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heeluvv · 7 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ05. MY EYES ONLY

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park sunghoon x reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ public sex, unprotected sex, fingering, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (not proofread)

statusᝰ.ᐟ 5/9 completed!

the room was dim, swallowed in the soft hum of electronics and the faint ticking of the wall clock, the only source of light spilling from sunghoon’s laptop screen. the blue glow stretched across his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones and deepening the tired circles under his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. his back was hunched slightly, elbows braced on his knees, jaw clenched as his eyes tracked every detail on the screen like he was hunting something. across from him, sunoo sat cross-legged on the couch, a half-finished drink sweating beside him, his phone forgotten in his lap as he stared curiously at the concentrated look on sunghoon’s face. the way he scrolled—slow, deliberate, almost too precise—sent a quiet tension crawling across the room, unspoken but growing heavier by the second. “what’s up with you?” sunoo asked finally, brow lifting as he tried to break whatever trance had settled over him. but sunghoon didn’t blink, didn’t glance up, didn’t even shift. “i have to find who the fuck these idiots are fighting about,” he muttered, voice flat and clipped like he was reciting something he'd already said in his head a hundred times.

sunoo blinked, thrown off by the answer. “who?” he asked, the single word dragging out slightly in confusion as he leaned forward a little. sunghoon inhaled through his nose but never took his eyes off the screen, his fingers clicking and scrolling with rhythmic precision. “jay and heeseung,” he said, quieter this time, like it was a secret he shouldn’t be repeating. “i stopped by a few nights ago… and they dropped the biggest shit ever.” he paused, jaw flexing again. “they’ve both worked with the same girl. collabed with her. and now they’re catching feelings—acting like they’re not, but they are.” the words came out heavier now, more bitter, more laced with something he hadn’t processed yet. “when i asked who it was, they shut down. wouldn’t even give me her username. like they didn’t want anyone else finding her.” he finally leaned back a little, eyes narrowed at the faint trail of usernames and blurred thumbnails in front of him. “so now i’m finding her myself.”

sunoo sat up straighter, his interest finally piqued, a quiet hum leaving his lips as he leaned over to peek at the screen. “you think they’re in love or something?” he asked, half-joking, trying to cut the tension—but sunghoon didn’t laugh. he didn’t even smile. “i think they’re obsessed,” he said instead, cold and steady, his thumb tapping at the trackpad with slow pressure. another scroll. another refresh. then suddenly, the screen shifted, and a thumbnail caught his eye. a soft frame. blurred background. skin in low light.

@babydollxo.

he clicked it before sunoo could even process what he was doing, and the profile loaded with a stuttering hum. there wasn’t much to it—no profile picture, no bio, just two videos stacked neatly under the username. the first one had thousands of views. the second had just been posted within the last hour. “that’s her,” sunghoon said, almost to himself, almost reverent, his voice lowering like he was speaking in church. sunoo tilted his head, brow furrowing as he studied the screen. “how do you know?” he asked—but he didn’t need an answer. because just then, a soft pink glow rippled across the edge of the screen. a gift notification. and another. and another. they rolled in silently, one after the next, usernames sunghoon knew by heart: @heefreakshow. @jayafterhours. and then—surprisingly—@jakeoncam.

sunghoon stared, unmoving, unreadable. not surprised, not shocked, not even angry—just silent. like something deep inside him had clicked into place. like something that had been itching under his skin had finally found a name. sunoo shifted again, lips parting, but the tension was too thick now. it sat heavy in the middle of the room, settling in the hollow between their breaths. “damn…” sunoo whispered, almost out of awe. “she must be something else.” and still, sunghoon said nothing.

and then the page refreshed.

you’d posted another one.

the refresh hit soft—just a faint shift in the page’s layout, the timestamp on your profile jumping forward by a single digit. sunoo blinked first, sitting up straighter as the new thumbnail loaded slowly, a hazy image pulled from a dim-lit angle that showed more of your legs this time. the camera was closer now. more intentional. angled from the foot of the bed, a little lower, aimed just high enough to catch the way your thighs spread, the edge of your fingers pressing into your waistband. sunghoon didn’t speak. didn’t ask if they should watch. he just clicked. the screen flickered once, then dipped into darkness, and your voice bled through the speakers again—quieter than before, softer, more intimate, like you were whispering to someone just out of frame. “missed you,” you said, breathy and wrecked. “wanted to be good tonight.”

sunoo exhaled sharply, but didn’t say anything, and sunghoon’s jaw flexed as he leaned in even closer, pupils blown wide and locked on the way you tugged your panties down your thighs with slow, teasing fingers. the fabric slipped inch by inch, delicate and soft, pooling at your knees as your bare heat pressed to the sheets beneath you, your hips rolling faintly like you couldn’t help it. you were on your back now, the curve of your stomach rising and falling with each breath, your fingers drifting up between your thighs with a kind of practiced slowness that didn’t feel fake—it felt familiar. like someone had already told you how they liked it. like this wasn’t for everyone. the way you moved was purposeful. trained. like you were doing it for someone specific. and that’s when sunghoon’s throat went tight. because he knew it—he fucking knew it. this video wasn’t meant for just them this time.

it was meant for someone new.

your fingers moved slow at first, two of them dragging up through your folds before circling your clit in soft, measured patterns, hips twitching like you were already close. the lighting cast shadows across your skin in gold and pink, and even though your face still wasn’t in the shot, your mouth was—barely in frame, parted with every breath, lips glossy and full as you whimpered something too soft to catch. “do you think about me?” you asked the dark, and sunghoon swallowed hard, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth. “i think about you… all the time.” sunoo didn’t even move now—frozen beside him, mouth slightly open, locked in the same quiet daze. sunghoon was burning. his chest was tight, his hands tense in his lap, his legs spread wide for balance like he was trying not to fall forward and crawl into the screen. he wanted to know—wanted to know who the fuck you were talking to. wanted to know if it was them.

your moans got higher, shorter, your hand working faster now, legs flexing as your hips rolled against your palm. the camera didn’t shake. the audio didn’t glitch. it was clean, steady, deliberate—every second meant to be watched, replayed, consumed. sunghoon didn’t blink. not once. the jealousy that sat low in his stomach during the first video had cracked wide open now, bleeding into something hotter, meaner, more possessive. they’d seen this before. maybe not this exact video, but they’d seen you like this. they’d had this. heeseung. jay. jake. he thought about their usernames flashing across your gift notifications, about their silence when he asked who you were, about the way they kept your name like a fucking secret.

but now he had you in his hands.

and he wasn’t giving it back.

the video ended in silence, the last frame freezing on the slow rise of your stomach and the soft part of your lips, skin glowing in that muted, bedroom gold. the room felt smaller now, darker, as if the air had thickened with the weight of what they’d just seen. sunoo leaned back slowly, blinking like he’d come out of something heavier than he expected, shoulders sagging with a deep exhale. “well… shit,” he muttered, voice light, but not casual. “i get it now. i mean—i really get it.” his head tilted toward sunghoon, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. “not surprised they’re obsessed. honestly, i’d want more too.” sunghoon didn’t respond—not right away. he just sat there, still leaned forward, watching the blank video like it might start on its own again, like it might show him something he missed the first time.

then, after a few long seconds, he finally leaned back, lips curling into a quiet, unreadable smirk as he shut the laptop screen with a soft click. “lock the door when you leave,” he said, voice low and even, already rising to his feet with the laptop tucked under one arm. sunoo raised his brows slightly, caught somewhere between amused and curious, but didn’t argue. sunghoon didn’t wait for a response—he was already halfway down the hall, the soft pad of his footsteps disappearing into the darker part of the apartment. when he reached his room, he closed the door behind him, not slamming it, but with enough finality to feel like a barrier being drawn. and then, slowly, he sat down again. opened the laptop. let the glow wash over his face all over again. your profile filled the screen—only two videos, no bio, no face—and still, it was more than enough. he clicked play.

and this time, he didn’t have to share you with anyone.

sunghoon sat in the center of his bed, back resting against the headboard, legs parted loosely as the soft click of the laptop echoed once in the stillness of his room. the screen flickered back to life, and there you were again—frame perfectly centered, thighs spread, voice barely above a whisper as you circled your fingers against your clit like you were inviting someone to watch you fall apart. he just watched, slowly sinking into the pull of it, his breath growing heavier with every second that passed. his hand slid down to his waistband, not frantic, not greedy—just needing to match the pace of what you were giving him. he palmed himself through the fabric, eyes trained on your trembling legs and the way your back arched with every soft moan you let out. his thumb dragged over the head of his cock, slow, steady, the friction just enough to make him twitch.

his jaw tightened as the video went on, your pace quickening, your free hand gripping the sheets beside you as your breath hitched and your thighs began to shake. you were close—he could see it in the way your hips rolled deeper into your palm and your chest lifted with each ragged gasp. sunghoon stroked himself now, slow and firm, matching your rhythm like it was instinct, his hand slick with precum as he let out a soft curse under his breath. “fuck…” he muttered, eyes never leaving the screen, body tensing as he imagined your mouth wrapped around his name instead. it twisted something low in him—the thought that you had done this before for them, that you had said their names when you came, moaned for them while they watched like kings behind their screens. heeseung. jay. jake. they’d already touched this—already had the pieces of you he was only now learning how to crave. and still… he couldn’t stop. wouldn’t. not until he made sure you belonged to him too.

his strokes grew faster as you cried out softly, fingers fluttering over your clit in the way he knew you had done a hundred times before when no one else was watching. but now he was. and he swore he could feel the tension in your voice when you moaned—like you needed someone to answer it, to fill it. sunghoon’s lips parted, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as he imagined his hands replacing yours, imagined pinning your wrists down while your hips bucked against his, slick and needy and desperate to be claimed. his hips jerked forward into his own fist as you whimpered again, this time louder, and he felt the heat building in his core like a fuse burning down, slow but inevitable. his free hand gripped the bedsheet tight as his back arched slightly, tension coiling through his spine. white streaks painted across his stomach, his hand slowing as he rode it out, and the video ended just as he collapsed back into the pillows.

but he didn’t close the tab.

he just let it replay again.

―

you wake up with the kind of silence that feels still and heavy, like the morning hasn’t quite begun yet—soft light pressing at the edges of your curtains, your blanket twisted loosely around your legs, your throat dry and warm. your phone buzzes once on your nightstand, but you don’t reach for it yet. your limbs are still too heavy with sleep, your body sinking deeper into the mattress as your mind starts to catch up with where you left off. the video. the upload. the way your hands moved over your skin under low light, the camera angle just right, just personal enough to feel like you were whispering into someone’s ear. you didn’t name anyone. you never do. but you knew what you wanted it to feel like—close, unfiltered, like whoever was watching had slipped into your room and caught you in the act of missing them. eventually, you roll onto your side, blanket slipping down your bare hip as you reach for your phone and blink the brightness away. your lock screen is full—messages, follows, gifts—but you ignore most of it. just scroll.

until one username catches your eye.

@hoononrepeat

you hesitate before tapping it, your thumb hovering over the alert, not because you recognize it—but because it’s clean. plain. no emojis, no flirty tag, just a smooth, simple handle and a single notification waiting for you. it’s not a tip. not a comment. it’s a private message. and for some reason, your chest tightens just slightly when you open it. the text is short—two lines, spaced perfectly, no punctuation.

hoononrepeat: you looked so soft like that. i can’t stop watching.

that’s it. no hello, and somehow, it lingers longer than any paragraph you’ve ever been sent. you read it again. and again. and your hand goes still against your chest as you stare at the screen, wondering why this one feels like it was meant for you—not just for your content.

is that all you wanted to say?

his reply comes immediately.

hoononrepaet: nohoononrepeat: i want to see you, want to see what more you've got to show.

―

you don’t even bother with a jacket. the air’s still warm and your heart’s already racing, too hot in your chest as you lock your door behind you and start toward the street. you spot him immediately, leaning against the driver’s side door, one foot braced against the pavement like he’s been there for a while, arms folded across his chest as his gaze lifts to meet yours. the moment your eyes connect, his posture shifts—subtle, but there’s something unmistakable in it, like he hadn’t fully believed you’d come out until now. his stare doesn’t drop, doesn’t flicker, doesn’t do any of the things guys usually do when you walk up in person—and it makes the air around you thicken, your nerves prickle with something a little too heavy to be just shyness. “hi,” you say, a little breathless, and it feels stupid immediately because why are you nervous? but he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile big—he just opens the passenger door for you, eyes still locked on your face like he’s memorizing it one blink at a time. “you’re even prettier in person,” he says under his breath, quiet enough that it feels meant for no one but you. you duck your head slightly as you slide into the passenger seat, the scent of leather and something faintly woodsy wrapping around you while he walks around the front and climbs into the driver’s seat like he didn’t just drop a confession between your feet.

he doesn’t start the car right away. for a moment, he just sits there, his hand resting on the gearshift and his eyes roaming your features like they’re trying to trace every shadow and light across your skin. you shift a little in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of how dressed down you are—just jeans, a hoodie, your hair barely styled, and no camera between the two of you this time to hide behind. “i brought stuff,” you say, voice quieter, fingers fidgeting slightly with the zipper of your hoodie. “for the shoot, like outfits and stuff… if you wanted me to change.” but he shakes his head slowly, gaze heavy and unmoving. “no,” he says, lips tilting just barely. “you look perfect like this. soft. real.” the words hit different—warm and strange and intimate in a way you hadn’t expected—and suddenly you’re not sure if you’re here for a video anymore, or something else entirely.

he finally turns the key, the engine humming to life beneath you, low and smooth like everything about him so far. the lights from the dash flicker against his skin, catching the shape of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbone, and you realize he hasn’t looked away once. he pulls off from the curb with a practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between the console, fingers tapping out some rhythm only he seems to know. “i know where we should go,” he says after a few moments, his voice low and calm, like you’ve done this before. “somewhere quiet. somewhere just for us.” you nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat, and your eyes stay on the road ahead as he drives you deeper into the kind of night you don’t come back from untouched.

you don’t realize how far you’ve gone until the sound of the city fades behind you, traded for the quiet hum of the tires against worn pavement and the rhythmic crash of distant waves. the roads grow darker the closer you get to the water, the tall brush lining the narrow path catching the headlights and glowing gold for a second before disappearing behind you. neither of you speak much. not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything already feels thick with meaning—like if you speak now, it’ll all spill out too soon. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers drumming against the fabric in a slow, measured beat that somehow keeps time with your heartbeat. occasionally, he glances over at you—quietly, not intrusively, but like he can’t help it—and every time, he looks away with that same small smile that never quite reaches his eyes. you sit curled in the passenger seat, your fingers tracing the hem of your jacket as your eyes dart to the faint outline of the ocean just past the treeline, the sound of it getting louder now. finally, he slows the car, turning down a dirt path, and you realize where you are.

“we’re here,” he says softly, and you nod like you’ve just woken from a trance.

the car rolls to a stop, the tires crunching against gravel, and for a moment, neither of you move. the engine shuts off, leaving only the steady pulse of the ocean and the soft creak of your seatbelt as you unbuckle it. he reaches behind the seat first, pulling out a small tripod and a bag you hadn’t noticed before, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. the air hits you first—cool, sharp, salt-soaked—and you wrap your jacket tighter around your frame as you follow him down the barely lit path, the sound of waves pulling louder and louder with each step. the moonlight spills silver across the sand once the trail clears, the entire stretch of beach empty, undisturbed except for the tide. he walks slowly, not too far ahead of you, occasionally looking back to make sure you’re still behind him, and something about the way he waits for you, quietly, makes your chest ache. there’s something intimate in how unhurried he is, how his steps match yours once you reach the soft sand. when he stops, it’s in a small, nestled alcove, half-shadowed by a dune wall, protected just enough to make it feel like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you. he lays down the bag carefully, crouching to pull out a blanket and an extra battery pack, then adjusts the tripod and tests the angle, his fingers working with silent ease.

you stand there for a moment, watching him, heart pounding for reasons you haven’t sorted through yet.

