#and then she does a /different/ lecture in class | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luvdsc · 6 months ago

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barbie girl.

if life is plastic (and therefore, nonbiodegradable), then it’s so not fantastic. honestly, who came up with that? regina george really should’ve googled about the new plastics economy.

or alternatively, pretty girls rule the world, and you find out that he’s (not) all that.

pairing :: na jaemin x reader genre :: comedy, fluff, angst ⋮ makeover + college au word count :: 24,618 words warnings :: body issues, body image, weight mentions, insecurities, beauty is a social construct, [spoiler] did something bad, people being literal scum, so much gaslighting that you can start a wildfire and j*ke gyll*nh*al should take notes, “if a man talks shit then i owe him nothing” playlist :: pretty boys (romi) ⋆ you can’t sit with us (sunmi) ⋆ i just wanna know (katherine li) ⋆ lie to girls (sabrina carpenter) ⋆ look what you made me do (taylor swift) ⋆ leftover feelings (regina song) ⋆ number one girl (rosé) + extended playlist here. author’s note :: she’s all that is one of my most favorite rom coms ever, but i’ve always been ///: at the whole makeover idea and decided to write my own version !! the idols mentioned in this fic are just characters, and how i portray them in this fic do not reflect how i actually view them or their irl personas. as always, much love to miss lana and miss moon for being my biggest cheerleaders ᥫ᭡ ↳ part of the 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 collaboration series.

i. hiya, barbie! hi, ken!

Na Jaemin does not know that you exist.

Good looking, charismatic, and popular — it’s his world, and you’re just living in it. Or something like that. You’re decently smart, somewhat funny, and not pretty enough to stand out, but not exactly hideous according to societal standards (source: those beauty quizzes in Seventeen magazine that you used to be obsessed with when you were thirteen and in desperate need of flirting tips). If he was the main lead, you’d probably be Extra #6, maybe Extra #2 on a good day.

By your calculations, the two of you should never cross paths, like two parallel lines. Wait, scratch that, you would probably never be aligned with anything that has to do with this guy. You saw him standing outside of the door of your shared accounting classroom during your fall semester, and he spent twenty five minutes editing his picture for Instagram and ended up late for the lecture. And he probably already spent even more time selecting the final photo to edit before you arrived to class and noticed him. Absolute idiot. Absolute handsome idiot, but idiot nonetheless. A grade A himbo with a grade C in financial accounting.

Okay, so scrap the parallel lines theory, maybe skew lines are a better way of explaining it. Yeah, that seems about right, the two of you are from completely different dimensions, never meant to interact or run parallel with each other. And once again, by this logic, your paths should never cross.

“Y/N!”

You stand corrected.

Na Jaemin does know that you exist.

You suddenly remember that there was that one small group presentation in that very same aforementioned accounting class, and you were assigned to the same group as Jaemin. Armed with this rediscovered memory, you are going to revise your earlier response and say that the correct descriptor for your relationship is perpendicular lines. That sounds right. Final answer. You’re locking it in.

Your paths should have only intersected once, the two of you should be going in different directions, and even though you’re in another class with him again for spring semester this year (since all freshmen with a business major has to take the same Gen. Ed. classes), not once have the two of you had a proper conversation with each other (He asked you to pass a note one time, but that barely counts). Jaemin should have forgotten you by now, and you should be continuing on with your side character life that you’re very much content with.

So then why on earth is he shouting your name like you’re old friends and causing what feels like every person within a one mile radius to stare at you?

He’s unknowingly giving you your main character moment, and you very quickly realize that you do not feel like the Y/N in any one of those Gojo fanfics you read religiously at three in the morning when you should really be studying or sleeping.

Instead, you feel like a bug watching its impending doom as a Doc Marten boot starts to descend at an alarming speed and you can’t even try to scuttle out of the way to avoid it. Frozen in your spot, you can only watch as your university’s it boy skids to a stop in front of you after running across the grass and flashing you his million dollar smile. “Hey, Y/N, right? We have ECON 13 together.”

Starstruck, your mind to mouth filter is completely shot, and all you manage to let out is a very uncool “Uh huh.”

He laughs a little breathlessly, and you feel like all the oxygen has been knocked out of your lungs, too. Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, Jaemin tilts his head to the side slightly, the sunlight catching his profile perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat once more.

“I know this is gonna sound really, uh, forward since we barely know each other and all, but—”

You’re barely listening to him, your heart pounding in your chest and the blood rushing to your ears. It’s pretty embarrassing to see how a mere stranger with a pretty face can affect you this much. You really thought you had a much stronger willpower than this, but it’s so goddamn unfair how this boy standing in front of you has the most perfectly sculpted face you’ve ever seen. Plus, his eyelashes? Why the hell do boys always get the prettiest, thickest, and darkest lashes?

