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edenarchives · 2 months ago

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♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You tried to move on. Tried to pretend it didn’t happen. But then he walked back into the classroom like nothing changed. Now there’s a new guy in your seat, your professor won’t look at you, and someone way too powerful is watching it all unfold. You thought things were bad before—turns out, they’re just getting started.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: professor x student, age gap, power imbalance, jealousy, possessive behavior, rough sex, public/semi-public sex, blackmail, manipulation, toxic dynamics, dirty talk, regret, and a whole lot of bad decisions.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟖𝐤

PART 3

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. You’re frozen in place, heart pounding so violently it echoes in your ears. The classroom hums around you—shuffling papers, murmured whispers, chairs creaking against the floor—but it’s all underwater. Distant. Meaningless.

Because Nanami Kento is standing at the front of the room. In a suit. With a laptop. And a lecture.

And you’re sitting in his class.

You watch him, eyes locked on his every move like he might suddenly vanish. Like this could all still be some sick dream. But no—he’s there. Very real. Very calm. Clicking through a PowerPoint on literary ethics while your stomach churns with dread.

He doesn’t look at you again.

Not once.

Not when he walks back and forth during his lecture. Not when he pauses to take questions. Not when he says the word integrity and your face nearly catches fire. He’s good. Too good. So composed, so detached, like the weekend didn’t happen. Like he didn’t have his tongue inside you. Like he didn’t whisper your name over and over while his cum dripped out of you onto hotel sheets.

You try not to fidget, but your hands shake every time you shift in your seat.

Your friends don’t notice—not really. Nobara’s too busy texting under the desk and Maki’s halfway asleep, chin resting in her palm. They don’t know. They still think it was a joke. That you made the profile on a dare and laughed about it later. They don’t know that you met someone. That it wasn’t just a laugh—that it became something else. That it became him.

And now it’s this.

The moment class ends, you bolt. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t wait for the girls. You grab your bag with trembling fingers and push out the door like the building’s on fire, like the oxygen in the room was running out and the only way to survive is to move.

But you don’t make it far.

“Y/N,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Stay behind, please.”

It’s not a question. His voice is calm—too calm—but his eyes don’t meet yours. And that alone makes your chest ache.

Nobara throws you a teasing glance as she gathers her things. “Oooo, someone’s in trouble.”

You force a smile. “Probably forgot to submit something.”

She shrugs and heads out, Maki trailing behind her. The rest of the students follow, murmuring and rustling, chairs scraping back against the floor. You sit still, fingers tight around your pen until you’re the only one left. Until the door shuts quietly behind the last student.

Only then does he look at you.

His expression doesn’t match his suit. It’s not polished, or smooth, or put together. It’s wrecked in that perfectly quiet Nanami way—just a shift of his jaw, just the flicker of something wild behind his glasses.

You stand slowly, your heart thudding so hard you feel it in your fingertips. Neither of you says anything at first.

And then, finally—

“I didn’t know,” he says. Low. Strained. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you say quietly. “Not until you walked in.”

He lets out a breath—short, shaky. Runs a hand through his hair and looks away, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in. You’ve never seen him look uncertain before. But now he does. Like he’s fighting with himself. Like he hasn’t stopped fighting since the moment he saw you sitting in that chair.

“I should have checked the student list,” he mutters. “I should have made sure you weren’t a student.”

Your stomach flips.

His eyes close for a moment. “It wasn’t just sex to me.”

“No,” you whisper. “It wasn’t to me either.”

And that’s the worst part.

You don’t regret it. Not even a little. You’d go back to that hotel again in a heartbeat if you could. You’d let him ruin you all over again. But now?

Now he’s your professor.

And you’re just another student sitting in his lecture hall, pretending you haven’t already memorized the way he sounds when he’s close to coming.

He scrubs a hand over his face, stepping back. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

“If anyone found out—”

“I know, Nanami.”

Your voice cracks, and it’s enough to make him stop. He watches you carefully, like he wants to reach out and hold your hand but knows better.

The silence between you stretches thin. Heavy. Full of everything you’re both trying to bury.

Then finally, you nod.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” you say. “We’ll pretend it never happened.”

And even though it hurts, even though it feels like someone’s cutting you open from the inside out—you turn around and walk out the door.

And he lets you.

The next few days pass in a blur.

You go to class. You do your readings. You turn in your assignments. You smile when your friends tease you about nothing. You sit through Nanami’s lectures and pretend like your skin doesn’t burn under the weight of his silence.

He doesn’t call on you. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even say your name again.

And maybe it’s what you agreed to. Maybe it’s safer this way.

But it fucking hurts.

Your appetite is gone. Your phone stays quiet. The rush of opening that app, the thrill of his messages—Good girl, Take your panties off, I’m thinking about you—they’re just… gone. You try not to think about it. You try not to remember the weight of his hands, the way he kissed you after, slow and sweet like he didn’t want to leave.

You just keep going. Numb. Hollow.

Until Thursday.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The voice cuts in from the back of the classroom, smooth and casual, like the guy speaking couldn’t be less concerned about the fact that class started ten minutes ago. The heads of half the room turn toward him, but you barely glance up at first—still stuck in your own head, floating somewhere between exhaustion and regret. That dull ache in your chest hasn’t eased up since Monday, and honestly, you didn’t think anything could drag you out of it.

Until you do look up.

He’s tall. Lean. A little cocky in the way he walks, but not obnoxiously so. Just relaxed. Loose-limbed. His hoodie is black and a little oversized, the sleeves pushed up, his dark hair falling over his forehead in messy layers. The lanyard clipped to his jeans confirms it—new student. Transfer.

He doesn’t seem rushed. Doesn’t even look slightly embarrassed for barging in late. Just strolls to the front like he belongs here and hands a slip of paper to Nanami.

“Transfer student,” he says, tone bored, like he’s already over it.

Nanami takes the paper from him without looking up. His voice, normally calm and smooth as ever, is clipped around the edges. “Sit wherever you’d like.”

The new guy turns without a word, eyes scanning the room. You expect him to aim for the back, maybe the empty cluster near the window. Somewhere out of the way.

But no.

He walks straight down the middle aisle. And sits next to you.

Drops his bag at his feet, pulls his hoodie sleeve up slightly, and leans over without hesitation.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is low. Deep enough that you feel it before you fully register the sound. “I’m Megumi.”

You blink. He’s close. Closer than you were expecting, and somehow already fully settled in like this is just another normal day in his very chill, probably way-too-cool life.

“Y/N,” you reply, unsure if you’re annoyed or intrigued.

“Cute name,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down—just briefly—to your mouth. Then back up. “You always sit front and center?”

You nod, giving a shrug that’s meant to come off indifferent, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the tiniest twitch of a smirk. “Only when I’m trying to impress the professor.”

That makes him laugh—low and amused, the sound warm and lazy like he doesn’t take anything too seriously. “Guess I have to try harder.”

You snort quietly, and you hate the way it feels… nice. Talking. Laughing. Having someone pay attention to you without a storm of guilt and restraint hanging over every glance. Megumi’s nothing like Nanami. There’s no weight to this. No baggage. Just a cute boy with sharp eyes and a smart mouth and absolutely no idea what kind of mess you’re crawling out of.

And yet—

From the front of the room, you feel it.

The shift in air. The burn on the back of your neck.

You glance up and catch him.

Nanami is watching you.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

His hand stills mid-slide across his laptop trackpad. His eyes flick between you and Megumi—sharp, cold, unreadable behind his glasses—and something inside you jolts. It’s not anger in his face. It’s not disapproval, exactly. It’s something quieter. More dangerous.

Jealousy.

And that? That makes your stomach flip.

Because he doesn’t get to look at you like that. Not after he told you it couldn’t happen again. Not after he let you walk out of his office without fighting for a single thing.

But still—he’s watching.

Watching the way Megumi leans close again. The way his shoulder brushes yours. The way he whispers something under his breath that makes you smile without meaning to. And you know it’s petty, but god, it feels good to be seen. To be looked at like you’re still there, not just some shameful secret he’s trying to forget.

“So,” Megumi says, “tell me something.”

You arch a brow, glancing sideways. “Like what?”

He grins. “Something that’ll convince me this class was worth showing up for.”

You hum, pretending to think. “We read a really depressing short story last week. Everyone dies.”

He fake-winces. “Hot.”

You snort again, stifling a laugh behind your hand.

Nanami clears his throat.

Loudly.

Megumi looks up, and you do too.

Nanami’s back to the lecture. But his knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the podium, and when he moves the next slide forward, it’s with a little more force than necessary.

You feel your smile widen.

Not because you’re trying to make him jealous.

But because you already have.

The next day, Megumi drops into the seat beside you like he’s been sitting there all semester.

No hesitation. No asking. No room for you to stop him even if you wanted to—which, honestly, you don’t.

“Morning,” he says, leaning back in his chair, stretching until the hem of his hoodie rides up just enough to flash a sliver of toned stomach.

You glance over, trying not to make it obvious. “You’re late again.”

“Fashionably,” he says with a grin, propping his ankle up on one knee. “I get bored easily.”

“Already?” you tease. “You’ve been in this class, like, twelve minutes total.”

He shrugs. “I like the view.”

It takes a second to hit you.

When it does, you roll your eyes and look away—too late to stop the smile from creeping onto your face.

Megumi laughs softly under his breath. “There it is.”

“There what?”

“That smile,” he says. “You were kinda dead in the eyes the other day. I was starting to worry.”

You blink. That actually catches you off guard.

You weren’t trying to be obvious. You thought you were doing a good job playing it cool—sitting through lectures, nodding in the right places, texting your friends like you didn’t spend the last week spiraling. But Megumi’s eyes are sharper than you gave him credit for.

You glance up at the front of the room, where Nanami is pulling up the day’s slide deck. His suit is perfect, as always. Tie neatly in place. Expression calm. Detached. The perfect professor. But his gaze—when it lifts from the screen and slides across the room—lingers on you for just a moment too long.

You look away before he can catch you staring.

Megumi taps your shoe under the desk with his own, pulling your attention back.

“So what’s the deal?” he asks. “You dating anyone?”

You snort. “That’s blunt.”

“I don’t like wasting time.”

Your heart kicks a little harder. You glance over at him—he’s watching you now, leaning forward just slightly, elbow on the desk, chin in his hand like he’s trying to decide what kind of game this is.

You don’t answer right away.

You don’t have to.

Because from the corner of your eye, you feel the shift at the front of the room again. Not big. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Nanami’s hand clenches just slightly where it rests against the edge of the podium. His lips press tighter. His eyes drop to the screen like he’s reading something—except he’s not flipping to the next slide.

Megumi’s voice drops lower. “I’m just saying. If you’re not taken, I might have to shoot my shot.”

You raise a brow. “And what would that look like?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be subtle.”

You open your mouth to fire back—but Nanami cuts in from the front, sharp and sudden.

“Eyes on the presentation, please.”

It’s not harsh. But it’s enough to turn a few heads.

Enough to make Megumi lean back with a smirk and raise both hands in mock surrender.

“Relax, professor,” he says under his breath. “Just getting to know the locals.”

You nearly choke trying not to laugh.

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t even look at you again for the rest of the class.

But his hand doesn’t stop gripping the podium.

And you swear the vein in his temple looks just a little more visible than it did at the start of the hour.

By the end of the week, it’s routine.

Megumi slides into the seat beside you before the second hand hits the top of the hour. Always late, always casual, always with some smug little quip as he leans back in his chair like he owns it. Like this isn’t a lecture hall filled with thirty other people. Like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the way Nanami glares at him every time he interrupts class with a whisper aimed at you.

And you? You play right into it.

Because what else are you supposed to do? Sit there and stare at your notebook while the man who kissed your thighs and called you his good girl acts like you’re invisible?

You’re done pretending it didn’t matter.

You’re done pretending you don’t still feel it in your chest every time Nanami glances your way and immediately looks past you like you’re nothing but another face in the room.

So you smile at Megumi. You lean in when he whispers things under his breath. You let your thigh brush his under the desk and you don’t pull away when it lingers.

And every time you do, you feel it.

The weight of Nanami’s stare.

Heavy. Silent. Controlled. Until it isn’t.

“—so if we consider Kant’s theory of moral duty—”

Nanami’s voice cuts through the air, crisp and focused as always. He’s standing near the front row today, arms folded, pointer clicking slowly through slides like he’s not one second away from cracking that damn clicker in half.

But you’re barely listening.

Megumi’s fingers brush against your hand on the desk. A slow slide of knuckles, testing. Teasing. His knee bumps yours again. He doesn’t even look at you when he does it—just keeps pretending to take notes while your skin lights up like a live wire.

You don’t stop him.

Nanami definitely notices.

You glance up.

His eyes are on you, mid-sentence. Locked in.

And something in his gaze shifts.

It’s subtle—just the barest flicker in his expression—but it’s there. His jaw tightens. His hand drops to his side. He clicks to the next slide without looking.

You stare back, mouth dry.

You want him to do something.

Say something.

Claim you.

But he doesn’t.

He just keeps teaching.

After class, Megumi lingers.

He leans against the edge of your desk like it’s his, elbow propped casually, body half-turned toward you as you zip your bag with shaky fingers. He’s close again—always too close—but today there’s a different energy clinging to him. Sharper. A little darker around the edges. Like he’s been holding something back, and he’s finally getting bored of waiting.

“You wanna get coffee or something?” he asks, voice low, a little rougher than usual.

You blink up at him. “Now?”

He shrugs. “Or later. Or whenever you’re done pretending to be shy.”

You scoff, biting back a grin, trying to play it off, but your pulse kicks up anyway. You glance at the front of the classroom, where Nanami is very deliberately not looking at either of you. He’s organizing papers that don’t need organizing, jaw tight behind his perfectly blank expression.

You lean a little closer to Megumi. Just enough.

“You’re real confident for someone who hasn’t even asked me out properly.”

Megumi’s eyes flick down to your lips—just for a second. Then he hums, amused.

“I’m kind of over all this under-the-desk touching,” he says, and the words are soft, just for you, heat curling through every syllable. “Maybe I should drag you into the janitor’s closet next time. Real quick. Just like we’re back in high school.”

Your breath catches.

You laugh—quiet and sharp and a little shocked. But the worst part? The part that makes your stomach twist?

You don’t hate the idea.

You don’t hate it at all.

From the front of the room, there’s a loud snap.

The sound echoes like a gunshot in the quiet classroom.

You and Megumi both glance up.

Nanami is standing behind the podium, arm frozen mid-motion, a broken pen clutched tight in his fist. Ink is leaking between his fingers, staining his palm, dripping in thin lines onto the wood below.

His eyes are locked on Megumi.

His voice doesn’t come. Not right away.

Just that silence.

Tense. Dangerous.

Then—calm as ever, but brittle around the edges—he says, “Class is over.”

Nothing else.

No acknowledgment. No glance in your direction.

Just those three words, delivered like a warning.

Megumi straightens, stretching slightly, like the tension doesn’t touch him at all.

“I’ll see you next class,” he says to you, voice light again. Like he didn’t just say something filthy five seconds ago.

You give him a small nod. Lips twitching.

And when he walks out—Nanami still doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t move either.

He just stands there, jaw clenched, hand still dripping blue ink onto the podium, eyes burning a hole into the door Megumi just walked through.

And for the first time all week—

you wonder how close he is to snapping.

You don’t do anything wrong the next day.

You wear a skirt. Not on purpose. Not for attention. Just because it’s hot out and it’s clean and you didn’t have the energy to overthink it. But the second you step into the lecture hall, you feel it—his eyes on you like gravity, heavy and sharp, dragging across the bare skin of your thighs with practiced precision.

Nanami doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch. Just glances once and looks away like it didn’t shake him.

But it did.

You know it did.

And Megumi doesn’t help.

He’s already in your seat before you get there, backpack slung low, one arm tossed over the back of your chair like he’s saving it for you. Like it’s his. His leg is already stretched out under the desk, his knee knocking into the empty space where yours will be.

“New look,” he says as you sit. “I like it.”

You glance at him. “It’s just a skirt.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, his eyes dragging a little too slowly up your legs. “Still like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the smallest smile.

He grins. Leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “Tell me the truth… you wear this for me?”

You scoff under your breath. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Yeah, but I’m not wrong,” he murmurs, tapping his foot against yours beneath the desk. “You know, I still haven’t forgotten what I said yesterday.”

You freeze for a half second.

“About what?” you ask, already knowing.

“The janitor’s closet,” he says casually. “Bet you’d sound real pretty pressed up against a mop sink.”

You nearly choke.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide—but before you can say a damn thing, Nanami slams a book down on the front desk.

Hard.

Everyone in the room flinches.

The conversation dies instantly.

And when you look up—

He’s already looking at you.

Not Megumi.

You.

And it’s not blank anymore.

It’s not distant.

It’s heat. Fury. Possession, thinly veiled behind a professional mask that’s already slipping off its hinges.

“Y/N,” he says, sharp. Cold. “Stay after class.”

Your whole body goes still.

Megumi raises a brow, leaning back in his chair, completely unfazed. “She in trouble?”

Nanami doesn’t answer him.

He just turns back to the board and starts the lecture like nothing happened, but his tone is off. His words clipped, his movements tight. He doesn’t pace like usual. He doesn’t ask questions. He just talks, flat and fast and pissed, like he needs to get through the material before something inside him snaps in half.

Your heart doesn’t stop pounding the entire time.

The moment class ends, Nanami doesn’t wait for the room to clear.

“Y/N. Now.”

He turns and disappears out the door before you can respond.

You feel eyes on you—Megumi’s included—but you don’t stop. You grab your bag and follow him like you’re on autopilot, like there’s a leash wrapped tight around your neck and he’s the only one holding it.

You barely make it two steps into his office before the door shuts behind you and he grabs you.

No words.

No hesitation.

He presses you back against the wall with both hands, crowding into your space so fast it steals your breath. His mouth finds yours like it never left—rough, desperate, furious. His hands slide up under your skirt, palms dragging along your thighs, yanking you flush against his body like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

“Don’t,” he growls against your lips, “ever let him fucking touch you again.”

You gasp, grabbing at his shirt, yanking him closer. “You told me it was over.”

“It was.”

“Then why—”

“Because I saw his hands on you,” he snarls. “I heard what he said. You think I don’t know what he wants? You think I don’t know what that smug little shit would do to you if I let him?”

You’re shaking.

Not from fear.

From want.

From the heat in his voice, the pure need pouring out of him now that he’s finally stopped pretending.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, dragging your panties down your thighs, voice wrecked. “Tell me right now and I’ll let go.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

You grab the front of his shirt, fingers curling tight, and whisper, “Lock the door.”

And he does.

The second the lock clicks behind him, he’s on you.

He crowds you back into the wall, lips crashing against yours in a way that makes your head spin, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. There’s nothing careful about it—this isn’t the man who once asked permission before every kiss, every touch. This is all fury and frustration and weeks of biting his tongue until it bled.

His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them apart as he kisses you like he’s starving for it. Like the sight of you laughing at Megumi’s stupid fucking jokes lit something inside him he can’t put out. You barely have time to catch your breath before his hand slides up, yanks your panties down in one hard pull and tosses them somewhere behind him.

He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, panting.

“You’ve been walking around,” he grits out, “in that fucking skirt—letting him look at you like that—letting him touch you under the desk—”

“Nanami—”

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?”

