ago

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Drive with Y/n and Lando...

lando norris x quadrant athlete reader

Summary- where you and Lando do a quadrant video, where you drive around and he asks you questions that fans sent in, talk about your relationship

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Landos' camera guy, Ash, mounted the camera onto the dashboard, making sure it was secure and recording before giving us a thumbs up. One of the Quadrant admins put out a post on Twitter asking what quadrant athlete and or general video fans would like to see, and the most requested one was that you and Lando do a 'drive with me' type video, but the twist was that they wanted you to drive, so here you were sitting in the drivers seat of your Nissan G-T r35 (you can change the car if you want) with Lando in the passenger seat.

You had the Quadrant admins post an Instagram story and a Twitter post for people to send in their burning questions. You and Lando both picked out 10 of your favorites and got the team to put them on cards for Lando to read out. "I swear," you mutter, buckling your seatbelt and starting the car, "if you pick anything weird, I’m kicking you out. I mean it, Norris."

"You wouldn’t dare," he grins, stretching out like he’s on a beach somewhere. "I’m your emotional support passenger." You gave him an eye roll. You put the car into drive and made your way out of your street, so nobody could figure out where you lived from the video. "Quit touching things", you muttered as you wacked Landos' hand away from your phone as he kept pressing shuffle on your playlist. He let out a huff before dropping your phone back into the cup holder

Giving Lando a quick glance you mutter "Start the Q&A before you break something." as you flick your turn signal and ease the car into a nearby parking lot so you could do the intro together. The editors were going to have a field day with trying to edit this chaotic mess

You pulled into a car park to film the intro of video

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the best Quadrant video you’ll see this month. Possibly ever," he announces, dramatically looking over to you before continuing "Today we’re in the car with quadrant athlete and my girlfriend Y/N. She’s driving and I’m fearing for my life." you let out a loud sigh "Ignore my very dramatic boyfriend, I'm stepping aside from flipping dirt bikes to be here with you today" you said eyes flicking to the camera with a practiced smirk. "So you better appreciate the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"Lando repeats, feigning offense. "Anyways moving on. We asked you guys to send in questions on Instagram and Twitter, and we’ve picked our favorites. I’m driving because you lot demanded chaos and Lando is reading the questions."

"And making sure we don’t die," he adds. You hit him gently on his bicep when he tightened his seatbelt for dramatic effect "Okay you ready love" Lando cooed grabbing his cards from the floor of you car, you nodded back pulling the car out of the carpark "Okay first question coming from @.PitStopQueen Who takes longer to get ready in the morning?" Lando read out and with no hesitation you called out "Lando"

"Excuse me?" he says, eyes wide. "Don’t lie to the internet," you say calmly, changing lanes with one hand on the wheel. "You spend at least twenty minutes just fixing your hair." "That’s called personal grooming," he argued, waving one hand toward the dashboard camera. "Some of us care about looking presentable."

You raised an eyebrow. Making Lando second guess what he just said Lando just shook his head and held up the next card. "From @.Y/nLandoshipper How do you guys handle long distance?" You let out a soft breath, glancing at him to see if he wanted to answer or for you too, Lando gave you a nod silently saying you can answer

"Its not easy, let me just say, there are somedays where its tougher than most but it makes us value the time we do get to spend together" You said trying not to let tears out as you think of times when you needed Lando and he was on the other side of the world, Lando put his hand on your thigh gently rubbing it to give you comfort

"Lots of FaceTime calls," Lando added. "And spontaneous visits. I flew to your last event even though I had to be back the next day." you let out a little laugh remembering that day "You were only there for like twelve hours." "Best twelve hours of my life," he said with a wink.

You smiled despite yourself. "We’re lucky we understand each other’s schedules. I think that’s the key." Lando let out a hum agreeing to your statement, Lando held up the next card, reading dramatically "From @.CircusFan Lando what is the coolest trick you have seen Y/n preform?"

He let the question hang in the air for a second, glancing over at you with a grin that said he already had an answer locked and loaded. "Oh, that’s easy," he said, looking straight into the dash-mounted camera. "It was that backflip thing you did, off the mega ramp, in Vegas, I think? And then you let go mid-air and somehow landed it like it was nothing."

You smirked, eyes still on the road. "Superman seat grab backflip." "You were just casually flying through the air like gravity was optional. I’ve never screamed so loudly watching a live stream. I called you right after, didn’t I?" Lando exclaimed, still clearly amazed by it.

You nodded, laughing at the memory. "You were more breathless than I was." Lando turned back to the camera with a pointed look. After a couple of more questions it was time to answer the last one, Lando looked over at you, grin already tugging at the corner of his lips as he read the final card. "Okay last question is from @.GridGossip How did you two meet"

You groaned softly, your face already warming. "you picked this one didn't you" Lando gave you his classic not so innocent face "Maybe" Lando said, practically vibrating in the passenger seat with excitement. "You said you not lie to the internet, remember?"

You gave him a look. "yeah but I didn't really want to expose myself to much today" Lando let out a little laugh "c'mon its a cute story" You sighed, knowing there was no way of getting out of this "Fine, we met on raya. Happy now?" You groaned not really ready for the comments you were going to receive from this, you pulled into a car park quite ready to end this video and go home to hide away,

"At the same time," Lando insisted, pointing between the two of you. "Let’s do it properly. On three." You rolled your eyes, but held up three fingers with him. "One, two, three" "Raya," you both said, in perfect sync. Then came the laughter. Easy, familiar, the kind that felt like home.

You both interlocked hands "Okay thank you everyone for watching todays video, I'm going to go get y/n ice cream for making her answer that last question, thank you to everyone who sent in questions." You laugh, leaning in toward the camera. "If you want a part two where Lando drives and I cling to the door handle for dear life, like, comment, subscribe, all the YouTube things."

"bye" you both said waving at the camera

@.User This was pure chaotic gold. Y/N's so calm behind the wheel and Lando's just... there for vibes 😂

@.User2 The thigh grab when she talked about long distance??? They're so in love it physically hurts me

@.User3 they're giving chaotic domestic energy and i'm eating it UP.

@.User4 Thank you for feeding us with (yourship name) content

*Photo is from pinterest- however, I made the YouTube bit

please reblog, like and comment 🫶

#send in requests #lando norris x quadrant athlete!reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando norris #lando x reader #quadrant #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 imagine #ln4

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hedgehog-moss · 4 months ago

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Tiny chicken update: I've been taking her out of the coop at apéritif time to let her spend some supervised time with the older hens and it's been going well :) When they try to bother her she hops onto my lap, which she seems to perceive as a safe place. And she continues being very unfazed by Pandolf.

I felt encouraged by her growing temerity, and decided to provide her with some enrichment in the greenhouse today. There are two planter boxes at the back that are chaotic messes of overgrown lettuce, parsley, and rocket, bravely trying to survive amidst a jungle of weeds. I'm going to clear them out and plant courgettes and stuff now that it's spring, but I admit that this winter I just forgot about them. I had two beautiful Potemkin Planters at the front of the greenhouse, with well-cared-for lettuce and coriander that my guests could see and admire from outside, and no one needed to know about the Shame Planters at the back.

I thought a Lettuce Jungle would be a interesting environment for a tiny chicken to explore, and it didn't matter if she damaged any plants in there.

To make her journey more thought-provoking, I added a few Creatures.

I then decided to hold a Zhuazhou ceremony of sorts, like when a baby is given various items to choose from and the one they pick is supposed to predict their personality or future career.

I'm excited to learn more about this tiny chicken's true self! Will she pick the fox, or the monkey?

She seems to be drawn to the f—ah, no.

She picked the lettuce.

Future career: Chicken 🎊

Next, I decided to test her audacity. Will she be brave enough to steal a cherry tomato from the prongs of the blue glittery jackalope?

Fair enough. I brought her back to the first planter with the creatures she'd already met and seemed less freaked out by, and offered her one last, fairly easy test of intelligence: while she wasn't looking, I put some grain at the bottom of a small pot. Would she find it?

At first she mostly looked suspicious. (Which is a sign of intelligence.)

But then she figured out that there was food in there! I'm proud! 😊

And then, suddenly,

I thought the way she hid behind a tall lettuce to observe and evaluate the threat was really cute. And ingenious. But that was enough emotion for today, and besides, Morille was a completely unauthorised creature in my safe jungle simulation for tiny chickens, so I brought the hen back to the safety of the coop.

And then looking at all my photos made me feel ashamed of the anarchic state of my Back Planters so I (finally) started dealing with them—and while removing the soil to add a new layer of compost I found a large beetle larva. To avoid any accusations of favouritism I'd like to point out that I went to offer it to my other new hen, the one who's older and has been a bit neglected (in my posts) so far. She was delighted.

You can sort of see the larva in her beak here—she grabbed it and immediately ran like hell to avoid having to share it with anyone. Like a true chicken.

