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komorebinked · 13 days ago

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oh my GGGGAAAAHHHHHHDDDD

This Charming Man

Pairing: Calvin Evans x PhD Student!Fem! Reader!

Summary: Transcribing your thesis has taken over your life so much so that you have barely had time to see your boyfriend Calvin during the week. So one day, you decide to take a break from your typewriter to surprise him at work with some lunch.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader and Calvin are in and established relationship, Reader is doing her PhD (hence the thesis)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all…just protect yourselves lol), Semi-Public Sex (*ahem* in the lab), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk, Would I say Choking? No…But Throat Holding with a bit of pressure? Yeah.

Author’s Note: Well, it’s the long awaited Calvin Evan’s Fic that took me so long to post. I was a really big fan of writing this actually! Hopefully y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 8,709

Your bedroom was a chaotic mess of scents–a tangled, heady fog that clung to the air like it had rooted into your walls. Stale coffee, Wite-out, and the soft curling sweetness of burning cigarillos–none of it should have worked together, and yet somehow, it did.

You didn’t smoke, but you had lit the cigarillos in the way someone might burn incense. You enjoyed the way the smoke drifted, lazy and languid, rising from the shallow silver ashtray on your desk–a gift from Calvin, repurposed from the Chemistry lounge, its edges etched with faint scratches from too many nights like this one. Even throughout all the stress the filter of the cigarillo never found your mouth, you just let it burn with a quiet, papery crackle, wafting the warm and woody scent with a hint of charred sugar into the air of your bedroom.

It mingled seamlessly with the coffee–a scent you barely registered anymore, except when it faded completely. Half-full mugs littered your desk, the windowsill, and the nightstand by your bed, each one cold and crusted with a bitter residue that smelled like dark roast and stress. You were due to clean all the mugs for a nice reset, but you didn’t have the time to fully focus on that yet–you planned to do it that night when you were done with your writing session. Grounds were embedded into the grain of your desk like dirt under your fingernails. The French press hadn’t been cleaned today, and the air was thick with burnt, rich coffee beans.

Woven through all that though was the sharp sting of Wite-Out. Chemical, artificial and sterile. It coated your fingertips, smudged the hem of your sleeve, and lingered in the back of your throat after hours of fixing things that didn’t need fixing until you had convinced yourself they did. You had a few bottles lined up, and you had stopped fully recapping them hours ago because of how many times you reached for the little brush to swipe over the freshly typed out words.

Yet somehow–underneath the war zone of scents–you could still smell Calvin. His scent clung to the fabric draped around your shoulders: a heathered grey sweatshirt that he had left behind after your last weekend together. Something warm and distinctly him–sea salt, the dry powder of chalk dust, leather, and citrus. It was fading off, but you tugged it tighter around yourself anyways, hoping to milk the scent a little bit longer.

Your ears were ringing from the typewriter–the constant clacking was like hail against a tin roof. You were on page sixty-three of transcribing your field data into something that at least resembled a steady thesis. Your fingers were cramping, your back felt like it had a permanent question mark in it, and the indentation in your desk chair from where you had barely moved over the past couple of days was starting to feel permanent.

The only thing keeping your brain from sliding sideways and melting out of your ears was the Raytheon RF Transistor humming on your desk. Tonight’s radio drama featured a doomed heiress and a private investigator with a drinking problem. You weren’t really in tune with what was happening, but the cadence of it was relaxing. The familiar shape of conflict, static, and resolution. It filled the silence like Calvin did when you would work with him in the lab–it wasn’t perfect, but close enough.

You glanced over at the clock on your wall.

10:21 P.M.

He would be calling soon. He always did–right before bed. Just long enough to hear your voice, to remind you to sleep, to stop you from working through the night the way you always promised you wouldn’t, and to also remind you how much he loved you and how proud he was of the fact that you were working so hard. He never stayed on too long, because he knew if he did, you’d keep him talking for hours, just like you always did on weekends–talking until sunrise, tangled in each other’s arms, sharing the warmth under your blankets. But it wasn’t the weekend just yet.

You stretched your fingers, giving the typewriter a few more clacks, writing the last sentence you could muster up.

Then the phone rang.

And instantly you took the phone off the receiver, bringing it to your ear, already smiling brightly.

”Cal?” There was a soft shift on the other end–a rustle of blankets, the faint creak of mattress springs–and then his voice, warm and scratchy like he’d been waiting all evening just to speak to you.

”How’s my scholar doing?” You leaned back in your chair until the wooden legs gave a soft groan beneath you. Your spine protested the stretch with a ripple of tension, and your muscles burned slightly.

”Doing okay, sweetheart. Though my back feels like it’s permanently folding in on itself.” He let out a quiet laugh–low and just tired enough that you knew he was lying on his side, probably curling around his pillow like he curled around you on weekends.

“Should work on your posture then. I might have to help you with that.” You twirled the phone cord between your fingers, eyes slipping shut as you let his voice settle into your bones.

”Oh yeah? And how’re you going to help me with that?” He hummed like he was deep in thought or weighing the options in his head.

”I have my ideas…” You shifted in your chair, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. He always did this with you–toed the line of flirtation with a scientist’s precision, just suggestive enough to make your pulse jump.

”Calvin Evans,” You started slowly, teasing, “It seems like I’ve been on your mind.” There was a breath of silence, and then his voice echoed through the line again.

”You’re always on my mind. Every second of every minute of every day. Isn’t it obvious?” Calvin rarely spoke in flourishes or metaphors unless he meant every word. And when he said something like that, it carried the weight of a chemical equation–true and exact, incapable of being anything but real.

”Always the romantic.” He sighed.

”What can I say? It seems like you bring it out of me. Who knew I’d actually have such grand capabilities of making you flustered over the phone.” You rolled your eyes even as your smile deepened.

”Please. I’m sure if I didn’t bring it out of you, someone else would’ve.” There was a pause, followed by his mattress creaking again, followed by the faint rustle of his blankets as he settled into it further.

”Definitely not,” He murmured, “You’re the one key part to the formula that broke through to me. If there was anyone else in that variable it wouldn’t have happened.”You could feel your breath hitch slightly. Because it wasn’t fair, the way he said things like that. Like love was science and you were his long-sought solution. Like you weren’t just the person he was calling at the end of a long day, but the anomaly that proved every hypothesis wrong in the best possible way. You pulled your knees up to your chest, feeling your heart beating against the top of your thigh, cradling the phone between your cheek and shoulder.

”If you’re not careful,” You started softly, “I’m going to be expecting you to talk to me like that all the time.”