"this is definitely going to be a first for me…” you murmur, your voice soft and slightly shaky as your arms wrap loosely around yourself, your eyes drifting toward the dark stretch of waves behind him. “i’ve never done anything public.” the words feel heavier once they leave your mouth, hanging between you and the ocean air, caught somewhere between nervous excitement and the unknown. he looks up from where he’s crouched in the sand, his fingers twisting something on the base of the tripod, and for a second, the moonlight catches his expression—soft, calm, but unmistakably intrigued. “i’m glad to be the first, then,” he says, his voice low with a subtle edge of teasing confidence, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rises slowly to his full height. his body is close now—too close, the heat of him bleeding into your space as his figure looms above yours, the sharp difference in your heights making you tilt your chin up just to keep his gaze. his eyes don’t wander, not yet; they stay fixed on you with a sort of quiet intensity, like he’s already begun memorizing your features under moonlight. “are you ready to go for it?” he asks, his voice dipping just slightly lower, and the way his tongue darts across his lower lip leaves a shimmer behind that catches the light. your stomach flips as his eyes linger on your face, not impatient, not forceful—just waiting, just watching, like whatever happens next is yours to decide.

you nod slowly, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation, and he catches your hand with such care it almost makes your chest ache—his fingers curling gently around yours like you’re something precious, something fragile, and he guides you down to the blanket he’s laid out across the sand. the moment you sit, you feel the coolness of the fabric beneath your legs, the way the grains of sand shift underneath, grounding you as the breeze tugs lightly at your clothes and the sound of the ocean murmurs just behind you, low and steady. he lowers himself with you, crouching at your feet with a kind of focus that steals the air from your lungs, his hands trailing deliberately along the shape of your calves, then your ankles, then the delicate curve of your heels as he slips your shoes off and sets them to the side like they might interrupt what’s about to happen. his touch lingers longer than necessary, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet, and when his eyes lift again, they don’t just look at you—they study you, flicking between your mouth and your eyes as if he’s already imagining what they’ll look like when you fall apart under him. your hair moves slightly in the wind, a few strands sweeping across your cheek, and he reaches up without thinking, brushing them away with his knuckles before sitting back for a single second—just enough time to press the record button on the camera, the soft mechanical click echoing beneath the hush of the waves. he comes right back to you after that, like he couldn’t bear the space for long, his hand rising to cradle your jaw as he leans in, the warmth of him close enough to make you dizzy before he’s even touched your mouth. and then he kisses you—slowly, deeply, with so much deliberate tenderness that your toes curl into the blanket, his lips soft and searching as he tilts his head just slightly to fit you better, like he’s done this before in a dream. his hand moves to the back of your neck as the kiss deepens, his body shifting closer until his knees brush yours and his breath is all you can taste, all you can feel, all you can want.

his hand slips from the nape of your neck down to your waist, warm and steady as it curves along your side, pulling you gently toward him until your chest presses to his and the kiss shifts—deeper now, hungrier, like he’s been waiting far too long to taste you. the blanket crinkles beneath your knees as he guides you lower, your bodies sinking into the soft give of the sand, your thighs brushing his as he shifts to straddle you, but never once breaking the kiss. you let out a soft breath against his mouth when his hands begin to roam again—one trailing up your back beneath your hoodie, the other brushing the exposed strip of skin above your waistband, like he’s mapping out every part of you he’s about to memorize. the ocean crashes in the distance, closer now, the waves folding over each other in slow, thundering rhythm that somehow mirrors the pace of his hands and the rising flutter in your chest. his lips finally leave yours only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, kissing a path across your pulse like he can feel it jumping under his mouth, like he wants to taste just how nervous and ready you are. you tilt your head to give him more room, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at his back, anchoring yourself to something solid as his mouth moves lower, warm and open and reverent. his hand dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, pushing it slowly upward until the cool night air licks at your skin, goosebumps rising under his touch as he pulls it over your head with careful fingers. his eyes flicker back up to yours then, and he pauses—not because he’s unsure, but because he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, his chest rising and falling as he whispers, “fuck… you’re even better in person.”

his fingers curl gently at the hem of your jeans, eyes flickering up to your face before he moves, as if waiting for one final breath of confirmation before he takes what’s already his. you nod faintly, lips parted and chest rising with uneven breaths, and that’s all he needs — his touch dips lower, thumbs pressing lightly into the creases of your hips as he begins to peel the fabric down, inch by inch, dragging it over the swell of your ass with reverence. the night air rushes to greet your newly exposed skin, cool and soft, brushing over your thighs like a phantom touch that makes you shiver, and you swear you feel the sand shift beneath you from the strength of your heartbeat alone. he kneels lower as he pulls them past your knees, his knuckles grazing the inside of your calves with a feather-light touch that makes your toes curl, his eyes never leaving yours as he carefully discards the jeans beside the blanket. he stays there for a second, crouched between your legs with the surf murmuring behind him, and even in the dim glow of moonlight, you can see how tightly his jaw is set, his breath visible when it leaves his lips in soft puffs. his hands trail back up slowly, his palms warm and sure, sliding along your bare thighs like he’s mapping them for the first time, and he exhales a quiet, reverent “fuck” when his thumbs ghost the edge of your underwear. “you’re really letting me see you like this…” he murmurs, almost to himself, and there’s something in his voice—hunger, wonder, something deeper—that makes your heart thud even harder in your chest.

he doesn’t touch you at first. not yet. his hands fall to the hem of his own shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric as his eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll look away first—but you don’t. you watch him, frozen in place on the blanket, the sound of the waves folding over each other behind you like the earth is holding its breath for what’s coming. the shirt lifts slowly, exposing the soft ridges of his stomach first, pale skin dappled with faint moonlight, the muscles flexing faintly as he pulls the cotton up his chest. he’s not performing, not trying to make it seductive—it just is, naturally, inherently, like the act of undressing in front of you is something sacred and instinctive at the same time. his arms stretch as he tugs it over his head, messing his hair slightly in the process, the tousled strands falling over his forehead once the fabric is tossed aside, forgotten in the sand. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush—he just reaches down to the button of his jeans, the sharp pop of it parting sounding louder than it should in the stillness of night. you can feel it in your body before you even understand it—the tightening in your chest, the ache blooming between your thighs, the flicker of anticipation rising like a slow burn. and then he’s lowering the zipper, the metal teeth dragging open with quiet friction, and you swear you could count each inch by the way your breathing staggers.

he pushes them down with a single movement, hips rolling forward just slightly as the denim slides past the curves of his thighs, pooling around his ankles in a wrinkled mess of fabric and heat. the ocean breeze kisses across the bare skin of his torso, but he doesn’t shiver—he just looks at you, like you’re the only warmth he needs, his chest rising and falling with the slow build of something that’s no longer just lust. even in the dim lighting, you can see how hard he is through the thin fabric of his briefs, the outline prominent and unmistakable, straining against the dark cotton with every breath he takes. but he doesn’t move to touch himself—not yet—he just steps out of the jeans and kicks them aside, the hush of the sand shifting beneath his feet grounding the moment in something painfully real. he’s gorgeous in a way that almost hurts to look at, like he was carved to be seen only in moonlight, the lines of his body sharp and soft in all the right places, his collarbones shadowed and neck flushed faintly with color. when he hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear, his eyes never leave yours—not even for a second—and it makes your breath catch in your throat with how deliberate it all feels. it isn’t performative, not for the camera, not for a paycheck—it’s intimate, personal, almost reverent, like undressing in front of you is a privilege he doesn’t want to take for granted. and then, slowly, he starts to lower them.

he doesn’t climb on top of you right away—he kneels first, bare knees sinking into the edge of the blanket as his hands settle at either side of your thighs, his breath steady but deeper now, heavier. his eyes sweep over your body with a kind of hunger that’s been aching behind every look since he first saw your face, but now it’s raw, unhidden, his gaze softening only when it lands on your mouth. “come here,” he murmurs, voice low, almost hoarse, and you do—you lean forward instinctively, pulled by something magnetic in the way he’s looking at you. his mouth finds yours before you can say anything, slow and warm, lips molding to yours in a way that feels like he’s been craving it, like he’s imagined it too many times to hold back anymore. the kiss deepens gradually, never rushed, just sinking and sinking until his tongue grazes the seam of your lips and you part them for him without thinking. his hand cups the side of your neck gently, thumb pressing just under your jaw, not tight, just there—reminding you that he’s in no hurry to stop tasting you. you moan faintly against his lips, and that sound makes his hand twitch against your skin, a soft growl curling at the back of his throat. his other hand slides slowly down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip until it dips between your thighs.

his fingertips brush the inner seam of your panties, featherlight at first, just enough to make you shiver as the kiss deepens again—slower now, wetter, your lips parting around his with every sigh that spills between you. the pad of his middle finger presses gently over the damp fabric, circling once, and your breath catches in your throat the second he realizes how soaked you already are. “fuck…” he whispers against your mouth, the word hot and thick with disbelief, like it makes him crazy to know you’re like this for him. he pulls back just enough to look at your face, his thumb still tracing under your chin as his other hand slips beneath the fabric, the waistband stretching just slightly around his wrist. your thighs twitch when he makes contact, his fingertip dragging up your slit slowly, softly, gathering every bit of slick before circling your clit with unhurried pressure. your hips lift in response, a quiet whimper falling from your lips before you can stop it, and he groans quietly as if your reaction alone is enough to undo him. “you’re so fucking soft,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his eyes locked on your mouth again like he’s tempted to kiss you until you fall apart in his hands. his fingers slide lower again, dipping into your entrance just barely—just enough to tease—before pulling back to circle your clit again, slow and tender, like he’s learning every inch of you by touch alone.

his hand doesn’t rush. it slips lower with the kind of care that feels rehearsed—not out of boredom, but out of deep, deliberate control, like he’s been thinking about this moment for too long to mess it up now. his fingers skim the waistband of your panties first, not pulling, not yet—just stroking along the edge, like he wants to feel every last barrier before taking it away. his mouth stays on your neck, soft and unrelenting, lips brushing just below your ear as he breathes you in, the pads of his fingers finally curling beneath the thin fabric and grazing over your bare skin. you twitch—just a little—and he notices, because of course he does, and the low chuckle that leaves his throat vibrates against your jaw like it’s meant to settle under your skin. “you’re already so warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as his hand flattens between your thighs, cupping you fully, letting the heel of his palm press in just the right way. the friction is light—barely there—but it makes you gasp all the same, your legs shifting open without him having to ask. he draws slow, deliberate circles with his middle finger, not dipping in yet, just tracing over your clit like it’s his to learn, his to memorize, his to keep. your body starts to respond without thought, hips rolling into his touch, breaths coming in little stutters every time he drags his fingertip in tighter, more focused motions.

his kisses grow slower the more your body reacts, like he’s savoring each moan he pulls from your throat, like they’re all proof that you want this just as much as he does. he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, then trails down again, lips brushing your collarbone, soft and open-mouthed, like he’s marking a path only he’s allowed to follow. his free hand comes up to slide beneath your bra, thumb brushing your nipple with practiced ease as the other hand stays between your legs, his fingers never stopping, never breaking the rhythm he’s set. the ocean is a distant sound now, replaced by the soft rush of your breath and the quiet slick noise of his touch working you open. “you feel that?” he whispers, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your stomach flutter. “you’re so fucking wet already…” your moan is breathless, not quite a plea, but it makes his jaw flex anyway, like he’s holding himself back, like if he doesn’t pace himself, he’ll lose it. his fingers slide lower for just a second, parting your folds to gather more of your arousal before circling back up to your clit, slick now, gliding smoother, deeper, more precise.

his touch builds pressure in waves—gentle, controlled, then a little firmer when you roll your hips just right, when your body pulses against his palm like it’s begging for more. he watches your face the whole time, eyes sharp and dark, soaking in every twitch of your brows, every soft drop of your lips, like he’s collecting your reactions to keep for later. your thighs tremble, and he moves with it, adjusting his angle so his finger presses a little tighter, a little faster, like he knows exactly what you need without having to be told. his lips find your shoulder, then the base of your throat again, his voice low and thick when he speaks next. “don’t hold back, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “let me hear how good it feels.” his words shoot straight through you, and you do—you let your moan slip out freely this time, soft and high, your chest arching into him as his fingers work tighter, faster, pushing you closer to the edge. he’s not even inside yet and still, you feel like you’re going to break, like his touch alone could ruin you if he doesn’t stop—or if he doesn’t give you more.

his hand shifts, just enough to change the rhythm, his fingertips pausing at your entrance like he’s waiting for you to twitch, to gasp, to show him just how ready you are. and when you do—when your breath hitches and your hips shift forward just slightly—he rewards you with a slow, gentle push, slipping one finger inside you with a smooth ease that makes your entire body go still for a second. the stretch is light but firm, deliberate, like he’s testing the way you open for him, the way you take him in. his breath fans across your cheek as he presses in to the knuckle, and you swear you feel him smile just barely against your skin, his lips grazing your jaw like he’s proud. your walls clench around the intrusion and he groans quietly in response, a low sound that makes your thighs twitch where they’re spread in the sand, your back arched slightly into the curve of his chest. his finger curls slowly, just once, then again, dragging along the front wall with precision that feels far too confident for a first time. “so tight…” he murmurs, almost reverent, his eyes locked on the way your lips part and your lashes flutter shut. “so fucking good, baby.”

he doesn’t rush the second finger—not yet. instead, he draws the first one out nearly all the way before sliding it back in, slow and deep, letting the motion settle into something you can’t help but grind down into. his thumb never strays far from your clit, brushing it just enough to keep you gasping softly, to keep your body trembling as he sets the pace. the ocean behind you is nothing more than a backdrop now, white noise to the heavy rhythm of your breath and the quiet squelch of his finger gliding in and out of you, slick and steady. your hands clutch the blanket beneath you, fingers curling into the fabric, desperate to ground yourself as he keeps you hovering, not too fast, not too much—just enough to make your thighs ache. he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear again as he adds the second finger with the same slow care, easing it in beside the first and pausing once it’s buried to the base. “you’re taking me so well,” he breathes, voice low and full of awe. “fuck, you feel even better than i imagined.”

the stretch is fuller now, his two fingers working you open in slow, deliberate pumps that have your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, your hips rocking down against his hand in search of more pressure. you feel full but not overwhelmed, the friction deep and purposeful, his fingers curling inside you with each thrust to press against the spot that makes your knees twitch. your mouth falls open as he picks up the pace, just slightly, his thumb pressing tighter against your clit now, circling in tandem with the rhythm of his thrusts. every movement is fluid, synced, like he’s orchestrating your body without ever taking his eyes off you. “you’re doing so good for me,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple now as his other hand cradles your jaw to guide your face toward his. “look at me, baby. i want to see you fall apart.” your eyes flutter open, hazy and glassy, and his expression darkens the moment you meet his gaze—like he’s feeding off your pleasure, like it’s pulling something out of him too.

his fingers push deeper, firmer now, each thrust met with the sound of your arousal slicking down his hand, your legs trembling against the blanket as you start to clench harder around him. the moans slipping from your lips are higher now, breathier, no longer controlled, and his lips find yours in the middle of one—swallowing the sound like he needs to feel every second of it. the kiss is slow at first, just like everything else, but it deepens fast, your mouths open and hungry, tongues brushing in time with his thrusts. the hand on your jaw keeps you close, keeps you steady, while the other works your cunt with dizzying precision, two fingers stroking inside you like they were made for it. every roll of your hips brings a low grunt from his throat, and you feel the tension building deep in your core now, coiling tighter with every passing second. “you’re gonna cum for me like this, yeah?” he murmurs between kisses, his voice hot and rough against your lips. “fuck—i want to feel it. want to see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

your body’s already answering before your mouth can—hips stuttering, thighs trembling, breath catching in your throat as your walls begin to flutter around his fingers. his thrusts don’t stop, don’t slow, but his thumb presses harder now, circling fast and tight over your clit, dragging you toward the edge with no mercy. your moans pitch higher, breathier, as your body bucks forward, helpless against the wave building inside you. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers, mouth at your jaw again, pressing kisses between his words. “just like that… fuck, you’re so perfect.” the tension finally snaps, heat exploding low in your belly and rushing through your limbs as you cum hard on his fingers, your back arching and your mouth falling open on a sharp cry that gets lost in the crash of the waves nearby. he keeps moving through it, working you down slowly, his pace easing as you shake and gasp and grip his wrist like you need something to hold on to. your skin is flushed, your hair wild, your chest heaving as your thighs twitch with aftershocks.

you’re still reeling, breath stuttering in your throat and thighs trembling from the aftershocks, when he pulls his fingers from you with a slow, deliberate drag. they glisten in the faint moonlight, slick with your release, but he doesn’t even glance at them—his eyes are on you, completely locked in, like he can’t look away even if he tried. his chest rises and falls with a heavy rhythm, and you feel the heat from his bare skin as he leans in closer, the muscles of his stomach flexing with each breath. you barely notice the shift in his hands until he reaches past you, fingers brushing the tripod beside the blanket—still rolling, still catching everything. but he doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t even think twice. “fuck this shit,” he mutters, voice hoarse and low, as he taps the button to end the recording, the red light fading instantly as he tosses the remote into the sand like it means nothing. and then he’s on you again—no more angles, no more planning, just his lips crashing into yours like he needs you more than air.

the kiss is messy, deeper now, tinged with the urgency that’s been simmering beneath his skin all night, and you can feel the way his body trembles when your fingers slide down his sides. his hands roam with less restraint now, no longer careful or tentative but hungry, dragging up your thighs, over your hips, gripping the sides of your waist like he needs to anchor himself before he sinks too far into you. your name slips from his mouth between kisses, ragged and breathless, as he guides you back into the sand, the blanket doing little to cushion the heat of his body on yours. every movement is rougher now, more instinctive—the way his mouth latches onto your neck, the way his hips grind against yours like he’s already buried inside you. he settles between your legs with practiced ease, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds, catching at your entrance but never pushing in just yet, just teasing. “look at me,” he says suddenly, voice low but clear, his palm flattening over your cheek as he holds your gaze. “don’t look away, baby. not tonight.”

he pushes in slow, all at once, the stretch thick and satisfying, and your mouth drops open on a gasp as your body tenses beneath him. his groan is guttural—deep, broken—his forehead pressing to yours as he bottoms out, hips snug against yours, like he’s finally found something he didn’t know he was missing. he doesn’t move for a second, just stays there, buried inside you and breathing like he’s just run a marathon, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you can feel the tremble in his fingers. “fuck… fuck, you feel too good,” he whispers, almost in disbelief, like your body wrapping around him is something he can’t quite believe is real. his cock twitches inside you as you clench, your legs tightening around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, closer, like your body already knows how to beg for more. and when he finally starts to move, it’s slow, deep thrusts that drag every inch of him along your walls with unbearable friction, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. “this… this is better,” he breathes, mouth ghosting over your jaw, “better than anything we could’ve filmed.”

his rhythm stays steady at first—measured, deliberate—but the tension in his body starts to crack with each roll of your hips against his, and soon his pace turns rougher, more desperate. his hands splay across your thighs, holding you open as he fucks into you harder, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust until you’re arching into him, gasping for air. the sand clings to your skin, sticking to the sheen of sweat along your back, but you can’t feel anything except him—his breath in your ear, the slap of skin against skin, the guttural sound of your name as he groans it like a confession. “you don’t get it,” he pants, voice cracking around the edges, “you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger—but this… this is mine.” and he means it—not with jealousy, but with something sharper, something closer to worship, like having you under him like this is a prize no one else deserves. your hands dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks behind as your next moan breaks apart in his mouth, and he kisses you through it, lips bruising against yours with every thrust.

his hand slides up your waist without slowing down, fingers pressing possessively into your skin as he lifts your hips just slightly—angling you in a way that has your breath hitching hard in your throat the moment he thrusts again. the new position lets him reach deeper, hit harder, and he feels the way you clench around him with every movement. your thighs tremble around his waist, barely able to keep your hold as your body starts to unravel beneath him, but you don’t dare let go. his mouth finds your jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath your ear, teeth grazing over the salt-slick skin before biting down just enough to make you cry out. the sound you make goes straight to his head, and he moans into your neck—low, rough, almost pained. “say it,” he rasps, his voice jagged and wrecked, the rhythm of his thrusts growing harsher, more erratic. “tell me it’s mine.”

you nod before you even realize it, head falling back against the blanket beneath you, hips arching up to meet his with helpless desperation. but it’s not enough. he stops. he’s buried deep inside you, cock pulsing, but he doesn’t move—his palm comes up, fingers curling tight under your jaw to force your gaze back to his. your heart stutters in your chest at the look in his eyes—dark, wild, possessive in a way that makes your thighs squeeze tighter around him, like your body already knows it belongs to him. “say it,” he growls again, this time softer, like he’s pleading even as he commands. “say no one else gets you like this. say it’s only me who gets to feel you. see you. fuck you.”