#crawling along

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littledykeblue · 1 month ago

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(𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐/𝟒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐍)

──𝐌𝐘 𝐏.𝐔.𝐍.𝐊. 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋;

(frontman!jinx x groupie!reader): you are what some people would call obsessive about your favorite band; and you finally get the chance to realize all of your dreams when you end up in the home of jinx lanes.

PART ONE HERE!

wc: 9k | cw: lead vocalist!jinx, loser groupie!reader, generally rough sex, dom bottom!jinx, biting, hair-pulling, dacryphillia, begging, rope play (r! tied up), vibrator (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r! & j!receiving), overstim, edging, dry humping, piercings, MINORS DNI.

note: i was wayyy to eager to get to jinx's part so i gotta do it now! vi is up next and im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. also holy shit somebody was getting Freaky writing this.

You would confidently dub yourself Hotwired’s biggest fan. You’ve been around since the very beginning, back when they were just two sisters in their dad’s garage, crafting the songs that would one day become their greatest hits. You were at their first ever show (at a shitty bar with a busted PA system), and you’ve kept every single ticket stub since.

When they brought on the mysterious, masked C.K., you were there. When they had a brief fallout, cancelled their slot at Riot Fest, and went offline for six months? You were there. For every single bit of the whole stealing Sevika from her old band, Blood Feud, you were right there in every thread and underneath every discussion post.

Your collection of signed merch is practically priceless now, stuff newer fans would probably commit crimes for. You run a well-known fan blog that’s updated religiously, mostly dedicated to the band’s chaotic, blue-haired frontwoman: Jinx.

Your bedroom is a shrine. Posters on every wall, records lined up on your shelves, a glass case dedicated to your wristbands and setlists and polaroids. Everyone who knows you is beyond tired of hearing about them, and especially tired of hearing about her.

Jinx Lanes. All attitude, no brakes. She says what she wants, does what she wants, flips off the cameras while doing it. You’ve seen every stage interview, every grainy fan clip, every viral moment where she’s either flashing the crowd or starting a fake fight with Vi for fun. She’s a full-on nightmare and you are obsessed. You’ve got painfully vivid daydreams where she picks you out of the crowd, grins that feral little grin, and takes you home to ruin your life in the best possible way.

Unfortunately, that fantasy’s still just that. A fantasy.

You go to every show, sure, but it’s not like you’re balling on VIP money. If it’s not your birthday or some kind of Hotwired-related anniversary, you’re usually stuck somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Lost in the sea of people screaming her name. Completely invisible.

You’ve accepted it, mostly. The truth that the girl you’ve spent years loving from afar probably doesn’t even know you exist. And if she does? You’re just another fan. Another face in the crowd.

But the thing about Jinx is, she’s never been great at sticking to the script.

Your first actual meeting with her (outside of the brief signings where you were quickly ushered away to make room for the ridiculously long lines) is not nearly as glamorous as in any of your many, many daydreams.

It’s early afternoon, middle of the week, and you’re leaning against your car, waiting for your latest post to upload, when you hear footsteps approaching. You glance up, ready to size up whoever’s headed your way—only to nearly choke on your own spit.

Standing in front of you is Jinx. Jinx fucking Lanes.

She’s got on these huge sunglasses and a spiked beret; neither do a great job at hiding who she is. Though, you like to think you’d be able to recognize her in a heartbeat either way. She’s looking up at you over the rim of the glasses with those big blue-gray eyes.

“Hey, could you do me a huge favor?” she asks, barely giving you time to react. “So, like—I’m kinda famous, and these annoying-ass guys have been following me around trying to get a picture. Normally I’d just cause a scene and smash their gear, but apparently I’m supposed to be on my best behavior or whatever. Look, I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

She talks fast, like the words are trying to outrun each other, and you’re pretty sure you only catch about half of what she actually says.

“You’re…you’re Jinx Lanes,” you manage to get out, brain still buffering.

Her shoulders drop a little and her arms cross defensively, like she’s bracing for impact. “Yep. That’s me. You gonna sell me out?”

“No! No, of course not,” you blurt out, instantly panicked at the idea. “I’m just—I’m a huge fan. You’re literally my number one artist. I think you’re a brilliant songwriter—”

“Think I��m brilliant enough to give me a ride?”

Right. Right. You remember the whole reason this conversation is even happening and nod so fast it might give you whiplash. “Oh my god. Yes. Of course. Sorry. I’m just—this is kind of insane. Get in, please.”

You know you’re talking too fast and probably too loud, and your heart feels like it’s turning into soup in your chest. This is not how you imagined this moment going. You’re supposed to be in the perfect outfit, front row, stage lights casting that soft glow, and Jinx points to you mid-song during Pretty Punk Girl, so taken by your killer look and smooth moves that she hauls you on stage.

Instead, she’s climbing into your car, and you’re cringing as her boot knocks over some half-empty water bottle and an embarrassing tangle of receipts and snack wrappers. So much for the cool, effortless fantasy.

Whatever. Sue you for not being perfect.

You pull out of the parking lot with slightly trembling hands, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Jinx is in your passenger seat. Your initial plan had just been to go home, maybe heat up leftovers and reblog a few photos of Hotwired’s last show. But now?

Now your number one obsession is sprawled out beside you like this is no big deal. You suppose that, maybe for her, it really isn’t. You’re not entirely sure whether your should be impressed or deeply concerned with how easily she got into the car with a stranger.

You hesitate at the first red light, your blinker ticking away as you try to stall and think of somewhere else to go. You can’t just…take her back to your place. That would be insane. Not because you’re ashamed or anything—everyone who knows you knows you’re obsessed—but there’s a difference between being a dedicated fan and opening the door to what’s basically a museum of her face.

That kind of devotion might be just a little much in person.

You risk a glance out of the corner of your eye and immediately regret it. Jinx has her boots kicked up on the dash, scuffed black leather creaking slightly as she adjusts. Her legs are bare and pale and stretch impossibly long out from the cut-offs she’s wearing. Your gaze drifts up to where her low-slung shorts sit, a few teasing inches of toned stomach peeking out under her cropped tee. Ink clouds curl around her navel, disappearing into the waistband. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

She's busy on her phone, thumb flying across the screen with streaks of chipped pink and blue polish. Completely unaware—or at least pretending not to notice—that you’re openly staring like a deer in headlights.

You clear your throat quickly, whipping your head forward as the light flips green. “So, uh…where exactly should I be going?”

“Right. Lemme just—” she leans over, not even asking before tapping on your car’s GPS with all the casual confidence of someone who doesn’t hear the internal screaming going on beside her. “There.”

You glance down at the glowing screen, squinting at the address. “Is that…your house?”

“Yep.” She pops the p, still tapping away on her phone. “Hope you don’t mind playing chauffeur for a bit. I’ll even give you five stars.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say, like your brain isn’t short-circuiting. “No problem. Totally normal day.”

Jinx finishes typing something out on her phone and tosses it carelessly into the cupholder. Then she leans back, kicking her boots off the dash and turning her head toward you. "Play something," she says.

You glance at her. “Anything you’re in the mood for?”

Jinx hums. “I dunno. Surprise me.”

You hesitate for half a second before asking, “Are you opposed to hearing your own stuff?”

“God, no,” she scoffs, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “I love the sound of my own voice.”

You huff a laugh and scroll through your playlist until you find the first track in the “Hotwired: Timefracture Saga” queue. You don’t hesitate to hit play.

The opening guitar riff of Parallel Hearts spills into the car and Jinx perks up immediately, grinning like you just handed her a slice of cake. “Oooh, you’re going deep cuts on me, huh?”

“I’m committed to the bit,” you say, trying to sound cool and not like you’re slowly melting into the driver's seat. The idea of singing Jinx’s song in front of her in real life? Literally unreal. Your hands are already sweating.

But then the first verse starts and your body knows what to do. You belt it out with the kind of confidence that only comes from listening to a song approximately nine thousand times. To your amazement, Jinx doesn’t just let you carry it. She joins in with all the same energy she brings on stage.

The two of you blast through the first two songs—Parallel Hearts and Phantom Frequency—loud and off-key and gloriously dramatic. When the final chorus ends, Jinx turns in her seat to look at you, visibly impressed.

“Okay, wow,” she says, a little breathless. “You maybe you really are my biggest fan.”

You shrug like it’s not the best compliment you’ve ever received. “Yeah, I mean, I kinda know everything there is to know.”

That gets a raised brow. Jinx smirks, already shifting in her seat like she’s ready to stir shit. “Everything?”

You nod. Maybe a little smug.

“Alright, fan club president,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “Pop quiz time. Let’s see if you’re full of shit.”

You don’t even blink.

She fires off the first question. “What city did we play our first sold-out show in?”

“New Orleans,” you say immediately. “At a place called The Violet Room. You jumped off the drum kit and nearly broke your ankle. It was the first time you guys ever performed Despair Girls live. It was magical.”

“Fuck, all of that’s true,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Okay. What’s Vi’s pre-show ritual?”

“She does five push-ups and kisses her guitar. That’s child’s play.”

Jinx laughs. “Okay, try this one out. What’s the first song I’ve ever written?”