“No—”

“You didn’t?” he breathes, lips dragging along your cheek to your jaw. “You didn’t want me to lose it? You didn’t moan when he said he’d drag you into the janitor’s closet?”

Your breath hitches.

His lips curl.

“You did,” he says, low and filthy and far too pleased. “You like driving me crazy.”

You don’t deny it.

You can’t. His thigh is already between your legs, pushing up against your aching core, and your back is hitting the office wall like he wants you pinned, helpless, owned.

“Take it out,” you breathe, hands already at his belt, fumbling.

He growls when your fingers touch him, helping only long enough to shove his pants and briefs low. His cock is hard, flushed and heavy, already leaking from how wound up he is.

He grips your hips and lifts you, setting your ass on the edge of his desk, shoving books, papers, and a laptop off with one sweep of his arm. The crash is loud. The mess spreads everywhere.

You don’t care.

“Spread your legs,” he growls.

You do. You’re already shaking, already soaked, thighs trembling from how fast everything’s happening—but he doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t touch. Just lines himself up and pushes in.

You bite back a scream the second he slides inside.

No warm up. No patience.

Just a hard, thick stretch that has your nails digging into his shoulders and your jaw going slack.

“Oh my god—”

“Too much?” he hisses, gripping your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt.

“No—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He growls, low and wrecked, and starts fucking you like he means to ruin you.

Every thrust slams you back against the desk, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. You grab his tie. His jacket. His shoulders. Nothing’s enough. He’s so deep, so hard, filling you over and over, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the walls.

And it’s loud.

Too loud.

You try to stay quiet, you really do, but you can’t hold it in—your moans keep slipping out, high and broken and desperate, and every time he hears one, he thrusts harder.

“You gonna let the whole building hear how much you like this?” he pants. “Gonna let them hear how wet you get when I fuck you like you’re mine?”

You whimper, grabbing the edge of the desk, head falling back.

He grabs your face and forces you to look at him.

“You are mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I-I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“That’s right.”

His thumb finds your clit and starts circling, hard and fast, and it’s too much—the stretch, the pace, the heat curling through you like wildfire. You’re trying to keep quiet but your whole body is shaking and the words just pour out of you—

“Please, Nanami—oh my god—I’m gonna cum—”

“Do it,” he snarls. “Cum on my cock. Right here, right now. I want you shaking when I fill you.”

You don’t stand a chance.

It slams into you—hot and hard and violent. Your thighs clamp around him, your nails rake down his back, your moan breaks into something strangled as you cum so hard your vision goes black at the edges.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own high now, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he uses your body like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“I should’ve never stopped,” he growls. “You’re mine. Always have been.”

He slams into you one last time and groans, deep and low, as he spills inside you.

You can feel it. Every pulse. Every twitch.

Hot. Thick. Claiming.

His forehead drops to your shoulder as his hips slow. Both of you panting. Sweating. Spent.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Doesn’t let you go.

Just stands there, breathing hard, still buried inside you, as if letting go would make it less real.

“Fuck,” he finally whispers. “What have we done?”

You don’t answer.

Because if you open your mouth right now, you’ll fall apart.

You stay quiet, eyes staring at nothing, mind racing and blank at the same time. His cum is still warm inside you, starting to drip out with every breath, and your body is still twitching from the aftershocks of what he just did to you. What you let him do. The heat of it hasn’t left your skin, but the guilt is already curling cold around your ribs, pressing down, squeezing tighter by the second.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He told you it couldn’t happen.

And then he looked at you like that, touched you like that, fucked you like that—and now here you are: half dressed, trembling, sitting on his desk with the taste of him still in your mouth and the sound of your own moans echoing off the walls.

His hands drop from your waist like they’ve burned him.

He steps back.

The sudden space between you makes your heart twist.

You glance at him—slowly, afraid of what you’ll see.

He looks wrecked.

Hair messy. Shirt untucked. The front of it stained with ink and sweat. His tie is still slung loosely around his neck. His pants are halfway zipped. And his eyes—his eyes are dark, glassy, so full of regret it guts you.

“I shouldn’t have…” he trails off, swallowing hard. “That should never have happened.”

You nod, even though it hurts to agree. “I know.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were jealous.”

His eyes snap to yours.

You hold his gaze, even though your throat’s tight. “That’s why you snapped.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t argue. Just closes his eyes for a second and exhales like the air’s been knocked out of him.

“I let this go too far,” he murmurs. “I thought I could handle it. That we could stay away. That I could—”

“You can’t,” you say. “Neither can I.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Long. Thick. Unbearable.

“But we have to,” he says eventually.

You nod again, slower this time. You hate it. Every part of you is still begging for him to grab you again, to kiss you, to tell you he doesn’t give a fuck about rules or consequences. But that moment passed the second he came inside you. The second he whispered mine against your neck.

It’s done now.

You slide off the desk, legs shaky, heart even shakier.

There’s a mess between your thighs—hot and sticky and unmistakable—and you fumble for the tissues on his desk as quietly as you can, avoiding his eyes while you clean yourself up. Your panties are ruined. Your skirt is wrinkled. You feel used and full and fucked in every sense of the word.

And still you’d do it again.

You pull yourself back together in silence. He does the same.

The room feels too small. Too quiet. The walls are closing in.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a long pause. “I—”

“I know,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to…”

You wave a hand, unsure what you’re trying to say. What would even make it better.

Nothing does.

You move to the door.

Hand on the handle.

And then—

A knock.

Your entire body goes stiff.

You and Nanami both freeze.

The knock comes again, and then a voice follows. Calm. Casual. Way too familiar.

“You guys done in there?”

Your heart fucking drops.

You open the door.

Megumi’s leaning against the wall, hands in his hoodie pockets, expression cool and far too satisfied. His eyes drag over you first—your flushed face, your swollen lips, the visible heat still clinging to your skin—and then flick to Nanami behind you, who’s just stepped into view, his shirt still rumpled, his tie still loose.

Megumi hums under his breath. Like he’s impressed.

“Wow,” he says, drawing the word out. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it in the office. Ballsy.”

You stare at him, mouth parted, but no sound comes out.

He pushes off the wall, steps closer, real slow. “My dad wants to see you both.”

Nanami tenses beside you.

“Your… dad?”

Megumi smiles at you. Sharp. Icy.

“Toji Fushiguro,” he says. “Vice Chancellor.”

You feel the blood drain from your face.

Nanami doesn’t say anything.

Megumi turns, starting down the hall like it’s just another day.

“You’re so fucked,” he calls back over his shoulder, with a little grin.

And then he’s gone.

You stand in the doorway, frozen. The hallway feels too bright. Too open. Your legs are shaking and your panties are still damp and twisted beneath your skirt. You haven’t fixed your hair. Your lipstick is smeared. Your skin is flushed and hot and you can still feel Nanami’s cum dripping out of you.

You want to sink into the floor.

Behind you, Nanami’s voice is low. Tight. “We need to go.”

You don’t answer. You just nod, because if you speak, your voice might crack.

The walk to Toji Fushiguro’s office feels like a death march.

Nanami stays half a step ahead of you, silent and rigid. His tie is still crooked. His hands are still stained with ink. And your own body betrays you with every step—heat trapped under your clothes, your skin sticky where his touch still lingers. You try to breathe through it. To steel yourself.

But nothing prepares you for the moment you walk into that office.

The first thing you notice is the scent—cologne and something smoky. Leather. Expensive whiskey. The window blinds are drawn, the overhead light off, the room lit only by the soft golden glow of a desk lamp. It feels more like someone’s apartment than a professional space. There’s a half-empty tumbler of bourbon on the desk. Papers pushed to the side. A jacket thrown over a chair.

And him.

Toji Fushiguro.

Leaning back in his chair like he owns the building. Broad. Relaxed. Black shirt stretched tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms, the top few buttons undone like he couldn’t be bothered to make himself decent. Hair messy, jaw sharp, a lazy little smirk tugging at his mouth like this is the most fun he’s had all week.

You stop breathing for a second.

Because—what the fuck.

This is the vice-chancellor?

Your gut twists. Something awful and anxious and shameful. Because you should be terrified. You are. But also…

Holy shit.

He’s—god. He’s hot.

Wrong. Older. Dangerous. And hot.

And it makes you want to scream.

Toji glances up from a manila folder he clearly hasn’t read. Then—casual as anything—he whistles.

“Well,” he says, slow and amused. “Now this is a surprise.”

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He stands tall beside you, his expression unreadable.

Toji leans forward, folds his hands together on the desk. “You wanna explain what the fuck you two were doing in that office?”

No one answers.

Toji smiles wider. “No? Okay. I’ll help you out.”

He flips the file shut and tosses it to the side. “Let’s see. Anonymous report. Third floor. Loud enough for someone to stop and record audio through the door.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Megumi,” Toji adds, smirk deepening. “Of course. Always the little snitch.”

You clench your fists. Your mouth is dry.

Toji’s eyes drift lazily to Nanami, then back to you.

“You wanna guess what the board’s gonna say when they hear their clean-cut, tight-ass literature professor got caught raw-dogging one of his students in the middle of a workday?”

You look at Nanami. He doesn’t move.

Toji waits a second. Then lets out a soft chuckle. “Relax. I haven’t sent anything in yet.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like paperwork.”

Then, to Nanami— “But I do like leverage.”

The air leaves your lungs.

And that’s when it hits you.

He’s not here to report anything.

He wants something.

Nanami’s voice is quiet. Controlled. “You’re blackmailing us.”

Toji tilts his head. “Big word. I’d say I’m offering a solution.”

“What do you want?” you ask, finally finding your voice.

Toji looks at you now. Fully. Slowly. His gaze drags from your flushed face to the curve of your hips, the shake in your knees, the wrinkled hem of your skirt—and lingers there.

You fight the urge to pull it down.

“I think you already know,” he says, voice dropping.

Your stomach drops with it.

Nanami steps forward. “She’s not involved.”

Toji raises a brow. “She’s all that’s involved.”

You’re frozen. Your heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. Your skin prickles, throat tight, vision blurring a little around the edges because none of this feels real.

And yet—

The part that makes your shame twist deeper is the part you can’t ignore.

Because even as your body goes cold and sick with panic, something hot sparks low in your stomach. A tiny flicker. A pulse. That same awful ache you’ve been trying to ignore since the moment you saw Toji’s sleeves rolled up and that scar on his lip and the way he looked at you like he could ruin you without lifting a finger.

It’s fucked up.

You hate it.

You can feel it.

The heat between your legs, the damp cling of your ruined panties, the sick twist in your gut that only burns hotter when Toji tilts his head and smirks. Like he can smell it on you. Like he knows exactly what’s happening under your skirt.

And he hasn’t even touched you.

You try to hide it. Try to shift your weight, squeeze your thighs together, do something to regain control of yourself—but the second you move, his eyes drop to your legs, and his smile deepens.

Like confirmation.

Like he knows.

Nanami’s voice is tight behind you. “Whatever you’re thinking—drop it.”

Toji looks at him, eyes bored. “What I’m thinking is, it’s funny how quick your morals collapsed the second she moaned your name.”

Nanami steps forward. You flinch, instinctively reaching back—hand finding his jacket, fingers curling into it like you need the anchor. He doesn’t react, but you feel his chest rise sharply against your shoulder.

“I take full responsibility,” he says through gritted teeth. “File whatever you want. But leave her out of it.”

Toji laughs—short and sharp. “You really think I’m gonna waste this kind of leverage on you?”

His eyes flick back to you.

Slow. Hungry.

“You’re the only interesting thing in this whole fucking building.”

Your stomach drops. A mix of fear and something darker, stickier, that won’t go away no matter how hard you try to fight it.

Toji leans forward now, forearms resting on the desk, giving you his full attention. He speaks slowly—like every word is deliberate. A warning. A threat. A promise.

“I could report it,” he says. “Write it up. Submit the audio. Get your professor fired. Get you kicked out. Maybe expelled, depending on how dirty the recording is.”

You’re shaking.

He keeps going.

“Or…” His voice dips. “I make it disappear. And in return… you be smart. Play nice.”

Nanami grabs your wrist gently, pulling you back a step, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “Don’t even think about it.”

You barely hear him.

Because Toji’s eyes are locked on you—and it’s working.

Your heart is hammering. Your throat is dry. Your thighs are clenched and trembling, your body betraying you with every passing second. You hate him. You hate this. But your brain is fogging over and your panties are wet and you can’t stop.

And Toji can tell.

He hums. Soft. Like he’s amused by how fast you’re unraveling.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t call you out. Doesn’t make a show of it. He doesn’t have to.

Because he sees everything.

The way your chest rises too fast. The way your hand twitches at your side. The way your gaze keeps flicking to the buttons of his shirt and the dark ink curling down his forearm like it’s trying to distract you. Like it’s working.

You’re trying to stand still. Keep your spine straight. Face blank.

But your body keeps giving you away.

And Toji watches every twitch. Every flicker.

He knows.

But he keeps it quiet.

He leans back in his chair again, all easy confidence and lazy dominance, like he’s already decided how this ends. Like this is just the beginning of the game. His arms stretch along the backrest, his knee tilts slightly open, and his eyes cut toward Nanami without so much as a change in tone.

“Let me guess,” he drawls. “You thought no one would find out.”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

Toji smirks. “Bet you thought you could sneak her in and out of hotel rooms and still come to work on Monday like nothing happened.”

He says it so casually, like he’s listing off the weather. But every word lands like a slap. You flinch—barely—but enough for Toji to catch it. His gaze flickers back to you. Lingers.

Then flicks away again, like it meant nothing.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he says, addressing Nanami again, bored now. “You want this to disappear? Fine. I’ll bury it. Deep. No one ever hears a thing.”

Nanami stares at him, eyes sharp.

“What do you want in return?”

Toji grins.

“Oh, nothing now. I’ll think of something later.”

Nanami’s fists clench. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is if I’m the one holding the match over your entire fucking career.”

The room goes silent.

You feel it in your throat. That thick, tight pressure of everything spiraling too fast. You didn’t want this. You didn’t ask for any of it. But somehow you’re in the middle of two men, one trying to protect you, and the other—bored and beautiful and terrifying—just watching you burn.

You want to hate him.

But your pulse is still racing.

And the worst part?

Toji doesn’t say a word about it.

Not to you.

Not to Nanami.

He just smiles again, slow and lazy, and taps the desk once like he’s closing a deal.

“That’ll be all,” he says. “Unless you two wanna give me another show.”

You don’t say anything.

Nanami turns first, reaching for the door, holding it open with a tight jaw and an unreadable expression. You follow—silent, shaky, your whole body buzzing with something awful you can’t quite name.

But as you step out, you feel it—

Toji’s eyes on your back.

Warm. Heavy.

Knowing.

And he doesn’t say a word.

The walk back to his office is silent.

The hallway feels too long, too bright, too empty. Your footsteps echo alongside Nanami’s, but he stays a pace ahead of you, like putting distance between you might somehow undo the mess you just left behind. You don’t speak. You don’t dare. His shoulders are squared, jaw locked, fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white.

He doesn’t look at you once.

When he unlocks his office door, it swings open too hard, slamming against the wall. He doesn’t flinch. Just walks in, drops his briefcase on the desk, and turns to face you with something wild behind his eyes.

“I’m fucked.”

You blink. “Nanami—”

“No,” he snaps. “Don’t.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and you feel the tension press in like a wall. You step back, slowly, because you’ve never heard his voice like that—sharp, bitter, cracked at the edges.

He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing like he doesn’t trust himself to stay still. “It’s done. My career is over. Toji has enough to ruin everything. The audio alone—Jesus.”

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, throat burning. “We didn’t ask for any of that. You think I wanted this?”

“I think we were stupid,” he says, voice rising. “I think I let my guard down and now I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked for because I couldn’t keep my hands off a student.”

You flinch, like he slapped you.

The words hit harder than they should.

“I’m not just some—”

“I know,” he says immediately, softer, pained. “I know. That’s the problem.”

He turns away from you, leaning forward over his desk, both hands braced like the weight of it is the only thing holding him up. You watch his back rise and fall with each breath. Tight. Unsteady. Broken.

Then—

“We can’t be seen together again,” he says quietly. “Not in class. Not on campus. Not anywhere.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Your chest tightens.

“And if we are,” he adds, voice lower now, “I won’t speak to you. I won’t look at you. I don’t even want to know you exist.”

That’s what breaks it.

Your heart stutters. Your face flushes—not with sadness, not with guilt—but rage.

“Are you fucking serious?”

His head lifts.

“You don’t even want to know I exist?” you repeat, stepping forward, furious. “After everything? After the hotel, after the way you touched me, talked to me, looked at me?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he says, tired.

“No. You’re protecting yourself,” you snap. “You don’t get to fuck me in your office, promise to take care of me, make me feel like I meant something, and then throw me away because you’re scared.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It was simple, until you made it ugly.”

You’re breathing hard now, standing just inside the door with your hands clenched at your sides, trying not to cry, trying not to scream. You stare at him for a long moment, heart racing, blood boiling.

And then—

“Fuck this.”

You turn on your heel and leave before he can say another word.

You don’t go to class the next morning.

You don’t even consider it.

Because there’s no way in hell you’re going to sit in that room and pretend to be invisible. To pretend Nanami’s words didn’t crack open something inside you, to pretend like he didn’t spend the last twenty-four hours fucking you and then throwing you away like you were the mistake and not the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him.

“I don’t even want to know you exist.”

The words play on a loop in your head.

You skip his class. You don’t text your friends. You don’t check the group chat. You walk across campus like you’re on fire, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, heart pounding in your chest—not just with hurt.

With rage.

Because Toji started all of this.

And you’re going to make sure he fucking knows it.

The admin building is quiet this early—half the staff hasn’t even shown up yet. The hallway smells like floor cleaner and old coffee, and you don’t knock. You don’t hesitate.

You walk straight to Toji Fushiguro’s office and shove the door open like it owes you something.

He’s there.

Feet on the desk. Coffee in hand. Same cocky grin.

“Well,” he says slowly, gaze dragging up and down your body. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”

You slam the door behind you.

“I have something to say,” you snap.

He leans back in his chair, sips his coffee, and raises a brow.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I was counting on it.”

TAGS: @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @t4naiis (sorry if I forgot anyone. These are the only ones I could find who asked to be tagged!)

#jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #smut #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x reader #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #edens archive

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websterss · 15 days ago

Text

PARTS HE CAN'T REPLACE — RAY YOUNG

SUMMARY: No matter how hard you try not to, you can't help but keep letting Ray in, even though you've told yourself to move on.

WARNING(S): There's slight smut, but it's very tame, no heavy descriptions, angst. The reader and Ray going back and forth with their emotions. Curtis looking out for his future sister-in-law lol

WORD COUNT: 9,283

PAIRING: Ray Young x fem!reader

A/N: Hope you like it! Guys, I feel weird. I wrote a smut scene lmfao

MASTERLIST

"These are car parts, Curt."

Curtis shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His boots squeak faintly on the concrete floor as he answers. "I'm helping a friend rebuild a car."

"Who?"

"Girl... Caitlyn. She's cool." He waves it off like it’s not worth unpacking.

"'73 Road Runner?"

"It's a '73 Charger. It's a Rallye," Curtis corrects, a little too quickly.

Ray leans back slightly, arms folded, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Does this, uh, '73 Charger Rallye have an 800 horsepower, 9.9-liter V-8?"

Curtis’s brows knit. "How’d you know that?"