“Good,” He replied, without hesitation, “You should. I’m not planning on stopping.” The radio crackled faintly in the background, a gunshot interrupting a voice mid-confession, then fading into static. You both sat in silence for a moment, the quiet not empty but full–of unspoken things, of comfort, of the kind of intimacy that didn’t require more than breath on the line.

“How’s the thesis coming along?” He asked gently, voice barely above a murmur now. You glanced at the stack of papers on your desk, your notes scattered like fallen leaves around the base of the typewriter, pages bleeding with margin scribbles and red ink. You reached out and dragged your finger along the top edge of the pile.

“Got about twenty pages done,” You sighed. “Which isn’t my personal best, but… At least it’s something.”

“That’s more than something,” He said, soft and certain. “That’s twenty more than you had yesterday.” You smiled at the comment.

”Did you get to eat today?” He asked after a moment. Your gaze drifted toward the kitchen through your open bedroom door–the lights were still on, the counter pristine, untouched. The only thing that had passed your lips since waking up was–

“And coffee doesn’t count as food,” He added knowingly. You groaned.

”Guilty as charged. I had…A few cups, but I also had a few slices of fruitcake…Would you count that?” He let out a long, theatrical sigh–the kind you knew was more affection laced with concern than frustration.

“I understand you’re sharp-focused on getting your thesis done, but you have to make sure you’re eating and taking care of yourself. You won’t be able to finish the thing if you’re emaciated and ill.”

“I know, I know,” You muttered, “It was just today. I won’t let it happen again.” There was a pause, then the unmistakable lilt of amusement curling through his next words.

”Good girl…” The air in your lungs stuttered. It wasn’t just the words–it was the tone. Casual. Offhand. But laced with that something that made your stomach tighten instinctively, and made additional heat flicker up the back of your neck. He probably hadn’t meant it that way. But the way it settled inside you didn’t care what he meant. You swallowed, shifting the phone slightly.

“We still on for the weekend?” You asked, your voice just a touch more breathy than before.

“Of course we are. It’s the only time you’ll actually take a proper break…So we have to be on for the weekend.” You laughed quietly and absently began picking at the dried Wite-Out stuck to your fingertips.

“You’re right about that,” You replied, flicking off a small flake, “But I’ll probably be working on it here and there anyways.”

“Hey, at least you’ll have me there to remind you to eat and take breaks.”

“And to review what I’ve done recently too, can’t forget that.” You could tell he was smiling–you could hear it in the pause before he replied.

”Who else would fill in the A’s your beat-up typewriter keeps skipping?” That made you laugh. Real and light. It echoed through the receiver and came back to you softened by his answering chuckle. The quiet returned, but this time it didn’t feel heavy–just full. Shared and understood.

You turned your head and looked over your shoulder at your bed, the corner of your blanket already pulled down like it was waiting for you.

“Might as well get some rest for now though,” You said softly, letting your body start to unwind. “Goodnight, Calvin.”

There was a moment where you thought that might be it–that maybe you were both too tired to stretch it further–but something pulled the words from your chest anyway, aching and certain.

“I love you.”

You heard a little huff of laughter, breathy and warm, and then his voice again, so familiar, so him.

“I love you too.”

You smiled to yourself as you hung up the phone, your fingers trailing along the cord before setting it gently back into its cradle. The radio hummed in the background, the final notes of some melancholy tune playing you off as you finally rose from your chair and padded to bed.

——————————

You woke up early the next morning with a quiet determination humming in your bones. The bedroom still carried remnants of last night’s chaos, but the air had thinned just enough for you to breathe a little easier. You pulled yourself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, groggy but resolute. The shower was quick, hot, and efficient–enough to wash the fatigue from your limbs and trick your brain into thinking today could be different. Productive. Balanced.

When you emerged, steam trailing behind you, wrapping yourself in one of your many robes–the plush navy one Calvin liked to tug at the collar of when he kissed your neck in passing. You tied it loosely around your waist and moved through your bedroom like you were winding up a machine, collecting the mugs one by one from every flat surface they’d claimed: the desk, the nightstand, the floor beside the armchair. The French press was last, its glass belly lined with the ghost of yesterday’s coffee, forgotten and bitter.

You brought everything into the kitchen and let yourself take your time. The faucet hissed as you filled the sink, the water warming your hands as you scrubbed each mug with slow, meditative circles. The Wite-Out flakes clinging to your knuckles softened and disappeared under the stream. You took satisfaction in the rhythm–rinse, stack, repeat–and by the time the French press was clean and gleaming again, you felt a little more human.

Once the dishes were stacked neatly on the drying rack, you grabbed your skillet from the hook above the stove and warmed it on the burner with a square of butter melting into it. You cracked two eggs into the warm metal, letting them sizzle. You dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, the dial already set to that perfect middle-ground where they’d come out perfectly golden. You weren’t usually this structured, but something about actually listening to Calvin–even in the small ways–made your body feel steadier. Like following his advice anchored you to yourself.

By the time you plated your eggs and toast, steam curling softly off the plate, the phone rang. You sighed, instinctively tensing. You were already praying it wasn’t your school calling to switch the deadline for your thesis, as you wiped your hands on the edge of your robe and padded barefoot back into the bedroom, the phone ringing a second time just when you reached for it and took it off the hook, putting it to your ear.

”Hello?” You answered, voice a little breathy from the way you rushed from the kitchen. There was a brief pause–then a familiar strain of jazz filtered through the line. Something brass-forward, a bit sleepy and unpolished, the kind of tune Calvin played when he needed a little background chaos while he worked.

Then his voice.

“Y/N,” He said, soft and amused, “I forgot to tell you yesterday–save me some of that fruitcake.” You blinked once in surprise before a laugh bubbled out of your throat.

“I made you your own,” You replied, smiling as you leaned against the doorframe. “You can have the whole thing all to yourself.”

He laughed, low and fond, “You know me too well…Thank you. And sorry for calling so early.”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see you. “No need to apologize. I was already up and making myself some toast and eggs.”

“Toast and eggs?” He repeated with exaggerated disbelief. “Is this the same woman I spoke to last night?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push it, Calvin.” There was a pause, and then he sighed.

“Are you at the lab already?” You asked.

“As we speak,” He replied. You could hear the faint clatter of glass or metal, the murmuring echo of an empty space. “Barely had time to grab coffee, but I wanted to call before things got hectic.” You glanced over at your desk, at the cleaned surface and the tidy stack of notes you’d lined up beside the typewriter last night. You’d get back to it soon. But right now…It could wait.

“Well, I’m glad I got to hear your voice before starting my day,” You said, shifting your weight against the doorframe and tugging the robe tighter around your waist.