Meanwhile, you’re out here struggling to force your perpetually straight, stubby lashes into a curl that ends up lasting only a couple hours, even when you use waterproof mascara. You still end up with flat lashes and you have to feverishly scrub your eyes to remove the blasted makeup and lose a few cherished lashes in the process.

“—with me?” Jaemin finishes, and you belatedly realize that you did not catch a single word that he said, too caught up in your inner monologue and too busy ogling. However, your heart flutters in your chest when you catch the last part of his question. Not to be too presumptuous, but it sounds like he’s asking you out. Why else would anyone randomly stop you like this and talk to you for this long? You’re positively giddy at this revelation. This is your moment, the one you’ve been waiting for your whole life, like Rapunzel waiting in her tower for the one to come and save her from her horribly mundane, repetitive life.

“Oh! Um… yes?” It’s a 50/50 chance between yes or no, and you hope that’s the correct answer he’s looking for.

Jaemin’s face immediately brightens, and he turns his smile up another kilowatt, nearly blinding you. You grin back at him, squinting a little. This must be how Icarus felt when he flew towards the sun.

“Oh shit, really? You’re really agreeing to tutor me? Hyuck—you know, our class’s peer TA—said I was a hopeless cause, and I would need way more one on one lessons outside of his hours and all that if I wanted to pass. And yeah, I know I could probably bitch at him until he caves since we’re kind of friends, but he would also hold this over my head, but he said you had the highest score on last week’s practice midterm, so I thought, ‘hey, why not shoot my shot?’” He directs another smile your way, pausing for a quick breath. Your mind is racing a mile a minute, and his smile isn’t helping whatsoever as your heart decides to join in this race as well until it sinks when you finally process his words.

“Wait, Donghyuck said that about me?” you manage to get out, a little dazed, and Jaemin confirms before eagerly continuing on with his chatter, but all you can do is stupidly nod as the word “TUTOR” spins around and around in your mind in bold, italicized, underlined mocking red letters in Times New Roman font, size 12, double spaced, MLA format, the whole shebang.

Of course, he only wants a tutor. What made you think that a boy like him would look twice at a girl like you? The only other time a guy has ever expressed interest in you is to share homework answers for Calculus back in 10th grade (For the record, all of his answers were completely wrong, but Sungchan was a cute distraction. Actually, the two of you became very good friends once you very quickly got over the fact that you were firmly placed in the friendzone. He’s even dating one of your best friends now).

“Anyways, can I have your number? I can text you to match our schedules and figure out the times to meet up for the next couple of weeks before our next midterm.” You remain wide eyed, gazing at him like a deer caught in the headlights and still attempting to fully understand everything that has just happened.

Jaemin looks at you expectantly, his hand outstretched towards you with his phone tucked between his fingers. The device dangles there for an additional ten seconds that probably isn’t socially acceptable. Grab the phone, you scream at yourself silently, but your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. You blink slowly once. Then twice.

“Or, I can just… uh, type in your number if you tell me,” Jaemin says awkwardly, his smile wilting slightly as he shifts from one foot to the other under your unwavering gaze and slowly retracting his hand. Finally, you come to your senses as you quickly spring into action and snatch the phone from him, tapping in your digits and adding in your name and shared class before saving your contact.

“Here,” you mutter, returning his phone, and he gives you a relieved grin. You clutch onto the strap of your backpack a little tighter, cursing the way your heart skips a beat. “I should be free most weekday afternoons since I prefer to take all morning classes, but let me know when you’re free and we can work something out.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much, Y/N, you’re a life saver.” Jaemin beams at you, touching your shoulder briefly and you feel that very same place on your body erupt in flames as your face heats up in a similar manner. “I’ll text you tonight, yeah?”

You can only numbly nod, subconsciously raising your hand and waving at him, and Jaemin chuckles, flashing his pearly whites at you again, before he saunters off and blends into a group of other equally pretty and popular students, a few of whom look over at you with vague interest before turning their attention back to the boy who just joined them.

What have you gotten yourself into?

ii. you want to go for a ride?

“I’m getting sus vibes from him.”

Flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder, Lana takes a long sip of her wintermelon milk tea with honey pearls, a spitting image of that one infamous Starbucks meme of your school’s alumni, Hyungwon (His picture can still be found floating through discord chats, and you’re ninety percent sure your school used it in one of their recruitment brochures at one point). She’s sprawled out on the beanbag in the corner of your shared apartment’s living room, her HP laptop covered in sailor moon stickers balanced across her thighs (She swears HP is the best laptop brand, but you don’t trust electronics advice from anyone who can’t even use a toaster properly).