“Easy. I Love You, Dad. You wrote it when you were thirteen for your dad’s birthday and you and Vi performed it for him. If I recall correctly, there were tears?”

“Holy. Shit.” She flops back against the seat and looks at you for a second, slack-jawed. “You should be like an interviewer or some shit. Wait…are you an interviewer? Tabloid?”

You shake your head. “Nah. Just a fan,” you answer, drumming your fingers on the wheel to the song playing quietly now. “I found you guys pretty early on, when it was just you and Vi. I was hooked from then.”

“Alright, alright. One more. Let’s see if you know this one,” she says, leaning in like this one is going to be her real ace up the sleeve. “What is C.K.’s real identity?”

“Oh, come on! Nobody knows that except you guys and even that’s me speculating!”

She throws her head back and laughs, wild and delighted and loud, and for a second you feel a weird flutter of something between adrenaline and affection. “I know, I know. I just had to get one over on ya. I don’t like to lose, superfan.”

You can’t help but join in on her laughter. Then, you feel the sudden need to explain yourself. “I-I hope you don’t think I’m some kinda freak, now. Like, I’m not gonna turn into some crazy stalker or anything. I believe in ethical obsession…with your music! And your whole persona.”

“Nah,” she says, grinning out the window. “Kinda hot, actually.”

Eventually, the road curves around a sharp bend and there it is: a tall iron gate flanked by brick pillars, ringed with ivy, with a small keypad mounted on the side. You ease to a stop in front of it, unsure of what comes next, until Jinx leans fully across the center console to punch in the code herself. Her body brushes yours and you go rigid on instinct, hands glued to your lap as if moving them might set off some kind of alarm.

Her weight is warm, surprisingly solid. You keep your eyes forward but your gaze betrays you, flicking down to take in the bare skin of her lower back as her cropped shirt rides up. A little tattoo rests there, inked just above the waistband of her low-slung shorts.

You recognize it immediately. It’s the grinning robotic monkey from Hotwired’s first album cover. It’s crude in a way that feels personal, a perfect fit for her. You catch a whiff of her perfume as she leans over you, warm and sweet, cinnamon-spiced and dizzying. It makes your fingers twitch where they’re clenched, white-knuckled, against your thighs.

Just when you think your heart might give out from sheer sensory overload, Jinx pulls away and settles back in her seat. “Full speed ahead,” she says, casually, and you try to follow that directive but end up hitting the gas a little too hard. The car jerks forward before you recover, easing up and offering a weak laugh. She doesn’t say anything about it, but you catch her smirk from the corner of your eye.

The gates swing open and you cruise slowly up the long, curved driveway. At the top of the hill, her house comes into view. Less mansion, more mini palace. Sleek, modern lines dressed up in stone and glass, surrounded by manicured hedges and little bursts of wildflowers. From the outside, it doesn’t scream rockstar, but the gated privacy and oversized front door definitely whisper it.

You park at the top and cut the engine, hands hovering awkwardly as Jinx climbs out. She stretches with a groan, then slams the door shut and starts heading toward the entrance. Halfway there, she turns and sees you still frozen in the driver's seat. She lifts her arms with an incredulous little laugh.

“You coming, or are you gonna sit there until I drag you out?”

That shakes you loose. You hop out, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary, trying not to let your nerves show. Jinx jogs the rest of the way up and punches in a different code at the front door before swinging it open. She steps inside first and flicks on a light.

The interior hits you like a wall of color and chaos. It’s loud and messy and perfect, a curated kind of maximalism that looks like someone raided every vintage shop in a tri-county radius and made it work through force of will.

Sunken couches in mismatched colors, shag rugs layered over each other like someone couldn’t choose, neon signs and lava lamps and velvet posters that are definitely original prints. There’s an old jukebox in the corner that might actually work and a huge blown-up shot of the band’s first Rolling Stone cover takes up half the wall behind the couch. You see guitars hung like art and a massive wall-mounted shadowbox of ticket stubs, backstage passes, and little bits of confetti sealed in resin. A few shelves are crammed with Hotwired memorabilia, some of it rare enough that you actually gasp a little.

Jinx sweeps her arm out in a grand, over-the-top flourish. “Welcome to the madhouse. Make yourself at home.”

You step in cautiously, like you’re walking through the most holy of places. It’s hard to believe any of this is even remotely real; you sneak and pinch the back of your hand, praying you don’t suddenly wake up.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. All you can think is: holy shit, you’re in Jinx’s house.

You can't help yourself. The second Jinx gives the okay, you're flitting from corner to corner like a sugar-high kid let loose in a toy store. There’s just so much to take in.

You zero in on a glass display case near the stairs, pressing your hands to the glass as you stare down at what looks like one of Jinx’s stage costumes from their third tour—the blue leather jacket with the jagged, mismatched patches and the “KISS ME, COWARD” painted across the back. “This is from the Bright Lights, Bloody Knuckles tour,” you say, breath catching. “You wore this in Chicago and then again in Paris, but the patch on the left shoulder wasn’t torn off until the Tokyo show so it’s the only one sewn on with red thread. Vi’s work, I’m assuming.”

You’re not really assuming. You know this as fact.

Jinx whistles low. “Damn. I still can’t believe you know your shit like this.”

You glance over your shoulder, sheepish, but your feet are already carrying you to the next treasure. There’s a line of guitars, none of them in cases, just propped up like art along the back wall. One of them is Jinx’s first—a cherry red Gretsch with cracked lacquer and band stickers peeling at the edges. Another is Vi’s, the body all scratched up and scuffed from a thousand drunken stage dives.

You spot a limited run vinyl from one of your other favorite punk bands and let out an embarrassing little gasp. “Wait, can I just ask: was the whole Hollow Vow/Hotwired friendship real? Or were you guys playing it up for the camera?” you ask, pointing.

“Fuck yeah,” Jinx grins. “You probably already know this, but they were the first legit band to give us a chance. Let us open for them and shit. Total weirdos. Great energy.”

There’s a wall-mounted rack of signed magazine covers—Spin, Rolling Stone, NME, even Teen Vogue, from that one brief moment where Hotwired was just two teenage girls making their way across the west coast. “That cover got us so much hate mail,” Jinx says, sidling up behind you. “You’d think we pissed on someone’s grandma.”

You laugh, almost nervously, finally starting to feel a little more grounded in the whirlwind that is her house. But then you realize how much you've been talking, how fast, and how completely unhinged you probably sound. You snap your mouth shut before you can rattle off which Spin article has your favorite quote.

When you glance back at Jinx, she’s watching you. Just looking, head tilted like she's figuring you out. And then, casually as anything, she says, “You wanna go for a dip?”

You blink at her. “What?”

“Hottub,” she replies, already turning toward a side door that you hadn’t even noticed before. “Consider it part of my payment for the ride. I’m going either way, so if you wanna come, bring your fine little trivia brain with you.”

“I don’t—I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” you say, instinctively glancing down at yourself like one might spontaneously materialize.”Not really a, uh, car essential.”

Jinx scoffs, her smirk practically criminal. “So? Get naked. I’m not shy.”

The very idea has your brain going horribly blank. You go visibly stiff, body locking up entirely against your will. She laughs—loud and genuine.

“Okay, okay. Jesus,” she says, holding up her hands in surrender. “You can just go in your underwear. I’ve got robes and a dryer. It’s not a big deal.”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The idea of being that close, in so little, with her is almost enough to make you reconsider. But you’re not dumb enough to pass this up. An honest to god once in a lifetime possibility was just dropped into your lap and you would never be able to forgive yourself should you let it slip through your fingers.

You nod, slow and shaky, then offer a small, breathless, “Okay.”

Jinx gives you a look like she’s thoroughly amused by your entire existence. “Cool. You can go ahead, I’ll be there in a sec..” She disappears up the grand staircase, taking them two at a time and you just stand there for a beat, silently trying to remember how to walk.

You strip down to your underwear in the living room, folding your clothes into a neat little stack on the edge of the couch like that somehow makes this entire situation feel less insane. At least you wore something cute. Matching set, soft cotton, nothing too showy but still enough that you won’t die of embarrassment.

You head through the door Jinx showed you just moments ago and find a stone hottub that looks like it probably cost a small fortune. There’s chairs surrounding it and the whole thing overlooks the equally stunning pool.

The evening air is cool but not cold, and you’re grateful for it when you climb the short steps and settle into the hot tub’s edge.

You turn the jets on, feeling them whir to life beneath your legs, and sink in. The water is still warming up but it feels nice, soothing the weird ache in your limbs from how tense you’ve been since Jinx got in your car. You keep your arms propped on the edge, head tilted back, eyes on the stars above because it’s easier than staring down the panic creeping up your spine.

Then you hear the door slide open.

You glance up and immediately forget how to breathe.

Jinx steps outside holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and two flutes in the other. She’s changed, if you could call it that. Her bikini is leopard print and tiny, and very, very familiar. You recognize it instantly from the “Trashy Punk Drunk” music video where she sang an entire verse while riding a mechanical shark. Seeing it in person, on her body, is borderline unfair.