Calvin huffed a small laugh on the other end of the line. “Me too. It helps…Hearing you. But I better get going–got three burners going and a glass column calling my name.” You smiled softly.

”I’m looking forward to your call tonight. Have a great day at work, Cal. I love you.” You could feel it–that quiet grin in his voice, the one that always made your chest ache a little from how badly you wanted to see it in person.

“Don’t work too hard…I love you too.”

And then he hung up.

You stayed there a second longer, letting the silence stretch out before you slowly lowered the receiver into the cradle. The absence of his voice hit you harder than it should have, and for a moment, you considered calling him right back–just to hear it again.

But instead, you turned and made your way back to the kitchen. Your breakfast waited on the counter, still warm. You sat down and began to eat, slow and steady, chewing on both food and thought. Your eyes kept drifting toward the fruitcake wrapped neatly in wax paper beside the sink. You’d packed it in its own little box the morning before, half-asleep, already knowing you wouldn’t be able to keep it in your house for long without thinking of him.

And now?

Now it felt like an invitation. Or maybe a very thin excuse.

You glanced toward the front window, where the morning light cut across the hardwood in long, patient stripes. The sky was bright, cloudless. Crisp air pressed against the glass, just begging you to leave the house and breathe it in.

You could afford the time.

Maybe it would cost you a few pages of progress. Maybe you’d have to stay up an extra hour tonight. But that didn’t matter right now. You could pack him lunch–something easy. A thermos of coffee. Two sandwiches. Roasted chicken, some cheese, maybe some lettuce and mayo. Something you could carry in a brown paper bag with the fruitcake tucked safely under your arm.

It was a good excuse, because more than anything, you just wanted to see him. To stand across from him, even for five minutes, and feel his eyes move over you like they always did–careful, and observant, like you were something fragile and miraculous at the same time. You needed to feel his hands settle on your waist. Needed the weight of his presence after so many days of hollow space.

So you decided to take the idea and roll with it. You were going to surprise him and hopefully spend a little bit of extra time lingering around the labs just to chat.

But not before you got just a little more work done. Just enough to keep your guilt at bay. Just enough to say I earned this.

You finished your breakfast quickly, the last of the toast now cold but still satisfying, and rinsed your plate in the sink with the same care you’d used for the mugs earlier. Then you moved back through your house, fingers already brushing over the tidy stack of notes you’d left the night before. You brought them to the desk and settled in again, the typewriter welcoming you back with its familiar clack, a rhythm you were almost starting to find comfort in.

You transcribed three more pages from your field notes, correcting phrasing on the fly, reorganizing sections with a fluidity that surprised even you. You paused occasionally to flip through old entries or cross-reference citations, and each time you did, your focus sharpened like the edge of a blade.

The air smelled cleaner now–fewer distractions. The French press was washed, your robe tied neatly, your mind less cluttered with to-do lists. It gave you the space to want something again. To look forward to something.

Still, you checked the clock more times than you’d care to admit.

11:07. 11:41. 12:05.

By the time 12:30 rolled around, you were ready. Your fingers ached again, but your heart felt light–an odd sensation after days of fog and fatigue.

You stood up from your desk with the kind of finality that told you there’d be no more writing until later. No more edits, no more corrections. You stretched your arms over your head, bones cracking audibly as you rolled your shoulders, then padded toward your bedroom to change.

You wanted to look presentable–not overdone, but thoughtful. Polished in that effortless kind of way that said I’ve missed you without having to say it at all.

You reached for your favorite navy swing skirt, the one that hit just below your knee and swayed prettily when you walked. You paired it with a white blouse–crisp, slightly sheer, the buttons pearlescent. You tucked it in gently, smoothing your hands over your hips before sitting down to pull on a pair of simple, low heels. Nothing too loud. Just enough to feel like you had your footing again after days of wearing nothing but your undergarments around your house. You fixed your hair exactly the way you liked it, keeping it out of your face so you didn’t get it in front of your eyes, and then you reached for your perfume. The tiny glass bottle sat beside the mirror on your dresser, catching the sunlight in the pale amber liquid.

You uncapped it and dabbed a few drops along your pulse points–behind your ears, the hollow of your throat, just beneath your wrists. You let the scent bloom there, soft and floral with just a hint of spice. Something warm and feminine, and sweet. Something Calvin always seemed to notice, even hours after hugging you.

Then you went to the kitchen and pulled the sandwiches from the fridge, tucking them neatly into a wax-paper-lined paper bag. The fruitcake went in next, still wrapped in wax and tied with a bit of twine. You added the thermos of coffee–still hot, though not scalding–and folded the top of the bag closed with practiced care.

As you stood at the door with your coat draped over your body and the bag tucked into your elbow, you felt the smallest flicker of nerves.

You always got the jitters before seeing him. You told yourself it was normal–natural, even. Love and nerves weren’t mutually exclusive. Especially not when it came to him.

The moment your fingers brushed the doorframe, something fluttered in your chest–like your heartbeat had slipped off rhythm for just a second. You swallowed it down and let out a quiet breath, smoothing your hand over your skirt, then your hair, then the edge of the paper bag as you stepped outside and locked the door behind you.

The chill hit you first.

Your skin tightened beneath your coat, but the sunlight counterbalanced it–bright and soft against your cheeks, warming the crown of your head. It was the kind of day where the wind didn’t cut, just nudged. Your heels clicked gently on the pavement, the paper bag rustling against your hip with every measured stride. You held it carefully, like it was something delicate, something that had to arrive intact–because maybe it wasn’t just lunch. Maybe it was a promise. A comfort. A reminder.

You passed the little corner café where you and Calvin sometimes stopped for lemon cake and coffee. The front table, the one he always angled toward the window for you, was already taken. Still, you smiled at it and sighed.

By the time the Hastings Research Institute came into view, your heart had already started to race–not from exertion, but anticipation.

The building’s tall glass windows reflected the sky in fractured blues, and as you stepped through the heavy front doors, the echo of your heels on the marble floor sounded far too loud. You moved quickly toward the elevator, knowing every step by heart–second floor for Administration, third for Chemistry and Applied Sciences. Calvin’s world. His sanctuary.

You smoothed your hands down your skirt again and shifted the bag in your grip as the elevator doors opened. The ride up was brief, but it gave you just enough time to gather yourself. You stared at your reflection in the polished steel–eyes bright, mouth soft, hair falling into place just the way he liked it.

When the doors opened with a soft ding, you stepped out, heart already thudding somewhere in your throat.