"Heard stories about that car. License plate says 'UNB10,' right?" Curtis gives a reluctant nod.

Ray's smirk widens. He toys with a greasy rag on the table beside him. "So what are you doing rebuilding Christian Maddox’s car?"

Curtis shifts again, his stance stiffer now. "Caitlyn’s his daughter."

"Huh." Ray chuckles under his breath. "What are you guys gonna do with it?"

"Gonna race it."

"You?" Ray nearly doubles over in disbelief, a hand gripping the edge of the workbench as if the thought knocked the wind out of him.

"No. Caitlyn’s brother. When he’s ready."

Ray's expression softens slightly. "Take him to see Dottie."

"Yeah, already did."

"And?" Ray dips his head expectantly, his interest sharpening.

"Let’s just say you can take your time finding those parts. Alright, I gotta roll. Thank you again, bye."

Ray raises a hand. "Yeah, hold up, baby brother. I’m gonna need you on Main Street tonight. 9:20."

"Main Street? The lights go out at nine, and I’m gonna be at the festival."

"Watching pretty fireflies and holding hands with your girlfriend?" Ray mocks, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. Curtis tilts his head in disappointment, clearly unimpressed.

"Yeah, no, Curt, you just handed me a whole list of vintage parts. Does this look like an AutoZone? This stuff ain’t free, bud."

"Okay, how much do you want for them?"

"I just told you the price. 9:20."

Curtis frowns, his jaw tight, and heads toward the garage door. He pauses as he notices you leaning against the wall, half-hidden in shadow. The overhead light casts a pale halo around you, illuminating the concern etched into your features. He offers a faint grin, brief and crooked, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ray’s gaze follows his brother out, then shifts to you. He picks up a wrench and drops it with a sharp clatter on the metal table. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." You step forward, arms crossed, boots scraping against a slick trail of oil that you side-step instinctively. "I thought you were done dragging Curtis into your business?"

Ray gestures to the note in his hand. "Look at this shit he just gave me to find for him. He needs to learn the hard way that things in life don’t come easy."

"I think Curtis already knows that, Ray..."

The air in the garage feels heavier now, like the heat of summer trapped beneath the tin roof, thick with the smell of grease, metal, and something burning faintly in the distance.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, his eyes narrowing as he flicks a glance toward the door Curtis walked out of.

"What do you think? My car broke down again. Your sweet baby brother lent me a ride." You nod toward the exit.

"Again?" Ray exhales sharply, brushing his hand down his face.

"Might’ve been the alternator. It stalled half a mile back."

"I thought I fixed that problem for you..."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my Honda Civic sitting pretty on the side of the road." You squint, the heat outside clinging to your clothes like a second skin.

"You know what you need. A new car, Y/n. I can’t keep fixing it for you every other week."

"Easy for you to say. We small-town people can’t just up and get a new freaking car whenever we want."

"You know I can just—"

"No. You’re not gonna gift me a stolen car. Hell no."

"Who the hell said anything about gifting you anything?"

"Can you please just come look at my car!"

"No."

"No?" Your tone sharpens, disbelieving.

"I’ve got my hands full right now. It can wait." He turns toward the metal table, fussing with a box of bolts like they matter more than you.

"They look perfectly empty to me."

"I’ll do it tomorrow. Promise."

"Why can’t you now? You got it running in no time, last time."

"Do you need it right now?" He tilts his head.

"Yes!"

“Is it urgent?”

“Dude yes!”

"Look, you’re just gonna have to wait. I can’t do it right now, Y/n. Come on, I’ll drive you home. That I can do."

"That’d be great, Ray, but I’m meeting someone later. I need my car."

"For what?"

Your throat tightens. His eyes are already on you, suspicious. "I got a date..."

"A date?" His voice drops, darkens.

"That’s what I just said..." You nod, swallowing hard.

"That you’re driving to?"

"Yes. Is there an echo in here or something?"

Ray scoffs, licking his bottom lip before he lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah, no, you’re not going on that date."

"Um, no, you don’t get to decide that for me. I’m a grown-ass woman."

"Who has to drive to her own date? What are you, stupid? Your standards are higher than that. Come on now."

"You don’t know what my standards are."

"Sweetheart, I set them for you, remember? Don’t upset me." He looks away, jaw tightening. “Come on, I'm taking you home. I'll fix your car tomorrow when I have the time." Ray goes to walk off, but stops when noticing you're not moving to leave with him. "What?" He sighs, taking note of your frown. Your hope dies down. "Don't look at me like that...The prick is making you drive to meet him. I never made you do that. Not once. You're not going on that date." His voice was low and firm. "I get it, okay. You didn't want this anymore. That's fine, sweetheart. I'm a big boy. I got over it. It won't be me again. That's clear...I'll be damned though if I let you settle down for the damn bare minimum. Come on. I'm taking you home." His keys to his truck jingle in his hand as he jostles them around.

"I don’t need your help, Ray. This isn’t about you and me. Let me make my own decisions."

"I’m just trying to look after you."

"I’m a big girl. I can look after myself, thank you."

"Okay, then walk home." He tosses the words like they’re harmless.

"Maybe I will." You go to step around him, but he grabs your arm. Hard.

He yanks you back with more force than necessary. You gasp, the grip sending a jolt of pain up your shoulder. The oil-slicked air feels suffocating now.

"I see your anger hasn’t left you…”

Ray freezes, the bite in your voice cutting through whatever pride or anger was burning under his skin. His hand loosens instantly. You step back, rubbing your arm with your opposite hand, the skin already warm and sore. A bruise might be forming.

His gaze follows the motion, jaw clenched. He flexes the hand he grabbed you with, staring at it like it betrayed him. "I'm sorry..."

You blink. The apology disarms you. You’d expected him to scoff, throw something sarcastic back in your face, but instead he looks... remorseful. His voice stays low. His hand disappears into his pocket like he doesn’t trust it anymore.

The garage falls silent—just the faint ticking of a cooling engine in the background.

"Just... Just let me take you home, alright?" he says finally. "This guy you’re gonna meet... He sounds like some loser that isn’t worth your time."

"You don’t even know who it is. You can’t just make assumptions like that."

"Maybe I don’t, but I don’t need to know him to know that any man who’s willing to let you drive out to him, rather than picking you up first thing, is a loser in my book."

"So you read now?" You try to lighten the mood.

Ray tilts his head. "Very funny..." He deadpans. Then, softer, "Come on. Stop making excuses for this guy. Do you really think he’s worth your time?"

He exhales sharply and gives you a look, one you know well. Partly annoyed. Partly concerned. Part something else he never says out loud.

"You deserve better than that. I know you’ve been on a lot of dates that never amounted to much lately, and this guy’s gonna be no different."

"Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, Ray. So helpful."

"I’m not trying to boost your confidence, sweetheart. I’m just telling you the truth. Look at you. You’re literally about to go on a date with a guy who can’t even pick you up for the occasion. I’m willing to bet twenty bucks he expects you to pay, too."

"You really think he’s gonna ask me to pay the whole bill?"

"Won’t even open a door."

You let out a breath through your nose and shake your head, but it’s not in disbelief anymore. Just tiredness. Tired of the back-and-forth, tired of him meddling in the worst ways.

"You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care anymore that we’re over, you sure have a lot to say about who I see and what I do."

Ray’s shoulders drop just slightly. Like something in your voice made the fight leak out of him. He looks at you then, not with smugness, not with irritation. Just... that familiar weight behind his eyes. The kind that always makes it hard to stay mad at him.

“I never said I didn’t care,” he says. “I said I got over it. There’s a difference.”

You’re quiet. So is he. Somewhere in the garage, something metal clinks softly as it shifts with the heat.

He takes a slow step toward you. It's not threatening, just... closer. His eyes drop to the spot on your arm where his hand had been. The guilt returns, thick and heavy behind his voice.

“I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.” You sigh. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

Ray runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to say something else, maybe apologize again, maybe ask you to stay. But all he does is mutter, “You always did know how to piss me off.”

You can’t help the quiet smirk that tugs at your lips. “Guess I had a knack for matching your energy.”

Ray huffs a short laugh, it’s genuine, as much as it is tired. Then he goes still again, like he’s deciding something. His thumb brushes across the edge of the workbench behind him, and finally he says:

“Who is it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The guy. The one you're going to meet.”

You tilt your head. “You want a name now?”

“I want to know what kind of guy thinks letting you pull up to him is okay. That's all.”

You stare at him, quiet. Then: “He’s just someone who asked nicely. Who doesn’t make me feel like I’ve gotta earn every ounce of attention.”

That one hits. Ray flinches, but barely. His jaw works, grinding through some unspoken response. He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he looks at you again, softer this time.

“I never made you earn anything. You just... always deserved more than I could give you.”

It’s low. Barely audible. Like he’s afraid if he says it any louder, it might make it real.

You glance at the door, unsure of what you’re doing anymore. Unsure if you still have time to make that date. If you even wanted to.

He notices.

“You’re not walking,” he says, voice firm again. “I’ll drive you home. You don’t have to talk to me if that’s what makes you happy. I’ll just drop you off.”

You study him, waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. He just stands there, his hand already reaching for his keys, the other still flexing like it remembers what it did and wants to take it back.

“Alright,” you say finally. “But you keep the commentary to yourself.”

He nods. “No promises.”

“Yeah…You never were great at keeping them.”

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was.”

Ray leads the way out of the garage, the door creaking open on rusted hinges. You follow a few steps behind, arms folded against your chest as the last of the sun stains the pavement in burnt amber. The air smells like cut grass and warm metal, thick with humidity. It clings to your skin.

He unlocks the truck with a tired flick of the key, the old Chevy groaning as he opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without a word. It smells like engine grease, pine air freshener, and a trace of whatever cologne he’s always worn, something sharp and dark that sits in the back of your throat.

Ray circles around and gets in. The door slams shut with a dull thud.

For a while, there’s nothing but the click of the keys and the low rumble of the engine starting. Neither of you speak. The air between you is tight. Tangled.

He fiddles with the radio knob until static gives way to an old rock station. Fleetwood Mac, low and scratchy. You watch the road. He watches everything else.

The tires hum against the pavement, the occasional streetlamp flickering overhead. You count them in silence. One. Two. Three.

Halfway to town, he speaks without looking at you. “You gonna let him kiss you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Tonight. This guy. Are you gonna let him kiss you?”

Your head snaps toward him. “Why the hell would you ask me that? I thought I said no commentary?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But his grip on the wheel tightens. “Just curious.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, for the real reason. But he doesn’t offer one.

So you answer. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it feels right.”

He nods, like he heard you, but then says quietly, “You used to tell me you only wanted to kiss someone when it finally meant something to you.”

Your stomach flips. Your gaze drifts back out the window. You don't say anything after that.

The silence creeps in again, thicker this time. Fleetwood fades into a slower song. Queen, warm and aching.

“Can anybody find me somebody to love...”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Ray doesn’t touch the dial. Minutes pass. You realize he’s not driving toward your house. He’s heading past town.

You sit up. “Where are we going?”

“The one place everything meant something.” He says simply.

You don’t push it. You already know where this ends.

He pulls over just before the bridge. The place where you used to sit and talk when you were still pretending it was nothing. The lights from town flicker around, distant and quiet.

He shifts the truck into park and lets it idle.

“I’m gonna wait...” He says.

“For what?”

“For you to decide.”

You don’t answer. You just sit there, staring out at the glow of somewhere you’re not going anymore.

The music keeps playing, soft and warbling like it’s coming from a few rooms away. Ray doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

The seconds stretch. You let your hand fall from where it traced a smudge on the window, palm resting in your lap. Your gaze stays fixed on the town lights ahead, glowing like fireflies.

“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” Ray says finally. “About the kiss.”

You don’t turn to look at him. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. You can hear him flexing his fingers against the wheel again. He’s always done that when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. You used to tell him to knock it off. You don’t this time.

“I just—” He cuts himself off. Then, softer, “It’s hard seeing you get ready for someone else. Even harder when I don’t know if he knows you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, cautious. “What do you mean?”

Ray’s jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing on the words. “I mean… You hate it when the air smells like wet asphalt. You never eat the last bite of your sandwiches, you bite into your ice cream like a psycho, and you pick out the pickles they put in your burger, even when you've asked them not to add them. You laugh when you're nervous, but only when you're trying to act like you’re not scared. And when your car stalls, you always whisper something to it like it’s a scared animal instead of a machine.” He finally turns to look at you. Really looks.

“I don’t think this guy knows that.”

You blink, heart tightening under your ribs. “That’s not your business anymore.”

“I know.” He says. And you believe him.

“But it still matters to you.” You add quietly.

He doesn’t deny it.

A breeze creeps through the cracked window. The song changes again, another soft, aching thing.

Then, slowly, Ray reaches out. His hand brushes the back of yours, hesitant like he’s testing if you’ll move. You don’t.

His fingers curl slightly, palm grazing yours.

“Y/n.” He says, your name catching on the edge of his breath.

You glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression, tired, maybe. A little afraid.

He leans in, not fast, not all the way. Just close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the pause in his chest.

Your eyes drop to his mouth. His do the same.

But you don’t close the gap.

And neither does he.

You both just sit there, close enough to fall, neither willing to risk the landing.

After a beat, he pulls back. You do too.

Silence again.

You rest your hand on the door again, but this time it’s slower. Not like you're about to leave, more like you’re holding onto something solid. To ground you. Ray doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you the way he always has when he’s unsure if he still has a place in your life.

“I’m not going,” you say again, firmer this time. “I don’t want to go, not because you told me to. Because I don’t want to anymore.”

Ray nods, slow. “If that’s what you want.”

You smile faintly. “It is.”

The tension thins between you, it’s not gone, just rearranged. You sit back in your seat and glance at the town lights again. The truck hums quietly beneath you, warmth pulsing through the floorboards like a heartbeat.

Ray leans back too, one arm resting on against the back of your seat frame. Another hand reaching inside a chip bag you hadn’t noticed before. “You hungry?” He offers one to you. Cool Ranch Doritos.

You turn to him, surprised. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I stress eat.”

You say. “You’re so stupid.” It’s not meant to be an insult, more so, a quiet endearment.

“About you? Yeah, I know.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes, it’s small, real.

There’s no dramatic moment, no earth-shaking confession. Just the two of you, sitting in a truck parked on the edge of something that used to be love and maybe still is, him eating cold chips and listening to the soft hum of classic rock on a half-broken stereo.

The headlights stretch down the road, lighting nothing. You’re not sure where the night will take you. But you’re here. And so is he.

After a quiet beat, Ray glances over, something unreadable in his face again.

“Stay?” He asks. Just one word.

You nod, eyes never leaving his.

“I am.”

You don’t need to ask what that means. Neither of you move to get out of the truck. To take you home. The world is quiet around you now. There’s no rushing, no broken-down Civics, no date waiting for you across town.

Just the hum of the engine, the fading music, and the kind of silence that feels like home.

After a while, Ray cuts the engine, and the world outside becomes still. Just the chirp of crickets and the low rustle of leaves in the breeze. Without the hum of the motor, everything feels sharper. Quieter. Intimate.

He leans back in his seat, arm still draped across the backrest, his fingers nearly brushing your shoulder. You don’t move away.

“Still not hungry?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not for cool ranch Doritos.”

He chuckles under his breath. “More for me then.”

A beat passes.

“I missed this.” You say softly, eyes on the windshield. The moonlight cuts across it like a silver ribbon, fractured by a long, faint scratch across the glass.

Ray doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is lower than before. “I never stopped missing it.”

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

The space between you isn’t wide, but it feels like a tightrope. The kind of stretch you don’t cross unless you mean it.

He moves first, his fingertips ghosting against your cheek like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to or not.

You lean into it.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough.

He draws his hand back like it burned him.

“I should take you home.” He says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

You wake up in your bed the next day. Ray’s hoodie still on your person, he offered it up without a second thought after you exhaled deeply and sunk in on yourself, your car was still stalled out on the side of the road where you left it.

Your phone had three missed texts.

[8:51 PM] Did you get lost?

[9:12 PM] Let me know if you’re still coming.

[10:04 PM] Guess not. It’s cool.

You sigh, deleting them without answering.

By the time you make it into town, after a shower, after slipping the hoodie into the laundry so you don’t smell like him all day, it seems everyone knew you didn’t show up for your date.

At the diner, Brooke raises a brow at you from behind the counter as she checks you out.

“Didn’t figure you for a no-show type,” She says, setting your food on the counter. “He looked real nervous.” She finishes ringing up your order of a burger with no pickles, fries, and strawberry milkshake.

You give a tight-lipped smile. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood.”

She hums. “Ray Young took you home last night?”

You pause, then nod. Slowly. Taking your credit card back and slipping it back into your wallet.

She doesn’t press. She just slides your receipt across the counter. “I thought that was over? People talk you know, they say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.”

“Thank you, Brooke.” You give her a faint smile. She returns it.

You stuff the receipt into your bag without looking at it. Your fingers feel stiff, like they’re still curled around last night’s silence in the truck. Like if you open your hand too wide, it’ll spill out.

Brooke goes back to taking orders, like she didn’t just drop a casual little grenade on you.

“They say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.”

You step outside into the too-bright sunlight. It feels like it’s exposing you somehow, like it knows too much. The scent of hot asphalt and oil clung to the air, mingling with whatever shame is still sitting low in your chest.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a ride. Just a moment of playing catch-up.

But the way Ray looked at you last night… The things he didn’t say, stuck. Like grease under your fingernails.

His hoodie still clings to your shoulders as Brooke’s warning still echoes in your chest.

You unlock your bike from the side rail, tossing your bag into the wire basket. The tires are a little low, and the chain squeaks as you push off the curb, but it moves. Gets you where you need to go. And right now, that’s enough.

You ride slow. The morning air sticks to your skin. Small-town streets blur by, familiar porches, cracked sidewalks, the distant clink of a sprinkler tapping against cement.

The school comes into view before you know it, like it always does: a tan building tucked between too-green fields and a worn-out parking lot taken up by students and they’re flashy cars. You lock your bike at the far end, swing your bag over your shoulder, and walk through the doors like nothing’s different.

But it is.

The final bell rings, followed by a low groan of sounds, shuffling feet, and half-muttered conversations. You erase the board slowly, the scent of dry-erase marker still sharp in the air—papers rustle. Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall.

You’re gathering your things for lunch when you hear the soft thud of footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Curtis stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He looks like he’s been debating whether or not to come in for the past five minutes.

“Shouldn’t you be in shop class, Mr. Young?” You ask lightly, stuffing a folder into your bag.

“Free period,” he shrugs. “Figured I’d check in... And since when are we on last name bases?” His laugh settles when you give him a pointed look.

You pause. “Check in, for what?”

Curtis steps further into the classroom, quiet, careful. “I saw you this morning. Riding your bike.”

You freeze for half a second. “You’re spying on me now?”

“Nope,” he says, pulling a chair backward and straddling it. “Just happened to be outside. Hard not to notice your English teacher pedaling a cruiser.”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches.

Curtis leans forward, resting his arms on the chair back. “Didn’t take the car?”

“It’s still dead. I didn’t have time to wait on your brother.”

He nods once, slow. “So he didn’t fix it.”

“Not yet.”

Another pause.

“You wore his hoodie this morning.”

You look away, pretending to organize your desk. “I was cold.”

Curtis lets the silence stretch.