“Have you even spoken to Jaemin? How exactly are you getting sus vibes from him?” Moon jumps in, glancing over the top of her MacBook as she takes a quick break from her latest coding project regarding polynomials, matrices, and a bunch of other math terminology you rather not think about. You left all that arithmetic jargon back in high school after you got a 5 on both AP calculus exams and got to skip all required math classes for your accounting major (Sungchan wasn’t so lucky).

“He’s a fratboy finance major.” Lana rolls her eyes.

“Point taken, but weren’t you into that senior, Jaehyun? He’s one of them. You called him your soulmate,” you interject, and she splutters for a few seconds before putting her hand up in protest.

“Listen, I was going through a perpetual mental breakdown at the beginning of this semester. It doesn’t count. You try being a pharmacy major. Thank god I switched out to English. My mental state was compromised, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“What do you mean not thinking straight? Lana, you literally chose the straightest, most heterosexual man out there.” Moon jibes, closing her laptop now with an air of conceding defeat. You have to give her props for trying to work on some assignments, but you already knew no one was going to get any work done tonight. It’s a Thursday night anyway, which means you have until Tuesday to get all the homework assigned today done. You can always work on them on Monday night and inevitably curse yourself for not getting it done earlier when you end up pulling an all nighter and show up to your 8 a.m. international marketing tactics class with raccoon eyes.

“This is bullying, and we are on an anti-bullying campus,” Lana complains, giving the two of you the stink eye before leaning over and lightly shoving the snoozing boy sprawled across the floor next to her. “Wake up, Yang. Moon and Y/N gang up on me when you’re not awake to absorb all our gentle bullying.”

The boy in question sits upright, bleary eyes and the drying ink from his notes now decorating his cheek, a lasting reminder of the makeshift pillow for his impromptu nap. Yawning, he stretches his arms, rubbing his face and making an even bigger mess of smears. “What’d I miss?”

“We were just discussing Lana‘s tragic crush on Jaehyun last year,” you say, and she makes a strangled noise next to you. “Were you up late sewing again?”

“Yes,” Yangyang grumbles, “You would think Kaneki would be so easy to cosplay since he wears all black, but the mask is taking forever to make.”

“Can’t one of your sugar daddies buy one for you?”

“What sugar daddies? If I had one, I wouldn’t be stuck in here trying to balance equations,” he moans, crumpling up another sheet filled up with scribbles and his latest attempts at answering the second to last problem for organic chemistry.

“My bad, I thought you would have some from your cosplay account.” Moon shrugs, rummaging through her large soccer mom purse for a snack and triumphantly pulling out a box of green tea Hello Pandas. “You have like 100k followers on there.”

“My audience demographic is weebs.” Yangyang deadpans. “How many weebs do you know who are rich enough to send five thousand dollars every week to a struggling college student?”

“Wait, we’re going off topic right now. What do you know about Jaemin, Yang?” Lana cuts in, and Moon nods in agreement (You try not to look too interested, but fail miserably, no doubt).

“Jaemin Na? I’ve never talked to him personally, but there’s always stories about him and his friends. Jeno is on the baseball team and notorious for his body count. He’s the one that takes up like 30% of our university’s anonymous confessions Twitter account. This is his insta, but he’s not really active on social media.” Yangyang passes his phone around for the three of you to see Jeno’s Instagram. There’s a whopping total of fourteen posts, and every picture of him with someone of the opposite sex features a different girl. Instant red flag.

“Lia is pretty big on Tik Tok,” Yangyang continues, grabbing his phone to pull up her account to show all of you. “She’s pretty and is actually really good at singing, but she's basically trying to be the next Addison Rae. Jimin models, and she’s going by Karina nowadays. I heard she tried to trademark that name or something. She posts dancing Tik Toks. She and Yeonjun collab a lot. He walks for New York fashion week and has a Tik Tok for dancing, too. I’m like 70% sure they’re only dating to boost their views. Somi is the most popular one out of them. She’s the blonde one. She’s pretty talented and I heard she signed onto the same company as the Blackpink House. She’s even done a makeup video with Vogue recently.”