Chemistry Lab 320 sat at the end of the long hallway–its door dark oak, worn around the handle from years of eager hands and late-night sessions. The Do Not Disturb sign hung at its usual slant on the frosted window. It had been there the first day you met him, back when you’d mistaken his focus for standoffishness, back before he’d looked up from his Bunsen burner and caught your gaze like it physically startled him. The same day you’d asked if he wanted to get dinner sometime–just dinner–and turned his life inside out.

You hovered a moment outside the door, hand poised to knock.

You could already imagine the way he looked on the other side–his sleeves rolled past his elbows, collar undone, lab coat dusted with chalk or powdered reagent. Brow furrowed, mouth parted slightly, that furiously beautiful focus etched into every angle of his face.

You didn’t want to break his concentration. You never did.

But you did want to see him.

So, you knocked. Twice. Gentle, but firm.

There was no immediate response. You waited. Heard something shift inside–a stool scraping, the faint pop of a burner being turned off, the shuffle of boots on linoleum tile. Then the latch clicked, and the door opened just enough for his head to peek through.

Calvin looked like he’d been conjured straight from the pages of a research journal and dusted with something soft and unspoken. His goggles sat crooked atop his forehead, leaving faint indentations on his brow, and a graphite-streaked pencil was tucked behind one ear, just barely clinging to the loose wave of light brown hair curling near his temple. His lab coat was open over a button-down that had clearly been ironed this morning but had since been creased into something comfortably worn, sleeves pushed past his elbows in that absent-minded way he always did when he got deep into his work.

And when his bright blue eyes landed on you–when they flicked from your face to the paper bag in your hand and back again–his entire expression shifted, like the floor of the lab had tilted under his feet. His brows lifted, just slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging up before he even spoke.

“Y/N…” He said, voice surprised and low like your name alone could undo him.

You smiled, raising the brown paper bag between the two of you. “Brought you fruitcake and lunch.” He blinked at you, a breath of laughter leaving his chest like he hadn’t even realized he was holding it.

“Oh really?” He asked, stepping aside so you could enter. “Are you just using that as a cover because you needed to distract yourself from your thesis?” You shrugged, brushing past him as he gently closed the door behind you. You heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place, a habit more than anything else, the way he always did when he didn’t want to be interrupted.

“Well,” You started, shrugging off your coat and draping it over the nearest stool, “I technically haven’t been outside for the past couple of days, so you should be proud of me. I got dressed. I saw sunlight. I even walked all the way here.” Calvin huffed a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded.

“Okay…” He murmured, slipping his goggles off his forehead and setting them gently on a nearby counter. “Can’t really be mad at that.” His voice dropped a little lower as he leaned forward, brushing a kiss across your lips–slow and gentle, like he’d been craving it just as much as you had. You hummed into it, your hand settling briefly on his chest before he pulled back, eyes shining with quiet affection.

He reached for the bag, his fingers brushing over yours as he took it from your grasp, and made his way over to his workbench, unrolling the top of the bag with a kind of reverence that made your chest warm. You followed close behind, settling beside him as he peeked inside. The moment he saw the fruitcake, his eyes widened slightly.

“Oh good lord…” He said, half-laughing. “I might just eat this entire thing for lunch.”

You bit back a grin, leaning a little closer as you quipped, “And you said yesterday it didn’t count as a meal.”

He shot you a dry look, already reaching for a small clean lab knife to slice into it.

“Touché,” He replied, tone deadpan but playful. “I will never judge you again for that.” You leaned your hip against the bench, watching him cut into the dense cake, his long fingers steady even with the slightly dulled blade. He carved off a thick slice and lifted it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he turned to look at you again.

”Delicious as usual.” He commented, swallowing the bite of fruitcake, his throat working visibly, and then–without even looking up he added, “But…It’s not as delicious as you.” Your eyebrows shot up, eyes widening as a hot flush crept up your throat.

“Cal…” You warned, voice barely more than a whisper. He gave you a small, shameless smile, the kind he reserved only for you–crooked and quietly dangerous.

“C’mon,” He started softly, “You know I was going to make a comment like that.” You bit the inside of your cheek, heart already thudding harder than before.

“Especially after last weekend…” He added, casually but deliberately. And just like that, the air shifted. A rush of heat bloomed in your chest, spreading out through your limbs, your thighs pressing ever so slightly together as memories unspooled behind your eyes–Calvin’s mouth between your legs, his voice thick with praise as he murmured how sweet you tasted, how good you smelled, how much he needed you. The way his five o’clock shadow rasped against the inside of your thighs when he paused only to kiss you there–again and again–like he was mapping out your skin. You remembered the way his hands had gripped your hips, the way he had groaned when you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled, how you had soaked the sheets and couldn’t stop trembling even hours later.

“Calvin,” You said through clenched teeth, heat flooding every inch of your skin. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why?” He asked, smirking now, “Does it make you flustered?” You inhaled sharply, trying to slow your breath, but the ache that had settled between your thighs was already starting to pulse.

“You can’t say stuff like that,” You hissed, glancing at the locked door like it might magically disappear, “We’re in your lab, for god’s sake.”

“It’s got a lock on the door,” He murmured, voice low and coaxing, “And I don’t think anyone’s going to interrupt…” His hand came to rest on your hip, just at the waistband of your skirt, his thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric. You swayed slightly under the touch, shifting your weight as his palm spread wider, grounding you with the kind of pressure that made your breath catch.

“And what if your coworkers hear us?” You countered, though your voice had already dropped an octave–gone soft and airy, threaded with want. He gave a quiet shrug, tilting his head as if the idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.

“We’ll be quiet,” He retorted, eyes dipping to your mouth, “I’m sure we can find a way to manage that.” You didn’t have time to respond before he leaned in and kissed you again–slow, deep, coaxing. His lips pressed against yours like he wanted to memorize the shape of your breath. And with gentle insistence, he shifted your body until your back bumped lightly against the edge of the workbench, his hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back, drawing you closer until your pelvis met his. You could feel how hard he already was through the front of his slacks.

”Cal,” You whispered, breathless, “We could still get…” He silenced you with another kiss–this one hungrier, his teeth dragging ever so slightly across your lower lip before he sucked it between his own, then let it go with a quiet pop. His forehead pressed to yours.

“We won’t get caught,” He murmured, voice dark and certain. “I’m very sure everyone’s having lunch. And if they’re not, they know better than to bother me for anything.” His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing lightly over the outside of your thigh before curling just above your knee. “I just want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his voice. The way he said it–so calm, so convicted–like the most natural thing in the world was kissing you breathless in the middle of his lab.

You felt his fingers brush the tops of your knees, a soft nudge that sent a ripple of heat curling up your spine. You let out a shaky laugh, breath catching as you tilted your head just enough to glance down at him.