“Like what you see?” she asks, already grinning as she gives you a slow, exaggerated twirl. The light catches on her pale skin, almost giving her an otherworldly glow. You catch a glimpse of the small navel ring you hadn’t noticed before, the dip of her hips, the tattoo wrapping her rib cage.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You look—uh. Nice,” you manage, mentally kicking yourself as the words come out. “Really, um. Good. Like...sexy. Really sexy.”

Jinx barks out a laugh, delighted, and finally hands you a glass before she steps into the water. “I knew you were cute, but this is adorable.” She taps the rim of your flute with hers and then sinks into the hot tub beside you, head tipping back with a satisfied sigh as the bubbles start to build around her. “You’re lucky I’m such a sucker for awkward.”

You take a long sip of champagne and try not to combust.

She reaches over to set the temperature gauge a few degrees higher, her fingers dancing casually across the digital screen, and then she settles in with her arms outstretched along the back of the tub. One arm brushes against yours. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to flinch.

“So,” she says, eyes flicking your way with a lazy smirk, “you come here often?” Despite it obviously being a joke, her voice still comes out as a purr that sends a shameful wave of arousal through you. It’s a good thing you’re already wet.

You let out a breath and do your best to match her casual. “Can’t say that I do.”

Jinx hums, pleased, and takes another slow sip. “Glad you are.”

You take another sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles fizzle down your throat, and risk a glance at Jinx from the corner of your eye. Her legs are kicked up in the water, toes just breaking the surface, and her head is resting lazily against the lip of the hot tub. She looks...content. Maybe a little tired, in that way people get when they’ve finally exhaled after holding their breath for too long.

You turn toward her a bit. “Hey, can I ask you something kind of personal?”

Jinx cracks one eye open. “Shoot.”

“Do you, like...regularly invite strangers into your house? Or am I, like, special?”

She huffs a small laugh and stretches her arms behind her head, chest lifting slightly above the bubbling water. “Not usually. Though, to be fair, I make a lot of bad choices. So the answer’s not always no.” She glances over at you, smile crooked. “You were adorable, though. And passionate. And you don’t really seem like the psycho killer type yet. You haven’t even asked me for an autograph yet and you’re my little superfan..”

You laugh, flustered but warm. “I try.”

Jinx shrugs a shoulder, her expression softening. “And...I dunno. It’s been a minute since I’ve talked to someone who wasn’t in my band or working PR or trying to sleep with ‘Jinx Lanes.’” Her voice lowers slightly, sincerity bleeding through. “You’re very easy to be around.”

You nod. “You’re pretty cool like this, too. Just so you know.”

She nudges her shoulder into yours, that playful grin finding its way back. “Flatterer.”

You grin right back, nerves slowly unspooling.

“Wanna know something only, like, two people know about me?” she asks after a beat, turning a little more toward you, her leg brushing yours under the water. “A little treat to add to your endless trivia?”

“Obviously.”

She leans in conspiratorially, her voice a half-whisper like someone might be listening. “I actually graduated with a degree in astrophysics.”

Your jaw drops. “No shit?”

“No shit,” she says proudly, lifting her glass in a little cheers to herself. “Top of my class, too.”

You blink. “Wait—what? How did you go from literal rocket science to fronting a punk rock band?”

Jinx’s smile dims just a little, not sad exactly—more nostalgic. “Vi. I always thought she’d do something like this. Big stage, screaming fans, y’know? When the band started getting traction, she didn’t want to do it alone. In fact, said she’d only go for it with me. And I figured...why the hell not? I’d already chased one dream. Why not try another if it meant doing it with my sister?”

“That’s actually amazing,” you say, your voice softer now. “How’d you manage to keep that one under wraps?”

“Oh, I looked a hell of a lot different then and, obviously, my real name’s not Jinx Lanes.”

“You know, you’re making it really hard not to idolize you,” you whisper. And you’re not really sure why you’re whispering. It may have something to do with just how close Jinx is to you. “Not—not in, like, a weird way. Just, uh, just like the normal amount. Because you’re so cool and so pretty and now I know you’re, like, a genius and stuff and…yeah.”

There’s a pause.

You’re both looking at each other, water bubbling around you, glasses half full and the night wrapping its arms around the deck in a quiet hush. Jinx’s eyes are a little softer than usual, lips parted slightly as if caught between a smile and something else. You think she might say something, but instead, she just leans in.

And you meet her halfway.

The kiss is slow and warm, hesitant at first like neither of you is sure how long it’s been coming. Her lips taste like champagne and spearmint, and the second your hand drifts up to cup her cheek, she sighs into it. “I do so very like being worshiped,” she says against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip.

Jinx floats over into your lap like she belongs there, legs slung carelessly over one of your thighs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hands find your chest, sliding over the swell of your breasts through damp fabric, fingers curling and groping with open hunger.

She kisses you again, but this time there’s no testing the waters. It’s harder, hotter, more desperate. Her mouth is demanding and slick with champagne, her hips beginning to roll slow and deliberate against your leg. The friction is minimal, but it’s enough to have her sighing into your mouth like she’s already halfway there.

Emboldened by the way she reacts to every tiny movement, you let your hand settle at her hip. The soft give of her flesh beneath your fingers is dizzying, and she doesn’t stop you when you guide her hips, encouraging the rhythm she’s building on your thigh. The way her body grinds down is enough to send heat pooling between your own legs.

Your other hand moves up without thinking, sliding along her back and up to the base of her neck, where you find the thick roots of those signature twin braids. You grab them—not tight, not yet—but it’s enough to feel them in your grip.

Jinx pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes bright and wild, lips swollen from the kiss. “If you’re gonna yank ‘em,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Do it hard.”

You hesitate for only a moment, unsure of your own strength, terrified you might misjudge the line and snap the tension in the wrong direction. You give a test tug, just enough to jolt her head back a little, just enough that your mouths part by a fraction.

But it’s clearly not enough. She lets out a frustrated sound, half growl, half moan, and then she’s crashing back into you, teeth scraping against your lower lip, biting hard enough to draw the sharp tang of blood.

You gasp at the sting, the warmth of it on your tongue, and your fingers clench on reflex. You yank harder, and her head jerks back with a gasp that melts into a laugh, her grin feral. She’s loving this. She’s completely out of her mind with it. You loop one of her braids around your fist and drag her back down into another kiss that’s messier than the last, all spit and tongue and aching need.

Her hips grind down with reckless abandon now, sloshing water over the edge of the tub as her pace stutters. Jinx lets out a broken, breathy cry against your mouth, every muscle in her body going taut. You can feel the tremor in her thighs, the way her whole frame shudders, and your only thought is that you did this. You hold her like that, letting her ride it out, letting her fall apart against you until she’s gasping and trembling and grinning like the devil.

When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours. Her breath ghosts across your lips, heavy and hot, and her grin is still sharp enough to slice you open. “You’re not so shy anymore, are you?”

You don’t even have words. You’re drunk on adrenaline, dazed and reeling because your idol—your ultimate fantasy—just used your thigh to come. Nothing in your entire life will ever top this.

Jinx leans in close, nipping once more at your bottom lip. “How would you like to take this up to my bedroom?”

You nod, unable to form a proper response to the question.

Jinx hops off your lap and out of the hottub; she can’t get you out behind her quick enough it seems. “Come on,” she says, breathless and giddy, already halfway to the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”

You stumble after her, legs still shaky, heart trying to catch up. She takes the steps two at a time, half-dragging you in her excitement. You follow with much less grace, feet squelching with every wet step the two of you take.

“Jinx,” you call, panting a little, “we’re still soaked. There’s a literal trail behind us.”

She glances over her shoulder, completely unconcerned. “So? I’ve got a cleaner. Don’t care.” Her eyes flash mischievously. “Besides, maybe I like it better wet.”

You pass wet footprints and little drops of water marking your path, but she doesn’t slow down. You barely catch the door to her bedroom swinging open before she pulls you through it and kicks it shut behind you.

The room is big, chaotic in the way only Jinx’s space could be. Her bedroom is exactly as chaotic and stylish as the rest of the house. But the bed is huge, practically a stage in itself. Thick, crushed velvet sheets stretch over it in deep, electric blue, glowing faintly under the dim lighting. You don’t even want to think about how expensive they probably are.

You hesitate, standing awkwardly at the foot of it, still very aware of how wet your skin is, how your soaked underwear sticks to your body.

“These are fresh sheets,” you say. “Jinx, seriously—”

She cuts you off with a laugh, already pulling at the knot of her swimsuit bottoms. “You’re cute when you worry about stuff like that.”

The bottoms peel away from her skin with a soft, sticky sound and hit the floor. She peels off her top next, tossing it in the same direction. And suddenly, she’s naked in front of you, skin flushed, thighs slick, nipples pierced with silver barbells that catch the light.

Your mouth actually falls open.

“Oh, that got your attention,” Jinx teases, climbing up onto the bed on her knees. Her breasts bounce lightly as she moves, each piercing a little glint of danger and temptation. “I’ve got one more, by the way. Wanna see?”