“And Jaemin has a pretty large social following. He takes decent pictures, and that’s what he insists his insta is for, but let’s be real, the majority of his followers are there for his face. You should see his TikTok. He literally just recorded himself looking at the camera and put some generic caption, and he racked up like seven hundred thousand likes,” Yangyang grumbles, pulling up his account to show you all the video in question. “Like literally, what the hell is this? I have to put in so many hours making my outfits and editing my videos and all he does is smile and paste ‘Don’t have a valentine again… hope this will change soon’ on top, and the preteens are foaming at the mouth.”

“Wow, jumpscare warning next time you show me him please.” Lana wrinkles her nose at the repeating offensive clip. Yangyang merely shoves his phone even closer to her in response, and she flips him off.

“Hey, you’re the one who asked about him. Why are you suddenly interested in him? Is this your Jaehyun 2.0 phase starting up?” Yangyang grins, and Lana flicks his forehead in retaliation.

“Shut up, when are you guys gonna let that die? Besides, it’s Y/N who’s interested, not me,” Lana retorts, and immediately, the spotlight is back on you. You cough awkwardly, feeling a bit uncomfortable with all the attention.

“Uh, he just asked if I would tutor him…”

“And you said yes?” Yangyang sounds scandalized and utterly betrayed. “Why would you willingly fraternize with the enemy like that?”

“What enemy? I didn’t even know he knew I existed until this very recent development occurred.”

“Influencers like him are instant enemies to me, and as my friend, he’s your enemy by association. I can't believe you’re helping the competition,” Yangyang sniffs.

You don’t have the guts to tell them all that the only reason you accepted his tutor proposal is because you got ahead of yourself and despite all the odds and signs, thought Jaemin was asking you out. You know your friends won’t make fun of you (too badly), but that is completely humiliating, and you will be taking that to the grave.

“It’s just tutoring, don’t be so dramatic,” you scoff, making a face at him. “He texted me yesterday, and we’re meeting up at the library later today, and I reserved a private study room for two hours.”

“Oooh, so it’s a study date?” Moon teases, and your cheeks betray you with the amount of heat now emanating off of them.

“Shut up, it’s literally just tutoring. We’re going over supply and demand curves.”

“No, back up, he texted you yesterday and you didn’t tell us about him until today?” Lana interjects, holding up her hand and putting on a faux offended expression. “What kind of friend are you? We’re supposed to tell each other every nitty gritty detail about our love lives! Like Sungchan texts Moon good morning texts at eight in the morning, and by 8:30 a.m., we’re already getting a play by play about it in the group chat!”

Moon turns pink and opens her mouth before deciding against it and quietly shuts it. Yangyang silently laughs next to Lana, his shoulders shaking (You decide that you shouldn’t tell them Jaemin actually asked you in person to tutor him three days ago or else, Lana will chew you out even more).

You protest, flailing your arms around slightly in exasperation. “There’s literally zero development in my love life! I have nothing going on in it, and I can guarantee you that he does not see me in that light whatsoever.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Lana looks wholly unconvinced, and your two friends look back and forth between the two of you like two kids watching their divorced parents fight. “So… Do you need help picking out an outfit for tomorrow?”

“… Yeah.”

iii. sure, ken. jump in!

“Hey, Y/N!”

Jaemin loudly whispers a little breathlessly as he drops his bag onto the table and slumps into the chair next to yours, his chest heaving slightly. Startled, you jerk up in your chair, heart skipping a beat when you realize he’s here. You were supposed to be in a private study room, but there was a group of boys already in there, and as the most non-confrontational person to walk this earth, you decided to cut your losses and take a table nearby.

“Did you wait long? I got caught up outside the library when Somi stopped me and completely forgot,” he says apologetically, pulling out his textbooks, and you shake your head, giving him a shy smile.

“No, it’s alright. I was already here anyway, and I got some extra studying done.” You gesture towards the papers and notebooks strewn across the table’s surface, covered in your notes from today’s classes. “Should we start with today’s lesson? How much did you understand in class today?”

“Maybe the first five minutes of it only.”

You pause, glancing over at him. “Professor Hwang was ten minutes late to class.”

“Exactly.” Jaemin nods, and you stifle a laugh. He grins at you. “I don’t think you realize how much of a hopeless cause I am when you agreed to tutor me.”

“We can start from the beginning then. You have four weeks until the midterm, and we can go through every lesson we’ve had so far. I’ll make up a study schedule if you give me yours. And if you continue to go to Donghyuck’s tutoring hours too, you should hopefully be able to catch up and do well on the midterm.”

Jaemin wordlessly pulls up his class schedule on his phone, and you plug them into a Google calendar that you quickly share to his email. “So, I color coded your classes in green, and my classes are in pink. Do you have any other things that we need to work around?”