“Never did I expect you to have such a filthy idea, Calvin Evans,” You teased, voice light and breathless. He smirked–god, that little half-smile that never quite met his eyes unless you were the one drawing it out of him.

“What can I say?” He replied, fingertips trailing higher along the backs of your thighs. “You just have that kind of spell on me.”

Before you could say anything else, he bent slightly, arms tightening as he slid his hands beneath your skirt slightly and lifted you effortlessly onto the workbench. The paper bag crinkled slightly as he gently moved it aside, then reached behind you to rewrap the fruitcake with careful, practiced fingers. He set it out of the way on the opposite counter, every motion deliberate, like he was buying time–but the heat in his gaze said otherwise. You parted your thighs for him instinctively, the swing skirt fluttering open just enough for the cool air of the lab to lick at your inner legs. His hands returned to your waist, then slid down to your hips as he stepped between them. The heat of him was immediate, the solid pressure of his body grounding you.

His hand lifted to your neck–broad fingers cradling the underside of your jaw, thumb brushing just behind your ear. You leaned into it like a flower chasing sunlight, your breath catching again as his lips met yours once more.

This kiss was softer than the last. Slow and deep. His thumb traced lazy circles along your throat as his mouth moved with yours, coaxing, savoring, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted after being apart for too long.

When he pulled back, just slightly, he didn’t let go. His fingers stayed curled around your neck, holding you in place, and his eyes lingered on your mouth before flicking up to meet yours.

“I can feel your pulse racing against my fingertips,” He commented, quiet and sure, voice thick with heat.

Then his lips brushed your jaw–one kiss, then another–soft and coaxing, moving slowly toward the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His teeth grazed there, just enough to make you gasp, your thighs twitching slightly against his hips.

“You’re already worked up,” He added with a small smile–he knew the effect he had on you. And he was indulging in it. Your hands slid up the ridges of his back, fingers dragging slowly along the seams of his lab coat. The fabric scratched lightly against your fingertips, starched and worn in the way only his coats were–like a second skin he lived in and worked through and kissed you in.

“I’ve barely touched you,” He whispered against your throat, “And you’re already trembling for me.” You let out a soft whimper–half frustration, half plea–and tugged at his coat until it came loose around his shoulders. His hands stayed at your hips as you pushed it down his arms, letting it fall in a heap behind him.

“Well?” You asked, breathless, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Are you going to keep teasing me or are you going to show me how much you’ve missed me?” He leaned in, brushing his lips just barely over yours again.

”Oh, Y/N…I plan to do both.” You let out a breathy giggle–soft, delighted–half in disbelief that this was really happening here, now, in the sanctity of his lab. Calvin smiled against your neck, and the warmth of his breath clung to your skin, damp and dizzying as he trailed his mouth down slowly–kiss by kiss–toward your clothed collarbone.

His hands were already sliding lower until they found the hem of your skirt. He pushed the fabric upward with a deliberateness that made your chest tighten, his knuckles grazing the bare skin of your thighs as he peeled the layers back like he was unwrapping something sacred. You shivered beneath the touch.

Then, without a word, he slowly sank to his knees before you.

In the filtered sunlight streaming through the high windows, Calvin looked…Undone. Worshipful. Drunk on you. His lashes cast long shadows over his cheeks as his gaze dropped–his lips parting with a quiet, audible sigh the moment he caught sight of the way your arousal had already bloomed visibly through the front of your high-waisted white underwear.

“Jesus,” He murmured, eyes darkening, “Already worked up and ready for me.” His fingers slipped under the delicate waistband, the pads of his thumbs brushing the tender crease of your hips as he slowly pulled them down. Inch by aching inch. The elastic dragged against your skin with a teasing kind of friction, until the damp fabric was discarded somewhere off to the side. You gasped softly at the chill of the air kissing you bare–followed quickly by the heat of his stare settling between your thighs.

Calvin leaned in and pressed a kiss just above your knee, then another just higher, lips ghosting along the inside of your thigh with a slow, aching cadence. He bunched your skirt further up around your waist as he went, and you instinctively lifted your legs, hooking your ankles loosely behind his neck.

He looked up at you from where he knelt–blue eyes gleaming, breath hitching as you scooted closer to the edge of the workbench. Your fingers curled around the rim behind you for support, your back arched just slightly, spine drawn tight with want.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” He whispered, hands stroking up your thighs as he settled fully between them. “Do you have any idea what it does to me? Watching you ache?” You whimpered softly, and his gaze softened.

”I missed you,” He added, voice low and sweet, laced with something tender and guttural all at once, “Can’t even manage to be away from you anymore for more than a few days. I miss everything about you–your skin, your taste…That sound you make when I kiss you right–“ He leaned in, brushing his lips just beside your core, teasing where you ached for him the most. Your hands threaded into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp as your grip tightened reflexively.

His breath ghosted over your slick skin, and his eyes flicked up again–dark and hungry, locked onto yours as he dipped lower, and finally–

He buried his mouth between your thighs.

The first press of his tongue made your whole body jerk, your moan catching in your throat like a live wire. He groaned against you, the vibration rippling through your core as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, tasting you with a kind of reverence that bordered on obsession. His hands gripped your hips, fingers flexing against your skin tightly.

“God,” He breathed against you, lips brushing your folds, “I forgot how sweet you are… how soft…”

You gasped, hips twitching against his mouth, and his arms immediately tightened, locking you in place as his tongue circled your clit–slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to draw out every tremble.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, lips glistening, his voice wrecked with affection. “Does that feel good?” Your head tipped back, the cool air of the lab brushing your throat as your lips parted with a sharp, helpless sound.

“God, Calvin,” You gasped, your voice nearly breaking. “It feels amazing.”

The smile he gave you was devastating–slow and soft and utterly wrecked. Then he was back on you, tongue firm and steady, lapping up everything you gave him with practiced hunger. He kissed your folds first, mouth pressing open-mouthed against your sex like it was something holy, something he needed, something he would die for. And then he moved up to your clit, the tip of his tongue circling delicately before his lips closed around it.

The suction was gentle at first–measured, savoring. He took his time with you, coaxing every twitch, every stuttering breath, his jaw working with slow, sensual rhythm. You tried not to make too much noise–you really did–but a soft moan slipped out, one you barely caught behind the back of your hand.

He pulled back for just a moment, breath hot and heavy against your soaked folds, his voice thick and reverent.

“You’re like water,” He groaned, kissing your inner thigh. “I could drink you up all day long.”

And then–his fingers.

You felt the shift of his hand beneath your skirt, the subtle repositioning as two fingers slid gently to your entrance. The first press was slow, the stretch familiar and maddening, his fingertips easing inside like he’d been waiting all morning to be here. He curled them upward immediately, dragging them along the most sensitive spot inside of you with careful, intentional pressure.