You can’t even answer. You just nod.

She crawls across the bed with unhurried confidence, her knees dragging soft ruts in the velvet as she makes her way to you. You stay frozen until she pushes you back, until your spine hits the mattress and your underwear makes a soft squish against the sheets.

She straddles your hips, and your hands come up instinctively to her thighs—warm, strong, slick where she was grinding earlier.

“Eyes up,” she says with a crooked grin, as she shuffles up your body, her heat growing stronger the closer she gets to your chest…your throat…your mouth.

Then you see it.

Right at the peak of her slick folds, nestled against the swollen pink of her clit, is a small silver ball. Your breath hitches hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Still speechless?” she asks, teasing, hips hovering just above your mouth now. “God, you’re so easy.”

You try to form a reply, but you’re already craning your neck, already reaching up to meet her.

Jinx lowers herself with no hesitation. One hand braces against the wall behind the bed, the other gripping the headboard for leverage as she sinks down onto your mouth, full and flush.

Her taste hits you instantly as her thighs press firm against your cheeks, framing your head. You let your hands settle on her hips, fingers curling tight.

She gasps, loud and unfiltered, then lets out a broken laugh. “Fuck. Okay. Okay, yeah, that’s good.”

The pressure of her against your mouth is intense—your nose buried against her, the piercing rubbing slick against your tongue. Every time she rolls her hips, that little ball brushes you just right. She’s so wet already, and her pace starts unsteady before she finds a rhythm, grinding slow and deep.

You moan into her and feel her thighs tense.

“Damn,” she pants, looking down at you with wild eyes, braid tips brushing your chest. “You keep that up and I’m gonna fall in love or something.”

Your only response is a groan, muffled against her, too far gone to care.

Jinx laughs again, more breath than sound, and plants herself fully down. “Go on then. Let’s see how long I can last.”

You take a steady breath through your nose before burying yourself in her, licking with a wide tongue across the expanse of her pussy. It pulls a cute squeal from her lips and she clenches her legs a little harder around you head. You set a steady pace, making sure to take your time. To commit her every sound and movement to perfect memory.

Jinx rocks her hips forward with more urgency now, chasing friction, chasing that sharp edge she’s clearly been holding back from. Her grip on the headboard tightens, knuckles pale, and her thighs start to tremble against your face.

You’re soaked with her. Your mouth, your chin, your cheeks. Her slick drips down your jaw and onto the crushed velvet beneath you. But all you can think about is that piercing.

You focus on it—rolling your tongue around the little ball at the tip of her clit, tracing tight circles around it, then flicking fast across the sensitive spot it guards. It moves with her, tapping gently against your teeth now and then with a soft, addictive clink. Every time you hear it, feel it bump into your enamel, it makes your brain stutter. You want to taste her forever. Want to see how many times that little piece of metal can make her lose control.

Jinx groans loud above you, throwing her head back. “Shit. Shit, you’re good,” she pants. “Keep that up and I’ll—fuck, that feels so fucking good.”

She grinds down harder, using you now, water sliding down her ribs and dripping from her chest onto your skin. Her piercings swing slightly with the motion, glinting in the low light.

Then her voice cuts through, rough and commanding:

“Slap my ass.”

Your eyes flick up to her in surprise, but she doesn’t slow.

“Do it,” she growls. “And none of that gentle shit. I don’t have time for that.”

You hesitate for a heartbeat—then oblige. Your hand comes up with a firm smack, the sound echoing sharp through the room. She jolts above you and lets out a loud, broken moan.

“Fuck, yeah,” she gasps. “Just like that.”

You do it again, your palm stinging as it connects. Her skin reddens under your touch, and you can feel the way her muscles twitch beneath it. Her rhythm stutters and she bears down harder, barely holding herself up now.

Every moan, every tremble, every word out of her mouth is filthy and desperate. She’s soaked your whole lower face, slick running freely down your chin, her thighs practically shaking on either side of your head. You keep your mouth open and your tongue working. Flicking, circling, teasing that perfect little stud until she’s panting, clawing at the headboard like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

“Shit. Shit! I’m gonna—oh, fuck—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

You slap her ass again, harder this time, and she shatters.

She comes with a cry that tears from her throat, full-bodied and raw. Her thighs clamp around your head, her whole body locking up as she grinds down, riding your mouth through it. Her slick floods you, dripping hot and fast over your lips, your chin, soaking the sheets even deeper.

You hold her there, let her grind it all out, hands braced tight on her hips as she rocks and shudders above you. Her breaths are wild, broken little gasps, and her chest heaves like she’s been sprinting.

Eventually, she starts to come down. Her thighs relax. Her grip on the headboard loosens. She slumps forward slowly, catching herself on her elbows above you, braid ends brushing against your collarbone.

She lets out a low, shaky laugh and looks down at you, eyes glassy and satisfied.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. Her eyes stay fixed on you for a beat longer before she lets out one sharp exhale. And then, just like that, her energy flips back on like a switch. The grin spreads across her face again, wicked and electric.

“Now it’s my turn to have some fun,” she says, bouncing up onto her knees. “Also, you should really get those wet clothes off. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold!”

You sit up slowly, skin sticky with sweat and slick, your head still spinning a little from how hard she came. “That wasn’t your fun?”

“Semantics!” she chirps, already rolling away from you. She crawls toward the foot of the bed, where there’s a battered metal chest tucked underneath. She lifts the lid and immediately starts digging through it, muttering under her breath as she tosses things aside.

“No, not that one...ugh, too much effort...ooh, could be fun...definitely this one.”

You take the moment to peel off the rest of your clothes. Bra, underwear, both soaked through and clinging to you. They land in the same messy pile as Jinx’s swimsuit. Your skin prickles in the cooler air, still flushed from before, and your legs instinctively rub together, already slick with fresh anticipation.

Jinx pops her head up from the trunk like a triumphant raccoon. “Hey,” she says, holding something out of sight in one hand. “You cool being tied up?”

You raise a brow. “Sure. Try anything once, right?”

Her grin widens. “Atta girl.”

She climbs back onto the bed and unceremoniously drops her findings at the base of it: a neatly coiled length of red rope, a small black vibrator, and a strap-on with a deep blue silicone dildo attached. The second she does, you feel a fresh wave of heat bloom low in your belly. Your breath catches slightly, thighs pressing together as your gaze lingers on the toy.

Jinx notices, of course.

“Already squirming,” she says, pleased. “God, you’re so easy.”

She crawls up the bed with deliberate slowness, rope in hand. You raise your arms without being asked, and she kneels beside you, beginning to tie them to the headboard with practiced ease. The rope is soft but firm, just rough enough to remind you that it’s there. The knot is tight, your wrists held snugly apart.

Once she’s satisfied with the tension, she leans down and gives you a long, unhurried kiss—her tongue slipping into your mouth, hands braced on either side of your ribs. The kiss is slower than before, but still hungry, like she’s staking a claim now. When she pulls away, you’re left breathless, chasing the taste of her on instinct.

Jinx slides back down the bed, settling between your thighs like she’s done it a thousand times. Her palms run slowly up your inner thighs, spreading you open.

“I’m leaving your legs free,” she says, kissing the crease of your thigh, then the other. “Which is so nice of me, by the way. But I need you to be good and keep them still, yeah?”

You nod quickly, breath shaky. “Yeah. Okay.”

She hums in approval and leans in, dragging her tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, slow lick.

Your head thunks back against the headboard. “Fuck.”

Jinx grins against you, nosing in deeper. “That’s kinda the idea.”

She keeps her hands on your thighs, gentle but grounding, as she dives back in with unrelenting attention. Her tongue moves with purpose. Circling, lapping, teasing.. She doesn’t rush it, just lets the tension build as you writhe under her, doing your best to keep still even as your legs twitch with every flick of her tongue.

And when she closes her lips around your clit and sucks, you actually gasp, wrists tugging uselessly at the rope. You draw one of your knees up, unsure of what exactly you intend to do with it.

“Already twitching,” she says, voice muffled. “You’re so fucking cute like this.”

Jinx doesn’t rush.

Her tongue drags slow and deliberate against your clit, her fingers spreading you open to get a better angle. The rope binding your wrists digs in just enough to remind you of how helpless you are like this—laid out, arms stretched above your head, thighs trembling. You try to keep still like she asked, but it’s getting harder by the second.

She hums against you, the vibration making your whole body tense.

“You’re so wet it’s dripping,” she murmurs, grinning as she looks up at you. “It’s like your pussy’s crying for me.”

Your breath hitches, and your hips buck upward before you can stop them.

Jinx slaps your cunt lightly. “I said keep those still.”

“Sorry,” you gasp.

She shakes her head, mock-disappointed, and returns to her work like you’re a puzzle she’s not quite finished solving. Her mouth is merciless: tongue circling your clit in tight, teasing laps, then flattening against it to give you just enough pressure to almost fall apart. Her fingers slip inside you slow and shallow at first, then curling just enough to drag against that sweet spot before pulling back again.