“it’s yours,” you whisper, voice cracking, lips trembling beneath his. your throat feels raw from moaning, from gasping, from the burn of everything he’s pulling out of you—but you say it again anyway, louder this time, firmer. “it’s all yours—fuck, only you. only you.” the second you speak the words, he exhales like they’re the only thing holding him together, and then he’s moving again—thrusting back into you so hard you feel it in your teeth, in your spine, in the way your body curls up into him like you can’t bear a second of distance.

the sound of your skin slapping together echoes in the cool night, and your moans fall out of you with each thrust, getting louder, messier, as you near the edge. his weight presses you down, burying you into the blanket beneath, into the sand, and it feels like you’re being claimed. he kisses you like he’s starving, mouth devouring yours, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips roll with purpose—grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out until your back arches off the ground and your whole body trembles beneath him.

you come so hard you forget to breathe. your legs lock around him, your nails dig into his back, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you remember. the pleasure blinds you, rips through your core and steals every thought until all you can feel is him—his cock still driving into you, his name groaned into your mouth, his hands holding you down like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

he follows right after, hips jerking as he moans your name like it’s sacred, like it hurts to say. he spills inside you with a shudder, his body trembling above yours, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in the heavy heat between you.

but then his hand slides down, slow and deliberate, palm dragging across your thigh like he’s still hungry. his cock twitches inside you, not softening, and when he lifts his head to look at you again, there’s something dangerous behind his eyes—something greedy, aching, barely satisfied.

“not done,” he whispers, almost apologetic. “can’t be done. not when you feel like this.”

before you can speak, he’s moving again—rolling his hips into yours with slow, deep thrusts that make your breath hitch all over again. you’re still sensitive, your body still fluttering from the last high, and it makes every drag of his cock feel too good, too much, too soon. your fingers curl into the back of his neck, your back arching without your permission as he begins to build a rhythm, slower this time, more focused.

“you drive me fucking insane,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing the spot just below your ear, biting down softly when you gasp. “look at you—already trembling for me, still soaking wet, still so fucking perfect.”

he pulls almost all the way out just to watch your face, then slides back in with a groan that has his eyes fluttering shut, like your body is the one place he can breathe. every thrust is drawn out, measured and deep, making you whimper as the oversensitivity turns into something more potent—something sharper, hotter, harder to hold back.

his hand slides under your thigh again, lifting it higher around his waist, and the angle has you gasping, your nails dragging down his back. “gonna fuck you again just like this,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges, “right here, right now—until you forget anyone else even exists.”

his thrusts fall into a rhythm again, slower but deeper, more possessive now, like he’s not just fucking you—he’s reminding you. of who he is, of what you just gave him, of the way your body fits around his like it was made to. each stroke pulls a breath from your chest, a broken sound from your throat, and he swallows them one by one with kisses that land messy and hot against your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

you’re already too sensitive—every movement lights you up, makes your legs tremble and your hands scrabble for something to hold on to. he doesn’t let you run. one of his arms hooks under your lower back and lifts your hips, keeping you locked against him as he drives into you, over and over, deeper, harder, more sure. his body is heavy against yours but it feels grounding, anchoring, like he’s the only thing holding you to this earth.

“you feel that?” he breathes against your lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked, and you nod helplessly, nails biting into his skin. “feel how good you take me? how perfect you fuckin’ take me?” his hand snakes up between you, fingers pressing down on your clit with just enough pressure to make your whole body jolt. your hips buck, and he groans like you’re killing him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than lips, more desperation than control.

you’re close again—too close—and the way he keeps grinding into you with that thick, unrelenting rhythm, the way his hand doesn’t stop moving, it’s like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. “come for me,” he says, voice shaking. “let me hear how good i fuck you.”

you do. you can’t stop it even if you tried. your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, ripping a scream from your chest as your body seizes around him, back arching, mouth falling open. your vision blurs with stars that have nothing to do with the sky. your pussy clenches tight around him, pulsing hard with every throb of pleasure as he fucks you through it, chasing his own high like a man possessed.

his name falls from your lips over and over—no control, no shame, just pure need.

he cums again with a growl, hips slamming into you one last time as he spills inside you all over again, the heat of it spilling out between your thighs. his head drops to your shoulder as he groans your name like he’s praying, like he’s begging, like he’s offering you something he doesn’t even know how to put into words.

you’re both still gasping for breath, tangled together in the heat of the aftermath, his body heavy against yours as the waves continue to whisper nearby. your chest rises and falls beneath him, heart racing, your skin dewy with sweat and speckled with grains of sand that cling stubbornly to every curve. for a moment, neither of you speaks—just the quiet hum of the ocean and the way his hand lazily traces up and down your side, smoothing over your ribs like he can’t stop touching you.

“you okay?” he finally murmurs, voice husky and low, warm against your cheek as he nuzzles closer. you nod, eyes still fluttered half shut, and you feel the smile that curls against your skin when he presses a kiss there. he doesn’t rush. his hand glides down, then hooks behind your knee, and before you can react, he’s lifting you up—effortless, like your weight means nothing in his arms.

you let out a soft squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands with you pressed against his chest, still completely bare, still glowing with the flush of what just happened. “what are you doing?” you laugh, your voice breathless and high, but it makes him grin even wider. “washing off the prettiest girl,” he teases, eyes sparkling as he starts walking toward the shoreline, feet sinking into the sand with every step. “can’t have you all sticky and messy, can i?”

you hide your face in his shoulder, body warm from both the afterglow and his touch, and you feel the rumble of his soft chuckle beneath your cheek. he wades into the water with you held tight, only stopping once the waves are lapping at his waist. the ocean is cooler than the air, and it makes you shiver when it first hits your skin, but he holds you tighter, anchoring you against him like a human heater. one arm stays under your thighs while the other curves behind your back, fingertips gliding in slow circles.

he dips you down a little, just enough for the water to kiss your shoulders, and then lifts you again, like he’s cradling something precious. you meet his eyes, and they’re so soft now—nothing like the fire from earlier, just quiet awe, like he can’t believe you’re real. he leans in to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck—so many kisses, each one slower than the last, lingering, lips wet and warm from the sea. “you’re perfect,” he mumbles between them, words brushing your skin like poetry, “so fucking perfect.”

you’re not even sure what to say. your fingers twist in the hair at the back of his neck as your heart thumps hard again, but for a different reason this time. this isn't lust—it’s tenderness, intimacy, something that makes your chest feel too small to hold it all. he keeps kissing you like he’s trying to memorize every part of your face, even as the water laps at your skin and the stars glitter quietly above.

“stay right here with me,” he whispers, voice carried by the breeze. and you do—you melt into him, let the tide sway around your bodies as he holds you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

you let him hold you, let yourself rest your cheek against his shoulder while the tide rocks around you like a lullaby, and for a while, it feels easy. his breath is warm on your skin, and his arms stay wrapped tight around your waist like he’s scared the ocean might steal you away. the kisses don’t stop—soft little presses against your neck, your temple, the curve of your shoulder—and he’s humming something under his breath now, barely audible but comforting all the same.

it’s sweet. too sweet. dangerously sweet.

you blink up at the stars, jaw tightening as the weight of it all starts to sink in—the way he’s looking at you, the way your body fits into his, the way your heart is beating a little too fast, too full, and none of this was supposed to feel like this. not here. not now.

he says something again, something playful and light about how you look good in the moonlight, but it barely registers. your throat tightens. you laugh, but it’s thin. and when he leans in again, you shift your head away just slightly, not enough to be obvious—but enough to breathe, to remind yourself this isn’t forever.

what the fuck is wrong with you?

you were supposed to have fun. that was the plan—go in, enjoy it, play the game, collect your wins, keep your heart locked behind your teeth. and yet here you are, getting carried into the sea like a scene from a dream you were never meant to be in. you’re getting too soft. too attached. and not just to him.

your stomach twists as the reality lands hard: this is just one night. one boy. one body. but your soul keeps making it something more, and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up falling for all of them.

your eyes flutter shut. you force a smile back on your lips and nestle into his shoulder like nothing’s changed. like your whole chest isn’t aching.

three more. that’s what you tell yourself. just three more times. and then you're done.

but even as you say it, you know you’re lying. and worse—you don’t know who you're lying to more.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hey…hey….>.< okayyyy not as long as my other ones but don’t you worry, next chapter will be !!

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sturniluvr · 28 days ago

Text

Record breaker

Lando Norris x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: none I don’t think apart from maybe a few spelling mistakes 😭

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend and parents watch him win in Monaco for the first time, and break the record for the fastest track time in Monaco

A/N: Feels like I forgot how to write writing this😭

❗️semi-proof read❗️

It’s the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. Y/N and Lando make their way through the paddock towards the McLaren garage alongside Lando’s parents, Adam and Cisca. Before parting ways, she glances at Lando.

“Be careful, okay? I love you” she says softly, looking at the curly hair man, who smiles and plants a quick kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll be fine baby. I love you too. See you after quali” Lando replies before making his way into the garage, tapping the bar as he walks through as he always does.

Y/N, Cisca and Adam head into the McLaren hospitality and onto the balcony hovering above the pitlane. She glances down at the bustling pitlane, thriving with team mechanics preparing the cars for qualifying, a few sky sports presenters and camera crews. Before q1 starts, she grabs a headset and puts it on, adjusting it slightly. The light goes green at the end of the pitlane, and the first qualifying session gets started, Y/N, Cisca and Adam watching intently.

Time skip to end of qualifying

A huge grin breaks out on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando storm across the finish line, taking pole position for the race tomorrow and setting a new track record of 1.09.954. We make our way down to parc ferme and spot Lando, getting weighed. After he’s been weighed, Y/N wastes no time in wrapping her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder as Lando wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground slightly.

“Well done, my love. I knew you could do it” The Y/H/C haired girl mumbles softly, Lando’s smile growing wider under his helmet at his girlfriend’s praise

After a moment, he gently places her back down and wraps an arm around each of his parents, Adam and Cisca also whispering words of praise to their son. Y/N smiles as she watches the three share this sweet moment. After a moment, Y/N hears a member of McLaren’s PR team call Lando over for his media duties. She gives his hand a soft squeeze.

“I’ll wait for you in your drivers room” she says softly. Lando nods, giving her hand a gentle squeeze back before reluctantly letting go of her hand.

“Okay, I shouldn’t be too long” he heads off to the media pen to do his post quali interviews.

Y/N heads through the garage and across the paddock towards the McLaren motorhome. She heads to Lando’s drivers room and sits down on the sofa and pulls her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through social media.

She opens Instagram and repost a few posts about Lando’s pole on her story, and presses the small ‘+’ button by her profile.

Y/user added to her story

—————

Mclaren

Liked by: y/user, lando, ln4, maxfewtrell and others

Mclaren: IT'S POLE FOR LANDO! 🏁

Sensational work by LN4🧡

comments:

y/user: never a doubt🧡🧡

lnfour: THATS OUR DRIVER

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—————

Lando

Liked by: quadrant, maxfewtrell, y/user and others

Lando: monaco pole. bam.

comments:

Y/user: so so proud my love!🧡🧡

quadrant: he’s him💪

lnfour: I’m gonna watch that lap on repeat all night

maxfewtrell: never doubted, onto tomorrow 🔥💪

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—————

After Lando finishes doing his media duties, he heads to his drivers room. He opens the door and immediately smiles at the sight of Y/N. He walks in and sits next to her, a small, tired sigh leaving his lips. Y/N puts her phone down and reaches a hand up and runs her fingers through his damp curls, Lando's eyes fluttering shut in contentment being back by her side after his tiring quali session and media duties.

“You done for today now?” she asks softly, tilting her head down slightly to look at him. Lando nods silently, finally lifting his head up and looking at her.

“Yeah, jus’ wanna go home and shower and go to bed” he mumbles, a tired chuckling escaping his lips. She chuckles softly and nods, patting his leg, silently gesturing for him to get up. He rubs his eyes and stands up and changes out of his race suit, his movements sluggish.

Once he's ready and changed, he grabs his bag and holds his hand out for her to take, which she does and intertwines their fingers together as the couple leave his drivers room. They call out a goodnight to the remaining members of the team that were still in the garage and make their way through to the paddock. Lando and Y/N meet up with Lando’s parents and the four of them make their way through the paddock and towards his Lamborghini Urus and begin the short drive back to Lando and Y/N’s shared apartment.

Once they're back at their penthouse apartment, Lando and Y/N bid goodnight to his parents as they make their way the guest bedroom. Y/N grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, always making sure she has one for bed.

Y/N makes her way to the bedroom after getting her glass of water, the sound of the shower running hitting her ears, knowing Lando’s having a quick shower before bed. She gets her pyjamas on and does her usual nighttime routine before getting under the covers and reaching for her phone charger and putting her phone on charge. She scrolls through her phone for a bit while she waits for Lando to finish in the shower.

Lando finishes in the shower and turns off the water, wrapping a towel around his waist and stepping out the shower. He quickly brushes his teeth and changes into a clean pair of boxers before making his way into the bedroom, smiling softly at the sight of Y/N under the covers, even in her most natural state, he can't help but think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.

Lando climbs under the covers and gently tugs Y/N towards him, her head coming to rest on his bare chest. He reaches a hand up and gently runs his fingers through her hair, a movement he’s learnt after many years, helps soothe the freckled girl in his arms. He plants a soft kiss to the top of her head. She lets out a soft yawn, feeling completely at ease in the familiar embrace of the blue eyed man she was lucky enough to call her boyfriend.

“Tired, baby?” he murmurs softly, his fingers continuing their soft ministrations through her hair.

She nods softly, her eyes getting heavier by the moment. Lando smiles fondly at her, planting a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Mmm, love you, Lan” Y/N murmurs, her eyes half shut as she sluggishly drapes an arm over his torso, his heartbeat steadily beating against her ear.

“I love you too, my love. Let’s get some sleep” he smiles, his own eyes shutting as the couple drift off to sleep, safe and happy in the embrace of one another.

The next day

Lando and Y/N arrive at the paddock, Lando occasionally signing stuff or taking photos with fans as they make their way to the Mclaren motorhome, a small smile on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando with his fans. Once he’s done, the couple make their way into the Mclaren motorhome and head towards Lando’s drivers room so he can get into his fireproofs and race suit. Lando changes into his race suit, a determined look on his face, determined to win the race later today.

The couple make their way over to the garage. Y/N holds Lando’s helmet for him while he pulls on his gloves and balaclava.

“be careful please” the Y/E/C eyed girl says softly, knowing how dangerous Monaco can be. Lando smiles softly as he takes his helmet from her.

“i promise I'll be careful. I'll bring that trophy home, Y/N/N” He grins, pulling his helmet on. Y/N plants a soft kiss to his helmet where his lips would be a small tradition they've always had since he's been in formula 1.

Y/N grabs a headset as Lando leaves the garage to head to the grid and slips the headset over her ears so she can listen in on his team radio.

The race gets underway with a smooth start for Lando, successfully holding off Leclerc in p2.

End of the race

Y/N cheers loudly as she watches Lando cross the finish line in p1 alongside Lando’s parents, tears of joy filling her eyes. The three of them make their way down to parc ferme as Lando, Chares and Oscar parks their race cars behind their respective stands. Y/N watches, smiling widely as Lando stands on the front wing, cheering and jumps off, running towards the Mclaren crew who congratulate with words of praise and pats on the back.

Lando celebrates with his team, his smile wider than ever. He then moves to hug his parents, the two elders praising him and kissing his cheek. Lando’s eyes lock with Y/N’s, his smile growing wider if that's even possible at the sight of her smile and happiness, her smile just as bright as his, making her look as beautiful as ever. He gently pulls her forward and immediately wraps his arms around her waist and hugging her tightly. Y/N reciprocates his hug, wrapping her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder.

“You won Monaco! I'm so so proud of you” she mumbles into his shoulder. Lando hugs her tighter, holding her closer.

“I did, baby, I did” he responds, a small chuckle escaping his lips, his hand coming up to rest on her waist, looking down at her, taking in her features, his heart bursting with love for the girl in his arms.

He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips, not caring about the cameras and people surrounding the couple. He gently nuzzles his nose against hers as he speaks, his voice soft and low, just for her to hear.

“I love you so much” she smiles softly at his words, a stray tear of happiness falling down her cheek

“I love you too, so so much”

Lando plants another quick kiss to her cheek before reluctantly letting go of her to head to the podium. Everyone all turns their attention up to the podium as the podium celebrations start. Y/N pulls her phone out as Lando walks out onto the top step of the podium and takes photos and videos, unapologetically proud of him

Lando grins when he sees Y/N recording, throwing a quick, cheeky wink her way. He does his champagne pop and Lando, Charles and Oscar, all spray each other with the champagne.

Once the podium celebrations are over, Y/N waits for Lando in the Mclaren motorhome with his parents, the three chatting amongst themselves as they wait for the racer.