You squirmed against him, hips twitching as his saliva dripped lower, mixing with your slick. His tongue followed the trail, licking up everything he could reach, his mouth sealing around you once more as he pumped his fingers in time with every shiver.

“Oh…Calvin–” You whimpered, the lab fading around you, replaced by heat and breath and sound. The obscene wet noise of his fingers moving inside you echoed softly, drowned only by the way he groaned when your thighs squeezed tighter around him. His pace never faltered–steady and deep, mouth and fingers moving in tandem, building your pleasure in slow, aching waves.

And then–you broke.

Your entire body snapped tight, your hips bucking against his mouth as your orgasm took hold with a full-body shudder. You bit down on your lip hard enough to sting, head dropping forward, eyes squeezed shut. Your fingers tugged hard at his hair as you rode the high, hips rolling against his mouth, against his jaw, against his hand–until the rhythm broke and your body slumped, spent and trembling.

You loosened around his fingers, the tension fading like smoke from your limbs, and he eased them out gently. He kissed your inner thighs again, tender and slow, mouth still wet with you. You let out a long, shaky breath, barely able to keep upright as you blinked down at him, vision blurred and heart racing.

“You really know how to make a girl feel wanted,” You whispered, voice raw with affection and disbelief.

He laughed softly at that, the sound warm and full of pride. Then he rose, standing between your legs again, and leaned in to kiss you–mouth slick with your arousal, tasting like heat and want and everything you’d just given him. You didn’t hesitate. You kissed him back, moaning softly into the shared breath, the taste of yourself on his lips only making your heart pound harder.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled–utterly gone for you.

“I only want you,” He admitted, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “And you’ve given me plenty of opportunity to constantly show that to you.” You smiled against his lips, heart pounding, hand slipping down to the belt of his slacks. The leather was already warm from his body, and you undid the buckle with a practiced ease, the quiet clink of metal making him exhale against your mouth.

Calvin hummed lowly, brushing his lips along your jaw, voice warm and just a little breathless.

“Mm…You want me, hmm?” He murmured, trailing the words down your neck like a string of honey. “Want me to take some of that stress away?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers popped the button on his trousers and slid the zipper down slowly, teeth catching on your lower lip when you whispered back, “Yes…Please, Cal.”

His mouth found the side of your throat again, pressing kisses there–featherlight and worshipful–while your hands pushed his slacks down his hips. He rocked them off, shimmying them to the floor until they pooled at his ankles. He stepped out of them lazily, leaving him in nothing but his slightly sheer white boxer shorts and his unbuttoned shirt, the sleeves still rolled high, the fabric soft with use.

You palmed him through the thin cotton, the heat of him searing against your hand, already thick and twitching beneath your touch. He groaned softly into your collarbone, the sound strained and rich with tension, his breath fogging against the buttons of your blouse.

“Did I mention…” He began, lips ghosting over the fabric near your sternum, “how wonderful you look in this skirt?” You grinned, fingers squeezing gently around him.

“No,” You replied, “but I assumed that’s what you were thinking.”

That made him laugh–a quiet, breathy sound that slipped into a low hum of pleasure when you rubbed him a little harder. He nipped at your collar with restrained affection, then straightened, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and sliding them down with a slow drag.

His cock sprung free, flushed and glistening at the tip, and you watched him stroke it once, twice–his thumb brushing delicately over the head before he brought himself closer to you, letting the tip of him press against your entrance, catching in the slick heat of your folds. He sighed, shoulders relaxing, eyes fluttering half-shut as he leaned forward, bracing one hand beside your hip on the workbench while the other slipped beneath your skirt again–thumb brushing the spot just above your clit as he lined himself up with care.

“You’re so warm,” He breathed. “And always so ready for me…Like your body’s been waiting for mine.” His voice was thick with wonder, like every time he touched you was still a discovery. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hands curling into the back of his shirt, your fingers slipping into his hair. He kissed you again as he began to push inside–slow, reverent, the kind of pace that made your thighs twitch and your breath stutter.

“Oh God, Calvin.”

“That’s it,” he whispered, his forehead pressing to yours as he bottomed out. “There you are, sweetheart. Just like that. Taking me so perfectly…”

Your body clenched instinctively around him, the stretch delicious, the weight of him filling you so completely it made your toes curl. His hand slid up your side, fingers grazing your ribs through the fabric of your blouse before curling gently around your neck. He didn’t squeeze hard—just enough to make your breath catch and your eyes lock onto his.

“I missed this,” He whispered, hips rolling slow and deep, every thrust brushing perfectly against that aching spot inside you. “Missed the way you feel…Wrapped around me like this…Soft and wet and perfect.”

You whimpered, clinging tighter, letting him move against you, into you, around you.

“You always let me in,” He said, his mouth brushing along your ear now. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re stressed. You always open for me like you were made for it.”

He was saying the filthiest things in the sweetest voice–like he didn’t even realize the way he wrecked you with every breath. His hips rolled deeper now, rhythm steady and hypnotic, his breath catching every time you squeezed around him.

“I love when you cling to me like this,” He moaned, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Like you need me…Like you can’t get close enough.”

You gasped as his hips snapped a little harder, your body jolting slightly on the bench.

“Cal–” you whimpered, “You feel so good…Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” He panted, his rhythm growing faster, rougher. “I promise–I’ll give you everything. Everything you need. Just hold on for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.” The pace turned ragged, your breath catching with each thrust, the slap of skin-on-skin barely dampened by the sound of your soft gasps and his stuttering moans.

“Gonna fill you up,” He whispered, lips dragging along your neck, “Gonna make you feel so good. You want that, don’t you? Want me to finish inside you like I always do?” You nodded desperately, unable to speak, your thighs trembling, your core fluttering around him with every push.

“I’m so close…” Then he gasped against your blouse, face buried in your chest as he jerked forward with one final thrust, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you. His moan was low and choked, muffled by the cotton of your shirt as his fingers dug into your hips, grounding himself in you. You held him close, stroking his hair, kissing the crown of his head as he trembled through the aftershocks, still buried deep inside you, filling you with every drop.

He let out a few ragged breaths, his forehead still resting against your shoulder, and then, voice thick and low, he murmured, “…You know…I hope you do this more often cause it’s such…Such a nice pick-me-up for the rest of the afternoon.”

You laughed softly, breath still uneven as your fingers trailed through the damp waves at the nape of his neck. You scraped your nails gently across his scalp, and he shuddered in response.