It builds. It burns. Your whole body starts to tighten.

“Jinx—” you warn, voice already wobbling.

She pulls back with a wet pop, her chin shiny. “Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Not yet.”

You whine, body shaking, the denial hitting hard. Your legs twitch, thighs trying to close, but she’s already pressing them back open, settling between them again with that same infuriating smirk.

“You’re gonna be a mess, huh?” she says, almost admiring. “Can’t even take a little teasing.”

“A little?” Your voice cracks, breathless.

She just laughs and reaches for the vibrator.

It’s small and sleek, and she turns it on to a low, steady hum before nestling it right against your clit. You jolt like you’ve been shocked. It’s perfect. Too perfect.

She slides two fingers back inside you and begins to fuck you slow, curling just right—again and again. The vibe stays pressed in place as her free hand comes to pin your hip. You can’t move. Can’t run. All you can do is take it.

The pressure builds too fast. You bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds.

“I—I’m gonna—” you choke.

Jinx immediately pulls the vibe away.

You cry out, full-body shaking as the orgasm rips away from you like it was stolen.

She grins, unbothered. “Oops. Timing’s a bitch, huh?”

You’re panting, chest heaving. “Please.”

“Oh, we’re begging already? Thought you’d have a little more fight in you.”

She repeats the whole thing again—mouth and fingers and vibe—and once more drags you to the brink only to yank it away. You can’t even form words the third time. Your eyes start to water, your hips squirming, desperate for friction.

Jinx looks up and laughs. Full, delighted laughter, like this is the best show she’s seen in weeks.

“You crying, babe?” she coos, tilting her head. “God, you’re so hot like this. Look at you.”

You try to blink the tears away, but they fall anyway, tracing down into your hair.

Her smile turns wicked. “Do you want me to stop?”

Your body jerks. “No!. No—please don’t stop.”

She hums, licking her lips. “I dunno. I’ve always been moved by begging.”

You nod, breath breaking apart. “Please, Jinx. Please let me come. I can’t take it, I need it. Need you. I’ll be good, I swear, just…please. Please let me.”

She watches you for a second, then lets out a satisfied sigh. “God, I love when you get pathetic.”

She reaches for the strap-on.

You’re barely coherent by the time she gets it situated on you: adjusting the harness, then placing the vibrator so it presses directly against your swollen clit, held snug by the base of the strap. She climbs back over you, straddling your hips, and leans in to kiss you. Slow, filthy, tongue dragging against yours.

Then she pulls back just enough to speak.

“You wanna come?” she asks, grinding her hips forward just enough to tease the tip against her entrance. “Then do it. But I’m not stopping until I get mine.”

Jinx sinks down onto the strap with a hiss, her fingers digging into your sides as she adjusts to the size, her mouth open, her brow pinched just slightly in that way you now know means she likes it. She rocks her hips once, experimentally, then twice—finding the rhythm.

And then she takes off.

There’s no buildup, no slow tease. She starts fucking herself on you fast and filthy, bouncing with reckless abandon. The sound of her thighs slapping against yours fills the room, joined by the wet suck of her pussy as she takes every inch. She leans back just a bit, bracing one hand behind her on your thigh for leverage, her other hand squeezing one of her own bouncing tits, fingers brushing over the silver barbell through her nipple.

Your mouth is open but no sound comes out at first—just panting breaths and the electric buzz of the vibrator grinding into your clit, steady and relentless under the base of the harness. Every time she comes down hard, the strap shifts just right and the toy pulses deep against you. It’s impossibly good.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so good at that,” you whine, your hands twitching with the desire to touch her.

Jinx just laughs, wild and breathless. “I know.”

She slams herself down again, harder this time, and your entire body jumps. The vibrator doesn’t let up—it keeps pressing into your clit, low and constant, while Jinx fucks herself like she’s chasing the end of the world.

Her tits bounce with every movement, small and perfect and pierced, the metal flashing in the low light. Her body is slick with sweat or maybe lingering water, thighs trembling slightly from exertion, but she doesn't slow. If anything, she gets rougher.

You’re already close. Too close. That hum against your clit and the friction where her body meets yours is maddening. Every time she grinds down, you swear sparks go off behind your eyes.

Your nails dig into your palm as you orgasm comes rushing into the edges of your body.

“Jinx…Jinx, I’m gonna—”

“Oh, please do,” she pants, breath catching. “You earned it.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come hard, almost violently, the orgasm crashing over you in white-hot waves. Your back arches, the rope around your wrists straining as you cry out, legs shaking beneath her. The pressure from the vibrator doesn't stop—it forces you through it, even as your muscles lock and your vision blurs.

But Jinx doesn’t stop.

She keeps going, riding you through it with a desperate rhythm, hips still snapping down, her moans going high and ragged now. She’s losing it, right on the edge.

Your hands twitch, helpless, overstimulated, but she’s using your body like a toy now—her toy.

Her breath stutters. “Shit—shit—fuck—”

And then she falls apart.

She slams down one last time and shudders, hard, crying out as her pussy clamps around the strap and her thighs tremble uncontrollably. She collapses forward with a choked sound, her entire body going limp against you as the aftershocks hit her in waves.

She doesn’t move for a long moment—just pants against your neck, the both of you sweating and tangled and shaking. Her breath is warm on your skin. Her arms wrap around your torso, clinging, grounding herself.

Later, the two of you are curled up on her couch again, the chaos of the earlier hours now a warm buzz in your bones. You're both wrapped in oversized robes—hers patterned with flames, yours borrowed and far too soft. Jinx is stretched across the cushions with her head in your lap, her damp braids spilling down over your thighs. She’s playing with your fingers, twisting them gently, brushing her thumb along your knuckles like she’s trying to memorize the shape of them.

She lifts your hand suddenly and bites down on the fleshy part of your palm—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you jolt.

“Ow,” you mutter, staring down at her.

“You’re very biteable,” she says with a grin, nuzzling your wrist like it’s nothing.

You should be floating. You were floating. But now, with your head clear and the room quiet, something heavier settles in your chest. That creeping sense of reality creeping back in. The part where you leave, and she goes back to being Jinx, Jinx, and this all becomes a story you tell yourself on lonely nights to prove it happened.

Jinx stills slightly. Her fingers stop playing. She glances up at you, brows drawn together. “You’re being loud,” she says softly.

“I’m not saying anything.”

She tilts her head. “Yeah, but your brain’s shouting.”

You try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “It’s nothing. Just…post-nut clarity. Happens to the best of us.”

She doesn't let it go. “What are you worried about?”

You sigh and meet her eyes. She's watching you too closely.

“That I’ll leave,” you admit, “and you’ll forget I exist. That this was just…a one-time thing with a hot fan and you’ll move on to the next one. And I’ll just go back to normal life, pretending this wasn’t the best night of my life.”

In a truly humiliating turn of events, you feel the sudden urge to cry.

Jinx stares at you a second longer. Then she smirks, gentler this time. “Wow. Dramatic.”

You open your mouth, but she reaches up and tugs your face down so she can kiss you. It’s short, soft, but enough to make your heart lurch.

“I’m not gonna forget you,” she murmurs. “You’re way too fun to play with.”

You blink at her, stunned. “That’s it? That’s the bar?”

“It’s a great bar.” She grins and sits up, snatching her phone from the coffee table. “Now give me your number before you give yourself a heart attack.”

You rattle it off, and she types it in with one hand, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. The moment is cut short by a loud beep from the laundry room.

“Hey, that’s you,” Jinx says. “Clothes are done. Guess I’ve gotta let you go, huh?”

You nod, heart heavy even as you smile. She leans in and kisses your cheek before hopping off the couch.

A week later…

JINX: sending u tix for our vegas show! im gonna ride u into the sunset <33

don’t worry abt plane tix either, mama’s got it handled

Another message follows a few seconds later.

JINX: see you soon, superfan 💋

You don’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

Taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!!): @izzy-sevika, @shxdy0ariia, @sevikas-whore

#𓆩♡𓆪 ─ blue is typing... .ᐟ #lesbian #jinx x reader #jinx x fem!reader #jinx arcane #arcane smut #arcane fanfic #jinx smut #league of legends #series: hotwired

574 notes · View notes

lucidrmss · 1 month ago

Text

extra credit. I 3.3k armin arlert x reader

cw: 18+ explicit content minors dni, nerdmin x baddie reader, reader insert but no use of y/n, unprotected sex, female pronouns/afab reader, vaginal sex, oral sex, nipple piercing, possessive armin, bit of dirty talk. not all that in the first part tho

summary: No one saw it coming. Not your roommate. Not your on-and-off ex situationship. Not even the judgmental girl with a color-coded planner who’s clearly in love with him.

But somehow, the cardigan-wearing, note-taking, blushy boy wonder of your Comparative Politics class caught your attention. And that’s saying something, because you’re not exactly known for quiet crushes or gentle flirting — being a tattooed, sharp-tongued, braless baddie with a GPA just as high as your standards.