McLaren

Liked by: maxfewtrell, y/user, lnfour and others

McLaren: LANDO’S FIRST WIN IN MONACO! 🇲🇨

LANDO NORRIS IS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX WINNER!🧡

comments:

Y/user: NEVER DOUBT A DOUBT!!🧡🧡

lnfour: FASTEST LAP ON THE LAST LAP🥵😮‍💨

davidbeckham: congratulations @/mclaren @/lando👏🏻🧡

Quadrant: huuge🔥

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—————

Y/user

Liked by: lando, McLaren, pietrapilao and others

Y/user: MY BOYS A MONACO GP WINNER!!!🧡🧡🧡Lando words cant describe how proud I am of you! I love you so so much🧡

tagged: Lando, McLaren

comments:

lando: my good luck charm🧡forever my biggest cheerleader 🫶🏻 ♥︎ by author

↪️ Y/user: forever and always🧡

maxfewtrell: never a doubt🧡well done mate👏🏻 ♥︎ by author

mclaren: our driver🧡 ♥︎ by author

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—————

lando

liked by: y/user, riabish, lnfour, maxfewtrell and others

lando: Monaco win. For you mum, dad and of course my biggest cheerleader, Y/N❤️

comments:

y/user: so endlessly proud of you baby🧡 ♥︎ by author

↪️lando: I love you🧡🧡

McLaren: 🧡🧡🧡

lnfour: never knew a post could make me more n more emosh with every slide😭

Riabish: 👏👏

francolapinto: well done landinioooo top weekend👌🏻

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d3vilcvntz · 6 months ago

Text

(top male reader x older bottom character)

being a sugar baby to an older man but you're the top >>>

you're so much younger and so much smaller than him. he's literally towering above you whenever you guys are together. people will always assume that he's the top in your relationship.

you are not even struggling with money, you're doing this just because you can. i mean, who doesn't want a handsome man taking care of you and pampering you with money everyday ?

you met him when you were scrolling through a dating app, seeing his profile that barely shows his face. he did messaged you first, asking to meet up if you're free and you agreed. you lowkey expected someone ugly to come but you don't even care at this point, anything for a thousand dollars i guess. you were so glad that you were wrong when you actually saw him face to face. for someone his age, he's really attractive.

you guys constantly meet up after that, just going on dates anytime you're both free. he paid for everything though, you did offered to pay sometimes but he always refused it. it was just casual until you both went drinking one day, getting so drunk that he ended up getting pounded by you that night. you were scared that everything will end here and you'll never see him again

but the next day, he offered you a position. you'll be his personal dildo and he'll pamper you with money everyday. this is like the best offer you've ever received. sex with someone as attractive as him and getting paid at the same time ? fuck yeah

at this point, most of your friends knew about this relationship as you literally started wearing expensive clothes and saying that you're busy anytime your friends asked to hangout. they sometimes asked the reasons why you can't hangout with them and you'll just says that you have something important to do at night. you weren't exactly lying though

pushing his head into the pillow, grabbing his hips so roughly that it leave marks behind. his hole tightly clamped into your cock, you leaned closer to him "it's so funny how everyone think you're the top" you whispered to his ear "when you're literally getting fucked like a whore everynight" you continued, pulling your cock out of his hole.

he turns to look at you right away, whimpering, feeling empty as his hole clenched on nothing "please...don't pull it out" he begged so sweetly, tears running down his face. you smiled at him, grabbing his arm to turned his body to you so you can see him completely. it caught him off guard as you'll always do it from behind "i wanna see your face while i ruined you tonight" you said, your hand reached out and touched his face, wiping his tears away. leaning towards him to kiss his swollen lips

you slide your cock inside of him again, pulling away from the kiss and slowly speeding up your pace. his hands grabbed the sheets, mouth agape with sweets sounds coming out of it. his poor useless cock bouncing everytime you thrusts into him, just leaking precum all over his stomach "i..want to- ah! cum.. i want to cum~!" he repeated, looking at your face for approval. you smiled at him, nodding your head as your hand reached out to touch his cock. teasing the tip before pumping it roughly

he came first, his eyes roll back as the white liquid spurt all over his stomach and your hand. you slammed your cock so deep inside of him as you release your load in him.

falling asleep and waking up the next day to him being gone from your side. only leaving money on the nightstand. you sighed and took the money. sitting on the edge of the bed, getting ready to go through your day like usual. dont worry, you'll see him again tonight.

#top reader #top male reader #dom male reader #sub character #d3vilcvntz's works

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teeskzagain · 5 months ago

Text

°. *࿐ Squirts ꩜ .ᐟ

in which your poor boyfriend is already overstimulated...but you can't stop until he.....!

warnings: sub!heeseung x gentle!dom reader, handjobs and squirting (yeah that's about it), overstimulation, use of pet names: 'seungie', baby, honey.

"Seungie...how're you feeling?"

Quietly, you swing your head forward and to the side, wanting to get a better view of the boy. Your lower back rests against the bed frame with your legs straightened out in front of you. In between them lays Lee Heeseung.

His bare torso leans on top your chest, though, there was a slight hunch to his backside. You could see his body heave up and down as he actively produces whiny pants.

You wait, blinking patiently as you watch his struggling face. His eyes are squinted shut, teeth clenched into a straight line, eyebrows digging into his brow bone. Almost as if he were in pain.

You regard your boyfriend even if he doesn't reply to you. You keep scanning your innocent eyes over his stature, accepting the silence as your hand continues to leisurely pump his nearly liquified cock.

"Hmm? Is it becoming too much?"

Eyes boring deep into his side profile, you work your grip gently up and down his erection. Each stroke sends him deeper into despair. Your hand is full of pre-cum, and seeing as you're on your third round of edging, he feels himself growing basically numb from just leaking nothing but the first stages of arousal. He hasn't even came yet, and already his cock feels tired.

"Are you about ready?" Your voice buzzes lowly, like you're speaking directly into his brain, "Ready to finally cum all over my hand?"

The soft care laced within your tone has him melting, and he can't help the small whine he does as a reply.

"Baby," his grimaced face finds its way closer to yours, and soon he's opening his glossy eyes that are full of plead, "-so close. Please, 'm so close. Can feel myself about to cum."

He gasps lightly when you suddenly change your pace to go faster, "Please- let me."

Heeseung grips the comforter for support. A stifling moan leaves his throat from how overstimulated he's starting to feel. Covered in his own slick, he can't help if he's starting to come undone from your strokes.

"Oh, poor baby..." Gently, you bring your mouth to his bare shoulder and place a tender kiss, "You're okay, you can release it now. Wanna see you cum now." You give another kiss on his smooth skin and in turn his breathing turns to huffs which gradually get louder.

He can't take it anymore. He just physically can't. You're squeezing his head too hard, and each time he mews lighter. Your fingertips playing with his slit after every spew of liquid just makes his body stutter. You're not just jerking him off, your hand is weaving every other direction as a means of stimulating all of his swollen, pink, drenched cock.

He feels his hips chasing your hand now, "Oh- baby. I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum right no..."

You fasten the pace for him, pulling at and gripping his wet skin until eventually he's ejaculating everywhere. His cum spews all over his tip, and into the crevice of your hand. Some flies in front of you two and lands on your naked legs, while some falls to his stomach.

"Fuck, hmmm Y/N. Feels so fucking good. So fucking-" His eyes are rolling into the back of his head, all the while his load just doesn't stop. And neither do you.

"Keep going. Come on, honey." You coo sweetly as your fingers curl even deeper into his erection while still jacking him off rapidly.

Heeseung, who's becoming overwhelmed with the sensation, lets out a hick, "Mm, baby. What are you.."

"Wanna see it all. So i need you to keep going." You mumble with focused eyes at what you're doing to him. The squelching from earlier has amplified along with how red Heeseung's poor cock looks. You feel yourself getting turned on from looking at his delicious cock.

"Wait-" Heeseung shifts his body around, trying desperately to move way from you, "Wait-! Slow down.."

"Just a little more." You encourage, your hand going lightening speed. The cum and arousal are mixing together because of your movements, and soon a milky substance begins to coat his length. He twitches harshly above you.

"Y/N! N-no, please- I'm gonna-!"

Before you know it, he's crying out the loudest moan from all night as a long distance of arousal shoots out from his tip. More follows suit, soaking your hand until it's essentially drowned out and the bed in front of you both.

His cock continues to squirt bits and pieces of the arousal, all the while his fountain of liquid begins to decrease.

You smile happily at your boyfriend, now slowing down on his cock that's bruised like no other, while sending him quiet praise, "See. I knew you had it in you. Good job, did so good for me."

Placing another soft peck on his shoulder, you keep mumbling tiny words while nursing his overstimulated cock, loving how Heeseung relaxes his tired body into yours.

#heeseung smut #heeseung #enhypen smut #enha imagines #enha #lee heeseung #lee heesung x reader #lee heesung smut #enhypen heeseung #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen oneshots #enha smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #teeskzagain #this idea just sort came out of nowhere so....enjoy!

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bunny-jpeg · 8 months ago

Text

lust is a loaded hand gun

max verstappen

cw: smut/pwp, ferrari!reader, baby fever, seduction, cowgirl position, alcohol/drinking, breeding, the reader wants to have a baby and chooses to have it with max, max is not aware

this bunny runs on comments & reblogs! feed the rabbit!

part 2: love is a kick to the stomach

this sounded stupid. but you wanted a baby. and while that was an easy task for most women, you knew that there was something impersonal about picking from a catalogue. reading profiles felt weird, like you were looking for a used car rather than the biological other half of your child. even if you'd raise them without a father, you'd rather have a night of passion than an awkward doctor's visit.

charles leaned back in his seat and asked, "why don't you and i just make one." he shrugged his shoulders. he considered himself close to you. you had been teammates for a little over two seasons and prior to that you knew each other. he didn't mind being the one to help you bring a child into the world, "i can be his uncle and he'd never know."

but, as close as you were to your teammate. you had other drivers in mind.

you made a face, "no offense, charles. but it would feel like doing it with my brother." being teammates meant you two knew too much about one another. you worked well as teammates and rivals because you were more like siblings. while you appreciated the offer, you felt it was weird.

charles asked, relaxed in his seat, "why are you doing this anyway? isn't there a million ways for you to have a child."

you shrugged, "i want to be a mom, i don't know. leave my seat behind to another woman and let her make all the history. i'm honestly tired. i've reached the peak and now." you sighed, "i want something else. i've got enough money to retire and let my future child retire before they're born." you crossed your arms, "i don't want to be doing this shit until i'm forty and just degrade in the skills department. end on a high note." while it was not an insult to other driver's on the grid. you felt bad that they never got to really be parents due to the schedules.

"so you need to seduce a driver to make that happen."

you nodded, out of the corner of your eye you spotted the driver you had your eye on. while you eyed the man crossing your path, your voice got softer, "and i think i know just the driver."

charles looked over to the direction you were looking at. he noticed who was walking by and he looked back to you, shoulders dropped, "max. you're going to seduce and have a child with max?"

you looked back to charles and shrugged, "why not? what's not to like?" max wasn't a perfect man, sometimes you wondered about the mechanics of his brain. but, you knew your child with him would lay waste to the track in the future.

"i can name a few. do you want them alphabetically or severity of it?" charles asked.

you gave him a look, "it wouldn't be hard to get him to sleep with me. you, me and the rest of the garage has seen how he looks at me. i mean who else do i have to choose from? either they're too old, they're rookies, or they have girlfriends. and i'm not getting a heel in the eye because i'm trying to have a baby."

charles rubbed the bridge of his nose, "i think you just like him."

you tensed up for a moment, "no. this is all just simple. scheming... nothing more. i don't expect to trap him with a child. he is free to live his life after i'm done with him."

charles found it hard to believe. not on your end, but max's. he had heard at sickeningly lengths about how max felt for you. it was probably the most eloquent the driver had ever been. if you got pregnant by him, he'd be getting a ring the next day. he sighed once more, "then have fun with the wold champion. i'd say to be safe, but i think being unsafe is the whole point of this."

you gave the once over of max in the near distance and smiled, "don't worry charles, you'll get all the details in the morning." which earned a groan from your teammate.

it started over a bottle of wine and ended in the motor home of red bull. you and max had gotten frisky over the evening. you wondered if anyone was selling the photos of you two in the back of the restaurant to tmz or some other trashy outlet. you had shared two bottles of wine over dinner. the benefit of being as wealthy as you were, you could throw the cash onto the table and giggle as you stumble out of your place.

you knew someone had a photo of max kissing you at the table to 'taste' the sauce that came with your meal. as if he couldn't take some from the plate.

but back in the motor home, you had dropped your purse by the door. in the dark of the place, you two were starting to get undressed. heels kicked to the wall, your bracelets set on the coffee table. your dress was on the floor by the bed, your bra over the lamp by the bed and your panties on the bed.

"i'm on top." you said as you kissed max's lips. he tasted like wine and fine dining. he tasted and smelled expensive. in all fairness he could be worth more than a micro nation. he was not an easy man to buy, but the currency of sex was in high demand. max wanted you, and you knew that because he got on his back without much argument.

you were both naked on the bed. the faint lights gleamed through the large windows as you rubbed up against max with no other lighting. you could see his face against the shadows of the night. his blue eyes were like gems and they pulled you in. whoever he ended up with would be very lucky.

but tonight you needed him. he was an important piece in your plan. you rubbed against him and with a little help, you sank down onto his cock. while cowgirl wasn't the best position to try and get pregnant, but it ensured that your plan would work. any position is a working one.

"you're beautiful."

"i know." you said as you rubbed yourself against him. you braced your hands on his strong chest. he was a handsome man, he was good at what he did and he was a winner. you knew anyone would be lucky to have him, but tonight was the perfect partner. you knew a child with him would be perfect.

you continued to rub up against him. the roll of your hips were methodical. this wasn't the first time you slept with a man. you moaned when max groped your breasts, massaged the flesh between those bear paws he called hands. soon you sank on his cock and shuddered, feeling the heat raise in your belly.

this was a mission, no time to get attached. you were both tipsy from the alcohol and the driver under you were more handsy than ever. you try not to feel the emotions that came with it. the feeling of being attached to someone you were having sex with. you batted charles' assumptions about your feelings for max out of your mind as you rode the dutch driver.

you were determined to get pregnant tonight. you measured it all down to a t, all you needed was for max not to get whiskey dick. you curved your back to get closer to him, your lips met his as you moved up and down. his cock was snug in your, but it went in almost perfect. the blunt head hit against the furthest parts of you. your heart hammered in your chest as you moved your hips.

you pushed hair out of your face before your braced your hands on his chest once more. he was very toned, you almost wanted to joke about what happened to his slightly kinder chocolate addiction. but that was neither here nor there.

"you feel so good." he grunted, "why haven't we done this before? fuck." he panted, he could feel the heat in his cheeks as you rode him. he had been with others before but being under you was a pleasure no money could buy. you were really good at it, knowing exactly how to make him feel good.

"good things take time." you panted, part of you wondered what would happen if you covered his mouth. you didn't need the dirty talk, this was a mission. if you wanted a casual friends with benefits, you'd try something online or another in the paddock. fucking max was a certainly that you'd get pregnant. it didn't have to be intimate or soft. it was a means to an end, and you'd get there no matter what.

the sounds of your fucking filled the room as you continued to move against him. you raked your nails down his chest, catching his nipples which made him moan. he was cute on his back, letting you take over. you wondered how deep his affection for you went.

you didn't want the emotional baggage of it all. tonight you were both drunk and having sex in the motor homes. it would be a one night stand before you two finished out the season. you could feel the heat across your back as you stared at him.

his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open as he panted heavily. there was heat in his face and you felt something tug in your chest. he was beautiful, you hated to admit it. but max verstappen was a pretty boy.

he was already blissed out, his noises forced you by the movement of your hips. you licked your lips and without thinking, you left a mark on his collarbone. it was stupid, but it excited your further.

you continued to move against him. your breasts bounced with each move of your hips. you felt moans in the back of your throat and a hum in your soul. pleasure was close and it wasn't long before you really worked yourself onto his cock and finished.

the tightness around his cock made max's back arch a little bit. he could feel the heat in the back of his head. his heart pounded as he watched you continue to ride his cock. he panted heavily and soon climaxed as well. you made sure to get everything you could out. you kissed him once more before you stopped. when you pulled away you got off of his waist and laid down on the bed.

"wow." he said out of breath.

you didn't want to talk. instead you turned your head to kiss him on the lips to keep him quiet. there was no time for mushy romantic bedroom talk. you needed him to fall asleep before you could leave.

you tried to count down the seconds, placing kisses across his heated face. you reminded yourself that there would be some lucky enough to keep him for life.

when you pulled away from his lips after one last kiss, he curled up beside you and right then fell asleep. you stayed awake, when the heat cooled in your body. you hoped your mission was a success. the lust and the alcohol still made its rounds in your body. but you were lucid enough to find your clothes in the dark and slip out of the motor home before morning.

you'd never bring up the event to max, only briefly mentioning it to charles. you'd drive harder after that, in the end you'd secure a world championship. as you kissed the trophy and your country's national anthem played, you were already pregnant with your child.

your retirement was a shock to max. you could've easily decorated your home with many trophies over the next few years. but at the end of the 2024 season, you bowed out. you thanked fans and told them that it was a new chapter in your life. and then like that you fell off the face of the earth over the off-season.

max tried to find ways to contact you. where did you go? what happened? why leave at the height of it all? the more he thought about it, the more questions were raised in his head. he asked around the paddock, even going as far as to ask charles where you went. the other drive shrugged and told him that you moved back to your home country with a "little extra luggage". there were no social media posts. nothing. it nagged in the back of his brain for what felt like a lifetime. what happened to ferrari's princess?

it wasn't until almost three years later, max had claimed another world championship. it felt like these days he was riding high. he was still the best. but as he walked into the paddock to train for the upcoming season, he stopped in his tracks. he felt like he was splashed with cold water.

there you were, three years older with a glow to you. you were laughing with charles and lewis, you looked different but in a good way. you were in overalls and a ferrari shirt underneath. you were more curvy than you were when you were driving. and while you were still beautiful like the sun, pulling max in. what made his stomach drop was who was in your arms.

a young boy, with big curious eyes and round cheeks. he held onto you tightly, his small fists in the fabric of your shirt. he seemed curious about the track, but not scared of how big it all felt. while max would've assumed that you got married and had a child as a lot of people did. but that's not what had happened.

max knew right away at the first glance of your son. looking at him was like looking at max's childhood photos. even in features that matched your own, your son carried a lot of max in him. the itch in his brain after you fell off the earth all those years ago came back, this was where you went. the boy looked like him and if he was right about the boy's age then dates lined up. there was no question. max verstappen was your son's father. and when you noticed him staring. you simply smiled and gave him a wink, shifting the boy in your arms and pointing at the me. when your son smiled, max felt something in his gut. looking at you, holding your (his) son, made max feel like he was home. and all those feelings he had been carrying poured back into his head and heart. the same emotions that allowed you to bed him. <3

sequel: love is a kick to the stomach

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leyavo · 3 months ago

Text

| Alary | 1

John Price had been watching you from afar for five years now. He’d seen the way you’d bit your tongue whilst a male superior chewed you out for making a life or death decision. One that saved their asses.

Your captain’s knuckles hitting your shoulder three times to punctuate his the last three words, “what are you?”

“A stain on your reputation, Captain,” you ground out, hands fisted behind your back as if you’d been made to say it regularly whenever you did something to displease him.

“We’re a team sergeant, everything you do reflects on all of us.”

John too busy trying to stay awake whilst the gash on his forehead was stitched up to say anything. He doesn’t forget that day, like a weird fever dream he wonders what you could be if you were given the opportunity to grow. If someone gave you a chance.

What he couldn’t wrap his head around though, was a sergeant on a third performance plan that was still in the same task force. John had seen many dumped on other, smaller units after the first. But you, you were taking whatever they threw at you, simply for being a woman.