“I mean…” You started, teasing, “I could give you an even better suggestion.”He kissed the side of your neck–slow, open-mouthed, warm with the afterglow.

“And what would that suggestion be?” He asked, voice worn thin with satisfaction and curiosity both. You shifted slightly, coaxing him to lean back just enough that you could meet his eyes. His pupils were still blown wide, the blue of his irises reduced to a storm-tossed halo around each dilated center. You smirked at him, running your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I could bring my typewriter. And work on my thesis here…” His brows lifted, expression caught somewhere between awe and incredulous delight.

“You’ll barely get anything done.” You tilted your head, feigning innocence.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to manage the close proximity…Especially if we’re going to be doing this during every lunch break.” He let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh–head falling briefly to your shoulder, arms wrapping tighter around your waist like he couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.

“…Now you know I can’t resist an offer like that,” He whispered against your skin. And you just smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, breathing him in–chalk dust and citrus and you.

“I was counting on it.”

#NEEEED

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komorebinked · 21 days ago

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HAHEHSHSHAHHAHSB ANG CUUUTTEEEE

I just knowwwww bob would be so confused with the Filipino nicknames please like imagine him being called (ba)dong and hearing everyone being called (I)neng, chie, Tita baby, and other nicknames that are so far from their actual names 😭😭

P.S. I’m the anon that sent the please don’t go bald so sorry for the confusion. Sorry for spamming I am so happy and love, love your fic 💗 Can I be the 🌻 sunflower anon if you are okay with it? Love ya lotsss

OMGGGGG YES. YES. YES. (Also you can totally be 🌻 anon- I don't have many reoccurring anons!) Here's a little drabble <3 Love u 2.

Nicknames (Bob Floyd x Filipina!Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Your Filipino family decides that your boyfriend Bob needs a nickname <3 WORD COUNT: 762 (itty bitty) WARNINGS: Filipina!Reader, Established relationship, domestic fluff, embarrassing/teasing Bob a little of course MY MASTERLIST

Bob sat at the dining table next to Y/n. He was absolutely taken by the boisterous atmosphere. The table was overcrowded with some of her family members sitting in foldable chairs in the surrounding area. The giggling of the titas. The quiet but joking tito’s giving hilarious reactions. Lola’s and lolo’s, who technically were great aunts or great uncles but who cared about specificity.

Bob wasn’t used to all of this. He grew up in a very small family and very rarely saw his extended family. Yet here he was meeting what felt like way too many relatives. She couldn’t possibly be related to all these people, right?

“Oh! Oh! Bobby! Can we call you Bobby?” Y/n’s Tita Baby cut in.

Bob swallowed and nodded, “You can call me whatever you’d like.”

Tita Baby looked around with a knowing smirk. Y/n groaned a little. She gave Bob a pitying look and reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why?”

Her Tito Boy cut in. “Filipino’s… we’re all about nicknames. Tita Baby. I’m Boy. Tita Neng.” He gestured to her Tita Neng, who was putting more puto on her plate.

Bob smiled, interested. “Well, Bob is technically my nickname already. It’s my call sign for work from Robert.”

“You know how I knew a Bob in high school?” Tita Baby said, “Badong.” She sang with a smile.

“No! We’re not calling Bob Badong!” Y/n laughed.

“What about Bobo?” Her lolo cut in

“Lolo!” Y/n scolded. She turned to Bob. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Baby, I can’t understand what they’re saying anyway.” He chuckled, feeling relaxed despite being out of place in the atmosphere.

Y/n’s mom came from the kitchen and pushed the plate of lumpia towards Bob.

“Oh no- I can’t. I really can’t.” He looked up at her and waved at the plate. He had already eaten so much. But there was no such thing in this household.

“For later then.” Her mom smiled.

“We’ll see.” He chuckled, “Hey, uh- what does bobo mean?”

Her mother looked down at him and burst out laughing. “It means ‘dummy’.”

“Yeah, well-“ Bob chuckled, nodding to her Lolo. “That’s a fitting nickname, too.”

“Ay- no.” Y/n slapped his shoulder. “You’re so smart.”

He blushed at her insistence, then looked around at the table. “Well, how do you get your nicknames?”

“They sort of just happen.” Tita Baby started “Like I’m Tita Baby to Y/n but my real name is…” She drummed the table, “Reyna!”

Bob grinned amused but with confused eyes, “How did- where-?”

Y/n laughed and squeezed his hand. He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it quickly. Turning to give her some attention, he smiled gently. “Do you have any nicknames you’d like to mention?”

“I didn’t have many.” Y/n admitted, “‘Anak’ I guess, but that’s just a general one for kids… So don’t call me that.” She laughed

“I’ve got it.” Lolo put his fist on the table, “We’ll call him Betlog.”

The table erupted in screams and laughter. Bob looked around, confused, before leaning into Y/n, who was blushing bright red.

She sighed and put her hands to her face. “Balls. It means balls.” She looked around the table, “Guys, can we stick with Bobby for now? That’s already a nickname on a nickname.”

Her family laughed, and Bob was flushed bright red but was also laughing along as he took a sip of beer. “I do like Bobby.”

“Bobong.” Tita Baby pointed at him, and the whole table made agreement noises.

“I thought that meant stupid?” Bob asked, confused.

“No, that was Bobo.” Y/n explained, “I think Bobong is just something they came up with themselves. Though- it sounds kinda like Roof?”

“Roof?” He asked.

Her Tita Baby raised her eyebrows with a little smirk, “Because he’s strong like a house.”

Y/n nodded with pursed lips. “I can get behind that.”

Bob laughed, a little surprised. “I don’t know about that.”

“Bobong, eat. Kain na.” Her mother pushed the plate of chicken to him, “So you can stay strong.”

Bob shook his head with a nervous chuckle, reluctantly putting some on his plate. “Like a house.”

Even though he was still bumbling his way through his girlfriend’s culture, he felt right at home with her and her very supportive family right next to him. They had accepted him so quickly. Hell, within a few days, he already had a nickname.

He felt Y/n put her head on his shoulder, and he sighed contentedly.

121 notes · View notes

komorebinked · 21 days ago

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STRAIGHT TO FAVS AGAD ABSHDHWHAHHSH

i knew i wasnt crazy putting all that filo songs in my bob floyd playlist

Mabuhay! I would like to request for our lovely Bob Floyd. Reader is pointing at something with their lips but Bob mistakenly thinks she wants a kiss. I hope you’re having a wonderful day/night.