After a sketchy dude corners you at a party, Armin Arlert — the last person you expected — swoops in like a flannel-clad knight in awkward armor. That moment sparks a chaotic, and unexpectedly tender journey involving fake study sessions, thigh tattoos, jealous glances, and one painfully adorable nerd who may or may not be packing more than just a well-organized Google Drive.

Let them stare. Let them whisper. You’re not letting this one go.

notes: this is a repost from ao3 so if feels like you already read this before,, maybe u did,,,, just thought of posting here since tumblr is such a good community and as a reader many of my favorites fics and authors were here sooo.. heres my contribution. also english is not my first language and even tho i already read this so many times if u see a typo lmk. enjoy <33 extra note: i didn't have THAT NERDMIN in mind when i write this back in april but you can imagine him like this here or wtv but keep in mind it's a uni au.

You didn’t expect to end the night by almost punching someone in the throat. You also didn’t expect your knight in shining armor to wear glasses, a flannel, and smell vaguely like peppermint and academic pressure. But hey, life’s full of surprises.

The party is loud, the floor is sticky, and your ass looks amazing in these jeans. You know this because three different girls complimented you in the line for shots, and the guy you passed in the hallway nearly tripped over a beanbag trying to stare at it. Classic.

You're not drunk, not yet, but your buzz is kicking in nicely. Your hair is a little wild, eyeliner perfectly smudged, and your nipples might be piercing the air through your crop top. Not that you care — you didn’t come here to blend in.

"Tell me why the hell we're here again," you shout over the bass, dodging a shirtless freshman swinging a glowstick like he's summoning spirits.

Mikasa, holding her cup like it personally offended her, shrugs. “Connie said Jean might show up. I’m here to watch the drama unfound.”

“I’m not talking to Jean, I'm done with him” you scoff, because you are a woman of growth. Evolution. Maturity — and also because Jean ghosted you last week after asking for nudes. Again.

“Cool,” she says. “Then maybe flirt with someone else for once.”

As if on cue, your eyes wander — and catch on a very out-of-place figure near the kitchen.

Flannel. Glasses. Clean-shaven. Trying so hard to blend in and failing with Olympic-level dedication.

“Is that... Armin?”

Mikasa turns. Blinks. “No fucking way.”

Oh, but yes. It's Armin Arlert. the boy who sits three rows in front of you in Comparative Politics and types like the keyboard owes him money.

Armin who color-codes his notes and once offered you an extra pencil like he didn't get that you haven't brought one on purpose.

Armin who turned beet red when you answered a discussion question and said the word “penetrate” in a completely non-sexual context.

“Who dragged him here?” you ask with a little laugh, already sipping your drink like this is a nature documentary.

“Probably Connie,” Mikasa mutters. “He’s been trying to make Armin ‘social’ for weeks.”

And damn, you have to admit: it’s weirdly... working?

Okay, so the flannel’s still tucked too neatly, and his shoes are definitely orthopedic. But his jawline? Sharp. His hair? A little messy. And when he pushes his glasses up? you hate how hot you find that.

You're staring too long. you know it. Mikasa knows it.

“Oh no,” she says, grinning. “Don’t you dare.”

“Relax. I’m just admiring the academic aesthetic,” you say coolly.

Liar.

Ten minutes later, you’re separated from Mikasa, your drink is empty, and some dude with too much cologne and not enough social awareness is blocking your path to the kitchen.

“You come here a lot?” he asks, his breath hot with tequila and regret.

You smile politely. “Nope.”

“We should change that.”

Oh God.

You try stepping around him. He steps with you.

You’re mid eye-roll, about to hit him with your favorite line ("Do you come with an off switch?"), when a voice cuts in.

"Hey. there you are."

You blink.

The guy blinks.

Armin freaking Arlert slides up beside you like he’s done it a hundred times, placing a gentle but possessive hand on your waist like it belongs there. He turns to the guy with a smile so polite it might be a threat.

“She was looking for me. Thanks, though.”

The guy hesitates. Scowls. But Armin doesn’t budge — and something in those soft blue eyes says do not test me, I read about ancient wars for fun .

Creep backs off. Retreats. Gone.

Silence.

You turn slowly, Armin’s hand drops from your waist like it burned him. His ears are red. His pupils are wide.

“I’m sorry if that was weird,” he says in a rush. “You looked—he looked like—like you weren’t enjoying—uh—I thought—”

“You thought right.” you raise an eyebrow, letting your smirk play out slow. “Nice timing, Arlert.”

He laughs nervously, scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, uh, interrupt. I was just passing by and—”

“You weren’t interrupting. you were rescuing. Big difference.” your eyes travel over him, curious. He’s still blushing, but something about him is... steady. Calm. Kind.

Maybe you’re still buzzed.

Or maybe you’ve just developed a thing for quiet boys who do the right thing without needing a reward. Either way, your next move surprises even you.

“So,” you say casually, leaning in just enough for him to smell your perfume — or notice your piercings. “Think you could help me with our next exam?”

He blinks, the song coming from the speakers ends and changes to a summer hit from last year, and the people on the makeshift dance floor cheers loudly.

“I... sure? I mean, yeah. Of course.” you pull your phone from your low-waist jeans, and stares as he types his number on it. shaking.

“Great,” you purr. “I’ll text you.”

And just like that, you turn and walk away, leaving him staring after you like you just recited the Constitution in a bikini.

Mission: Start Nerd Seduction — officially launched.

You don’t actually need help with the midterm. But you do need an excuse to sit across from Armin Arlert while licking the rim of your iced coffee like a menace to society.

so when he texts you back with a “Sure! I’m free Friday afternoon if that works?” you say

> Cool. I’ll bring my notes and wear something distracting.

You don’t expect a reply, and definitely don’t expect the little three-dot typing bubble to linger for two full minutes before he hits you with:

>Armin: Should I bring a calculator or holy water?

You giggle like a damn schoolgirl and toss your phone across the bed.

God help him. you’re gonna ruin that boy.

On Friday you’re in his room.

His actual dorm room, which smells like pinewood and clean laundry. There are three highlighters on his desk arranged by color, posters from Sci–Fi movies on the walls, little The Hobbits figures on some shelves and you swear the man owns more books than space on furniture to put it on.

“I like your room,” you say, setting down your iced coffee. “Very... untouched virgin energy.”

He pushes his glasses up. “Thanks?”

You’re already sprawling across his desk chair, legs crossed, skirt indecent. You watch his eyes flicker downward, then violently snap back up. Adorable.

“okay,” he says, pulling out a folder. “So, we’re reviewing chapter 5? The political theory section?”

You blink at him.

“Oh, right. Studying.” you lean forward, resting your chin on your palm, giving him your best wide-eyed innocent face.

Armin frowns like you’re a pop quiz he didn’t study for. “...did you even bring your notes?”

“Sure,” you lie, “they’re in my... bra.”

He looks like he might combust on the spot.

“Sorry,” you add sweetly. “too much?”

“Just a bit,” he mutters, already flipping open his book like it’s a shield. You let the moment hang in the air a bit too long — just enough for the tension to crackle — then settle back and pretend to pay attention.

But honestly? you’re watching him more than the textbook.

The way he twirls his pen. The way his voice softens when he explains a concept, you like how he ain't trying to mansplain it like you're actually stupid, just being patient. The way he blushes every time you hum in agreement.

You even catch him peeking at your tattoos when he thinks you’re not looking.

"So...” you say, leaning closer until your thigh brushes his. “Do you always tutor people like this?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

“Alone. In your room.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “N-no. I mean—no, I don’t. Usually it’s at the library. Or the lab. Or... never mind.”

“Cute,” you tease. “You're nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re literally shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

You pause. Smirk. “Want me to stop?”

He swallows hard. “...no.”

And there it is.

That glimmer. That tiny flash of something underneath the nerves — confidence? Want? Hunger?

You sit back, pretending not to notice your own racing pulse.

The game just got fun.

Ten minutes later, you both keep pretending to read the same paragraph while pretending not to feel the air buzzing between you.

That’s when the door creaks open.

“Yo, Armin—” a high voice cuts in, then stops. “Oh. Hey.”

You turn slowly.

She’s short. She’s wearing a pastel cardigan with two different shades of pink. A cute flower pin on her hair and an adorable smile that is slowly dropping. Terrifying.

“Mina,” Armin says, standing up so fast his chair almost flips. “Hey. sorry, I forgot to text—”

“It’s okay!” she chirps. “I just came to drop off the notes from last week.” Her eyes flick to you. To your skirt. To your thigh against his.

“Oh,” she adds, still trying to smile. “I didn’t know you had company.”

You smile back, a knowing smile while offering your name, “We’re studying.”

Her expression flickers. Just a second. Just enough.

“Nice,” she says. “Well... see you later?” trying to meet Armin’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Armin says, but he's distracted, his eyes trailing to you.

And when the door shuts behind her, he lets out a breath like he forgot how to.

“Friend of yours?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “We’ve known each other since orientation.”