It’s no surprise, John knows how most women are treated by their male counterparts in the military. Seen the reports swept away under not enough evidence or much worse, death.

John read through your profile, a long list of reprimanded jargon to keep you in the role of a sergeant whilst others were promoted to lieutenant.

He started to observe you more on the base, gaze wandering to you as your captain yelled in your face. Additional laps for your elbow clipping another sergeant. You ran those ten laps in record timing, he timed it he should know.

Noticed how your team remained silent or sniggered as your superiors made sexist jokes or called you uptight. “Relax sergeant it’s only a joke.” A playful shove to the back of your head.

How you stared at your scuffed boots when your lieutenant got a bit too personal during an active operation, but you ignored him.

It’s not till a merged mission with your task force does John realise the extent of your team’s mistreatment of you. The way you shred your weapons and tactical vest to squeeze through a small opening so you can let them in.

And that’s how you got your call-sign, Bug because you could crawl through small spaces.

Unarmed, alone in hostile territory, but you were more than capable at hand to hand combat and stealth. Soap finding you in the surveillance tower, blood trailing your nose and a stolen machine gun in your grasp.

Nothing, but your tactical vest and gun shoved back into your arms when you meet back up with your team at the end of the successful mission.

“Great work, sergeant,” John says as you walk past him, gloved hand reaching to shake yours.

You stare at it like it’s a loaded gun, but you nod your head and firmly shake his hand. “You too, Captain.”

The murmurs of your task force behind you, “Hurry up, Bug! Or ya walking back.” Chorus of laughter making you retreat from John as if he’d burnt you.

So when John finally gets the funding to add another contractor to the 141, you’re the first one on his mind. Your skillset would be a great asset to his team and he can’t ignore the grit and determination to stick it out with your current lot. Even when you’re mistreated.

And now here you were, standing in front of John’s desk on your first day with the 141. Your hands tucked behind your back, gaze levelled with his as if waiting for a reason to hate him. He doesn’t blame you.

The first women on their task force, that’s what they’re all gossiping about. How you must have slept your way up to the top, there’s no way you’ll be able to keep up with them. Even some betting on your downfall, which Soap and Gaz threatened them to take down.

You warm up to Gaz and Soap quickly, but there’s something holding you back from your interactions with John and Ghost. No teasing or initiating talk outside of your work. Never calling them by their names, just captain and lieutenant.

“Why don’t you tell him to fuck off Bug?” Ghost says, between a mouthful of his food. You hated coming to the canteen at lunch, the busiest period but the guys had dragged you along. “What’s the point,” you shrugged, “they’ll say I’m too sensitive and shouldn’t be in the army if I say shit.”

And that’s when Ghost makes it his mission to get you to fight back. Doesn’t want his team mate to take any shit, from himself or others. Doesn’t matter how thick your skin is.

It takes more than year for you to bite back. Ghost constantly pushing and pushing with his words in hope you’ll finally stick up for yourself. “Pathetic, sergeant try again.” “What is this flirting? Take him down Sergeant!” You’re circling the training mat, Soap and Gaz against you. Ghost’s words getting to you more than you liked to admit. The twitch of your neck, the roll of your shoulders revealing your annoyance. Making it so much easier for Ghost. “Stop dancing around him, Bug!”

Gaz is cringing off the mat, eyes darting between Ghost and you, if looks could kill….your mid sip when the lieutenant speaks again. “Maybe if you loosened up…” Your water bottle hurtling at him, but he catches it easily. “Much better, Bug. Now tell me to fuck off.” Brown eyes glistening beneath his mask. “Oh fuck off you wanker.” His call-sign might as well be wanker now, when you’re not on an active op.

It takes Gaz hours to calm you down, explaining how he’s trying to push you to stick up for yourself.

There’s still some days that catch you off guard though. A little splinter of a reminder that’s deeply ingrained into your being. Where three simple words knock you down a peg or two, promise you a punishment for showing off.

“What are you?” Soap asks, wondering how you figured out a loophole in a software that allowed them to obtain crucial intel.

It’s an innocent question.

John’s quick to notice the frozen response, your head dipping as not to catch Soap’s gaze. “An asset, good work Bug.”

Part two kinda

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

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hoonieyun · 8 months ago

Text

now playing...

pairing: singer/producer lee heeseung x singer reader "y/n" x singer sim jaeyun

genre: love triangle, music industry (but not idols), angst, drama, smau

synopsis: 4 months after your nasty breakup with your ex-boyfriend!heeseung, he releases a new song that's not only about your breakup but he uses the voicemail you sent him at the end of the song. angry and seeking revenge, you decide to collaborate with one of heeseung's favorite artists, jake.

warnings: profanity, drugs and alcohol, toxic relationships, gaslighting, stan twitter bullshit, kissing, suggestive, overall 18+

character profiles

status: complete - started nov 12 2024 finished february 7th 2025 taglist reopened! pls check your perms before requesting to be added <3

now playing: playlist "bad bitches only!" the intro now playing: i can't feel my face now playing: after midnight now playing: walk like this now playing: makeup

now playing: playlist "i want to be alone" now playing: read your mind now playing: these walls now playing: oscar winning tears now playing: biPolar! now playing: rainy days

now playing: playlist "i feel so lost" now playing: last night's mascara now playing: red flags now playing: goddess now playing: broken clocks now playing: when the sun hits

now playing: playlist "choosing me" now playing: angel of my dreams now playing: tears now playing: i'll still be here now playing: eternal sunshine now playing: girl i've always been

loading music...

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luckyroll3 · 16 days ago

Text

Picture Perfect

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

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

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

Word Count: 15,451

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

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

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

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

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

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

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

Chan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does that work? The water thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not most people."

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

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

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

"Depends on the question."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Should I be worried?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.

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

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

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

"You're staring," you whisper.

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

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

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

"Then do it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't usually…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

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

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

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

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

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

Thirty more minutes have passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, you try. Too casual.

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

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

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

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

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for considering this request.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There.

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

Yes, you have my permission.

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

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

You find none.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have permission. That's all you needed.

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They look different than I’d expected."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, not trusting your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

My Masterlist

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neilsbeloved · 13 days ago

Text

the alchemy

summary: clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.

pairing: quarterback!clark x student body president!fem!reader

tags: tooth rotting FLUFF, legally aged students making out, established secret relationships, clark being Whipped with a capital W, slightly insecure clark, emotionally mature reader, football descriptions, no use of y/n

The faint smell of donuts and caramel coffee fill the council office as you hear the soft click of the door lock. You turn around and you're immediately met with your boyfriend, clad in his plaid blue button-up longsleeve shirt, worn-out bag slung over his shoulders, and lips immediately placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Woah, woah, hold it there farm boy," you laugh, placing a hand right in the middle of his chest as his kisses quickly descended to your neck. The thought of him not actually locking the door haunted your mind.

"What?" He breathes. Still continuing his attacks on the column of your neck while carefully placing your food and beverage on your table. "I missed you."

With a little more effort on your push—which was exceptionally hard considering how much Clark has improved in terms of making you lose your mind—he finally pulls away. A bummed-out pout shaping his lips.

You smile even wider. Who knew the big friendly farm boy everyone walks all over on is actually the biggest grump when he doesn't get kisses?

No one, of course. Not one soul in Smallville High School knows because your relationship with Clark isn't even out to the public. Not even your closest friend knows about it—and you're sure his closest friends don't know either.

But it's been like that for three out of the on-going four years you two have spent in Smallville High and so naturally neither of you wanted to break the streak.

You run your head through his soft brown locks, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. Clark's face immediately lights up, already pulling you off of the table you were leaning on to exchange positions. This time, he has a better view of the blank canvas that is your collarbone.

"Missed you," he repeated. "Brought you donuts and coffee from the Talon."

"Didn't know they did deliveries again." You humor him, grabbing the brown bag and pulling a donut out. Clark watched as you point the donut at him, urging him to take a bite. With his eyes locked in yours, he takes a slow and relaxed bite. You wipe the side of his mouth with your finger before taking your own bite. Groaning when the sweet taste of the glazed donut touches your tongue.

"They allow it for certain people." Clark plays along, nodding at you. His eyes wander to the gigantic bulletin board you had in the council office, seeing almost ten listed items now struck-off with a bright red marker. "Specifically people that are overworking themselves again."

You roll your eyes, rolling to his side as you grab the cup of coffee. "Who says I was? I just did my job."

"Babe, you aren't the only one on the council. You can't just cover for everyone's jobs just 'cause they aren't doing theirs," Clark replies, watching you eat.

"Says the one that always takes on Chloe's extra load," You retort with a sly grin. "You do know that the reason most of Chloe's writers are bailing on her is because they don't like her way of gathering her news, right?" You place down the coffee, still eating your donut as you place a hand on the one Clark had resting on the table.

Clark chuckles, "Chloe's my friend, what can I say? She's been like that since fifth grade."

"At least she's passionate about it. It's so rare to see someone so committed in their craft that I can't even deny whenever Chloe asks me for an exclusive… which, mind you, is almost seven times a week." You sigh, head subtly shaking.

"Weren't you the one that wanted somebody aside from me to interview you?" Clark furrows his eyebrows, putting on a thinking face. His eyes squint, "Something along the lines of not getting work done."

Your eyes roll back, finishing the glazed donut in your hand. "Yeah, 'cause I clearly remember how we spent twenty-five minutes eating each other's faces and five minutes actually answering questions."

You throw the crumpled brown bag to the trash bin from afar. You miss, badly, but Clark's quick to distract you from your lack of shooting skills by kissing you. Again.

"Let's shorten that twenty-five minutes then," he smiles into the kiss. Snaking his arm around your waist as he could still taste the sugary taste of the donut on your tongue.

The kiss was anything but sweet. It was full of hunger, desire… and something you can't quite pinpoint. Usually Clark has his own rhythm of sucking the air out of you but this time it's messy—all over the place. Like you'd disappear any moment now if he didn't move faster.

He doesn't mistake the very subtle jingle of door handle. He hears it crystal clear and yet, he doesn't pull away. When the sound registers in your ear, you pull away without a second to think.

You immediately grab a spare folder on the other table. Clearing your throat as you looked down on it, pretending to flip through the papers. Clark on the other hand looked directly at the student who came in.

It was Adam. The same guy he saw you with earlier.

"Oh—is this a bad time? I can come by later?"

"Actually," Clark begins but you cut him off.

"No, it's fine. Do you have a concern?" You ask directly. Putting on your professional mask as you looked at Adam by the door. Ignoring how you can actually feel Clark glaring holes at the side of your face with his jaw clenched.

Adam stutters. Shifting from you to Clark, then back to you. "I, uh, I was wondering if there were any other tutors available? I'm kinda flunking Chemistry and I need to ace the upcoming test."

"Then study," you hear Clark mumble. It was a little louder than he had expected but who cares, obviously not him.

You inhale sharply, turning your head to the bulletin board for the tutoring sessions for the month. Your shoulders flunk when you see your name under the Chemistry border. The other one—Lana—was already done with her tutoring hours so it was only you left.

Your head turns to Clark. He had already seen the arrangement on the bulletin board, he was looking at you now to wait for your response to Adam's request.

"Uhm, you can take my slot. What time works for you?"

"Any time you're free." Adam smiles at you. Clark rolls his eyes.

You nod unenthusiastically. Taking the clipboard beside Clark and handing it to Adam. "You can write on the 4:30 PM row. I'll be at the library fifteen minutes prior to our schedule, and I can wait for you until quarter to five."

Adam happily writes his name, glancing up to see you and Clark exchanging looks. "Is he signing up for a tutoring class too?"

"No," the two of you say in unison.

Your eyebrows furrow slightly at Clark. The farm boy breathing deeply before he responds. "I'm asking about the, uh, football schedule," he looks at you for confirmation. When you nod approvingly, he does too. "Yeah, the football schedule."

"Oh… Well, shouldn't you be asking Coach Teague that?"

"How would you know?" Clark raises an eyebrow, sounding way sassier than you ever heard him speak. Adam looks at him with subtle surprise, masking it with a friendly smile. "Because I am in the football team?"

The air quickly shifts as Clark and Adam have a stare-down. Only broken off when you clear your throat. Adam reluctantly says goodbye, stepping out of the office with a wave directed to you.

When the door closes, you turn to Clark with your arms crossed. "What?" He groans. He knows that look all too well.

"Are you okay with me tutoring him?" You ask straightforwardly.

"Why wouldn't I be? You've tutored dozens of our classmates over the years." He shrugs. His hand slowly coming up to tug on the strap of his bag.

"You sure? 'Cause it's a yes or no question, Clark. I can have someone else cover for me if you don't want me to tutor him," you say genuinely. Brushing away the lock of hair that fell in front of his handsome face.

Clark's lips purse into a thin line as he nods, hands finding solace on your hips. "Yes, baby, I'm sure. Just… don't overwork yourself, okay? I don't want you gettin' tired from something that isn't even your job."

You bite back a smile, looking into his eyes with stars in yours while he pulls you in for a hug. Your head rests on his shoulder as you wonder to yourself—how exactly did I manage to score a man like this?

"Gotta go, handsome. I'll see you back home," you give him a chaste kiss. Using every self-control you have not to respond to Clark's obvious attempts of deepening the kiss.

The first tutoring session you had with Adam was a quick one. Adam had a pretty solid foundation, he understood the concepts clearly, his only flaw was in his application of said concepts. Usually, he'd do well on the conceptual-based questions while also failing the problems connected to it.

One session wasn't going to cut it and so he booked you for four other sessions. All of which had a longer time frame, extending thirty minutes more from the usual one and a half hour long session. That only meant that you had to spend two hours with him every Tuesday and Thursday for two whole weeks.

Now if Clark didn't find it bothersome the first time, he definitely did now.

"So, uh, we still up for six later?" Adam leans on the locker next to years, smiling.

"Yeah, uh, sure. Of course. I'll see you at the library." You smile back. You quickly turn back to your locker and grab your things fast. Adam wasted no time diving into another subject.

"Oh, by the way, I—y'know, I really appreciate you being my tutor. I know you're juggling a lot of responsibilities and still, you never come to a session late and…" your eyebrow arches, waiting for him to finish. Thankfully, he takes the look in your face as a hint. "I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to a coffee? Just something after our session to show my thanks."

Your response arrives fast, without any hesitation. "No, Adam."

Adam gets caught off-guard by the firmness in your voice. He didn't expect you to say yes right away but he didn't exactly expect you to deny it in a split second too. He thought you'd at least think it over for a minute.

"Oh! But, it's, uh, y'know, coffee as friends. I'm not asking you out on a date," he laughs awkwardly but you could see right through him.

"I appreciate the thought, Adam, but no. If you have any questions about the lessons we're discussing, you can reach out to me—but anything else besides that, please do not." You breathe deeply. Eyes catching on the tall figure at the end of the hall, watching your encounter with Adam. "I have to go. I'll see you at the library."

You don't give Adam a second to respond, immediately slipping out of his sight only to find the end of the hall empty. No plaid-wearing farm boy in sight. You swallow on nothing, beginning to feel a thump in your chest.

It takes you some time of walking around to finally catch a glimpse of him. He was standing beside Chloe, visibly talking about something as they had laughs on their faces. You walk over to them, locking eyes with Clark in the process.

Just as you were about to walk by them—and possibly strike up some small talk—your shoulder gets nudged by your friends.

"Hey! We were looking all over for you! Did you hear the news?" Janet, your friend, says.

"What news?"

"Not so fresh meat just made it onto the roster. Rumor says he's starting quarterback," another friend, Rose, says. Her tone held a bit of bite to it, as if she didn't want him on the spot in the first place.

"Now that's a nice headline," a bright voice speaks. All three of you turning to the shaggy-haired blonde. "What d'you think, Clark? Not so fresh senior meat now starting quarterback. Kinda has a ring to me."

You tried to act naturally, chuckling at Chloe's words despite your friends glaring at them. Since he is the topic, you look at Clark. Eyes round and awaiting a response from him.

He doesn't respond though. He simply shrugs, looking at you like your were nothing before pulling Chloe away from probably stirring up a fight.

"That guy has some problems," Rose rolls her eyes, checking her nails carelessly.

"Yeah. He's already senior and he's only just tried out for football now? Damn. Talk about a late bloomer," Janet says high-fiving Rose.

"At least he's cute… right?" Janet turns to you.

"Huh?"

"Clark Kent. He's cute, right?" When Janet repeats her question, you felt something inside of you twitch. Janet's calling your boyfriend cute, and Rose's agreeing with her too. They're checking your boyfriend out. Shamelessly.

But you can't even worry about that now—your mind is filled with the way Clark looked at you moments ago. Like you were nothing. Like he hasn't met you even once.

Of course, you two hide your relationship to the school but there's always something unspoken of each time you look into each other's eyes. It's a comfort and a pleasure at the same time. A cozy blanket in the cold air. Hot chocolate every Christmas. Donuts and caramel coffee in hidden rendezvouses.

There were none of those when Clark looked at you earlier. You can't help but feel there's something wrong.

"Hey Mr. and Mrs. K! I was wondering if Clark was around?" You ask with a smile.

Your relationship with Clark may be a secret to everyone in Smallville, but his parents are a definite exception. Yours, not so much.

Jonathan and Martha share a look you recognize to be an apologetic one. "He's, uh, he's at the barn. He's been there since he got home." Martha answers with a strained smile.

You feel even weirder because Clark's parents have been nothing short of supportive. You two may have hidden the relationship from them for four months but they definitely enjoyed the idea of their son going out with you.

When you nod determinedly, turning around to head to said barn, Jonathan calls you. "Clark's, uh… you may want to be careful approaching him. He's a bit pent-up, with the football and stuff."

You nod. "Oh, of course! I'll be careful. Maybe he just needs a little cheer up."

You head over to the barn in haste. Walking up the loft to see Clark with his head down, writing something in his notebook as a stack of textbooks sat beside it.

"Knock knock." You knock on the wooden rails, letting the sound resonate through the barn.

Clark looks up from his notebook, smiling the moment he registers it was you. But you notice his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, you set that aside.

"What a surprise," he replies, voice clipped. "I thought you'd be slumped up with your council work and tutoring."

"And miss out an awesome opportunity to spend time with the charming plaid-wearing farm boy? Pftt, never," you drop yourself beside him. Propping your elbow up on the backrest as you turned your body towards him.

Clark chuckles, looking back down on the coffee table as he began writing again. You felt an even stronger twitch in your body when he does that—ignore you.