“I’m not trying to start something,” he says gently. “I just… know how Ray is. He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You look up at him then. His face is open, sincere in a way that Ray never quite manages but tries to.

“I’m not a piece, Curtis.” You say.

“I know.”

The classroom feels a little too quiet now. Curtis shifts, like he’s about to get up, then pauses.

“If you ever need a ride again... or just someone to talk to let me know.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He nods once more, then stands and walks toward the door. Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Tell Ray to stop stalling, Mom wants you back for family dinners.”

The hum of the classroom fades long after the last student leaves. You move through the motions, grading a worksheet, answering a question about tomorrow’s group discussions, but Curtis’s voice keeps drifting back in, soft and unshakable:

“He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You didn’t answer him earlier, not really, because you’ve always known that about Ray.

You just never said it out loud.

By the end of the day, the words sit under your skin like a splinter. You catch yourself checking your phone more than once, hoping one is from Ray. There isn’t one.

You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, waiting to see if you’ll reach out first. Testing your silence.

You don’t give him that.

But you know you’re going to see him before you even pedal the way to his garage.

The sun’s gone down by the time you finally walk up the drive. His garage is lit from within, the big overhead light buzzing faintly. You can hear music playing softly from inside, an old rock song humming through the speakers.

Ray’s working under the hood of someone’s car when you step in. His hands are black with grease, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he hears you. The shift in his shoulders gives him away.

“You walk here?” He asks, voice casual. Controlled.

“No. Bike.” You gesture to the handles you hold onto for support.

He glances over then, eyes catching yours. “I thought you said your chain kept falling out?”

“It is. Does, I mean,” You give a short nod. “Curtis paid me a visit after class…” You felt the need to address.

“He say something?” He straightens.

“Yeah,” you answer. “He did.”

Ray wipes his hands on a rag, slowly. “Let me guess… He thinks I’m screwing you up again.”

You shrug. “I don’t think he’s wrong.”

That quiets him.

He tosses the rag onto the table. You move deeper into the garage, crossing your arms as you come to a stop a few feet away. “He said you’re stalling.”

Ray tilts his head. “Stalling what?”

“Fixing my car… Us.” You look down.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You think I don’t want to fix your car?”

“I think you don’t want to deal with what comes after you fix it.”

Ray steps around the vehicle he was working on, the light overhead catching on the sharp line of his brow. “So what? Do you think that if I fix it, you won’t come back? I’ll stay away?”

You hold his gaze. “Isn’t that what you want?”

His silence is answer enough.

The space between you buzzes with everything unsaid. You let it hang for a moment, heavy and taut. Then:

“You don’t get to keep me in limbo just because you’re scared to lose something you already lost, Ray.”

That one scares him like a car wrapping around a tree. You watch him breathe in.

Finally, he says, “I’ll fix your car tomorrow.”

“No,” you say softly. “You’ll fix it now.”

His brow lifts, but you’re not backing down.

“I’m done waiting for you to figure it out, Ray. Either you’re in or you’re out. But you don’t get to pull me halfway into your world and call it caring.”

A long beat. The music shifts in the background. He doesn’t speak. But he nods.

Not big. Not intimidating.

Just enough.

Ray walks past you without a word, tossing his rags down and grabbing his toolset. He nods toward the far bay, where your Civic is parked, half hidden behind a metal sliding door, as if it’s something embarrassing compared to his vintage cars.

You follow him across the garage in silence. Your boots click against the concrete, muted by the music still playing in the background, some bluesy guitar dragging its notes like it’s tired of being patient.

Ray pushes the door to the side and goes to lift the hood. He doesn’t look at you.

You watch him. The way he moves is sharp, precise, but not careless. He’s always been like that. His hands were always dirty, but his focus clean. One part at a time. One bolt. One belt. One wire.

He doesn’t talk. Just works—the occasional clink of metal, the slow whir of a ratchet turning.

You lean against the nearby table, arms crossed, eyes never leaving him.

“I meant what I said.” You say after a while.

His shoulders shift, but he doesn’t respond.

You keep going anyway. “I’m tired of pretending this... whatever this is between us... doesn’t affect me.”

Ray grips the wrench a little too tightly, knuckles whitening. “No one’s asking you to pretend anything. You broke up with me, remember?”

“No one had to ask me, Ray, but you just left me wondering... It’s confusing.”

He exhales slowly, setting the tool down with a dull thunk on the engine block. “Y/n...” His head falls.

“No,” You cut in. “Don’t. Nothing you say can fix this.”

That gets him. He meets your gaze, turns around, and looks at you. The neon light catches in his eyes, brown-flecked and tired.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t go anywhere.

Ray turns back to the car, works the alternator loose with a quick, practiced flick. He mutters something under his breath, maybe about the part, maybe about himself.

Ten minutes pass in the low thrum of tools and tension.

When he finally slams the hood shut and wipes his hands clean, he doesn’t say, it’s done. He just looks at you, sweat at his temple, grease streaked across his forehead, eyes unreadable.

“Keys are in the cupholder.” He says, but he doesn’t move away from the car.

You drive. He rides passenger.

The engine hums better now. Still not perfect, but it doesn’t stall at every red light, doesn’t cough when you hit the gas. He fixed it like he said he would. The silence between you stretches. Nothing angry. Just full.

The road is mostly empty. A few porch lights blink on as you pass. The town settles into its nighttime hush, screen doors creaking, dogs barking a few blocks off, the faint smell of rain somewhere far down the highway.

Ray’s window is cracked open. His fingers tap the edge of the door in rhythm with the music playing low from your old speakers. It’s some soft soul track he didn’t comment on when you turned it on.

He hasn’t said much since the garage.

You should have left him at the garage, but when you turned the headlights on and meet his gaze through the windshield, you couldn’t help your impulsiveness and reach over to open the passenger door. He didn’t need to ask for the ride, he had his bike, but he climbed in without hesitation. Now he just… sits there, like he’s bracing for the moment he’s been wanting to happen for a long time now.

You pull up outside your place. Kill the engine.

The world goes quiet except for the steady chirp of crickets. A warm breeze slips in through the cracked windows.

Ray doesn’t move to get out.

You glance over. “Penny for your thoughts?”

His hand drops from the window. He shakes his head once, eyes forward. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

That earns a faint smile. Small, but real.

Another pause. Then he turns to you fully, one hand on the seat between you.

“I know I don’t say the right thing. I never do. But when I was fixing that piece of shit engine…”

“Don’t trash-talk my car.” You lightly laugh at his choice of words. He laughs too.

“All I could think about was how pissed I’d be if someone else did it for you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Because you don’t trust anyone else?”

“No.” He meets your eyes. “Because I don’t want anyone else doing the things I want to do for you.” It lands heavy between you. That ugly, honest kind of truth.

Your throat tightens. You want to say something, anything, but the words catch in the back of your throat. All that comes out is a breath.

Ray watches you for a second longer, then leans back against the headrest, looking up at your ceiling like the answer might be printed in the fabric.

“You gonna ask me to come inside?” He asks quietly.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, you let your hand drift to the door handle, but this time, you don’t open it.

Just like last night.

“I don’t think I can handle pieces of you anymore.” You say.

Ray looks at you, and it’s there, raw, unspoken, something halfway towards regret and maybe even love. But it’s not ready yet. He’s not ready yet.

So he nods in understanding.

And he stays in the car with you a little longer, just breathing the same air, listening to the radio, and letting all the things you still haven’t said weigh down on you both.

You just sit there, staring at the shadowy outlines of your house through the windshield. Your heart's in a knot. Your brain’s louder than the music still whispering low through the speakers.

You meant what you said about not being able to take only parts of him. When you do, it always ends up with your heart being broken or a bruise-shaped memory. But when you look at him now, under the soft yellow glow of your porch light, you still ache in that same stupid place you always do.

And maybe that’s why your hand moves before your mouth can stop it.

You push open the door.

You get out.

And lower your head to meet his gaze, eyes pleading silently at him.

Ray hesitates. A beat. Two. You close your door and head up the small path to your porch. Then you hear the soft creak that echoes in your chest of the passenger door opening behind you.

You don’t say anything. Just walk up inside.

And leave it open behind you.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following. You feel the air shift the second he steps in behind you. The door clicks shut, but the silence stays loud. You stand in the middle of the room, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt like you're holding a lit match and daring yourself not to drop it.

His presence behind you is looming, heavy. You feel him before you hear him. The low drag of his boots across your floor, the way the warmth of him presses against your back without him touching you.

"You sure?" He asks, voice low and rough, like gravel pulled across pavement.

You nod.

"Say it." The soft command scrapes gently against your spine.

"I want you." You breathe out.

That’s all it takes.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask again. His hands are on your hips in a flash, rough and sure, like he’s been waiting too long to be careful. He turns you with gentle force but not cruelty, crashing his mouth against yours with a hunger that makes your knees buckle.

You gasp into the kiss. His lips are hot, firm, just shy of punishing. He tastes like beer and every wrong choice you've ever made. You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the muscle there as he walks you backward through the space of your home. Your hip bumps into the edge of your couch before he keeps walking you backwards. The path to your room was something he never forgot.

“Been thinking about this for too long.” He mutters, trailing his mouth down your throat. His stubble scrapes your skin, and you arch against him, breath stuttering.

His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, dragging your shirt up, sliding calloused fingers under the fabric until his thumbs brush over the underside of your breasts. It’s frantic, and slow at the same time, like he wants to savor every inch of you, but doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it if he doesn’t keep moving.

You whimper as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. His mouth latches onto the skin above your heart, dragging his teeth over it like he wants to leave a mark deep enough to stay days after he's gone.

"You're shaking." He murmurs, voice thick.

"You're making me..." You breathe.

His mouth curls against your skin. He pushes you back slowly down the hall, lips trailing fire along your jaw, and kicks open the bedroom door like it’s the final gate before a storm.

He lays you down, hard, fast, but careful enough not to hurt you. His hands don’t leave your body, not for a second. He strips you slowly now, his eyes following every inch of skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Goddamn,” He whispers, more to himself than you, dragging his fingers from the inside of your thigh up your hip. “I forgot how soft you are.”

“You didn’t forget,” you whisper. “You just haven't touched me in a long time.”

That lands somewhere low in his gut. Ray groans and kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue tangling with yours, his hand sliding between your legs like it belongs there. He teases you, just enough to make your hips twitch, before sliding them in with practiced ease. The stretch is sweet and immediate. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily.

You tug at his belt in response, your hands clumsy, desperate. He helps you, ripping it loose and shoving his jeans down just far enough. When he finally slides between your thighs, thick and hot, your breath hitches.

He pushes in slowly. Deliberate.

Stretching you.

Filling you.

You clutch at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out and groans low in your ear.

“Missed this,” he says. “Missed you.”

You don’t answer with words. You roll your hips, and that’s enough.

He takes you, inch by inch, like he’s making up for every time he didn’t say what he meant, every time he pulled away instead of pulling you closer.

You cling to him, hips rising to meet every thrust, body aching for more.

His hand wraps around your throat, just enough to ground you. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his mouth presses to your ear.

“Tell me you've missed this too.” He rasps.

“I've missed this,” you breathe. “God, Ray, I've missed you…”

He groans at that, hitting deeper, until you’re arching, gasping, crying out his name. He swallows every sound, kissing you hard and desperately as you fall apart beneath him.

When your body trembles and tightens and shudders, he chases it. Follows you into that heat and breaks with you, hips jerking as he lets go with a growl.

You wake to sunlight peeking through the blinds, cutting soft lines across your sheets. Ray’s body is still next to yours, bare chest rising and falling slowly, one arm slung lazily over your waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it.

His warmth. The quiet.

You run a hand along the arm wrapped around you, fingers tracing a small scar near his elbow. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Eventually, you slip out of bed. Get ready for the day ahead of you. Get yourself some coffee. When you return to your room to change, you find your bed empty.

You go out onto the porch to find that he’s outside, crouched beside your bike, still shirtless, a wrench on the cement beside him. He doesn’t see you watching from the door.

He’s fixing it.

Just doing it. Like it’s the one thing he can control, the creek of the porch has him looking over his shoulder towards you.

He doesn’t say good morning.

Neither do you.

For a while, the only sound is the click of the bolt he's tightening, and the morning birds singing you a good morning. You lean against the wall, mug warm in your hands.

“You left.” He says, not accusing. Just… stating.

“Didn’t go far.” You nod, eyes on the rim of your mug. “I told you the chain keeps falling off." You say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. “I fixed it so it won't anymore. She's good as new again.” He pats the seat and turns his head to you.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you in that way he does, eyes soft, but guarded.

"Last night-"

"Was a mistake... I get it." You look down.

"No." He stands up. “It wasn’t just a one-time thing, Y/n.” His jaw clenches.

“And?” Hope was hidden behind readied disappointment in your voice.

“I’m still figuring out what I am to you.”

You stare at him. “You’re what I let back into my life again last night.”

Ray steps forward slowly. Not to close the distance, just enough to speak low.

“Then let me stay. I'll try not to leave when things get hard.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.” His voice drops. “But I don’t want to ruin this again.”

Your eyes meet his. They’re tired. Yours probably are too.

“Then don’t.”

He nods. But neither of you promises anything.

It’s late afternoon by the time Curtis finds you again. You’re back at the school, grading, pretending to focus, pretending last night didn’t shift the ground under your feet.

He leans against the classroom doorframe, arms folded, eyes scanning your face like he already knows.

“You had sex with him, didn't you?”

You close the folder you were pretending to read. "Hello to you, too.” You sigh, not trying to beat around the bush. “What’s it to you?”

Curtis walks inside. Not angry. Not smug. Just... serious.

“You think he’s gonna stay this time?” He sits on the edge of your desk.

“I don’t know.” You peer up at the teenager. "And since when have you cared who I sleep with, weirdo?"

“Since Ray ruined things between you two, and I was soon out of a babysitter... Do you want him to? Stay, I mean?”

You pause. “I want him to try.”

Curtis huffs. “Ray doesn’t do halfway. He either leaves too early or stays too late.”

You nod. “I know that.”

Curtis sits down across from you, eyes level. “I know what it’s like to want someone so bad you’ll take them in pieces. But I also know what it’s like when those pieces cut you.”

You stay quiet.

“Just promise me,” He says, voice gentler now. “If he breaks you again, you won’t pretend it doesn't hurt.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t.” You whisper.

Curtis studies you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Okay.”

He stands and heads toward the door, pausing in the doorway.

“You’re not stupid...for letting him back in again,” he says. “I could always tell how in love with him you were. Mom still sees it, too. In him, I mean.”

"You were ten when we first started dating, what do you know?"

"Anyone with eyes could see how crazy about you he was, and how crazy you were about him."

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left sitting in the quiet, feeling the weight of everything you can’t afford to keep hoping for, but still do.

Ray’s leaning against the back wall of the garage, a half-empty beer in his hand, shirt sticking to him in the late afternoon heat. He tries to take in the peaceful crunches of wrenches and zoots and zeets of machines in the back.

The quiet doesn’t last, though.

Curtis walks in, steady and calm, but there’s a weight to his steps that makes Ray straighten up immediately. The younger Young doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at Ray, eyes narrowed, lips drawn in that familiar, patient line.

Ray doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know what this is about.

“You gonna say it or keep staring at me like I kicked a dog?”

Curtis tilts his head. “She let you in again.”

Ray wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then tosses the beer into the trash without answering.

That’s an answer on its own. Curtis exhales through his nose. Not surprised. Just disappointed.

“You’re gonna push her away.”

Ray’s jaw tenses. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is.” Curtis steps closer. Still calm. Still steady. But it’s in his voice now, tight, coiled, sharp. “She’s not like the other women you play hot and cold with, Ray. She feels everything. And you—” He gestures at him. “You burn everything you touch.”

Ray’s eyes flash with hurt. He pushes off the wall, stepping forward until they’re toe-to-toe. “I didn’t use her. It's different this time.”

“Oh yeah? Then what about the time before and the time before that when you said it was different with her?” Curtis throws back. “How many more chances do you think she'll keep giving you, Ray?”

Ray doesn’t answer. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Curtis lowers his voice. “She’s starting to believe you’ll stay this time.”

Ray meets his gaze. “And maybe I will.”

Curtis stares him down. “Then this would be the first time in your life you didn’t run the second shit got complicated. What are you gonna do when things do get complicated, huh, or real?”

Ray’s nostrils flare. He looks away for a moment, just a beat, but that’s all Curtis needs.

“That’s what I thought.” Curtis turns to leave.

But before he reaches the garage doors, Ray speaks, low and bitter.

“You think you know everything, baby brother, but you don’t know what it feels like to want someone and be scared you’ll fuck it up just by being who you are… And since when have you cared so much about Y/n and I’s relationship?” He scoffs.

Curtis stops. Turns halfway back.

“Since mom gave you shit for letting her walk out of your life, since she was the last thing that might’ve kept this family glued together a little longer… You’re not afraid, Ray. You just don’t want to put in the work it takes to be something worth her time.”

The words hit like a punch.

Ray doesn't speak.

Curtis walks away.

And Ray stands there, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it might tell him who he’s supposed to be.

The socket wrench slips from his fingers.

It clatters to the concrete with a loud metallic clang, but Ray doesn’t move to pick it up. He just stands there.

Ray doesn’t plan it.

He just ends up outside your place again, late afternoon sun bleeding into dusk, the bike rumbling to a stop in front of your house.

He doesn’t kill the engine at first.

He just sits there, helmet still on, staring at your porch like it might vanish if he gets too close. Like he might.

Curtis’s voice is still in his head, looping: “You don’t want to put in the work.”

He knows Curtis was right. Hell, he’s known it for a while. How easy it is to tear things down. To leave behind sweat and bruises and come back like nothing happened.

What’s not easy is knocking on your door when you're not expecting him, when there’s nothing to fix, when the only thing he’s bringing with him is himself.

He cuts the engine.

Kicks the stand down.

Steps up to the door.

There’s a hesitation in his knuckles before he knocks.

Not fear.

Hope.

A few seconds pass before you open the door in a t-shirt and fuzzy slippers, eyes wide like you weren’t ready to see him again this soon.

Ray doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t flirt.

He just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, thumb nervously brushing a folded piece of paper inside.

“Hey.” He says.

You blink, arms still crossed like you’re trying to hold something in. “Didn’t expect you.”

“I know.” He swallows. “That’s why I came.”

You lean against the doorframe, quiet. Waiting.

Ray shifts his weight.

“I was thinking...” He starts, then stops. Breathes. Tries again. “I’m always waiting for things to blow up before I talk to you. Before I show up. I’m tired of being that guy.”

You narrow your eyes, not unkind. Just unsure.

“I’m not good with... this stuff,” he adds. “But I’m here. Not to fix your car. Not to fix your bike. Not to pick a fight. I just wanna be here.”

He pulls the folded paper from his pocket, worn, stained with grease, and hands it to you.

It’s a list.

Of the parts, Curtis asked for.

And scribbled at the bottom in messy handwriting: Tell her I’m not running this time. A glimpse into his torment, of what he was trying to prioritise over a list of car parts.

You look up at him.

Ray’s breathing is shallow, like he just stripped naked and showed you every bruise under his skin. He shrugs.

“You can tell me to piss off. I’ll leave. But I just needed you to know I’m gonna try harder.”

Your fingers tighten around the paper.

And for once, he doesn’t say anything else.

He just waits.