“Huh.” You twirl your pen. “She likes you.”

He chokes on air. “What?! No, she—Mina doesn’t—why would you—”

“Because she looked at me like I’m a pop-up ad that gave her computer a virus,” you say, deadpan.

He groans. “She’s just friendly.”

"Mm-hm.” You tilt your head. “You like her?”

Silence.

Then “I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

Interesting.

Very interesting.

You smile, wider this time. “Good. Because I’m very distracting.”

You do not need this men.

You’re not bored. You’re not lonely. You’ve got enough situationships to form a goddamn Avengers team.

And yet — here you are.

In the library. Again.

Wearing lip gloss and zero academic intention.

Armin’s already at the table when you arrive, notes spread out, glasses sliding down his nose. Like he didn't leave you wanting after last week's study date. You consider greeting him like a normal person. You don’t. Instead, you drop your bag, plop into the chair beside him, and whisper in his ear:

“Miss me?”

He jumps.

“Jesus —” he says your name like a curse, while holding his chest to calm his heart.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

He blinks at you. “I—uh—yeah. I guess.”

You grin. “cute.”

He coughs. You cross your legs, showing off your thigh tattoo. Half the guys at the next table almost fall out of their chairs. Armin doesn’t notice — or he pretends not to — but the flush in his cheeks says otherwise.

“Let’s start with Hobbes today,” he mumbles, eyes glued to his page. “You read the assigned chapters, right?”

“Define ‘read’.”

Armin eyes you, saying your name almost in a reprimand way.

“Relax, I skimmed it.” you pull out a pen. “Ready when you are, Professor.”

You don't absorb much of what he’s saying. Because he’s doing that thing again — the voice drop, the hand gesture, the “lemme explain this real quick” lean-in that gets unreasonably close. And he smells good today. Like fresh laundry and—god—was that vanilla?

You’re not okay.

“So that’s why Hobbes believes in the absolute power of the sovereign,” Armin finishes, looking up. “Make sense?”

You’re not sure what Hobbes believes in, but you do believe in Armin ruining your life. You nod.

He beams. “See? You’re better at this than you think.”

Oh. That smile. That pure smile. like he hasn’t noticed the chaos you’ve been trying to throw at him for days. Like he doesn’t know half the campus is whispering:

“Why is Armin Arlert hanging out with her?

“Did she lose a bet?”

“No way he could ever handle her.”

They don’t know that Armin looked you in the eye last Tuesday, tilt his head and said, “You should really stop doing that if you want me to focus.”

They don’t know that you’re starting to forget what flirting is supposed to feel like. Because this? This is more dangerous than your usual games.

And just when you’re about to lean in and say something stupid, like — you’ve got really nice hands – a familiar voice interrupts:

“Hey, Armin!”

You turn. of course it’s Mina.

Carrying two matcha lattes and an entire Pinterest board’s worth of optimism. she slides into the seat on Armin’s other side, all teeth and pastel and absolutely no shame.

“I brought you a drink,” she says, ignoring your existence completely.

“Oh—thanks,” Armin replies, startled. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she chirps, and finally glances at you. “Hi”

You nod. “Mina.” A pause. You sip your coffee. She sips her matcha. Armin is sweating.

“So,” Mina says to him, voice syrup-sweet, “did you want to study together for the ethics quiz? We could—”

“He’s busy,” you say.

Mina blinks. “What?”

“With me,” you finish. Smile. “We’re reviewing Locke next. Very intense stuff.”

Armin opens his mouth. Close it. Prays for death.

“Oh,” Mina says, still smiling. “That’s... cool.”

You keep smiling. You’re both smiling so hard it might shatter the floor beneath you.

“I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow, Armin?” she tries again.

He looks between you. Her. Back to you. “Uh—sure. Yeah.”

When she finally walks away, you lean in close enough for him to smell your lip gloss.

“She’s in love with you.”

He rubs his face. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” you sing. “You could totally date her. She’s your type.”

He glances at you, then looks away. “You don’t know my type.”

“Don’t I?” You raise an eyebrow.

He hesitates. Swallows. look at you again. You hold the eye contact longer than necessary. Long enough to make him shift in his seat.

“I don’t think I like being studied,” he says softly.

“Then stop looking so interesting.”

—

On the weekend y'all at Jean’s apartment. Pizza boxes. Open textbooks. A Mario Kart tournament threatening to break a friendship or five.

Armin’s sitting on the floor, controller in hand. You’re on the couch, shamelessly watching him. the others are deep in a debate about which professor might be an alien, but you’re focused on the way Armin mutters when he loses a round.

“fuck,” he breathes under his breath. You almost drop your drink.

He catches you looking. smirks—just a little. and that is the moment you realize you’re in serious trouble.

because this boy? This nerd? With his quiet voice and his chaotic notes and his tragic sweaters? He might actually break your heart.

And worse — you might let him.

——

It's all fun and games until you start to have dreams about him. some very inappropriate dreams. involving library desks, a cardigan hitting the floor, and Armin’s voice in your ear saying “you asked for this study session.”

You always wake up hot and wet.

It’s barely 7 AM. You have a lecture in two hours. But your first conscious thought is ‘that mouth should be illegal’. Your second is to get it together. And your third?

You need to see him.

So you don’t bother with makeup. don't bother styling your hair. You pull on black sweats and a leather jacket and stomp onto campus with last night’s eyeliner and an agenda that has nothing to do with academic excellence.

Armin’s already at the student café, as usual — surrounded by books, headphones on, hoodie halfway swallowing his neck. He doesn’t notice you until you slide into the seat across from him.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he says, blinking.

“That’s because I haven’t.” You point at your face. “Notice the sexy eye bags.”

Armin chuckles, soft and genuine. “You always show up like this?”

“Only for the people I’m trying to corrupt.”

He pauses. “So… just me?”

"Yup.”

There’s a flicker behind his glasses. You think it might be nerves. Or something darker.

You want to poke it. You will poke it.

“So,” you continue. “Tell me something nerdy.”

“...What?”

“Make me smarter. Ruin my street cred.”

Armin leans back. “Okay. Did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t drift apart?”

Your heart makes a weird thump. “That’s… aggressively adorable.”

“And that an octopus has three hearts and blue blood?”

“wait, for real?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head. “Still feel like corrupting me?”

You grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

It’s raining. There’s only one couch cushion between you and Armin. Your Netflix “study break” has now turned into a two-hour true crime documentary, and at least once every ten minutes you feel his thigh shift next to yours.

Your laptop is open. Your notes are not.

Armin stretches, arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to expose that his damn V line. The one that’s haunted your sleep since last week.

You don’t mean to stare.

You just… don’t not stare.

And Armin sees it.

He lowers his arms, clears his throat, then glances sideways at you. “You keep looking at me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I’m studying your anatomy.”

He says your name in a soft breath of warning, with big eyes, dilated pupils, lips parted.

You shift to face him. He’s closer than you thought. Close enough that the space between you feels like static — thick with unsaid things and half-bitten thoughts.

You should back off. You should laugh it off.

You don’t.

Instead, you whisper, “You ever think about kissing me?”

The silence stretches.

“Yes.” It’s so quiet you almost miss it. But it’s there.

“Yes?” you echo.

He meets your gaze. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

The air pulls tight between you. His lips are right there. He’s right there.

Your hand twitches, like maybe you’ll touch his cheek. Like maybe you’ll grab his collar and ruin every rule you’ve ever set for yourself. Because your mouth is five inches from his and it’s raining outside and—

A knock.

You jolt back like you’ve been slapped. Armin jumps up, flustered, knocking over a cup of pens. then race to the door before the moment can catch up to you.

“Oh, hey!” a feminine voice says too loudly. a voice you know well. How the fuck she always knows when you two are together. Mina has a fucking six senth for cock blocking or something? “I—I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop your USB from the group project. I checked and it has all the lecture slides on it— you left it in the lab.”

Armin takes it with a shaking smile, you could see how red he is from the couch. “Oh! Cool. Thanks.”

She peers around, eyes narrowing. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“Studying?”

Your eyes meet and you hold her gaze, while grinning “Eventually.”

she blushes and apologizes, giving Armin a rushed and tiny ‘goodbye’.

The blonde man closes the door with a sigh, and when he comes back to the couch, pretending like nothing almost happened, you start to think the universe is actually laughing at you.

Why can't you make out with your nerdy man in peace?

——

Later that night you’re alone again, lying on your bed, phone face-up beside you. You keep replaying his voice.

“I’ve thought about it a lot.”

You don’t sleep well.

And neither does he.

Because two blocks away, Armin is staring at his ceiling, hand in his hair, wondering how close he came to losing control — to kissing the girl with stormcloud eyes and tattooed skin and a laugh that lives rent-free in his skull.

The girl nobody thinks would ever want him.

Except maybe — she does.

part II>

#aot #aot x reader #attack on titan #armin arlert #nerd armin #armin x reader #armin aot #armin smut #attack on titan x reader #damn this was fucking tiring bye #armin arlert x reader

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