He may be tired, drained, or pissed off—but he had never gone through a second of seeing you without kissing you the moment the coast was clear. He'd always sneak in the quickest of kisses even though you two would get caught if he was slower by a millisecond.

"Clark, hey," you touch his shoulder. "I missed you."

His head keeps itself in place, "Missed you too, baby. How was your day?"

"Clearly not as harsh as yours has been. Wanna talk about it? I can spend the night…" you pause. "Oh, also, I heard you're starting quarterback! How'd that happen?"

"Did you now?" He laughs dryly.

The smile on your face falters, his tone felt like a bucket of ice was dumped on your head without your knowledge. He drops his pen, leaning back on the couch as he actually looks at you for the first time this night.

"Well, the previous one was injured. I stepped in." His answer is short and direct. His voice lacking the enthusiasm you're used to. "How about your day?"

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Clark, what's the problem?"

Clark's eyes flicker up towards yours, hurt and anxiety evident in your pupils. He feels a tinge of guilt in his chest. Licking his lips, he reaches out for you only for you to pull away.

"Did I do something wrong?" You question. Though no matter how firm your voice was, Clark knew it was close to breaking.

"No, no, baby, you did nothing wrong—" Clark's voice rises as he panics. Fully reaching out to you so he can pull you to his chest. "It's… it's me, okay? I… I just—" he takes in a deep breath. "Don't you think it's time we made our relationship public?"

It's clear that you were surprised with his question. The sharp inhale and your raised eyebrows gave it away no doubt. But why wouldn't you be? Not once has Clark ever thought about making your relationship public. In fact, he was the one that actually proposed it in the first place.

You tried your best to understand him though. "Is there a reason why you want to make our relationship public?"

"Babe, we've been hiding our relationship for three years. We started when we were sophomores, we're seniors now. No one can worry about us anymore. We're graduating in a few months—who cares by now?" This is the first time his voice actually held some energy to it. His hands intertwined with yours as he looks at you for approval.

"Clark, I know when you're lying," you say. Clark's throat bobbing up and down as he clenches his jaw. You place a hand on his cheek, your other hand running through his hair comfortingly, "You know you can tell me anything, Clark. Let's talk about this like adults."

It takes him a second to actually decide to speak, and another second to construct the words in his head. "I don't like how people still think you're single," he starts. "The guys talk about you, people in the hall talk about you… I hear so many promises from people that they'll ask you out either after the game or after graduation—regardless, I can't even respond. I can't tell them that you're my girlfriend because in the first place, no one knows about us—no one'd believe me." You feel his heart beat faster. The continuous thump underneath his chest makes your stomach flip as well.

"Call me selfish, but I can't take it when other people look at you and think that they can have you." His voice drops, hands tightening on yours.

"Like Adam?"

A scoff comes from him. "Yeah, like Adam. Have you even heard half of the stuff he says about you in the locker rooms?" Clark's voice raises. His sharp features straining furiously before he feels your hand tighten around his. It prompts him to raise your intertwined hands, kissing your knuckles. "It's nothing bad, baby, believe me. He wouldn't be walkin' straight if they were bad. It was just that he's so in his head that he actually thought he can take you out on a date."

"So this is about Adam?" You arch a brow, testing the waters. When Clark shakes his head, looking away to hide the smile on his face, you laugh. "Well, y'know, farm boy, he actually just asked me out earlier."

"I know. I heard."

"Then you also heard what I responded with?" Your lips widen slowly.

He sighs, turning his head back to you. "Yes, I did."

You smile at him. He returns it, ten times wider than yours. Your heart flips as the smile finally reaches his eyes—finally feeling right.

Quiet envelopes you both. A comfortable silence before you snuggle on his lap, resting your head on his muscular chest. "I understand how you feel, baby."

One of the things Clark loved about you was your ability to always have him heard and understood. Even the dozens of times he's missed your dates, suddenly cancelling unannounced; you've always been there for him with a patient mind, an awaiting ear… and probably a grumpy attitude when Clark specifically dipped on a day you were really looking forward to.

Now, one thing definitely changed; if before you had to trap him in the barn, force him to be honest and say his feelings, you were content that now all you had to do was talk to him sincerely and directly, no interruptions, and no hotheads.

"Does this mean we're going public?" Clark asks cautiously.

You lift your head, letting your chin rest on the center of his chest. "Just do good on the game tomorrow, 'kay farm boy? We'll see how the day goes."

It wasn't the answer Clark wanted, but he accepted it. It was better than giving him the hard no.

And so you laid there the whole night, trying your best to stay awake while Clark told you about his day. His hands running aimlessly through your hair and body until you fell asleep. When you did, he took you to his bedroom and let you sleep there.

A soft and tender kiss on your forehead to end the night.

Loud roars of the crowd could be heard from any side of the field.

The bleachers were packed with people, majority came from Smallville High while some were from the rival school playing. It's been quite some time since the game started and yet, it still feels like a win can be called any moment now.

You were there—since the very start—sitting at the very front row with Chloe by your side. Your friends Janet and Rose sitting away where the cheerleaders were sat. Each time you watched Clark fall short of a goal, you could feel your heart thump even harder.

Way before the game started, you had another little rendezvous with Clark. Giving him the best good luck charm in the form of red lace—which God knows where he kept—and a kiss on the cheek.

Clark's been training for this game for so long now. Weeks of hardworking and sweat come to this very day where he finally gets to earn his teammates' respect.

31-28, in favor of the opponent.

The air gets struck out of your system when you see the opposing team score another point. Slowly building on their lead against the Crows. Your teeth unconsciously nibbles on your lower lip, pulling and biting the soft tissue as you prayed for a plot twist.

"C'mon Clark, c'mon," you mumble under your breath. Glancing at Jonathan and Martha from a far as they too shared nervous and worried looks.

You hear a ring from somewhere, and suddenly they're all splitting into their respective teams. "The Crows asked for a time out," Chloe says. You nod, noting that on the pad of paper that Chloe gave you earlier. Both of you have been noting game highlights since the start of the game.

"Should we try interviewing them?" The blonde was already standing when she asks you that, eyes narrowed at the group of players bundled far from them.

"No." You shake your head. Chloe looks at you weirdly, you sounded way too energetic. "It's not really the best time, Chloe."

Seven seconds remain on the clock. All players head back to the center line as the game resumes back. Your eyes lock with Clark despite the distance. You could barely make out the expression on his face while he could clearly see yours—full of anxiety and hope, hands in a prayer position in the middle of your face.

With a new found drive to make you proud, he turns to the front to look at the opposing team.

You watch as all of the players scramble fast as soon as the clock began. Clark inhaled, clocking his arm back before throwing the football with all of his human force, every fiber in his being hoping that the other quarterback is able to catch it before the time ran out.

The football felt like it was on air for more than five minutes. Every head in the football grounds followed the brown ball as it made its way across the field, every person holding in their breaths as the second player reached up as the time hit two seconds.

On the last second, he lands a touchdown.

Happiness shoots through your body as you jump with Chloe on the stands. Lungs screaming Clark's name as thunderous cheers filled the space, loud enough to even make the ground shake. The players run over to Clark, crashing into him while he throws away his helmet, eyes immediately searching for you. Just you.

Your heart begins beating faster, the idea in your head being thrown away as your legs move on their own.

Clark watches as you rush down the bleachers, sliding past everyone and anyone in your way. Confusion hits him for a second until he finally understands what you're going to do. Shrugging off his teammates, he runs over to the bleachers' side, the amount of adrenaline running in his veins was almost enough to push him to super speed onto your side and lift you up—almost.

The moment you reach the ground, Clark's already jumping over the fence, catching you in his arms.

"Clark!" You yell out, feeling his strong arms tighten around your waist as he spins you around. Your hair moves with the wind as it splatters messily all over Clark's face, his lips stretched into the widest and biggest smile you've ever seen from him. "You did—"

Your words are cut off as Clark lifts you even higher, crashing his lips into yours. The outside world is anything but a figment of his imagination now that he has you in his arms just after winning his first game as a quarterback—and the best thing of it all, was that it was in front of the whole school.

The deafening sound of cheers and wolf whistles make you smile into the kiss, head subtly pulling back only for Clark to hungrily chase after you, not letting you up so easily. When he finally does, with his lips all puffy and swollen, he's staring at you with nothing but affection.

"A real quarterback now, huh?" You tease, smirking lightheartedly at him.

Clark rolls his eyes, lunging forward to give you another kiss on your lips. "Not really, just your boyfriend."

You lose yourself in his smile, only to be pulled away from it when your head moves to the side. You see Clark's parents looking at you two with proud smiles while beside them were his friends—all of which had a shocked look on their faces.

Clark squeezes your side to get your attention back. A contented look grows on his face as he keeps his hold around you, making the moment last just a little longer before you two face the outcome of whatever just happened.

"Ready to put me down, farm boy?"

"Never.”

hearts, reblogs, and comments are highly appreaciated if you loved the fic !

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfic #superman x reader #clark kent fluff #clark kent x reader fluff #smallville fanfic #smallville fluff #superman x reader fluff #dcu #tom welling x reader #clark kent fic #smallville fic

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glossykissies · 15 days ago

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. . . thinkin’ about hot neighbour nonsupe!ben who you just can’t control your expressions around . . . ૮꒰ྀི > . < ꒱ྀིა

it’s not your fault. he’s hot, he’s old, he’s big and strong and he has you absolutely bouncing off the mattress. you don’t care who knows — sorry, let’s rephrase. you want everyone to know.

ben has finally allowed you to be his girlfriend. not that the grumpy old fuck didn’t want it, hell— who wouldn’t want it? but he’d just moved into the neighbourhood and for a while he just wanted to keep things relatively drama free, and that means not banging your 20-something year old neighbour and having everyone in your small town treat you like some kind of mass murderer for defiling the peoples princess. if he was gonna do this, he wanted to keep it a private affair. he just wanted an easy life. privacy. no one in his business.

but then he remembers your cute little face looking up at him when you’d knock on his door asking him to fix your air conditioning (again) and the way you came round to borrow some salt and immediately took your shoes off at his door even though you didn’t need to and just looked so familiar and comfortable in his presence. or, his brain flies to the way you squat over his lap and cried as you tried to cram him all inside your sopping hole at once and whined “i — lemme take it all — i can get it in jus’ go slow!”

so now he’s got a girlfriend in her early twenties. and he fucking likes it.

especially, and he won’t admit it, but especially when you’ve got this giant hulk of a man standing in a queue to buy you an iced vanilla oat milk matcha. he won’t get his own one but he’ll try some of yours.

his arms are crossed over his chest, thick biceps pinned to his own body but you hang off one— having slot your hand beneath it just to hang off him. he’s looking ahead, scowling at the hipsters and teenage baristas and overpriced drinks, probably going on some whole monologue in his mind about how ‘back in his day, you could get a coffee for bla bla bla, and there was no iced drinks just pure hot coffee etc etc etc.’

but you’re gazing up at him. gazing doesn’t feel like a appropriate word because your eyes are telling a different story with a load of bad words. you’re scanning his profile, from his tired eyes to his strong nose to the lines on his face. you’re one soft sigh off a quiet moan, drool pooling inside your mouth with the overwhelming urge to drop to your knees and spit on his cock right there and then. everyone can see you. everyone can tell that this man is splitting your cunt open. it’s enthralling.

“you don’t think a nine dollar drink is a little uh… fuckin’ ridiculous?” he drawls, voice deep and aged. you suck your bottom lip, not listening a word handsome.

when you don’t respond he leisurely drags his gaze over to you, stares back before shifting his stance to turn his body a little more toward you, which in turn drags you closer by the way you’re still gripping his arm like a vice.

“whats with the look, kiddo?” his voice is flat because he knows.

“mm.” is all you say with a giddy, watery eyed little smile.

the barista says “next please!” and he unfolds his arms, letting your hand drop. you usually would have pouted about this but he briefly cups the back of your neck, just firm enough to send you spiralling into that dumb brain space that makes your panties sticky. his thumb strokes the pulse point on your neck and he raises his eyebrows, lines of age in his forehead.

“didn’t dump enough cum in that pussy this morning babysweet?” he asks like it’s completely normal, and just as your eyes gloss over he’s stepping up to the front desk, leaving you frozen behind. “yeah i’ll take one of those fuckin’ green iced things. oat milk.”

#div by bernardsbendystraws #s.b ♡#hotneighbour!ben

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luveline · 3 months ago

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hi jadey would you write a fic with spencer and reader who is touch starved? i love you and your writing lots

Spencer has been profiling you since the day you met. Tentative smiles prove a hesitancy in making new relationships that could point backward in time toward certain childhood traumas or poor relationship links. But the smile itself, that’s brave. That’s you trying to reach out for something more.

The way you shrug away from being touched initially had him thinking somebody hurt you. It’s a flinch response, not like his own reluctance to potentially come into germs, but it perseveres even now, three years with you on the team, part of their family. Hotch tries to give you a half-hug after your neck cracks and makes them all flinch in sympathy, but you won’t let it linger. You say you’re fine and shrug away but Spencer saw it. He gets it now.

“At least we’re going home,” you say to him, smiling against the wind blowing into the hangar as the airport workers load your luggage.

“You feeling okay?” he asks.

Your smile softens, threads of self admonishment at your mouth as you say, “Yeah, I’m fine, it clicked funny ‘cos I don’t drink enough.”

“I think that’s more to do with your plates,” he says amicably.

“Sorry. Forgot you were a spine expert.”

“I’m an everything expert,” he says.

Most people wouldn’t realise he was kidding, but you do.

You take a little step closer to him, perhaps to use him as a shield from the wind, your eyes drawn to the disaster of Spencer’s hair blowing into his face. He rakes it out of his eyes.

“So, listen,” he says.

“Don’t like the sound of that.”

“No, really. I wanted to ask for something, and you don’t have to say yes. Honestly, if you want to say no then I want you to say no more than I want to ask.”

“Spencer, what?” you ask.

“Do you think you could hug me?” he asks. Hotch hugged your arm and you went stiff as a board, until. “I need one. You don’t have to, I know you don’t really like hugs.

“Oh. Oh, sure!” You cringe but quickly smile. He can see that is three quarters authentic and one quarter brave. “If you need one, I don’t mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s not that I don’t like them– it’s–” You duck your head shyly and open your arms.

Spencer’s gentle. He knows this is odd, asking suddenly and with the team barely five meters away waiting for the jet door to open. The wind tousles his hair into your face and he has to wipe it away before moving in, his fingers brushing your forehead carefully, in case he scares you off, and then dropping. He encourages your arms up swiftly, over his shoulders, his face finding the soft slope of your cheek and then further inward, the smell of your hair under his nose. He clutches you a little tighter than he means to and quickly gentles, tempted to move you from one side to another, but aware of how precarious this really is. You go stiff, so stiff, breath caught by his ear and your hands frozen behind his shoulders, until Spencer rubs your back, and you melt.

Touch-starved. That’s the problem. That’s what he’s been missing this whole time. You want to be touched so badly that your first instinct is to move away, to reject the sensation. But there’s no need for you to go without. You have a plane full of people who wouldn’t mind hugging you from time to time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, in no hurry to detangle himself from you.

“Yeah… it’s okay.”

He squeezes his face to the side of your head, strange weight of a gaze on him. He peeks through his lashes and finds the BAU team staring at him, all in different shades of disbelief. Spencer lets his nose dip again into the soft place behind your ear before he pulls away, desperate hands lingering at your sides. “Sorry,” he says under his breath. “I feel better.”

“Yeah,” you say, licking your lips, “me too.”

He gives you a squinting, awkward, loving smile.

“If you ever want me to return the favour, you know, if you ever need–”

“Okay,” you say, turning on the spot to see the jet again, not ignoring him, only flustered. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“It’s almost hard to watch,” Morgan whispers. Emily elbow him in the ribs.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic

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everlastingserenitys · 1 month ago

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VIDEO GAME FUCKER!

summ. in which, you fuck your gaming rival so he wouldn't win the championships!

pairing. caleb x f!reader cw. gamer!caleb, gamer!reader, caleb uses emoticons, flirting, fingering, hand jobs, p in v, rivals with benefits (again? lol), dirty talk, he has another stupid username, kind of mean Caleb, semi public, kissing, wall sex, zayne mentioned again lol wc. 3.9k a/n. we should :D :3 ^_^ with each other!!! fixing mistakes later, my apologies if there are any

“Ugh! Zayne! This person keeps winning every round and I literally got moved to second place!” Caleb angrily threw his controller across his desk and slumped down on his ragged gaming chair.

Zayne sighed, a tired sigh left his lips and he placed his hand on Caleb's trembling shoulder, he patted him a few times before strutting to Caleb’s bed and plopped on the soft mattress. “Well maybe if you don't angrily smash your fingers on your controller, then you could win.”

Caleb only rolled his eyes in response and slid back up on his chair, grabbing onto the controller and angrily clicked a few buttons to get the next round going.

Then a ding alerted him from his angry state and Caleb glanced at the bottom corner and noticed a red dot hovering over the chat bubble. Curious, he brought his cursor to the button and clicked it just to be met with no new reaction at all, just anger building up on anger.

Caleb skimmed at the message you sent, it wasn’t anything serious – matter of a fact, it wasn't even anything horrible. Just a little teasing with a little wink emoticon that totally distracted him and even forgot he was playing a serious game.

“Championships are soon and this idiot is annoying me…” Caleb muttered, thinking of a response, something flirty that might throw you off. But before he could even bring his fingers to his keyboard a sound effect of defeat blared through his computer.

“Shit!”

Caleb slammed his head against his desk, his fingers clutching on the keyboard as he panted heavily, trying to control his anger. Zayne sighed again, Caleb heard him lift off from his bed and head towards the door.

“Rather you be quiet and deal with the losses, or stop playing for a while to… calm yourself down.”

Caleb stared at Zayne's suggestion with a confused look and before he could strike back, the door closed shut. Caleb averted his gaze back to his screen which displayed several more messages from you.

“So annoying.”

calebexplodes: 1v1, in the practice room?

Caleb eagerly stared at the text bubbles appearing and disappearing as he anticipated your response. After an excruciating two minutes–yes he counted, exactly 120 seconds of the bubbles disappearing and reappearing, a response finally came in.

“okay?”