Quiet.

Solid.

Present.

Your eyes flick over the handwriting, his handwriting, stubborn, scratched out, rewritten, smudged like he held onto the paper longer than he meant to.

Then you step back.

You don’t say, come in. You don’t need to.

He follows, quietly, like he’s not sure he belongs inside but doesn’t want to risk asking.

The door clicks shut behind him.

There’s silence.

He sits on the edge of the couch. You grab two glasses with water, no alcohol, and settle into the chair across from him. No touching. Just both there.

Ray stares at the floor. Then at his hands. Then at you.

You let him sit in it.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Real.

“I thought about last night a hundred times over since it happened. Not just the sex. Not even mostly that.” He glances up and meets your eyes.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked at me when it was over. Like you were trying to memorize me... before I disappeared again.”

You breathe in slowly, but don’t look away. “Were you trying to disappear?”

He nods. “Yeah. For a second, I was.”

You sip your water, throat dry.

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back,” you admit. “But I was more scared that if you didn’t, I’d let you in again, even if it never meant anything.”

Ray’s brow knits. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It means something,” he says. “I’m not good at saying the right shit. I mess up. I avoid things. But I’ve been thinking about you every damn day since you walked out of that garage the first time… Out of my life.”

You hold his gaze. “And now?”

He swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.” He says it quietly, like it’s still hard for him to say it. “I want to be better. For you. I just don’t know how to do this... right.”

You set your glass down. Walk over. Sit next to him, close.

“You start by not disappearing,” you say. “By showing up even when it might not be convenient for you. When it’s not something about sex or anything easy. When there’s a problem.”

Ray looks at you, something caught in his throat.

You add, softer now, “You don’t have to know how to love me right away. But if you’re gonna be in my life... You have to try. All the way. ‘Cause I do, and I’m tired of being the one who puts in more than two cents every time.”

He nods once, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m trying, sweetheart.” And for the first time, you believe him. “I want to try again.”

You nod at him.

You don’t kiss.

You let the silence settle between you, with his arm brushing yours, the warmth of him at your side.

And it feels okay.

Because for once, he’s not trying to take something from you.

He’s giving you space to breathe.

#motorheads imagines #ray young #ray young x reader #ray young imagines #ray young imagine #ray young oneshot #ray young smut #ray young x fem!reader #writings by juls #writing by juls: ray young #my gif

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mercurial-chuckles · 5 months ago

Text

Mirthless Monday Thought

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Word Count: ~500 A/N: I was in a mood, oops! And this was scheduled for yesterday, but looks like it was eaten away! Up for some feels?! Here you go! Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! GIF credits to @buckybarnesj Divider credits to @buck-star Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

Read the final part Catharsis

Indulge Away!

"Mind your business." Bucky regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

They weren't meant for you. They were but a defense, a wall hastily built to shield himself from feelings he didn't know how to process. He hadn't been truly social since Hydra. And yet, you'd never been anything but kind to him.

It wasn't your fault he'd been lost in his mind, consumed by endless thoughts of you. Days filled with hopeful dreams, a possibility that maybe, just maybe, he could have a future with you. Nights consumed by nightmares, the horrors that a distant shell of a body committed burned into his mind, twisting you into them. You always starred in his nightmares these days, haunting him in every way, even when he woke.

That night, he'd just escaped one of those dreams. Shaken and raw, he stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to stuff himself with food, only to find you sitting with your laptop and a steaming cup of tea.

You'd looked at him with those soft, concerned eyes and asked, "Shall I make you some tea?"

It was too much. The comfort you offered collided with the fear he couldn't shake. And his stupid mouth had no rhyme or reason, muttering, "Mind your business."

Your smile faltered.

His heart cracked wide open. He froze, speechless at himself, of the sin he'd just committed.

You nodded, collecting your laptop and tea with slow, careful movements, making yourself small.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, voice soft but heavy, and then you were gone.

Bucky stood there, hollow and paralyzed. It felt like he was back in Hydra's chair, helpless and fear-ridden with added self-loathing.

The rest of the night was a losing battle. Should he go after you and beg forgiveness? Or was it better to sink into the misery he'd brought on himself? He didn't deserve you, after all.

The next two days were hell. You were nowhere to be found. By the time he resolved to apologize--beg, plead, do whatever it took to make it right--Maria Hill called a meeting.

He shifted in his seat, restless, eyes darting to the door every few seconds. You were always the first to arrive, sometimes bringing something you'd cooked or setting up the coffee.

But today, you weren't there. Anxiety churned in his stomach.

Maria broke the silence.

"The mission went south. It was a trap," she said bluntly, her voice heavy.

"She sent the five agents back as she couldn't pilot the jet herself. She created a diversion to give them a chance to escape. No one's heard from her since. We don't know if…if she made it to the safehouse."

Bucky's blood ran cold. The words violently thrashed in his mind, refusing to settle. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Were you on that mission? How had he not known?

The room felt suffocating. His chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, his movements frantic. Panic and fury twisted together, and his voice came out ragged, broken.

"Where is she?"

Steve stood, hurrying to his side, but Bucky held his hand, stopping him. He was this close to punching anyone in his way if they tried him.

"Buck…"

"Give me the fucking details, Captain!" he roared, his voice shaking with desperation.

I know...I know...I just had to get it out of my chest! 🩷🥹

Read the final part Catharsis

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

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rvp32 · 8 months ago

Text

Possessive Love- Jennie Kim

not proofread, might contain spelling mistakes, and even bad grammar. Please forgive those but enjoy the story. Also posted this in light of her new comeback. Enjoy!

As the door to your luxury penthouse opens, you wait for the small figure to walk inside.

"I'm home…that party was a lot- I'm ready to relax!" A voice cries out cutely.

Except she didn't hear a reply back. Looking up, she sees you glaring a cold stare at her.

"What happened? Aren't you happy that I am here?" Jennie questions as she slowly walks toward you after taking off her heels

"What the fuck are you wearing? You wore that kind of outfit in public? At a party no less where everyone was ogling you?" You bark at her.

"Nobody was doing anything! I wore it because it was sexy. Why? do you not like it?" Jennie says, knowing very well you didn't but she still wanted to see how jealous you got

You glare your eyes at her even more.

"Too sexy. That is the problem."

Jennie rolls her eyes. "I can wear what I want. I'll do whatever I want!" She rebuts.

That pushes you over the edge, rationality completely leaving your mind!

You grab Jennie’s neck and pull her closer, tightening your grip around her neck.

"No you don't. You are mine! and you will only wear what I deem good enough for you! Just because you are the "CEO" of your company doesn't mean you can do what you want. You know I am the reason you hold that position right," You ask. Pulling her close enough to feel her breath on your lips

Your lips are on her in an instant and you roughly have your other hand touching her chest.

"I know your feet are sore from those heels. You did all this shit on purpose didn't you?" As you continue to kiss her, you drag her, walking backward to the sofa. Plopping down, you break the kiss and stare deep into her eyes.

"Baby girl…go sit on the other end of the sofa and get Daddy's cock nice and hard with those pretty feet of yours."

"Yes, I did this on purpose, given how busy you have been. I needed to pull something like this to finally get you to myself," Jennie says as she settles down on the other side of the sofa.

Jennie's feet slowly rub your clothed cock. Those pretty nails painted completely in matte black looked perfect rubbing your cock "Baby girl…you know you're one of my favorite sluts…I don't give keys to any of the mansions or penthouses to just anyone…it's a very short list.."

But Jennie slowly drags her toes across your pants, letting you feel her nails scratching just a bit. She pouts seductively.

"Suzy…Jisoo, Rosie…Naeun…Tzuyu…Seolhyun..Irene…" She begins to rattle off names.

You grasp her ankles and hold them down to keep the pressure on your cock. "Shut up. Don't waste your time thinking about them…Daddy is with you now princess so get to work."

"Show daddy what he has been missing? Show me why I should have you around me 24/7!" You say, hoping to get Jennie's competitive nature out.

It does, she immediately pulls your pants down and wraps her feet around your cock pumping it hard and fast

"Does daddy like my feet? do they feel good? None of the other sluts can ever use their feet as good as me can they now Daddy?" Jennie asks

You withhold a moan. She got aggressive right away…good…

"Mhmm..baby girl..you know Jisoo and Rosie…have some of my faves-"

But Jennie keeps pumping and then takes her left foot and scrunches her toes at your tip. Her right foot scrapes along your shaft but she then tries to put a part of your cock between her big and middle toe.

"What were you saying, Daddy? Am I getting you hard? Your cum will look so good all over my black polish. And Daddy…my feet are so sore from those heels…I'm sure you'll love the flavor later as you're fucking me…"

"Oh someone is jealous!" You tease Jennie, knowing very well that she would take this as provocation.

"I'm not jealous, I'm just speaking the truth," Jennie says as she continues to work your cock with her feet, occasionally playing with the tip. She knew how much you loved footjobs and she was taking full advantage of it.

"Fuck, princess your feet feel so good around my cock" You moan, you didn't want to boost her ego but she was in fact making you feel amazing right now

Jennie smirks and brings her feet together again on either side of your cock, rubbing her soles furiously up and down your hard mast.

"Tell me I'm better than them…no..I want Rosie and Jisoo to hear it…I'm the best right?" She says taking out her phone and hitting record.

"Quite the feisty little one aren't you? Do you really think you are better than them? And what if I tell them that? Don't you think they would barge in immediately and take away your personal time with me?" You question her. Hoping she would stop her call.

Jennie pauses for a moment but makes the call anyway, first to Rosie.

You narrow your eyes at the bratty girl but you know you'd turn this on her soon.

"That wasn't your brightest idea princess, You are going to regret calling Rose especially in the situation that we are currently in," You say to Jennie as she continues to play with your cock.

Rosie picks up the call.

"Hi! What's up?" She says, her Aussie accent like honey.

Jennie smirks. "I just wanted to call you because I'm with Daddy right now…" She says in a teasing manner.

"And you thought of calling me now? Tell me where you guys are. So we can have a nice conversation in person," Rose says catching on to what Jennie was trying to do

Jennie sticks her tongue out.

"No. I have him all to myself…I'm giving him a footjob, better than anything you've ever done."

Rosie rolled her eyes, now seeing what this call was really about.

"Yeah yeah, keep believing that. I know for sure that my footjobs are a 100 times better than yours," Rose says, infuriating Jennie

Rosie presses on.

"I'm his favorite for feet if not one of his..maybe Jisoo and Suzy too…he has lots…I know what he likes…why do you think I show mine off so much, especially with white polish? Yours are smaller and stubbier…there is no way you could beat me…"

"Fuck you bitch, your just jealous that his cock isn't in between your feet. I have him squirming under my feet right now all while you get nothing," Jennie fires back.

As Jennie continues to stroke your cock, you get an alert on your phone about the new photos and magazine release and you frown.

You were beyond shocked when you saw those pics. You grab Jennie by her hair and pull her toward you

"What the fuck do you think you have been doing? Why are you going around posing like a slut for these magazines?" You question your blood boiling because of how naughty these pics are.

"I'm done." You quickly get off the couch rummage through a drawer and pull out a collar.

"Collar, now. You need to be punished." You say coldly, leaving no room for argument.

The tone of your voice made it clear that you were angry, and this was beyond what Jennie had expected. She knew you would get angry but now she was in completely unknown territory to her, so she got on her knees in front of you

You stare coldly at her.

"You need to have my permission before shoots like this…to dress like a slut for all to see? What a dirty bitch you are. If what you want is for everyone to see you that way, fine. You're free to go…"

You step forward and stroke her cheek though, looking down at her.

"Or you can be a good girl and know your fucking place…put the collar on and tell Daddy how sorry you are."

Jennie takes the collar from your hand and puts it on. She knew what she did was way beyond what you tolerated and she also knew that if you wanted you could leave her here all hot and bothered and never be allowed to be in the same room as you ever again. Jennie couldn't live without you. Your dick was the only thing that could satisfy her greedy little pussy.

"I am really sorry daddy, I just wanted to get your attention. I didn't think that you would be this angry," Jennie apologizes.

But you knew you had to push her, watch her break.

"Rosie's still on the call…maybe I should just go to her and fuck her brains out…Jisoo too…or any of the other hundreds of girls I could have at my beck and call right now. Tell me how fucking sorry you are. Are you stupid? Are you an attention-seeking whore?"

"I am so fucking sorry Daddy. I have been a dumb bitch. I will never do it again!" Jennie begged, she cut the call and was now on her knees her head near your feet.

You could see her body literally shaking in fear. Fear of you throwing her away and never even thinking about her again. She couldn't fathom the thought of you not filling up her tight pussy all because she wanted to be a whore in a magazine shoot so that you would show her some attention

"Don't look down on the ground! Look at me. What am I to you, Jennie? You could have anyone you want..you could get any dick you want, especially now after these pics. So go then, you can keep the collar but get the fuck out of my apartment. I. Am. Done. With. You."

"NO no! please please forgive me, Daddy. Pleasee I won't ever do this again. Don't make me leave pleasee. I NEED YOU. I don't care about anyone else. I want Daddy only you Daddy all the others are nothing compared to you," Jennie begged, tears spilling out like a broken dam.

The gravity of the situation was beyond what she could handle, she realized the magnitude of what she had done and it was killing her.

"Then you better fucking empty my balls…whatever the fuck I want. You're just my slut to use…so suck my cock better than you ever have in your dirty life."

Hearing this Jennie gets to work, playing and worshipping your cock like never before. The pure fear of you throwing her away showed a side of her that you never thought you would see.

You roll your head back with pleasure.

"Fuck yes, baby girl…prove your worth to your Daddy…fucking choke on it…worship it…" You hold her head in place with one hand and begin thrusting harshly, slamming your tip against her throat's walls.

Jennie takes it well. She was willing to do anything and everything to make sure that you were happy with her again. her tears now flowing due to the big cock down her throat.

"You fucking love this don't you? Being used like the whore you are. That is all that you are to me…Your tears are a result of your insolence.."

You keep bashing your cock inside her mouth. "Just fucking on it all.." You try and push your cock down her throat..your balls hitting her chin and lips and you keep it there, testing how long she could hold her breath.

Jennie slowly began loving it. After her throat had adjusted to the size of your massive cock, she started to enjoy it, her pussy getting wetter than it already was. This was just another signal to you that you could keep going

You had to contain your surprise…she was adjusting? She would be hard to break…but maybe you just needed to break her spirit and heart instead..break her mind…make her unable to live, to think, to even breathe without your touch and cock.

Jennie looked up at you her eyes full of tears but there was a look almost like she was hoping you would compliment and forgive her because of how well she was doing but you knew that this was only the beginning.

"What is that? Are you seeking my approval? Do you think that was good enough? How stupid. Tell me, what good are you to me?"

You say touching her cheek again and brushing her hair, she really was beautiful like this, not that you would ever admit it.

She tries to take your dick out of her mouth to reply to you but you push it back in surprising her all the way down her throat not allowing her to breathe. you pull out by yourself after having your cock in her for a few seconds. Finally giving Jennie some much-needed air

"I didn't tell you to take it out now did I? You only do everything that I tell you to? A pretty little slut like you doesn't need to think. See we ended up in this horrible situation because of you thinking," You say.

"Strip Jennie…strip and lie down on the floor and spread…let me see that dirty pussy…let me see your slutty body on full display only for me.."

"yes, Daddy," is all Jennie says before following your command, She was now lying on the cold hard marbled floor. completely naked, her legs spread open and her pussy visibly drenched.

"you are awfully wet aren't you, for someone who is being punished. Maybe I am being too nice to you" You say.

"I wonder how long you would stay there if I command it..I wonder if you would resist any of my requests? If I wanted to sit on you and choke my cock down your throat? If I wanted to piss all over your body? If I wanted to shove a toy in your cunt and take you to the edge until your mind break…show me your loyalty, baby girl."

"anything daddy. I am willing to do anything for you to forgive my stupidity, please. I just don't want you to throw me away." Jennie begs.

You smirk and decide to test her words…you approach her and gently sit atop her chest. You line up your cock to her mouth and slam down forcefully, making her choke. Your balls hit her chin once again but this time gravity and your floor trapped her helpless body.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty mouth and who knows I might even piss in it." Jennie tries her best to adjust to your roughness and eventually, she does, her eyes gleaming in excitement at the thought of you pissing right down her throat. Seeing as you weren't going to throw her away immediately she was quite happy as this was exactly what she wanted and a little more.

You growl as you thrust harshly against her throat.

"Fucking take it, baby girl..you stupid whore! I want to hear you beg for my cum..for my piss down your throat..fucking beg like a stupid slut!"

The rougher you got the more Jennie responded. Her hands gripping your thighs, not to stop you but to keep you from sliding out of her mouth. Her pussy making a mess on the marble floor. She desperately needed any stimulus but she wasn't getting any

"I know what you want, baby girl…but did you think you wouldn't be punished? No…I'm going to call another slut of my choosing and I'm going to fuck their brains out in front of you. You'll understand how it feels when I see wear those outfits for others."

You can see the panic set in her eyes. She wanted you all to herself. Didn't care about what you were doing to her but she didn't want any other bitch putting her nasty hands on you especially when Jennie was in the same room.

You knew this was the thing she would hate the most…losing…losing you…losing you to someone else…maybe someone younger…someone who had potential…the creeping idea that you could replace her, not with just someone of her caliber like her bandmates, no…someone so much lesser…but who would you call?"

Many options came to your mind, and one of them was Julie. A new idol who was very well-loved and was also hailed as the next Jennie because of her sexy acts on stage. Maybe calling her would send Jennie off the edge completely breaking her. Or natty was also another option, your options were potentially unlimited.

You make a decision and grab your phone, deciding to call Julie.

"I want you here now. I'll send you the address. Get here quickly." You say coldly and then hang up.

Jennie shakes her head, trying to push your cock out of her mouth. To tell you something but you couldn't care about what she had to say

"Did tell you to move?" you ask.

Jennie nods her head.

" then why the fuck are you trying to move?" You ask again, showing her who is in control

You then go grab a couple of items, one was a tiny pill, and the other a vibrator to be inserted.

"I'm going to stuff this in you and turn it on..don't you dare fucking cum and take your pill." You say, forcefully shoving the pill down her throat.

It was something you had developed…those who consumed the pill would have all their senses heightened but it only responded to your scent and your touch. It was the ultimate activation of all their desire and senses, making most of them brain mush for you. Their horniness would be beyond control.

Tears were rolling down her eyes. But she did exactly as you instructed. Taking the pill and waiting for you to put the prepped vibe into her pussy

"Daddy please, I will be a good girl. I will do anything you want. Please just tell whoever you called to go back. Whoever it is, I can be better than them. You know me, right Daddy? Pleaseee," Jennie pleads hoping that you would change your mind before she came.

The pill was already taking its effect on Jennie's body. Her hand slowly tugged her nipple. Her body heated up much more, her pussy creating a puddle much bigger than before.

You smirk and again stroke her face with your hand, but even that simple touch makes her squirt and shriek.

"You must be on fire right now…you desire so me badly right now…your body craves it, is starved for it…good…it will hurt all the more. I think you'll hate who I chose to receive my seed today."

Jennie's body still recovering from something as simple as a touch. Her body felt like it was as hot as the fucking sun and the only thing that was keeping her even the least bit sane was your scent that lingered in the room

"D-daddy, pleaseee. Touch me, Use me, Destroy me. Please," Jennie managed to whisper as she tried her best not to rub her swollen clit.