This is the most niche thing ever, but for all my Filipina girlies <3

KISS POINT (Bob Floyd x Filipina!Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Dating you meant Bob Floyd was getting a crash course in Filipino culture. Words in Tagalog. Karaoke 24/7. Rice for breakfast. When staying at your family home, you realize that he might be new, but he’s more than willing to learn WORD COUNT: 1.2k (More of a little drabble) WARNINGS: Established relationship. Reader is Filipina! Bob's a little clueless but he's trying very hard. Domestic fluff. NOTES: God, I'm just like my Filipina grandmother (falling in love with a Navy man) MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Bob Floyd had no idea what dating a Filipina woman would entail. But he soon learned that it meant rice, eggs, and sausages for breakfast, learning traditions like Mano Po so he wouldn’t embarrass himself, and that karaoke night was… every second of the day. He felt incredibly out of his element, especially around her family, but he was determined to try to learn.

It was day 2 of staying with her family, and he came downstairs to find his girlfriend’s grandmother cooking breakfast. It had taken him a while to figure out that Lola wasn’t her name, but that ‘lola’ meant grandma. The woman looked like Y/n, just stouter and with more wrinkles. Her dark hair flared up in a perm.

“Good morning.” He said, looking around for Y/n.

Her lola turned and smiled. She didn’t speak the strongest English, but she was still kind to Bob. Making teasing jokes at him in Tagalog that he didn’t understand.

“Good morning.” She repeated back in a heavy accent and a nod.

“Do you need any help with that?” He asked, walking over, noticing the Vienna sausages were popping in oil on the stove.

Her lola looked up at him with big eyes before shaking her head and waving him off. She pointed to the rice pot, and Bob nodded, realizing that’s what she wanted him to do. He walked over and grabbed the pot out of the cooker before going to the ten-pound bag of rice that sat slumped in the corner.

Opening it, he found a mug inside as a measuring cup… Which meant he had no idea how much to put in the pot. He started scooping and filled it up most of the way. Then he wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

But thankfully, Y/n came out just in time. She leaned on the door frame of the kitchen, watching Bob and her lola work in the kitchen.

“Morning.” She smiled, alerting her grandma and her boyfriend.

Bob turned around and smiled, relieved. “Morning.” He walked over, still holding the small pot of rice, and kissed her cheek, “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. You snoring woke me up, so I thought I’d go for a walk.” She teased, then looked down at the rice pot, “You making rice, baby?”

His face turned a little red, “Uh, yeah- your uh- your lola needed help. But I’m unsure what to do…”

“Well, for one, your rice pot’s too full.” She pointed out stifling a giggle. She knew he still needed to learn, so she didn’t want to embarrass him. Taking it from him, she nodded over for him to follow her.

Once she opened the bag again, she let some of the rice fall back inside. Her lola turned around and started to laugh at them.

“Kano. Kano.” Her lola teased, giggling to herself

“Lola.” Y/n shook her head as she closed up the rice bag.

“What does that mean?” Bob asked, worriedly looking between them

“Kano is like ‘foreigner’.”

“Okay, so far I’ve been called… p-puti, guapo, pogi, and kano… I think I prefer guapo or pogi.” He said, stammering, trying to get the pronunciation right.

Y/n smiled as she stood back up. She patted his cheek reassuringly. “Yes, you are very pogi.”

She made her way over to the sink. “Then you wash the rice.” She explained, running her hands through the rice under running water. “Just until the water’s clear.” She poured out the old water and let it fill up again. Bob watched intently.

“Then… can you grab me the lid?” She asked.

Bob looked around, unsure where it had gone. Then she raised her eyebrows and pointed at it on the counter behind him using her lips. The typical quick duck pout that most Filipino’s knew was just a way to point at things.

He smiled a little, and instead of turning around, he leaned in and gave her a peck on the lips. She looked at him, a little wide-eyed and confused, but with a smile. Then she realized what had happened.

“Oh, Bob. I meant-” She started to laugh, her hands still in the rice pot.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“When I-” She pointed with her lips again, “It’s just a way of pointing. The rice pot’s right behind you.”

His face completely flushed red, and he breathed out a small laugh. The morning sun through the windows lit up his crooked smile.

“Got it. I should start doing that too.” He turned and grabbed the lid and handed it to her right as she pulled out the pot. “Like this?” He pouted his lips and stared at the rice pot, making her laugh.

“It’s quick. It’s like… when someone you don’t like walks in the room, and you need a way to point them out while being discreet.” She showed him again by raising her brows and pointing her lips quickly.

Bob tried to imitate, and she smiled at his attempts. When he got close enough with a quick brow raise and lip point, she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss.

“Yes, like that.” She said as he smiled and blushed, caught off guard. “Let me show you the way to measure the water.”

He came close to her, and she immediately flipped him off.

“The perfect tool.” She said, making Bob laugh in confusion. She put her middle finger in the rice and water, and the water line went right up to her first knuckle. “Perfect. You just put the water to the first knuckle on your middle finger.”

“But your middle finger is smaller than mine.”

“Don’t question it. We just do it. And it works.” Nina said with a testing brow raise.

He jutted his bottom lip out and shook his head in surrender. She put the rice pot in the cooker and flipped the switch. Simple as that. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel.

“There. Now you’re making rice.” She said happily, putting her hands on his shoulders.

Draping his arms around his waist, he looked down at her, then did a little lip point. She laughed out loud at how his glasses fell to his nose.

“Are you pointing at something or asking for a kiss?” She asked

“Asking for a kiss.” He said in a small voice.

She leaned up and kissed him, pulling him in by his shoulders. He pulled her into a hug so that even when he pulled away, he rested his chin on her head. He sighed a little anxiously.

“You’re doing fine,” She reassured.

Then suddenly from the dining table, “Y/n. Bobby. Kain na.” Her lola called them to eat.

“Wala rice!” She called back, “Still cooking!” Her lola nodded and waved them over. “Mainit pa ang pagkain.”

Y/n sighed and shook her head, and Bob watched their verbal tennis slightly in awe.

“I’ll learn,” Bob suddenly said, nodding determined.

She turned back up to him, realizing he had been left in the dark. With a small smile, she squeezed his shoulders. “She called us to eat. ‘Kain na’. You’ll hear that one a lot. I said there’s no rice. ‘Wala rice’. Then she said the food’s still hot. ‘Mainit pa ang pagkain.”

“Mainit is hot?” He tried to figure out. His brows were scrunched all cutely.

“You got it.” She smiled, “Now let’s go eat a little until the rice is ready, or I think lola’s gonna deck us.”

He smiled and took her hand as she led him into the dining area. Sure, he was pretty lost when it came to his girlfriend’s culture. But he knew he was in good hands.

#࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐬 𖹭

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komorebinked · 21 days ago

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HUUOOUYY PUTANGINA PARA SA AKIN TALAGA ITO GUYS