Caleb stared at the little ‘ok’ in disbelief, he scoffed and left the server to make a private one and invited you in. He patiently waited at the lobby and when your character finally loaded up he pulled out the chat and already started acting like he was better than you.

calebexplodes: get ready to lose!! :D

annoying idiot: whatever you say… vc?

Yes, he had already changed your nickname before he even found out your actual name–But Caleb stared at the screen with widened eyes, he hesitantly dragged his mouse to the mic in the top corner and in a click he was in. He awkwardly shifted around his seat before he heard another ding appear in the voice chat room, and noticed your profile right above his.

“Hello?” Caleb took the initiative to talk first, if he was going to be cocky on text he had to at least have some confidence when you were voice chatting, but the second your beautiful voice surged through Caleb’s headset he almost fell down his chair.

“Wha–”

Caleb shut his mouth and gulped the lump forming in his throat, he knew he was playing with a girl – I mean, it was obvious from the start. But the way your voice sounded was just too distracting if his goal was to win, right?

With the clear of his throat, he went back to his poker face – as if you could see him – he still wanted to try to act tough.

Caleb started the round and swiftly moved his fingers around his controller, his eyes only focusing on the game nothing el–

“So, you’re going to the championships?” you asked, a hint of seduction laced your voice and Caleb shut his eyes in embarrassment.

Shit.

---

You move your mouse around your desk as your other fingers work quick movements on your keyboard, the awkward silence before the round started was just as worse as not getting a response from ‘calebexplodes’, or Caleb perhaps.

“Caleb?” you ask, shooting several shots at him which caused him to die immediately. An annoyed sigh was heard from the other side of your headset and you chuckled in response. It was obvious he was angry, probably because you took his number one spot, but you also felt like there was more than that.

“Yeah?” his voice comes out in a groggy tone and you only scoff in response. But before you could ask your question again, Caleb interrupted you.

“And yes, I am going to the championships, once I get first place again.” The last few words came out in a mumble and you could just hear the challenge in his voice.

“Oh really? Join me in a real match then.” you say, flicking your cursor to the exit button, hovering your finger over your padded mouse, “Not sure what we needed a private room for, hmm?”

“Is that how you want to play, pipsqueak? Fine then.” Caleb shot a few shots at your character and soon left the room momentarily, waiting for you in the lobby at the supposedly ‘real match’.

“That isn't even my name..” you mumble and leave the practice room, heading over to the lobby where Caleb was patiently waiting.

calebexplodes: took u long enough ;) let's play now.

You sent a little ‘ok’ and joined the game.

The countdown flashed on your screen, the bright numbers illuminated your dark room and you sat up, getting ready for a real game. A game that will hopefully not bring Caleb back to number one.

But, shit. You thought he was just as bad as he was in the practice room, and the previous rounds you played before you reached number one. But now that Caleb’s number 1 spot was gone, he was actually dedicated to going back.

“This is crazy…” you mutter, countering a few more shots at him, and just before the last bullet could go through, he headshot you and a sound of defeat alarmed through your computer. You scoff in disbelief and check the leaderboard to notice Caleb was back at number 1?!

calebexplodes: told u i would get it back ;3

You don’t reply. Instead, you request to start another match, hoping to get your number one spot back.

But game after game, it felt like the two of you were playing for hours, and hours. You were too engraved in trying to win, you didn't even notice you went down on the leaderboard.

“Fucking idiot.” you seethe, requesting one more round, but Caleb declined the request and made up some lame excuse in the chat, saying he was tired, yada yada. You didn't care about anything except trying to get back to number one.

So when he left the lobby, sending a ‘see you later pips! <3’ you risked your sleep schedule to try to at least get back to second place.

And hours later, you finally were back in second place.

“Zayne, Wake up.” Caleb shook Zayne’s sleeping figure lying on his bed and patiently waited for him to wake up.

Zayne stirred in his place and in a groan he winked his eyes open, staring at Caleb’s impatient look plastered all over his face, “what is it?” he whispered, draping his blanket over his face as his breathing steadied to a rhythmic pace.

“When's the championship?”

“Shouldn’t you know this…ugh anyway, i’m pretty sure in a week or so.”

Caleb nodded, “Perfect, drop me off there, alright?”

Zayne only hummed in response and Caleb left the room eventually.

He grabbed a small snack and headed straight to his bedroom to play his game all day.

Caleb checked the leaderboard and still noticed he was number one and you were number two just made him chuckle. He joined matched with random people, all of them he was beating in seconds, it just wasn't as fun as it was with you.

Out of curiosity after his most recent match–which he of course won–he checked out your profile, and fuck, it was the wrong–no, perfect time because you were online. Caleb instinctively brought his cursor to the chat bubble under your profile and clicked it.

calebexplodes: few rounds? i've been good today :p

annoying idiot: sure, vc me tho i don't feel like typing.

Caleb rolled his eyes and immediately joined the voice chat room, when a ding was heard seconds later, indicating you were in the room, Caleb immediately put on his nonchalant persona and started playing as if you were any other player.

“I checked out the rules and stuff for the championship and noticed it's only the top six people playing with each other.” Caleb mentioned, his shaky fingers sliding along his controller, clicking every button as he started to miss every shot.

God, why was he so nervous playing with you? Especially with voice chat?

“Yeah I heard, imagine we verse each other.” you chuckle, and Caleb swore that was the only thing he heard slip out of your lips. He nodded and grinned to himself, verse with you? As if he wasn’t doing that right now, but the thought of doing it in person sounded even better.

“Of course I'd win though, the cash prize looks really good too.” Caleb teased.

“Don't get too cocky now, watch, I'll win, jus’ like riiightt now!”

Before Caleb could even comprehend what you meant by that, his screen flickered to the big letters of ‘defeat’ written all over it. He moaned in agony and hit the corner of his controller on his forehead.

“That was just one game, pipsqueak. We still have a bunch more to go.”

“And I'll win all those other games!” you cheer, the only thing filled in your voice was confidence, and challenge. Caleb only let out a cold, mocking laugh and shook his head.

“Best to ten gets what the other person wants, alright?”

“Oh now we're going for rewards? Watch out.” you chuckle and snipe him in the head. Caleb’s mouth opened to an ‘o’ shape and he angrily clicked the buttons on his controller, his breath getting ragged by the second and as rounds kept going and going he eventually lost.

2-10.

Only two points. He only got two points.

If you two weren't playing with voice chat and he wasn’t hearing the sweet teases coming out of your mouth he could've been the one who got ten points.

“What do you want?”

“Actually, I'll give it to you on competition day.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow and hummed in response, then he definitely had to dress up nice if it's something you wanted to give, especially in person.

“See you next week, Caleb.”

Caleb muttered a quick goodbye and left the game. He sunk his face between his palms and groaned in annoyance.

Oh, he was so not ready for next week.

It felt like the week had gone by so fast, just a second ago you were playing several rounds with Caleb, but no. After that one game with him, both you and him avoided each other's paths and practiced alone.

Now, you were dolled up in a cute outfit, and sat in your car as you drove to the place where the championship would be taken. A wave of nervousness filled your body as you were already in the parking lot finding a spot.

You eventually parked at the corner of the lot and hopped out your car, walking inside the building. The first thing you were met with was people giving you a sticker and marker so you could write your own name tag.

“Watching or playing?” one of the guards asked, you told them you were playing and they let you through.

Now all you needed to do was find Caleb.

As you searched through the scatters of people all over the building, your gaze just stayed stuck on everyone's name tags stuck to their chest, and just as you were about to give up and ask people where Caleb was, you finally noticed a nametag from afar.

Which read ‘caleb’ with a little apple drawing next to it.

Now that had to be him.

And god, he was beautiful.

You push past the swarm of people and reach Caleb who was sitting on a chair on his phone, his bored eyes were glued on his screen and he didn't notice a presence near him. You tapped on his shoulder and Caleb finally glanced away from his phone and looked up at you.

“I..”

Caleb shakily put his phone in his pocket and crossed his arms in a mocking manner as he tried to compose himself near you.

“Ready to lose?” he mocked, lifting himself off his seat, glancing at the clock at the far end of the wall and back at you. You shook your head and leaned in closer, eyes darting at his violet iris before snaking down to his outfit.

“I’m going to win. Watch.”

“Oh? Now that's a confident pipsqueak.” Caleb chuckled and wrapped his fingers around your wrist, pulling you away from the large crowd and brought you to a secluded hallway, pinning you against the wall.

His fingers danced around the straps of your dress as he stared into your eyes, seeking for something you promised to give him. But a mocking scoff escaped your lips and you lightly shove Caleb away from you.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well you..” Caleb glanced around the hall before leaning closer to your ear, “you had something to give me on this day, and I think I got an idea what it is…” he taunts, not moving an inch, and instead just lingers by your ear.

You could feel his breathing get heavier, ghosting intricate patterns along your warm skin which made your whole body shudder in fear. A menacing grin formed on your lips and before Caleb could ask you another question, you crashed your lips on his.

His rough padded lips, graze against your soft slightly parted ones, he slid his tongue through the opened entrance and collided his hot, wet tongue with yours. He was practically eating you alive, his mouth opened wider as he sunk himself deeper inside you, tasting every inch of you.

A low, broken moan left Caleb's lips, leaving a spark of vibration radiating through your body. Caleb pulled away to catch his breath, panting heavily at you with flushed rosy cheeks. A glint of something different appeared in his eyes and Caleb leaned in again.

“So this is what you were going to give me?” Caleb breathed, pressing his forehead against yours. You nod in response but there was–well, is moreyou could give. I mean, your game isn't even until an hour or so later so there is a bunch of time.

Which also means extra time to distract Caleb from winning the championships!

“There’s more I could give…” you whisper, sliding your hand down his outfit, toying with the tie dangling off his outfit.

“And a suit for a gaming competition?” you chuckle, tugging on his tie which caused Caleb to whimper in response.

“Thought I'd impress you and the audience when I win.” Caleb grinned and planted small kisses along your face as his fingers started drifting lower on your dress.

“Seriously think you’re going to win?” Your fingers slide to the bulge denting through his tight dress pants, you grabbed onto his boner and rubbed rhythmic movements on it.

“I-I will.. m-more please..” he whimpered, gripping onto the seams of your dress, practically threatening to rip it off if you continued to tease him further.

And so, you give him more. You slid your fingers under the rough, seamless fabric, slicking your thumb across his already wet boxers. You soon slid them down and his length sprung out with dribbles of pre sliding down.

Oh.

Without wasting another second you wrapped your fingers around his length, and pumped your wrist in quick, deliberate movements.

The rhythm started getting lost at every stroke, both you and him were too much in a daze to even comprehend the situation going on.

The man you were competing with every single day was now desperately clutching onto you as you had your hand wrapped around his cock.

“N-ngh stop.. enough, I-I’m gonna…” Caleb’s speech started to get broken, more ragged, he was practically in heat by the touch of your fingers.

“Can’t even hold it in? Is this your first time?” You tease, but the statement must’ve caused a different reaction to Caleb and spurs of his pellucid mixture coated your fingers.

“Your…” he panted, sliding his fingers under your dress and ghosted his fingers against your goosebumped skin. His rough fingers gripped on your thigh and he averted his glistening violet gaze at you.

“Your turn.” he mumbled.

“Huh? My turn?–ungh!” Before you could even process what was going on, Caleb had already flipped you over against the wall and lifted your dress, tugging at your panties before sliding them off.

“Caleb..” you whimper, turning your head to his direction to look at his state, and fuck.

His eyes gleamed with pleasure all over it, he kept his teary gaze locked on your bare, exposed skin beneath him. His fingers glide down to your soaking cunt and without wasting a second, he slid a finger in you.

And then another, he already had two fingers deep inside your drooling cunt and fucked it like it was the hunderth time he did this, but no. This was probably the first time he's touched a woman.

His fingers slide in and out of you, making you have to stuff the ends of your dress in your mouth to muffle your sounds. Now that he was the one practically pleasuring you there was no way he’s going to get distracted.

“Mmph m–”

“What was that?”

“Fuck.. fuck me” you breathed, hoping it was the slightest bit convincing and well, from the looks of it, he looked like he was about to crumble to pieces after hearing that.

Caleb listened to your request immediately, slicking his fingers out of you and pressed the tip of his leaking cock against your entrance. The feeling of him slowly sliidingg into you almost made you come on the spot.

You slowly rode your hips back, hitting a smooth rhythm against his hips and Caleb only moaned in response, following the same movements as you. One of his hands grabbed onto your hips as the other was placed on your lower back, slowly pushing you down so you could feel every inch of him.

“‘S it good? hngh” Caleb was the one who couldnt control his noises every time he tries asking you something, and fuck, you couldnt do the same either. You felt his cock slowly slide in and out of you before you could catch a break, he rammed his full length inside you.

“Hah.. Caught ya off guard didn't i?” Caleb taunted, nibbling on your earlobe as he slowly slid himself out of you, continuing that same slow rhythm on you again. But you only let out a shaky moan in response and started to grind yourself against him again.

“You think tha-that’ll catch me off guard? How p-pathetic..” you chuckle, tightening yourself around him and riding yourself even quicker and quicker. Caleb let out a surprised gasp, his breath hitching at the sight.

“Idiot..” he mumbled, grabbing onto your moving hips as he stopped you in place and continued to move himself against you, his tip kissing your cervix at every powerful thrust he gave you, and God, it felt like you were in heaven.

“Gonna…mmgh” he shakily slid his fingers lower and pressed against your pussy and spread it open to watch his mess pool out of you. You grit your teeth and turn your head to look at Caleb's eyes, pupils spiraling like it was the first time seeing something he loved.

“So pretty.” he muttered, slicking his tip out of you, a tiny pop sound echoed through the halls when he stared at the mixture dribbling on the ground and sliding down your legs. You shakily plop on your knees and continue to stare at Caleb with teary eyes.

“Went a little overboard, dontcha think?” you laugh, pressing your forehead against the wall as you catched your breath. But Caleb did not respond at all, he just continued to stare at your tired messed up figure on the ground.

“sorry..”

“It's fine, Caleb. Now, what's the time? we have a game to go to, yeah?”

Your plan should have worked by now, right? I mean as long as he was distracted from what happened in the hallway, you should be totally fine, just not think anything of it while you play. That's it.

And since Caleb went a little overboard, it would be normal for him to get severely messed up mid game when he thinks about it, so you were fine.

Literally.

“Now starring the top two players of the game versus each other!” The host introduced you and Caleb to the audience and glanced at the two of you before imitating a beep sound to indicate that the games were starting.

You stare at Caleb's half focused face on his screen, his hands working quick movements on his controller as he was getting almost every shot. You, on the other hand, focused as if this was the final game before you die.

And that's what it felt like.

You noticed Caleb sneaking small glances at you, and every time you tried to look he’d just look away and continue playing.

But there was one instance where you caught him, a light smile crept on your lips as you stared at his shocked face from afar. You take this as an advantage to shoot several shots at him and yes! he was head in an instant.

“Woo! Give it up for ‘er! Last few rounds left before we determine the winner!” The host dramatically announced your win and you glanced at Caleb who didn’t look back at you but instead just stared at his screen with clenched teeth and impatiently hit his fist against the desk.

And after a few rounds happened Caleb was winning, then losing, then winning and the pattern repeats.

And finally in the last game both you and him were competing like you were rivals again, he smashed his fingers against his controller, hard. Stood up from his seat and played like he was dedicated to this win.

And you did the exact same, slightly raising from your chair when the final hits went through and after the final countdown and shot…

You won!

You grin at your screen and stare at Caleb who just stood in the same spot and didn't move an inch.

“Give it up for the winner!”

As the award ceremony finished up Caleb walked towards you and dragged you to the hallway again.

“Congrats on your win, pipsqueak.”

“Told you I'd win.” you laugh, playfully hitting his chest and stare at his mockingly surprised expression staring down at you.

“Wanna 1v1 again? Let's see who wins this time.”

“Sure.. and you know i’m going to win” you proudly say, waving your gold medal across his face.

Caleb chuckled, “i didnt mean in the game.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

part 4 of fly into your heart | caleb -> next work

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #caleb x reader #caleb smut #lads caleb #caleb #xia yizhou #love and deepspace caleb #lads smut #lads x reader #caleb fluff #caleb x you #xia yizhou smut #lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lads #lads fluff

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emilys-bangs · 27 days ago

Text

you come back with gravity | e.p

Tags: unit chief!emily, assistant!reader, brief mentions of blood, small injury, emily resisting reader (but not for long), reader's a rambler and just trying to let emily let them do their goddamn job, one bribery attempt in the form of coffee (it doesn't work)

Summary: Your boss isn’t your biggest fan. You spend precious company time trying to get into her good graces.

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: I've been so excited to write this dynamic and I know I advertised this as flirty reader but that will happen!! They just needed to get into emily's good graces first heh :p anyway, I'm pretty sure half the wc is just reader yapping, I've grown quite fond of them and they do remind me of myself....so if you hate them don't let me knowww. Anyway! More of this reader coming hopefully soon <3 (gosh we know where they got the yapping from)

Your boss thinks you’re entirely useless. Dark haired, sharp eyed, and beautiful, she keeps you ten feet away and flashes you tight-lipped, diplomatic smiles each time you try to get close to doing your job. From your first day you’ve been met with cool surprise at your arrival, then polite but ruthless dismissals of any and all attempts to help. Can you get her a coffee? No, she can get it herself. Can you help her organize her files? You sure as fuck can’t. Can she break down her schedule for you so you can take over the ropes? Yeah, keep dreaming.

You’re hardly what they call a profiler, but it’s clear as day to anyone: she doesn’t want you here.

It’s only been a week and the rejection is grating down on your bones. You hadn’t been aware that she didn’t know of—or approve—your recruitment, but two minutes into your first visit to her office and it had been made all too clear. It didn’t take long before the fog lifted, her jaw setting in a hard angle, lips pressed thin into a carefully neutral line. She had looked you dead in the eye, ignoring the five boxes of neglected case files sitting neatly on a forklift in the corner of her office, and very cooly dismissed any notion of wanting you.

It stung—it still does—to be so easily dismissed, swatted away like a bothersome fly. And it’s not like you’ve been dying your whole life for the opportunity to be some higher up’s assistant, but damn it, it’s in your hand now and you’re not going to let go.

You aren’t here by her approval, but by god are you going to stay.

“She hates me.” You moan to Penelope through a bite of flaky pastry, crumbs floating down to your sensible, neatly pressed slacks. “She hates me, and she’s gonna keep pushing me away until I’m useless enough that she has enough reason to fire me.”