"Did I even permit you to speak? You'll stay there until I tell you otherwise. Stay on the floor, I want to watch you squirm until she arrives."

Not being able to keep her legs open any more Jennie closes them rubbing her tighs together. Trying her best to quell her thirst for your touch. The fact that you were just sitting her was already driving her crazy. All she could think about was your cock and all the ways you could shove it into her.

You then chuckle and activate the vibrator inside her pussy too, you control its tempo and power, making sure to edge her without letting her cum.

The sudden pleasure provides a small sense of relief from the immense heat inside of her but it soon becomes worse. She was now being tortured both physically and mentally. Her body went into overdrive with all the pleasure and her mind slowly turned into mush.

"Beg..speak baby girl…how are you feeling hmm?"

"It's so hot daddy. my body… My body is burning. I need you Daddy pleasee, it is-"

Jennie wasn't able to finish her sentence as you turned up the vibrator. Her body jerked with the sudden increase in pleasure, she was now grabbing at her tits trying her best not to let her hand near her pussy because all it would take was a single touch and she would come undone.

"This is your punishment baby girl…what's wrong? Don't like the vibrator? Your body is burning thanks to the effects of my toys and yet…you just can't have me."

"hngggh daddy I need you, this vibrator doesn't do anything it is just-" Jennie isn't able to finish the sentence as you increase the intensity.

"You need me? Do you need me? Then why dress like a slut in public for all to see? You break my rules, baby girl…"

"I'm sorry Daddy I am ssooo sorry I won't do it again. So please, please just touch mee!!" Jennie whines.

you grunt as you rush over and yank the vibrator out before shoving my cock inside her pussy without warning and kissing her. Thanks to the special item and now my touch, her body was overwhelmed and her brain was going to be turned into mush.

The pleasure completely overtook her body. her brain could focus on nothing but your cock that was stretching her pussy. It was like finding water in a desert for Jennie. She didn't just want it her body needed this

"Is this what you wanted baby girl? What you needed?" I growl and kiss her and begin to drill into her pussy with abandon.

"Who the fuck owns you? Who owns this pussy? As I slap my balls against her folds and bury my cock inside her walls over and over over.

Jennie couldn't say anything, her brain completely turned to mush with the overbearing pleasure from your cock.

She wanted to answer you, but her brain wasn't able to produce a sensible answer. All that came out of her mouth were mumbles of nonsense in between moans.

"I asked you a question!" I shout as I then pull out my cock from her pussy and don't let it touch her.

"No! no, please put it back in daddy, my pussy, my body, and my everything belongs to Daddy, daddy owns every single inch of my body, it's his to use," Jennie manages to say as her body revolts from the lack of stimulus at her pussy.

You then hammer my cock back into her pussy and kiss her deeply before starting back again roughly. You choke her neck and begin battering her pussy again, making sure your head reached the depths, practically knocking at her walls.

The room is filled with the sound of moans and bodies slapping against each other. The pleasure was just perfect for Jennie, you could see her eyes roll back and her pussy wrapping around your cock tightly almost as if it was trying to hold you in there.

"Never forget who you belong to, baby girl. Never forget who owns this pussy, your holes, who decides what you wear and when. Never forget your place as my cock hungry cumslut!"

"yes yes yes daddy. I belong to you only you. I will do anything and everything you say so please pleasee just keep pounding my pussy Daddy," Jennie screams

I can only focus on the relentless drilling of her cunt, over and over against the sturdy floor…to ruin the mighty and world-class Jennie Kim.

"Take it all…cum for me baby girl."

"Hnghhh fuckkk!" Jennie screams and cums all over your cock. It's like a dam broke, water gushing all over your cock.

"That's my good girl…" Her extra juices only helped me slide into her tight cunt as I chased my own release and merely used her flesh for my desires.

"Fuck fuck fuckk daddy! Too much fuck I'm losing my mind daddy!" Jennie moans

"Too much baby girl? It's never enough baby girl. I decide when it's too much or else I'll just stop right now and I won't empty my seed in you. Do you want your pussy to remain starved? I can give my seed to a different whore. Just shut up and take my cock!"

"no no please I need it! yes Daddy give me your cum please," Jennie moans

"Good!" I grunt and keep slamming into her pussy, deeper, harder, rougher, drilling into her cunt as deep as possible.

"I'm close baby girl…beg for it."

"Yes, Daddy cum in me please! dump all that thick baby batter into my pussy pleasee! Fucking breed me Daddy I need that fucking cum pleasee!!" Jennie screamed as you continued to pound into her

"That's it, baby girl! Yes. I'll breed you. I'll unload into this fucking cunt..this cunt that belongs to me. You dirty whore…what is that song of yours called? Mantra? The only mantra I want to hear is your screams, breed me, Daddy..breed me. I'm your whore. Now say it back!"

"yes breed me please please pleaseee," Jennie's begging was going to send you over the edge soon

It gave me the extra boost I needed as I spear her pussy with more powerful thrusts before erupting..gushing a hot stream of thick white batter..blasting it like a cannon.

"Fuck yes! Take it all baby girl…" You're mine.." I say kissing her lips fiercely before biting at her neck

"FUCKKKK, it's so hot Daddy! It feels so fucking amazing in my belly. you are cumming so much that you might actually breed me," Jennie says

"You'd give it all up for me, wouldn't you princess? Your entire career to be bred by me?"

I ask giving a few more thrusts making sure every drop was deposited in her walls.

"Yes, Daddy I would give up everything for you, all you have to do is say the word and it's done."

"Not yet baby girl, but congrats on your song release…" Just don't go out wearing shit I don't approve of okay?"

"Yes Daddy I won't"

#kpop smut #jennie kim #blackpink #jennie blackpink #jennie #blackpink x reader #blackpink smut #blackpink jennie

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teojira · 1 year ago

Note

I saw that you had transformers on your fandom list, will you be willing to write a 'bot of choice x human reader jealousy/protectiveness fic? Like in that one scene from Transformers 2 where the Deception Pretender tried to seduce Sam but Bee absolutely wasn't having that but had to stay in car mode?

[Aren't you supposed to be more mature than this?]

Summary: Optimus knows better than to get attached to you (too late), he can't help but side eye you and a stranger interacting. (Based on Knightverse Optimus, after ROTB!)

Word count: 800+ words!

Pronouns: They/them

Warnings: Optimus is bad at feelings, Optimus being down bad, extremely self indulgent. Mainly Optimus' Pov as well! Lmk if I need to tag anything!

A/N: Everyone who knows me knows of my obsession and love for this man it's so bad, I have him tattooed and have a whole ass shrine I love HIMMM, Thank you sm for the request! He is the love of my life.

Optimus Prime has been called many things, many of which are true, things he'd accept with pride.

A great leader, a good friend, a valuable teammate, A war criminal.

A jealous bot was never one of them, until recently.

He wasn't sure when he started to take a shine towards you. Was it after Unicron? When he held you in his servos, cradling you to his chest as he transformed back into his bipedal form, only letting go of you after the confused looks from Bee and Mirage.

Maybe it was a while after that, when you offered to help clean him up, Noah was too busy rebuilding Mirage to offer his services to the big man himself.

Optimus could never wipe the feeling of your small hands gently running across his frame, taking extra care to mend any scratches you found, constantly checking in to make sure he was comfortable.

He's ashamed to admit, but he kept shuddering under your touch, his senses overwhelmed by your presence. Every time his cooling fans turned on, he'd wave it off as it was just hot outside. (it's 60 degrees out, liar.)

He tries to recharge that night, but the feeling in his chassis makes him restless. He can see his sensors go haywire at the mere thought of you. He is so fucked, he shuts his eyes and groans deeply, his mask shooting up to mask the sound, lest he wakes the others.

Primus help him.

With his new revelation, Optimus tries his best to distance himself towards you, always making excuses as to why he can't drive you home or to work (a flicker of jealously when Arcee offers, no one catches his digits curling ever so slightly into his palm), saying he must go on patrol for the time being. He waves you off when you try and care for him, asking if he'd like any help with any scrapes and dents, saying he can live with them, he's been through worse.

Its only natural that you'd give him some space, that's the kind of person you are, kind, loving, respectful, loyal to a fault, but it doesn't escape his notice when your smile falls after he politely tells you you're not needed, his spark aching when you turn around to go find another bot.

Optimus watches you now, stationed on the street.

He has no right to be upset when you're stopped outside of the garage by an older man, the man so clearly taking interest in you while you're very politely listening and nodding, shooting that oh so pretty smile to a man who he's sure is not fit to be anywhere near you, not worthy of the warm smile you wear.

It makes him seethe in jealousy, and it's scary.

He can not remember a time when he had ever been jealous. He's a prime. He was supposed to be a calm and collected leader and yet. And yet, he's so close to blowing his hor-

You suddenly whirl towards him. If he was any better of a man, he wouldn't immediately think of how cute you looked, how your lips moved as you let out a yelp.

It isn't until that thought passes his mind that he realizes he used his truckers horn. Embarrassment trickles through his body, although now he has your attention, and you are making your way towards him. The man following behind you keeps the conversation going, not catching a hint.

Optimus is ready to honk again, especially if this man keeps following so close behind you, way too close for comfort.

You beat him to it, turning around as you rest a hand on Optimus’ cabins door handle, shooting the man a polite smile.

“Sorry about that, but my husband is actually here to pick me up, so I have to go. Have a good day!” And You hoist yourself up, quickly buckling your seat belt, gently patting the dashboard in hopes Optimus fucking drives before you're bothered anymore.

Optimus’ processor buffers, his engine revving as he goes on autopilot to tale you both away. Does he know where to drive to? Certainly no, but you're with him now. He's sure you could ask him to take you to distant planets, and he'd make it work for you and only you.

“Thank you for the save, big guy.” You smile brightly at his steering wheel, your eyes lovingly trailing across the autobot symbol that sits in the center.

“It was nothing, I am glad to be there to assist.” The cabin rumbles with his voice, soothing your anxiety. You curl into your seat, resting your head.

“Where are we going?”

“If I'm not mistaken, you mentioned wanting to go to upstate New York to drive along some scenic routes? I'll gladly be your escort.”

He is so ridiculously falling for you, but he can't bring himself to hate it, especially when you excitedly hop in your seat.

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

#can you tell im up his ass #Optimus is one of my top 5 characters ever i am married to him actually #transformers x reader #optimus prime x reader #gender neutral reader #teddy loves bots ☆#optimus prime #transformers knightverse #tf knightverse #Optimus x reader

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alidiggory92 · 25 days ago

Text

Reach

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel and reader's beginning. A new start away from the QZ.

Notes/tags: Rating: (16+) age gap (Joel is 50s, reader 20s) prequel(ish) to His Girl, slow burn, plot is all over the place, plot doesn't make sense, time skips, no smut, reader is in a weird headspace (aka she's traumatized but not from Joel), lingering touches, mean!joel (kinda), brief spanking (not sexual), swearing, pining, sharing a bed, reader becomes a bit dependent. I think that's all?

WC: 5.5K

A/N: Thank you for all the love on my one shot! You don't need to read it in order to understand this part. This is all the beginning. Please read the tags, if anything is not your thing, that's fine! You don't have to read it. Sorry (not sorry) for the slow burn guys. There will be smut, I promise. Just working out the timeline and other things.

Dividers by: @uzmacchiato

The vine divider is not by them, but I can't find who I got it from. Message me to be credited.

Being Joel’s smuggling partner wasn’t easy. Hell, you had only begun to smuggle to get some extra money and trading cards. Doing business alongside Joel wasn’t your choice, either. He’d persuaded you into joining him. One, the reason being that a young girl getting into trading was a recipe for assault and black eyes. Two, Joel cared about you. Even if he would never say it out loud.

To you, he was the old grump who took you under his wing. To him, you were the fragile little girl who came sobbing to him after a FEDRA soldier gave you a palm to the cheek. You still remember the way Joel’s jaw clenched when he saw the red mark. He didn’t say a word, just handed you a cloth with ice wrapped inside and disappeared for the rest of the night. The soldier didn’t show up on patrol again. Ever.

And after that, Joel made it real clear: you don’t run jobs without him.

The weeks that followed were loud—sirens, shouting, curfews, lock downs. The QZ was tightening its grip and Joel had started keeping a packed bag under the floorboards.

“You paranoid?” you asked once, seeing the extra rounds and ration cards he was tucking into a duffel.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you in that way he did sometimes—like he was already planning five steps ahead of you, of the world, of everything.

The final straw came when one of your regular drop spots got raided. You were late meeting Joel. You came back scraped up, coughing from tear gas, and Joel didn’t yell. Didn’t say anything at all.

Just handed you that same cloth-wrapped ice and started packing his bag again. But this time, yours too.

“We’re done here,” he said, voice flat. “We’re gettin’ out.”

Joel entered the rustic home with a slam of the door. You look up from your spot on the ground, fiddling with the frayed strings at the end of your dress.

He sits down on the warped couch with a thud. He rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s exhausted, you can tell. It’s only been about six weeks of knowing the man. You still don’t know him all that well, and yet; you let him take you out of the QZ, and into this small house in Maine. Somehow you trusted him, but there was a rooted fear of him.

You still didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at you that first night after the raid—steady, unreadable. Maybe it was the way he hadn’t hesitated to drag you out of hell. Or maybe it was because, despite the rough edges and gravel-thick voice, he hadn't touched you. Not the way you feared.

Still, there was something heavy about Joel. Not cruel. But dangerous in a way you couldn’t name. Like he could hurt someone with his hands and still sleep through the night.

He’d warned you, time and time again, about the kind of men who’d take advantage of a girl like you. Too young. Too trusting. Too pretty. You weren’t stupid. You knew he hadn’t pulled you out of Boston just because he was feeling generous.

You just prayed his reasons weren’t the same as the ones he listed off like threats.

Your chin drops to your knee as you peek over at him, watching through the corner of your eye. He sat wide-legged on the couch, still rubbing at his face, the stretch of muscle in his forearms taut beneath rolled-up sleeves.

He hadn’t looked at you once since walking in. Not yet. And that made your stomach twist a little more than you wanted to admit.

The silence stretches on. The windows rattle from the wind outside, making you shiver. Though, it’s a small comfort to you, considering it’s far from the QZ. Here, it’s just Joel with the weight of what he won’t say.

You shift on the splintered floor, hugging your knees to your chest. Joel hasn’t even taken off his jacket. He sits like he doesn’t trust the couch even.

“Are you mad?” You ask, quietly but clear.

Joel pauses the rubbing of his nose, his eyes flicking to you, then back down at his lap.

“I ain’t mad.” He says finally, gruff and low. “Just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to get into trouble with the guy at the checkpoint.”

His jaw tensed. The subtle tick. Not anger, just restraint.

“I know.” He muttered.

You knew better. You’d been the one who made the smart-ass comment. The one who almost got you both caught. Joel covered it, like he always did, being mean and loud enough to distract the guards while fisting the contraband (you) out of sight.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” You mumbled.

Joel grunted, something between agreement and a sigh.

Another pause. Joel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stares and the floor when he speaks again.

“You’re young.” He mutters, like the statement alone explains everything.

“You say that like it’s a sin.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s a danger.”

You nearly scoff, “What, to you?”

His jaw clenches again, he lifts his gaze to you, “To yourself.”

You rest your cheek on your knee, your eyes on him. “I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to.” You snip, making Joel shoot you a warning look.

The moment slips back into silence. Again.

You’d freaked yourself out. Coming to the conclusion that Joel wasn’t a good man was hard for you. How did you come to it? You don’t know. But, you still find yourself in the woods, not far from the house, barefoot and your dress now muddy at the ends.

Stupid escape. You didn’t even plan it. But seeing Joel put locks on the windows made you freak, memories coming back from before that you didn’t want to remember.

Suddenly, Joel became the bad guy in your mind, and you needed to leave. Him taking you out of the QZ wasn’t a heroic act, it was a scary one.

You run through the muddy woods, feet slipping beneath you, breathless. You stop when you hear a twig snap, backing up against a tree.

It was nearly 4am, and you knew that Joel was asleep when you left.

Despite being with him for over a month, living with him, you could never tell if he slept deeply or not.

You facepalmed, realizing he likely heard you shut the window when you climbed out. You’re so fucked.

You look back towards the way you ran from. The house was still in sight, making you realize you hadn’t run as far as you thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“You’re not thinkin’ straight,” comes his voice– quiet, gravelly, just a few feet away.

You flinch, turning your head. He’s there, standing half in shadow, half moonlight, boots sunk slightly in the mud. His shoulders are tense, chest rising and falling as if he just sprinted. For you.

You don’t speak.

Joel takes a step closer, “You runnin’ out barefoot like that? What the hell were you thinkin’?”

Shame crawls up your throat, “I wasn’t– I just-”

“You think I dragged you all the way outta Boston to hurt you?” His voice is sharp. He almost sounds hurt. “You think that low of me?”

“I don’t know what to think.” You mumbled.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, exhaling hard. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You blink tears, “You locked the windows.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “To keep people out. Not to keep you in. You’re not a damn prisoner.”

You stare at the ground, seeing the mud squishing between your toes.

His hands are on you– not rough, not angry. Just firm.

“You don’t gotta trust me yet,” he says quietly, tilting your chin up, “but don’t run from me in the damn woods in the middle of the night. You could’ve froze, broke your ankle, got snatched–”

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

He sighs heavily. Something in his eyes changes. His hands tighten on your arms.

“You wanna act reckless?” he asks, his voice low, “I oughta show you what happens when you pull shit like that.” He grabs you, putting you over his shoulder, fireman carry style.

You kicked, yelping a bit. A sharp smack lands on your ass, which makes you flinch and stop resisting.

He carries you all the way back to the house.

You start to cry, panicking. He was angry, you knew. It shakes you to your core, wondering if Joel’s going to snap on you or not.

Once you're inside, he sets you on your feet. His hand slips to the back of your neck, warm and steady. Not rough–but there’s no mistaking the warning in his touch.

“You know how close I was to thinkin’ you got snatched? That someone dragged you off while I was sleepin’?”

“I… I didn’t mean to scare you.” you stuttered.

“You did,” he snaps, then softens, “And now you’re gonna understand what it feels like when you do.”

He turns you gently, but there’s power behind it. You plant your hands on the wall beside the front door. He stands directly behind you, hand on your low back.

“You run off like that again,” He warns gruffly, “I won’t be so nice about it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding. Maybe you were right about Joel.

His chest brushes your back, his belt buckle pressing against your spine.

“What are you gonna do?” You sniffle, trembling.

“Whatever it takes to remind you that you know better.”

Your legs shake, both from trembling and exhaustion. Joel tsks, “Look at you,” he breathes, his mouth pressing against the back of your neck, “All muddy. Could’ve broken your fuckin’ ankle, runnin’ out there with no shoes. Killed yourself, even.”

“I didn’t think–”

“No, you didn’t.” his hand pulls up the hem of your dress, and the other comes down with a slap.

You flinch, pressing your lips together in a thin line. Memories of before flooding your brain. Joel wasn’t Joel anymore, in your mind. You let out a cry, “Dad, Please–” but he doesn’t hear you.

“You scared me.” he says again, more authoritative than before. “You know better.” he states again. “You learnin’ yet, or–”

“I’m learning, I’m learning!” you whimper, almost sobbing at this point.

Joel sighs, realizing he’s likely just scared you more than make you understand. He pauses, then shakes his head.

He releases the hold he had on your dress, smoothing the fabric down. He steps back, giving you space.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled.

“I don’t need your sorry.” Joel shakes his head, “Need your trust.”

You still tremble. If he wants your trust so badly–which he almost had it, until you freaked yourself out, then he spanked you– why was he being like this?

“Why did locking the windows make you run?” He asked.

You didn’t want to answer that. Not when he just reminded you of the last person you wanted to think of.

“Answer me.” He commanded.

“I’ve. I’ve-” You stutter, still shaken, “Been locked in before.”

You feel him pause, even with you facing away.

“Okay.” He says after a moment.

Everything is still. Joel looks at your shaking body again.

“Shit.” he mutters, rubbing his beard with his hand. “You should’ve told me.” he said under his breath, you barely heard it.

You lean forward against the wall, heart hammering. Your fingers digging into the wood. You don’t trust your voice, not in this state.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to scare you,” Joel says, his voice thick, quieter now. “I lost my goddamn mind when I saw that window open. Thought–”

He cuts himself off.

Then, he’s pulling you back from the wall, gently. His hands around your waist, lifting you just enough to turn you around. Facing him. His expression is unreadable, to you anyways.

His thumbs rub at your sides, more grounding himself than you.

“I’m sorry,” he says. This time it’s him apologizing. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t’ve.. Jesus, I wouldn’t’ve touched you like that if I knew.”

Your eyes sting. You shake your head, feeling guilt. “I freaked out, I didn’t give you a chance to–”

“No.” he interrupts, sternly. “You were scared. You had a reason. That’s enough.”

You sniffle again, your nose scrunched. He pulls you closer, arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“I ain’t him.” Joel says. More reminding himself.

You nod, your forehead tucked against his chest.

“I trust you,” you whimper, “I just forget sometimes.”

Joel breathes deeply, “I’ll remind you better next time.” His chin rests on top of your head, fighting the urge to kiss it.

He pulls back enough to look at you. His brows furrowed, something in his expression has softened–less anger, more regret.

He mumbles something about cleaning you up. You nod, eyes still glassy, letting him guide you to the bathroom.

Joel is silent as he grabs a cloth, a bucket, and an old first aid kit from under the sink. You watch as he fills the bowl with warm water (as warm as it can be just coming from the tap).

He sits you down on the toilet seat, kneeling before you. He doesn’t meet your eyes, only taking your left ankle in his hand, checking for swelling.

“Hurts?” he asks.

You shake your head, though the scrape on your heel stings when he brushes the cloth over it. Joel notices your flinch and goes slower.

You both sit in silence as he tends to your scraped and muddy feet. Once he’s cleaned the worst is it, he tries to disinfect the best he can with the expired (and dried out) disinfectant.

“You don't gotta explain what happened.” Joel says, his voice low. “Not until you’re ready.”

You only nod, still a bit scared to speak.

Joel finishes wrapping gauze around your feet, then sets the supplies back under the sink, then rests his hands on your knees.

“It gets too much,” he starts, not meeting your eyes, “You talk to me.” He says. A command this time, not a request.

You nod again, eyes still stinging from earlier. “Okay.”

It’s been two weeks since that night. Since you ran barefoot through the trees like something feral, stupid and scared, and Joel carried you back like you were something. Something his.

Things haven’t changed in any loud, dramatic way. No tangled up nights anymore. Just… small shifts.

He doesn’t hover anymore, but doesn’t keep his distance either. When you sit too long reading in the chair near the fire, he tosses you his jacket without a word. When your hands shake trying to light the stove, his settle over yours. Just anchoring you.

You sleep in your own bed. Most nights. But sometimes, on the bad ones, you wake up and find his flannel jacket draped over the end of the mattress. He never says anything about it, and neither do you.

You find yourself starting to crave the quiet between you– the kind that doesn’t ask anything, doesn’t pressure. Just is.

This afternoon, he comes back to the house from the shed.

Joel let you outside (with his supervision, of course), and you soaked up any bit of it that you could.

He walks up to you on the porch with something in his hand.

It’s small. Square. Covered in dust and is probably as old as he is.

“I found this in the shed,” he mutters, holding it out to you. “Think it still works.”

You blink down at it. Your brows furrow.

“It’s a Polaroid camera.” Joel adds, noticing your confusion.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just figured you’d wanna mess with it.”

Your chest tightens in a weird, unexplainable way. You take it gently from his hands, your thumb brushing against his knuckle.

“There’s film in here,” he murmurs, “Two, maybe three shots left from what I can guess.”

He leans back against the porch railing, arms crossed. You can tell he’s trying to act indifferent. Like he doesn’t care if you use it or chuck it. But he brought it to you. That alone means something.

“A little sentimental for you.” you tease quietly.

Joel scoffs. “Just figured you might want proof we made it this far.”

You pause, looking up.

Those words settle. Low in your ribs, right where all the fragile parts of you live. You want to ask if he means you, specifically. If he thinks you made it. But you don’t.

“I wanna take your picture,” you say instead, voice soft.

“Me?”

You nod.

He raises a brow. “The hell for?”

“So I can remember you like this,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Not just the grumpy old man who dragged me out of Boston.”

The silence stretches as he looks at you. God, you look like just a little girl. Not in a weird way, but in the way that he almost feels paternal towards you. Almost.

Eventually, Joel exhales through his nose and walks over to the armchair near the window, the one he always sits in after dinner to drink his coffee.

He doesn’t pose. Just sits, arms still crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You fiddle with the camera, eventually figuring out how to take a photo. You lift it, framing him in the viewfinder.

He looks good, you had to admit to yourself. Taking a bit longer to position the camera just to look at him like this. He looks rumpled, a little tired, but calm. Open in his Joel way. Which is to say: not open at all, but less closed.

You press the button.

Click. Shhh, shhh, brrr.

The camera makes a loud whirring noise as the film shoots out. You take it in your palm, seeing no photo. Just white film

“Shake it.” Joel says.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“You know, shake it like a Polaroid.” he says a bit of a song in his tone.

You shake it hesitantly, and Joel nods. He doesn’t ask to see the photo. He just watches as you place it face down. “It’ll take a few minutes to develop.” Joel muttered, standing up with a grunt, nodding for you to follow him back inside. You grab the Polaroid from the porch.

Joel grunts, watching you walk inside, shutting the door behind you, then looking at you. You watch as he locks the door, then puts the key on the kitchen table. You swallow, but don’t say anything. You have gotten better with locks. Kind of.

You walk into the kitchen, placing the photo on the table, watching him look through what little food you had, and what has grown since you got here.

Joel notices your proximity to him as he bustles around. He stops, looking at you. You’re in that little white night dress again. From the night he ‘punished’ you. Now, you don’t consider it punishment, you did deserve it, in a way.

“Still stained, huh?” he asked, his hand fiddling with the strap on your shoulder.

You nod, “The mud wouldn’t come out.”

He looks at you for a moment, “It adds character.”

That alone made your lips twitch a bit. Almost a smile. Joel notices and he mirrors your expression.

“Well,” he changed the subject. “I got about… four small potatoes from the garden. And,” he looks around then points to the door, “A small rabbit that I snared earlier.”

You frown a bit. You knew Joel had to kill animals so you both could eat, but you liked rabbits. Especially when they would hop around in the garden outside, their little noses sniffing.

Joel pauses, “Hey,” he grabs your chin so you hold eye contact with him. You found out early on that that was important to him.

“I’ll tell you when I skin it, you can… go in your room and do whatever it is you do in there.”

You nod, a small frown still on your lips.

“‘Sides, you like rabbit stew.”

You did. You didn’t get it often, but you did like it.

“Yeah.” you mumbled, rubbing your collarbone.

He pauses again. “You still don’t like when I lock the door, do you?”

You glance over at it. Then back to him.

“It’s easier now,” you say. “Still… not perfect.”

Joel nods. “Alright. I’ll stop double-lockin’ it at night. Just one. You can check it if you need to.”

He doesn’t say “I trust you,” but you hear it in the space between those words.

You nod again, fiddling with your dress. “I oughta get you some pants. It’s gettin’ to be that time of the year.” Joel thinks out loud, peeling the potatoes with his pocket knife.

You only hum, staring at his hands as they work. The blade glints every so often as it slips under the skin of the potato, curling it off in ribbons. He’s done this before, with the amount of potatoes you’ve got. You can’t help but admire the way he handles the knife, slow and steady, it makes your heart beat a little faster.

Not because you’re scared. Not anymore.

But because there’s something in the way Joel moves– like nothing surprises him, nothing shakes him. Though you might’ve.

Regardless, he carries himself like if the world ended all over again, he’d still know how to cook dinner with whatever scraps are left.

And maybe that’s what unnerves you now. The steadiness.

Maybe you’ve gotten used to him. Too used to the smell of his flannel when you sleep. The way he always leaves a cup of water out for you before bed, just in case. The way he says, “you alright?” like it means more than it should.

You blink. Joel’s still peeling.

“You’re starin’, sweetheart.” he comments.

You feel your face blush. “I’m just tired.”

He nods. Doesn’t push. Just goes back to peeling the potatoes, like he didn’t just catch you ogling his hands.

Dinner is quiet. Not awkward like in previous weeks. Just warm, simple. Joel serves you first without thinking. You don’t comment on it, but it makes your stomach flutter.

You eat, curled into your usual spot at the table, with Joel sitting across from you. You were staring at him, a little too long to brush it off. He doesn’t mention it this time.

“Feet off the chair.” Joel snaps his fingers at you.

You uncurl yourself and sit up at the table. Though it was just you and Joel, he still taught you manners. He didn’t take it lightly when you sat like that at the table. Any other time was fine, but not during dinner.

You find yourself hunching again as you eat. “Slow down.” Joel said.

“This is slow.” you say, your mouth full.

He bites back a smirk, but reminds you again of posture at the table.

“Didn’t teach you to be a damn hunchback.” He grumbled.

You listen anyway, straightening up again, and he nods in approval.

You tossed and turned for what felt like hours. It was likely just half an hour, but how would you know?

You stare at your bedroom door. You huff, getting up. You don’t plan to move, but your feet do anyway.

You see Joel’s door is cracked open down the hallway, light flickers faintly from the inside. He’s still awake.

You knock softly, even though it’s stupid. Like asking permission to cross some invisible line neither of you has fully acknowledged yet.

Joel’s voice is low. “Come in.”

You push the door open gently.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, flannel draped over his lap, socks off now, his short sleeved t-shirt on display. He looks tired, and it hits you suddenly,-- how safe he looks. Safe in a way that makes you ache a bit.

“I can’t sleep.” you say.

He nods understandingly.

“You can sit if you want.”

You do. The bed dips slightly beneath you as you settle beside him, knees close but not touching. For a while, neither of you say anything.

Then Joel shifts, lying back with a quiet grunt. His arm stretches behind his head, the other resting across on his stomach. His fingers flex once, his knuckles cracking.

You don’t move from your spot.

He glances up at you, looking at your back. You’re wearing the only set of pajamas you have. A shirt about a size too big, and shorts a size too small.

“You layin’ down, or you gonna sit there all night?”

You huff under your breath. You lie down anyway. Not quiet touching Joel, but not quite separate.

The room smells like wood. The mold smell subsided the longer you’ve been here, but maybe you’re just getting used to it.

You shift as subtly as you can, laying on your stomach, a few inches between you and Joel. You turn your head to look at him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling, the dim candle light shadowing his face.

He shifts–barely–but his fingers brush yours between you, a soft touch that lingers longer than it should.

You don’t pull away.

And neither does he.

You close your eyes.

Minutes pass.

You feel it when he breathes your name–not a question, not a warning. Just your name, spoken like a habit he never meant to form.

You answer by curling your pinky around his. Sleep takes you like that.

Over the next few weeks, Joel starts to teach you more, and you.. Well, you yearn more for him. Like a lamb following its shepherd around, not leaving his side. Joel doesn’t comment on it. Though, he makes the mental note of changes in you. Back in Boston, you did fend for yourself more. Only came to him in desperate times. Now, you come to him when you get a splinter. Boston you would’ve just toughed it out.

You think back on the past few weeks, little moments that you and Joel shared.

Like the first time Joel handed you a knife.

He didn’t make a speech. Just stood behind you in the garden, the weight of it pressed into your palm.

“You hold it like this,” he murmured, voice close to your ear, rough with sleep. “No tighter than you have to. Don’t choke it.”

His hands covered yours for a second, guiding the grip. Then they were gone.

You didn’t cut anything that day, but you kept the knife.

You think about the night you left one of your dresses to dry by the fire and he tossed you a clean shirt without looking.

“Didn’t know if you had another,” he’d said, eyes fixed on the stew pot like it might combust if he blinked.

The shirt hung boast your knees. It smelled like cedar and something older– something like home.

You think about the way he says your name now.

Not sharp. Not in warning. Just… when the room is too quiet and he’s trying to make sure you’re okay.

You remember burning your hand on the kettle and how he didn’t yell, didn’t scold– just took your hand gently and ran it under water, his thumb rubbing soft circles over your wrist.

“Gotta be careful,” he said. “Can’t fix you if you break.” he’d joked. Which made your tear stained cheeks smile a bit.

And lately, he touches you more. Not a lot. Not in a way that means too much. But in ways that settle you.

A hand to your lower back when he brushes past. Knuckle grazing yours when he passes you the plate. His flannel jacket, draped over your shoulders when you’re out in the morning air.

None of it was asked for.

But all of it, you retained. You find yourself almost grateful for him.

Tonight, when the candle light burns low and the wind scratches soft at the windows, you lie beside him in silence. Again.

Lately you’d abandoned your room since you slept in Joel’s bed that night weeks ago. In his fashion, he doesn’t comment on it, or ask why you sleep in his bed. If anything, he’s a little smug that you choose to do so.

The distance between you is familiar now. Not far, but not close enough. Your hands rest over your stomach, the tips of your fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do.

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. You hear him exhale, long and quiet. He’s not asleep.

Neither are you, clearly.

Maybe it’s the warmth of the room. Or maybe it’s everything you’ve remembered–all the ways he’s touched you lately, soft and steady.

Whatever it is, your hand moves before your mind can catch up.

You reach out and press your fingertips to the back of his hand.

Joel doesn’t move.

Not at first.

Then his fingers turn beneath yours, so his palm faces up.

You hesitate, But then you slide your hand into his.

He curls his fingers around yours. Firm and grounding.

No one says a word.

But you can feel what is unsaid.

In the steadiness of his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

He’s still Joel.

But right now, he’s your Joel.

You stare at the ceiling, your heart thudding louder than it should.

“I used to think you were just mean,” you whisper, your voice barely heard in the dark.

“Back in Boston. You never smiled. You never looked at me too long. Though you hated me.”

Joel doesn’t move. Nor speak.

You breathe in through your nose slowly, then out your mouth.

“But then you’d fix things. Bring me ration cards. Trade for batteries when my flashlight died. Clock anyone who’d clocked me.” you almost chuckle.

You turn your face toward him–eyes adjusting now, just enough to make out the rise of his chest.

“I think I get it now,” you say, gently. “I think it’s just how you are.”

Still nothing from him. Not a shift. Not even a breath you can track now.

You swallow, noting at his silence, but he didn’t move from your hand in his.

“I don’t-” you start, then stop. “This is the only thing that doesn’t scare me.” You meant him. He’s the only thing that doesn’t scare you anymore.

And then, after a long pause, you continue.

“Uh, I’m okay with being yours. If that’s something you’d want.”

You don’t expect an answer. Not now. Your eyes close, then the weight of your exhaustion pulls at you.

You’re almost asleep–drifting at the edge of it–when Joel finally speaks.

“I ain’t ever stopped.”

You blink, but don’t move. His thumb brushes along your knuckles once, twice, and you know–without question–that he meant every word.

You wake up warm.

Too warm.

Your cheek is pressed to a shirt– Joel’s chest, slow and rising. His arm is heavy across your back, his hand splayed wide like it’s been there all night. He’s not asleep. But he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Eventually, he shifts, his hand brushing your side. Not possessive. Like he’s reminding himself you’re okay.

When you sit up, he lets you go without a word.

The kitchen is bright. The light outside is gold and soft, the kind that makes everything look gentler than it is.

You’re standing by the counter, barefoot in the shirt Joel gave. It hits mid-thigh, worn at the sleeves. Joel moves behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel.

“Coffee?” he mutters, reaching for the kettle beside you.

You nod, rubbing at your eyes. “Please.”

He grabs the grounds from an old jar, then lights the stove to boil the water.

He slides a mug to you, as you both wait for the water to boil.

He leans against the counter, a few feet away from you, arms crossed.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Then: “Did you mean it?”

Joel lifts a brow, “Mean what?”

You look at the kettle on the stove. “What you said. Last night.” Had he lost his memory? Old man.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I meant it.”

You nod, swallowing around the heat that rises in your chest.

Your eyes meet his.

His drift down. Your bare legs. Then the hem of his shirt. The red imprint of his shirt soft on your cheek.

His jaw clicks.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You murmur into your head as you rub your lips.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

He tilts his head, then scratches his beard, “You said you were, didn’t you?”

You blink, then part your lips to speak-

The kettle steams, and it jerks both of your attention back to it.

Joel grabs his mug, then yours, pouring coffee into it. As if a borderline love confession didn’t just take place. Maybe not love. You don’t love Joel. Right..?

You take the mug when he slides it back over to you. You stay still, cup warm in your hands, stomach flipping in a way you can’t name.

Because maybe you want him to protect you.

And maybe… you want more than that.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

And you know he won’t. Not yet.

Not until you reach for him again.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #the last of us #joel miller smut #tlou #ali's cranium #mean!joel #dark!joel #darkish he's not that mean #hes a sweetie #he loves you baby girl #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

hi jadey! if you are up for it, do you think you could write reader unexpectedly doing smth nice for coworker!james, maybe she’s being kind of shy and trying not to make it a big deal while he’s trying v hard to not be all giggly heart eyes kiss kiss at her LOL thank you in advance and ilysm <3

tysm ilysm <3 fem

“Hey, killer.”

You sidestep past James bag into the nook of your desk. “Killer?” you ask, quick to drop your bag onto your chair and unbutton your coat.

“Beth told me you killed a spider in the break room. That’s not cool.”

“It was looking at me funny.” You shed your coat. “Where’s Remus?”

“Coffee.”

James doesn’t give you half as much attention as you’d wanted, turning back to his computer with an impassive expression. You swallow a cough and grab your bag, desk chair creaking as you sit. There’s a memo from Remus already tacked to your desk that asks you nicely to send him a long list of files, each written in careful print, and then a second that says good morning.

You smile at it and set them aside.

Though James doesn’t like you much, and you’re not totally sold on him, you’re starting to feel like you’re part of a team. It’s a hearty feeling to belong somewhere, to know you’re valuable, even if you’re only punching numbers in and swapping spreadsheets. So you’d seen the green tube boxes in the shops and you’d decided on a whim to get them. Perhaps it would inspire some sweetness from James. If he stops putting your mug in the freezer, you’ll be happy.

“I got you something.”

James tilts his head to the side but doesn’t look up. “Huh?”

The office lights aren’t as complimentary to his brown skin as the sun where it’s rising outside of your window. It warms his face and neck, and lightens the dark mop of his hair, his flyaways like silver scrapings.