“Sweets, she’s not gonna do that.” Penelope laughs as she types on her keyboard. Too late, you realize that maybe you shouldn’t be huffing and puffing about your boss to possibly one of her closest friends, but Garcia loosens your tongue like that. “Em just needs time to get used to you. She’s totally convinced she can do this on her own—and not that she can’t, obviously, she’s a super boss if I’ve ever seen one, but,” she spins her chair to face you, “it gets too much, even for the super bosses. You’re exactly what she needs, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

You sullenly wipe the crumbs from your thighs. “How do I make her know it?”

Penelope’s eyes gleam. Apart from your stingy, avoidant boss, everyone else in the BAU has welcomed you with open arms, apparently also glad that you’re there to lighten their unit chief’s load. JJ helped you situate yourself in what she told you was her old office and Reid welcomed you to his stash of sugar in the kitchenette, having heard your ramble to Tara about the painfully bitter kitchenette coffee you’d sworn off after a few mouthfuls. They’ve all been lovely, considering you’ve only known them for a few days; you’ve warmed up to Garcia the most, having known her for a few weeks longer while everyone else was on leave.

“Now we’re talking.” She nods approvingly. “To start with—”

The phone rings. She clicks on speaker as you chew through another mouthful of your croissant.

“Garcia, any hits on our unsub’s accomplice?”

You pause at the sound of Emily’s voice, sharp even as it buzzes with static.

“Facial recognition is still running, my sweet, I haven’t gotten anything yet.”

A low sigh blows through the phone. “Alright, well, try searching through the unsub’s friends and family in the meantime. Past school friends, colleagues—everyone.”

“Already on it.” Garcia says promptly. “I’ll hit you back.” She ends the call and turns to you again. Her brown eyes shimmer behind her glasses. You subconsciously lean in close, anticipating some wild secret to earning the way to your boss’ heart.

“You’re gonna need a vanilla latte.” She announces.

____

It takes four days before you come face to face with her again. Four days you’ve spent mostly in idleness, picking up the odd job here and there and helping Garcia behind the scenes, not quite brave enough to encroach onto your boss’ business while her claws are still out. The jet lands from Florida late at night, rather conveniently setting up your fresh attempt at sweetening her up.

You’re in early the next morning, a brimming cup of vanilla latte heating your palm as you head up the stairs. The bullpen is still fairly empty, its usual buzz tuned down low and sluggish. You absently tug your collar above your sweater vest, smoothing it down flat against your throat before knocking on your unit chief’s door.

She answers quickly. You shove one deep breath into your lungs before swinging the door open and walking in.

“Good morning.” You say cheerfully, smiling as you cross the floor to her desk. It doesn’t escape your notice how unfairly good she looks, dark hair blending into her navy blazer, bangs soft and shiny above eyes that track your approach.

“Morning.” She intones. You hand her the coffee and her expression softens, the corner of her mouth pulling just slightly. “Aw, thank you. What do I owe you?”

Four twenty five.

“Oh, nothing.” You wave your hand dismissively. She frowns, brows furrowing. “Uh, well, how about your calendar? Or a planner, if I can have a look at that?” You channel your brightest smile.

Emily tilts her head, idly tracing her finger over the plastic lid. “Calendar? Why do you need that?”

“Well, I’m a little…” out of my depth, “...lost concerning your schedule. There’s a few things I’ve written down that need to get done, but I can’t fit them into a time slot without knowing—”

“It’s fine.” There’s that tight smile again. It’s miles away from the easy grin she gives to her colleagues. “My schedule doesn’t need arranging. I’ve got it handled.”

Stupid, stubborn FBI agents.

“I’m not trying to imply that you don’t!” You blurt out. “Really, Chief Prentiss, I’m just here to make your life easier.” You force out a nervous laugh, swallowing the sour taste in your mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

Her hum is thick with something you can’t place as she looks away, her hand dipping into her bag. She hands you a crisp ten dollar bill and a look that says get out. “Thank you, Y/N. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it. Really.”

You want to argue that she doesn’t seem too appreciative, but the sharp tilt of her eyes makes you tuck your tongue under your teeth.

She’s your boss. Totally capable of firing you, with or without reasonable justification.

You bite down on a huff, take the money, and try not to shrink beneath her eyes as you see yourself out.

____

Admittedly, this does feel a touch illicit. But it’s her work calendar—or so you’ve been informed—so it’s not like you’re snooping through her underwear drawer.

You’re just doing your job.

You look down at your notepad, pursing your lips at the list of meetings and tasks your boss needs to get done by the end of—yep, this month. No biggie, except that less than half of them are actually written on the calendar. It’s blank, for the most part, excepting a few days with all-caps tasks filling up their boxes.

“This won’t work here,” you mutter to yourself, glancing at the full slot for Tuesday. You’ve already got three bullet points written down for it.

As you’re shifting it, a new icon comes to life on the screen, a glaring bold EP blinking next to your initials on the top corner of the page. The bubble crawls down until it’s in the Tuesday box, side by side with yours where you’re halfway through deleting the task Emily had already written down.

Shit.

You pause, twisting one of your rings around your finger as you wait for her to do something. Blue light burns itself into your retinas.

The bubble stays still for a few seconds. You watch as it moves, springing back the words you’d erased.

Well, fine. You’ll have to make do with Wednesday.

You start typing down the other assignments, one eye on your notepad and the other on the EP bubble. It stays still, so you continue.

“What are you doing?”

You startle, shoulders jumping at the sound of Emily’s voice. She doesn’t wait at the door, walking in and rounding your desk like she owns it.

You flash her a smile like your heart isn’t pounding. “Trying to organize your schedule.”

Disapproval carves itself in the space between her brows. “How did you even access it?”

“Penelope got me in.” You say brightly. “Don’t—I mean, I don’t know your password or anything, it’s just that I was kind of flying blind like I told you, so she helped me out a little.”

Way to throw her under the bus.

But she’s her best friend. You’re decidedly not.

“And,” you continue hastily, grabbing your notepad before she flicks you away like you’re a bothersome crumb on her suit, “this is what I’ve got so far. Cruz’s report is due by the end of the week, and you’ve also got a budget justification meeting—plus Penelope mentioned two PD’s that need your help with consults while you were away in Florida.”

You’ve had time to work things through while she was away. But unfortunately not much to do without her sign off.

Emily’s tongue drags over her lip. One of her brows arches—an irritated tick, you’ve realized.

“Fine. This has to stay on Tuesday. I’ll get someone on the consults tomorrow, if we don’t get a case, and the meeting…” her lips purse just slightly as she presses two fingers between her brows, massaging the wrinkle. In the low, dim lights of your office, she seems much less stiff. A lot more exhausted. “Do with that what you will, just don’t make it Friday.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am.”

A grin tickles your lips. She’s already walking away, unaware of your teeth biting down on your triumph.

“You got it, g—Chief.”

____

There’s an undeniable pep in your step when you walk through the dim BAU halls the next day. Part of your brain realizes that you’re being entirely ridiculous, but the larger, louder part can’t really care. Cracking through the hard shell of Emily Prentiss’ exterior is possibly harder than cracking ancient hieroglyphics. Maybe it wasn’t a clean crack, sure—and okay, you weren’t able to reach in too deep—but now you can feel faint warmth rather than rough-hewn stone under your fingertips.

You’re lightly chatting with Luke and Tara over a box of pastries you’d gotten when she calls you into her office, her voice low yet still carrying throughout the bullpen.

“Trouble?” Luke raises his eyebrows, his smile partially hidden behind a Danish.

Your stomach turns at the thought. You dust powdered sugar off of your fingertips, failing to muster a smile when Tara scolds him for it, a thud sounding beneath the desks which could mean her boot connected with his ankle.

All of your surety suddenly dissolves, your good mood churning in your gut as you climb up the stairs and hesitantly approach Emily’s office, as if she rigged the floor with land mines.

God, you hadn’t done anything, had you? All you did was fix up her schedule. Could you have fucked it up that horrendously? Made her miss a hugely important meeting with the director of the goddamn—

“Are these yours?”

She points to a pair of earbuds on her desk.

You blink. “What?” You say stupidly.

Emily picks up the earbuds. They’re marked with a swipe of nail polish at the base, glossy red and definitely yours. You needlessly pat your pockets, silently wondering when you’d misplaced them.

“Oh. Yeah, they are.” You can feel your face flame hot as you take them from her and stuff them in your pocket.

You wait. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. Well, not for a few beats.

“Is that…is that all?”

Emily nods. “That’s all.”

Your eyes drop to the multitude of files on her desk. “You don’t need me to do anything?”

“Not as of right now.”

You can feel the walls rising up, blocking you out. Your desperation rises similarly, bubbling up and spilling out when your eyes drop from hers and fall to the orchid pot on her windowsill. The droopy leaves catch your attention, wilting on top of each other and curving downward.

“These orchids are overwatered.” You blurt out, walking over to them and touching one of the yellowing leaves. You also note the way its white petals are turning golden, wrinkled at the edges. They catch the full force of the sunlight streaming in through the window.

“You shouldn’t keep them in direct sunlight, they get sunburned. Orchids are quite delicate. How often are you watering them?” You turn to your boss in time to see her brows tick up, bemused.

“Uh, every day.” She taps her pen against the desk, chewing on her lip. “The leaves have been turning yellow.”

“That’s because of overwatering. It can often look like underwatering. Orchids are difficult to care for, but they don’t need that much water—you were drowning them.”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

You clear your throat, neck ablaze, “I can fix them up for you. If you’d like. Uh, I do know a bit about plants.”

Emily tilts her head in a nod. “Okay.” She agrees.

“Yep. Great, I’ll just—” You point to the door and quickly follow your finger, an orchid pot tucked to your side like you’re smuggling contraband. “I’ll take care of them!” You throw over your shoulder, internally cringing as you go down the stairs, hugging your boss’ rotting plant.

____

“Nothing’s been deleted, the folders have just shifted. You can find them here.” You run the mouse down the bottom edge of the screen, prompting the taskbar to slide up. “See, just there.” You click on a partially hidden icon, and Reid’s files bloom on the screen.

He nods slowly, a little pinch between his brows. “I see. I just don’t get why they’re so elusive.” He mutters, “Or why they don’t attach user guides on how to operate the updates.”

You shrug, lips twisting against the smile trying to break free. It’s truly endearing how so thoroughly a certified genius gets stumped by technology. But it’s not like you can blame him in this case; the update really is ridiculous—and wildly unnecessary.

“Do you have any idea why they keep doing these?” He runs his fingers through unruly, golden brown curls.

“Well, tech’s gotta have something to do, right? I think they try to hide them more with each update so they can confuse the hell out of anyone trying to break in.” You laugh. It prompts a smile from him, a little bashful, soft as his cardigan. Idly, you think maybe he should meet one of your girlfriends.

He takes a sip from his coffee. “You should help Emily out with that too, she’s been complaining about it.”

You tilt your head. “Has she?”

“Have I been complaining about what?” Emily’s voice curls around the back of your chair, spiking your heart rate as you spin to see her.

“The new update.” Reid pipes up. “Y/N just helped me figure out where my files and emails went.”

Her eyes slide to you. It’s a slow drag that leaves heat in its wake, your blood simmering with the full force of her attention.

You fidget with your ring, offering her a smile. “I can show you how it works.”

Her fingers flex around her coffee mug. “It’s your lunch break.” She hedges.

“I don’t mind.” You’re strangely breathless. “It won’t take long. Unless you’re busy.”

She considers you for a beat, then shakes her head. You jump up from Reid’s chair, trying not to look like an overeager puppy following at her heels.

“Thanks, Y/N!” Reid calls out.

You do something with your hand, half dazed. “Sure thing, doc.”

The rush of air that Emily leaves behind smells like coffee and sugar and something like caramel. The scent tickles your nose as you follow her across the bullpen. You’re not quite sure if you should lengthen your stride, walk next to her, but she outpaces you anyway, nimbly climbing the stairs and offering you her chair as you walk through the door.

“Have a seat.”

You decide not to protest. Spinning to her desktop, you wiggle the mouse and bring the screen to life, then walk her through the steps you’d shown Reid. She hovers over your shoulder as you ramble, the smooth scent you’ve now discovered is her perfume clouding your lungs. It’s that caramel; something warm, silky and sweet, almost entirely cutting off the airflow to your brain.

The distinct weight of her hand presses down on the back of your—her—chair as she grips it, giving the occasional hum in response to your instructions. You jiggle the mouse, double clicking more than necessary in an attempt to hide the gravel in your voice. You almost lose your train of thought more than once, but you manage to hold it together.

“That’s it.” You end lamely, letting go of the mouse. The rich brown of her eyes is only a few inches from yours when you look up.

Jesus.

“You could’ve told me, you know. I’m”—just here to help—“pretty good with computers. I took a few coding classes back in college—and Garcia’s been showing me the ropes, too! So I think I’m proficient enough. If you, um, ever need anything. Computer related or otherwise.”

You realize that you should stand. You do, hands automatically smoothing over your blazer. “Anything else I can help with?” You ask hopefully.

Emily shakes her head. “That’s all, thank you. Enjoy your lunch break.” She softens the words with a smile, a hint of a dimple rendering you unable to push back.

You walk out as dazed as you were when you walked in.

____

You’re wincing as you shoulder your way through the bathroom door, one hand cupped under the other to catch the drip of blood from your palm. It’s not a deep cut, you don’t think, but it stings like hell. At least you can’t see any shard of ceramic lodged beneath the blood.

Well, not yet.

The door swings shut behind you, but you’re not alone.

Drying her hands at the sinks is none other than your boss. She immediately notices your hand, her brows drawing together in sharp lines.

“What happened?”

“Chief Prentiss!” Your voice echoes loudly against the tiles. You bite down on another wince and shove your hands under the tap. “It’s nothing. Just a small cut, it hardly hurts—”

“That’s not what I asked.” Her heels click against the floor. Suddenly she’s there, right at your elbow, her fingers closing around your wet wrist. The blood washes clean under the water, but it still forms up against the flow, rushing to escape your veins. You barely notice the sting as Emily tilts your hand, observing the thin line running from your middle finger to the base of your thumb.

Her eyes flick up to yours, obsidian dark. Her brows raise expectantly.

“Uh. Reid dropped his mug. I was just helping him clean up, but,” your shoulder touches your ear, “I was a little clumsy with it. It’s fine, really, doesn’t even hurt!”

A displeased hum cuts through your ramble. “Cleaning up after Spencer isn’t part of your job description.”

“What is?” You ask, tired from her hot and cold, your tongue loose from the press of her fingers on your wrist. You snap your mouth shut too late, internally cursing.

Emily is quiet as she tilts your hand under the water. “Rounding up last week’s reports.” She says eventually. Your head snaps up. “Spencer hasn’t turned his in yet and Luke’s backlog is at least three cases behind.” She glances at your hand. “If you can, that is.”

“Yeah!” Jesus, dial it down. You clear your throat, nodding, “Yes, definitely can do, Chief.” You would salute, if your hand wasn’t held in hers beneath the water (why is she still holding it?).

A sharp dip of her chin is all the reply you get back. “A bandaid won’t hold.” She murmurs, dropping your hand and grabbing the first aid kit hanging on the wall. “You’ll need to bandage it.”

“That seems excessive.” Directly disagreeing. “Ma’am.” She told you not to call her Ma’am. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

“No one will appreciate it if your blood’s all over the paperwork.” She says wryly, placing the kit on the counter.

“Right.” You snap your mouth shut. “Of course not.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am again.”

“Does gorgeous work?”

She blinks.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—” you clamp your hand over your mouth. “I’ll just leave now.” You mumble, mortification weakening your knees.

Emily shakes her head, the corner of her mouth tilting as she walks past you and out of the bathroom. Her perfume washes over you, lingering with your stinging hand and the boiling heat of shame crawling all over your body.

____

You’re heading to the elevators, coat slung over your arm, when you glimpse the light on in Emily’s office. It’s not terribly late, but there’s no one else on the floor, either. You make a detour to the glass doors of the bullpen, swinging them open and walking in.

Even before you reach her office your breath is catching, a dampness in your palms that you hastily wipe away on your clothes. She’s past the point of tossing you to someone else, you try to tell yourself, but the voice in your head is weak. You’ve been getting her to bend more, widening the crack and worming yourself through the gap, but she still makes your insides flutter nervously.

Maybe Emily Prentiss has resigned herself to your help. You don’t think she’s reached the point of liking you yet.

Still, you knock on her open door and poke your head in. The orchids sit pretty on her desk, warmed to a faint yellow beneath the lamplight.

You’re usually a confident person. But the second her eyes lock with yours, your knees just about turn to jelly.

“Hi.” Your voice is soft. “It’s, uh—it’s late.”

She sets her pen down. “Didn’t know you set a curfew for me.”

“Oh! No, of course not, that’s not what I—”

Her low laugh makes you freeze in place. It doesn’t last long, but it washes over you like a faint glow, warmth kissing the surface of your skin. Too late, you realize the teasing in her voice—silk soft and pliant, the way it is when she’s talking to Reid or Garcia.

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. You venture deeper into her office, feeling her eyes track your steps. “What I mean to say is you shouldn’t have to be here longer than anyone else.”

Emily’s lips press together into a pitiful smile.

You fiddle with your coat, shrugging a little. “Sure, you’re the boss, but…I can help.”

If you’d gotten a dollar for every time you’ve spoken that phrase over the past two weeks, you’d be swimming in money. Still, you clear your throat.

“I can go through the paperwork with you, and I can help organize your schedule to make room for it when you’re not on cases, and I can help you prioritize everything so you don’t fall behind. It’s not much, and I know you can do it all on your own,” your hand flaps at your side, “but you don’t have to. That’s what I’m here for.”

The remnants of your voice echo around her office as Emily laces her fingers together and sets her chin on top of her fists. Your heart skips as she looks you over, the sharpness of her gaze softened by the warm light of the lamp at her elbow.

“You’d be in for a late night.” She says eventually.

Your eyes widen. “That’s fine! I mean—not too late, obviously, but”—you shrug, fiddling with a loose string on your coat and forcing nonchalance in your voice—“it is my job.”

It’s an electric zap up your spine when you glimpse both her dimples. “Tomorrow.” Emily says. It holds a shade of promise, not as airy as her other dismissals. “Go home for now.”

“I will if you will.”

She softly clucks her tongue. “Don’t push it.”

Your body flushes with heat.

“Y-Yes, Ma—yes, Chief. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

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