You take one of the boxes from your bag and place it on the edge of his desk. You’ll give the second to Remus when he comes back.

“It’s one of your Smiskis,” you say, “but they’re exercise ones. I know you lift weights, there’s one with dumbbells. I want the hula hoop one.”

“Where did you get this?” he asks, looking at you with clear surprise. His thick brows rise. His smile is unmissable.

“They were three for two at Sainsbury’s. I got one for me and one for Remus, as well.”

James curls a lovely hand around the box. You pretend not to watch, quickly diverting your gaze to your bag to grab a Smiski for yourself. You can’t look up, can’t explain why on earth you thought it would be a good idea, really. You saw them and you thought of him and you’re entitled to lie about the two for three thing, it’s none of his business how much money you spend.

You dig your nail into the lid and rip it open.

“You look awfully smiley, Jamie,” Remus greets, approaching from your side to round the desks and place down his big mug of coffee. You chance a glance at the both of them and catch a half second of James’ ridiculous smile. “What made you so happy so early in the morning?”

“Nothing. Uh, just killer over here brought us some presents.” James tips the bag from inside of his box onto the desk mat.

“Really?” Remus asks.

You offer him his box over your monitors.

“Thank you,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s nothing,” you say with a hurried shake of the head, looking down at your own mystery Smiski. They’re nondescript little people who glow with a green UV sheen, and you hadn’t seen the appeal to begin with, but each morning you make sure to fix James’ if he’s toppled over. He never tells you off for it. “I just want one for myself, that’s all.”

You open them in tandem. Your figurine is sitting with its legs out in a v-shape and arms stretching down to its toes. Remus’ is slightly smaller perched on a yoga ball. James, apparently having all the luck in the world, unveils a Smiski struggling to lift a dumbbell from the ground.

“I love him,” you say with a pleased laugh.

“He’s brilliant,” Remus says.

“Thank you so much.”

Your smile gets caught on your mouth. James’ tone isn’t strange but unfamiliar —he speaks without a hint of irony. His grin is full of an emotion you don’t recognise. Too happy. Too friendly.

“You’re welcome,” you say.

They’re both kind enough to ignore your mild breathlessness. “No, seriously, thank you, she’s so cool. I didn’t know we could get these ones yet over here.” James puts his weightlifting Smiski in pride of place atop his outgoings. “Sirius is going to be jealous. I'm sending him a photo.”

You feel Remus’ eyes on you. He stares until you look at him, eyebrows wriggling. “Thank you for my toy,” he says.

“They’re not toys, lovely Moony, they’re figurines,” James says, leaning down and angling his phone. He snaps a few photos from different positions. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “Aw, look at her. She’s sick as hell. She’s gonna get so swole.”

You wrinkle your nose and sweep your rubbish into the wastebasket. Swole isn’t the word you’d use. Ever. But if it makes him happy…

“This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week,” James mumbles to himself, before clearing his throat extra thoroughly. “This doesn’t change the fact that you killed that poor spider, you know. What was it doing to you?”

“I crushed her by accident opening a cupboard door.”

“Likely story.”

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

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motorsportbarbie13 · 6 months ago

Text

The Princess & The Pilot - Part 3

In which you sneak away to Monaco to see a boy.

Warnings: angst in the middle/end. swearing. a little spicy in the beginning but nothing explicit. Pairing: Lando Norris x BritishPrincess!Reader Word Count: 3.7k words

- The Princess & The Pilot - Part 1 - The Princess & The Pilot - Part 2 - Master List

"I can't believe you've never seen Breakfast at Tiffany's. That's like, a crime against humanity." You tease Lando as flop down onto his couch Thursday night before the Monaco Grand Prix.

You had spent most of the day shopping with your cousin while Lando had been in the paddock taking care of media duties. As soon as he was done though, he had come straight back to his apartment and you had slipped your protection officers to join him. It had been a simple operation, made much easier due to the fact that Alice and Lando lived in the same building and your protection officers were stationed downstairs in the doorman's office for the weekend. They only followed you, at a discreet distance, when you were out walking around.

Part of your shopping trip had included a stop at the grocery store so you could pick up the ingredients to make your famous roasted chicken with lemon butter penne pasta after being both shocked and horrified at the state of his pantry and fridge. 'I'm never home and my nutritionist makes all my food!' was his defense, which you understood but wanted him to have a home cooked meal anyway.

The meal had been a huge hit and both of you were stuffed as you settled down in his spacious living room for a quiet movie night.

"I'm sorry if I prefer Sylvester Stallone over Audrey Hepburn, princess." Lando quips, tugging you even closer to him.

He had been fully distracted the entirety of media day, knowing that you were somewhere in the city without him. The moment you had texted him that your plane had landed in Nice and you were taking a helicopter into Monaco he'd been distracted. Between your first 'date' at the pub and now, he'd only been able to see you briefly a few evenings before he had to be at the race in Italy.

Those fleeting evenings when he had snuck in to your London townhome through the back door hadn't been enough for either of you. The first night you had cooked him dinner while you talked for hours about your royal upbringing, his family, and everything in between. It had felt so natural and so easy, unlike anything either of you had experienced before.

On the large flat screen TV in front of you, the opening credits began to roll on one of your favorite movies while you snuggled deeper into Lando's side. With how busy you both had been the last few weeks, this little slice of privacy and quiet time had you feeling beyond relaxed.

While Lando had been in Italy, you had been busy with a new foundation that helped support families of children who had received a terminal diagnosis. You had started the foundation at the urging of your parents earlier in the year and while you had been hesitant at first, not sure if you were strong enough to handle such painful stories, you found yourself pouring everything you had into the foundation.

It had been something you'd gushed over at dinner tonight and Lando had been utterly bewitched by the way you had lit up while talking about your work. And now, as the movie began and the sun set over the edge of the Mediterranean Sea outside, Lando was finally going to get his hands on you like he'd been thinking about since the last time he had kissed you.

"You are such a boy." You say, groaning at him knocking your preferences in movies.

Lando reaches across your waist and yanks you onto his lap in one swift movement so quickly your only reaction is a squeal. "I thought we were watching a movie, Norris." You say, nose mere millimeters away from his.

His heated breath tickles at your cheek while his large hands settle heavily on your hips. "I can think of better things to do with our time, princess."

The scrape of his voice drags a thick line of heat down your spine and you can't help the way your hips roll into his ever so slightly. "Oh?"

On a whim, you reach up and bury your fingers in Lando's curls, still damp from his shower he took earlier in the evening. You scratch at his scalp, enjoying the way he shudders underneath you. It makes you feel powerful, knowing that just the lightest touch from you makes him putty in your hands.

Lando's strong fingers flex against the flesh at your hips as a gravely moan tumbles from his lips, setting your skin aflame. He claws at you, desperately pulling you closer while craning his neck to latch onto the sensitive skin at your neck.

He trails featherlight kisses up the column of your neck, dusting up your jaw, and finally lands on your waiting mouth. The way your body melts around him has him growing needier by the minute. A satisfied moan spills from your lips when his tongue slips into your mouth for the first time, the warmth from his body seeping deeper into your core. "Lan..." You sigh into his mouth, fully immersed in the way he tastes, dark and forbidden.

Lando drags his hands slowly up from your hips towards your back, finally slipping under the hem of the cotton tank top you're wearing. You arch against him at the feeling of his heated touch searing your bare skin while your hips grind down searching for the friction your body so badly craves from him.

Your hands are still buried deep in his hair when a sudden loud knock yanks the both of you out of the trance you'd been lost it.

"The fuck?" Lando grumbles, lifting your hips up gently so he can get up to answer the door.

Running your fingers through your hair, you sigh and flop back against the couch. The ache in between your legs throbs at the sudden loss of pressure from being sat so deeply on Lando's lap. The way you had felt his dick straining against his sweatpants had you craving tumbling into bed with him.

"She needs to come back down, like now." Your ears perk up at the sound of your cousin's voice.

Rising, you get up to join Lando at the door, running your fingers through your now tousled hair. "What's wrong?" You ask, voice still a bit husky from your make out session moments before.

Alice eyes you over Lando's shoulder, arching a perfectly sculpted brow at you. "Well, now I can see why you didn't answer your phone the first ten times Nathan called you."

"We were watching a movie!" You protest lamely. Alice scoffs and even Lando chuckles a bit, leading you to swat at him.

"Yeah, okay. Well, he's worried that you're in my apartment dead or something because apparently you haven't called your father or mother since you got here and everyone is convinced you're dead."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, "Oh for fucks sakes. I am 25 years old for the love of God. Fine, I'll go call them now."

Alice shakes her head. "I bought you some time by telling Nathan you're in the shower but he wants to talk to you in twenty minutes. You need to come back down."

You groan, annoyed that your evening has been interrupted by your parents weird need to know exactly where you are. You know that your safety is of the utmost importance to everyone around you and that yours was a unique situation with you being the daughter of the King of England and all, but this was just stupid.

"Fine. Can you give us a second? I'll be down in five."

Alice narrows her eyes at you before turning her gaze onto Lando. "No more funny business, send her down in five minutes. I'm not taking the fall for the both of you."

Alice turns on her heel and retreats back towards the elevator before Lando shuts the door quietly, chuckling a bit. "Well, I guess our evening is over."

You groan, scrubbing the heels of your hands over your face. "I am so embarrassed."

Lando's hands land heavily on your waist as he pulls you into him. "Don't be, it's nice your parents are so concerned."

"You say that now." You warn, nuzzling into his neck as Lando drops a kiss onto the crown of your head.

"It's okay, really." Lando reaches for your chin to tilt your head upwards so he can look you in the eye. "Go down and check in and hang out with your cousin. I have a team thing tomorrow night but Saturday night, I'm all yours."

You stretch your neck up so you can dust your lips over his, humming a bit when Lando leans in, deepening the kiss. "Can't wait."

The paddock on Sunday morning was an intense hive of activity. Lando was with his team, preparing for the race and you were wandering around the paddock with Alice. Around your neck swing your McLaren branded VIP passes. All it had taken was an off-handed comment from Lando about how you had mentioned back at Silverstone that you wanted to attend a race and that you happened to be in town visiting your cousin to get Zak to call up your secretary and offer you official passes.

You could sense Nathan and Victor behind you, both of them not even willing to entertain the possibility of you going to the race alone. You were used to it though and the four PO's that had travelled with you had been with you for years, so you all worked really well together. They, for the most part, left you alone and kept their distance. Just like Lando in the pub that first night, most people never even noticed that you had body guards even present.

The race is set to start in an hour or so, with the driver's parade already completed. You're supposed to head towards the garage in a few minutes for a quick photo op with Oscar and Lando, which should prove interesting. It was imperitve that you appeared to be nothing more than aquaintences with Lando since the public could not know about the growing relationship between the pair of you.

Relationships as a princess were hard. When you were younger, in your teens and at uni, you had been much more open with your personal life but a particularly bad experience with a boyfriend who only had wanted to date you for the clout, had left a sour taste in your mouth.

And there was also your parents to contend with. Your mother especially was intensely sensitive about any bad press the family might recieve and you had a feeling that a relationship with one of Formula One's known playboys was top on the list for 'press nightmares'

So, Lando and you had agreed that until you were sure where this was going, it was best to keep things completely private. You could appear to know each other in public but that was it. Which was fine with you because you knew, at the end of the day, that you would be the one going up to his apartment and spending time there instead of anyone else.

"Is that Lando?" Your cousin asks as you approach the McLaren garage.

You glance over and sure enough, you see Lando with his back towards you, leaning against the wall of the garage talking to a very blonde model looking girl who is gazing up at Lando with literal heart eyes. Your heart sinks straight down to your toes at the look of pure delight on her face. "Who is that?" You choke out, hands going clammy.

"It looks like...no." Alice murmurs. "That fucking git. That's Gigi Voss. She's an American model." She turns to you now, concern etched on her face at how you've frozen in place in the middle of the paddock just staring at Lando and the girl.

"He's brought her home before, hasn't he?" You say, voice weak. The intense feeling of embarassment courses through you. Alice's text message from weeks ago clangs through your memory. He never brings back the same girl twice. Well, it looked like you were going to be the next victim of that little habit, didn't it?

God, you were such an idiot.

"Well, I guess that takes care of that." You say lightly, drawing on every bit of training your mother has drilled into you since you were old enough to talk. The way you switched into public princess mode was effortless, a seamless switching off of your emotions to the outside world. "Come on, they wanted to get some photos of me in the garage before they head out onto the track."

"Are you okay?" Alice says quietly, as you pass Lando and the girl and head into the garage when you see Zak and Oscar chatting.

"I have to be." You murmur before mentally preparing to tug on that perfect princess mask you are going to use as armor for the next foreseeable future.

When Lando comes into the garage moments later, he's totally unaware to the storm brewing inside you. He politely greets you but is a little surprised when you barely spare him a glance, the cool nod you give him before turning back to laugh at something Oscar says has his stomach churning.

You continue to blatantly ignore him for the next twenty minutes and Lando begins to realize that something's wrong. He'd been prepared for you to be politely distant from him, with you insisting that you couldn't appear to be anything more than aquaintences in public, but this was on another level. And the dirty looks that Alice kept shooting him when no one was looking had anxiety curling deep in his chest.

You're standing to the side of the garage when Lando's finally had enough.

"Do you wanna maybe tell me why you're suddenly channeling an ice princess instead of behaving like my princess?" He hisses, voice so low that no one else could possibly hear you over the noise in the garage.

You simply regard him with a cool look, "Maybe Gigi would know the answer to that." You say lightly before pushing off the tool box you'd been leaning against. "Alice," You call, switching on that megawatt smile that Lando knows is 100% fake. "Lets go get settled in the hospitality suite, yeah? Good luck out there today, Lando."

Without a second look back, you flounce away with Alice's hand tucked into the crook of your elbow.

Gigi? The fuck? Lando panics. Had you seen him talking to the model earlier? Oh this was bad. Very bad.

"Alice, Jesus Christ just let me talk to her and I'll explain everything." Lando begs later that night.

He had been distraught the entire race and afterwards during his media duties, wanting nothing more than to explain exactly what you had seen earlier in the day. Text messages went unanswered, calls too. Even Alice seemed to have blocked him on everything so he'd been forced to just show up at her door the moment he'd been finished with his interviews. He had finished P4 so his time in the media pen and after hadn't been that long comparitvly but every minute that sluggishly inched by was a minute longer Lando knew you were spending angry at him.

Alice stands at the door, arms folded across her chest, glaring at the driver. "I warned her about you, you know and you had to go and prove me right. You athletes are the same, you know that?" She spits.

"It wasn't what it looked like, I swear." He begs, craning his neck to peer around Alice's frame to see inside her apartment.

"It's fine, Allie. You can let him in." From somewhere in the apartment, your voice calls out. Lando can hear the raw scratch in your voice, like you've been crying, and his stomach bottoms out. He'd really made a mess of this, hadn't he? He was sure the photos that some fan had posted of him and Gigi before the race hadn't helped either but fuck, would no one allow him to get in a word edgewise?

Lando's heart squeezes painfully when Alice steps out of the way and he sees you for the first time. Your eyeliner is smudged and your cheeks are flushed an unpleasant shade of red. It's not the pink flush that he's seen before, the kind of flush that he draws out of you when he kisses you. No, this is a painful, angry flush that's the result of too much anger and embarrassment.

"Baby." He pleads, taking three long strides towards where you stand in the middle of Alice's living room.

Much to his dismay, you back up in order to keep yourself out of arms length and shake your head.

"Can we go somewhere private and talk? Please?" It was a step in the right direction that you had allowed Alice to let him through the door, so Lando was going to push until he got what he needed to say out.

You nod, feeling stupid and silly for jumping into things with someone who wasn't on the same page as you. The text message he sent the day of his Miami win shuffles through your mind. 'You know I stopped looking at other girls the day I met you.'

What utter bullshit.

You'd been staying in Alice's spare bedroom this week so you lead him down the hallway towards the room. Alice calls out that if you need her, she'll be in the kitchen before shooting one last glare Lando's way.

Lando shuts the door behind him while you sit down on the bed cross legged. "So?" You look up at him expectantly. "You said it wasn't what it looked like. So, what was it."

Lando drags his hands through his curls, still damp with sweat from the race. "She wasn't supposed to even be here this weekend."

"Oh, so her weekend was the next race? Did you get your girlfriends schedules mixed up then?" You grit out, fists grabbing a handful of bedspread to avoid punching him.

Lando shakes his head. He wasn't doing a very good job at explaining himself, was he? "No. Fuck. That's not what I meant baby."

"Stop calling me baby." You hiss.

He looks at you miserably before shaking his head. "She wasn't supposed to be here because she's supposed to be banned from paddock access by the FIA."

"What?" You whisper, blinking up at Lando in surprise.

Lando scrubs the his hands over his face, wondering how this all went so badly so quickly. "We went on a couple of dates last year."

You hate the way your heart sinks at the thought of him dating someone else.

"And that was it." He continues, crossing the room to sit on the bed in front of you. He sends up a silent prayer of thanks when you don't push him away. "That was it because she started trying to soft launch us on social media. When rumors started that we were dating, she fueled them by liking comments and even called the paparazzi when we were on a date. I was nothing more than a means to an end for her."

Your heart tugs painfully at the thought of Lando being used for his status. You of all people knew what that felt like and knew how miserable it was to wonder if the person you were with was around because of you or because of who you were to the outside world.

"Lan..." You murmur, reaching out for his hand. He looks so miserable then, eyes shining like he's about to start crying.

"I broke it off with her but she didn't want to take no for an answer. She started getting companies to pay for her paddock passes and would show up on random race weekends. I talked to Zak and got her banned from McLaren but there wasn't much I could do about the rest of the teams until she broke in to my house six months ago."

"She what?" You gasp.

"Yeah. She somehow slipped past the doorman and figured out the key code to my front door. I got home at 2am after the race in Las Vegas and she was sleeping naked in my bed."

"Oh my God, Lando." Your head spins just thinking about what that must have felt like, coming home after what you knew had been a traumatic race in Vegas last year only to find someone you didn't want in your house.

"I didn't press charges in exchange for her agreeing to be blacklisted from any FIA events. When I saw her in the paddock today, I panicked. I didn't want her to make a scene so I talked to her briefly before going straight to Zak and getting her tossed out. You can ask Osc if you don't believe me, he was there. It was right after you and Alice left the garage."

Your eyes soften as you look at how Lando sits, shoulders hunched.

"I'm so sorry I jumped to conclusions." You mutter, the feeling of betrayal being immediately replaced by embarrassment and shame.

"No, it was a perfectly acceptable reaction. I don't have the best reputation when it comes to women. I know that but..." He pauses, swallowing the thick lump of emotion that clogs his throat. "But I meant what I said after my win in Miami."

You smile, already knowing what he's referring to.

"I haven't so much as looked at another girl since I met you at Silverstone. I swear it, princess."

There's something so raw and real about the way he says the words to you. Deep down in your gut you know he's telling the truth. You've grown up needing to be able to read people really well and you consider yourself a pretty good judge of character and right now, you can tell that he's being honest with you.

"I believe you." You rasp, reaching out a hand to twine your fingers with his. "Do you want to go back to your place and finish watching the movie we started the other night?"

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Lando reaches out and pulls you into his lap, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

"Yes." You whisper before finding his lips with yours in a searing kiss that makes everything else disappear.

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