He peers over at your screen, scanning the contents. “I have my weekly frat meetings on Tuesday nights and mandatory events on other nights.”

“Alright, you can put them in and we’ll figure out meeting times,” you say, pushing your laptop towards him and he starts to add in his extracurricular activities.

“Party from 8 pm to 1 am?” you read skeptically, your eyes scanning over the event he tacked in under this week’s Friday.

“Yeah, can’t miss it,” Jaemin says, typing in more events and making sure to color code them in blue. “Don’t you have things to do on Friday night too?”

“Uh, maybe grab a poke bowl from the dining hall to go and watch another Banana Fish episode,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the small Gojo keychain you have attached to your pouch.

Jaemin stops, looking over at you. “You watch Banana Fish?”

Your cheeks grow warm. “… Yeah, why?”

His eyes light up and he asks eagerly, “Did you see the latest episode? When Golzine leaves Arthur in charge?”

The two of you continue discussing the plot as he finishes up adding in his schedule for the next four weeks, finally nudging the laptop back towards you. “Do you need to add in your stuff too?”

“Mm no, it’s fine. I already put in my classes, and I’m not in any clubs or sororities,” you answer, making sure to input Donghyuck’s tutoring hours as well before scanning over the calendar and pinpointing areas where he’s free for at least one to two hours. “Okay, should we start with meeting three times a week?”

“Huh, you memorized Hyuck’s hours?” Jaemin notes, giving you a sly smile as he moves closer to look at the schedule.

“Huh? No, don’t you always know your professors’ and TAs’ office hours?” you ask, looking up and are immediately startled after underestimating the proximity between you and the beautiful boy next to you.

“No, I’m not a nerd,” he snorts lightly, and you laugh awkwardly, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction and put a little more distance between the two of you before you go into cardiac arrest, “Right, yeah, well, anyway—”

“You were also interested when I said Hyuck mentioned you before,” Jaemin says suddenly, sitting up straight before a wide grin spreads across his face as he loudly exclaims, “You totally have a crush on him!”

“Quiet down!” You immediately shush him, the tips of your ears burning as everyone within a 40 feet radius in the library is now staring at the two of you. You’ve never received this much attention before, and you very quickly realize that you absolutely hate it. You loudly whisper-protest, stumbling over your words in a panic, “I—I don’t have a crush on him!”

“Oh, come on, your face is getting hot and you’re stuttering. You do too like him,” Jaemin laughs softly, propping his elbow onto the table and resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he gives you a once over. “I could totally make you into his type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask hotly, cheeks burning even more when you feel his eyes graze over your figure.

“Oh, it’ll be so much fun. We can go to the mall and pick out some cute clothes for you, and then swing by the hair shop. You’re definitely using the wrong conditioner and shampoo,” Jaemin continues, eying your hair for a quick second.

“Wait, wait, we’re just here for tutoring, what are you even talking about?” You ask, bewildered before grasping a stray strand of your hair between your fingers. “And what do you mean I’m using the wrong shampoo?”

“And conditioner,” Jaemin pipes up, picking up his phone to search up some better brands he would recommend. “What have you been using? 2 in 1 Head and Shoulders?”

“No,” you huff softly, your ears growing even warmer at the accusation. “I just use whatever my mom buys in bulk at Costco.”

“Okay, well, you should use this instead,” Jaemin says, showing his phone screen to you, and your eyes widen slightly when you note the price tag.

“I cannot be forking over nearly seventy dollars on shampoo and conditioner,” you say incredulously, pushing his phone back towards him and waving your hand dismissively. “And there’s no way I’m going to spend even more money on new clothes.”

“Okay, fine, I think I have some unopened bottles from sponsored deals that I can give to you,” Jaemin sighs, opening up his text messages to find his friends’ group chat. “Or my friends would have some good ones, too. Maybe we can get you some of their free clothes from sponsorships, too.”

“You guys just get free clothes?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, glancing over at you. “On second thought, Karina and Lia aren’t the same size as you, so you won’t fit them. We can just order some basic pieces online or something for starters.”

“We—We aren’t doing this,” you loudly whisper back to him, hyper aware of the other students around you who keep glancing over at Jaemin. “Let’s just focus on making this schedule and helping you pass your midterm.”

“Oh, please, doll, it’d be fun. Just think of it as a payment for your tutoring,” Jaemin persuades you, scooting closer to you and pressing his thigh against yours lightly. Your breath hitches in your throat at the pet name and his touch. You’ve never been this close to any boy before, let alone one as attractive as Jaemin.

“You’ll look so pretty, I know the perfect outfits to make for you. And I can teach you how to get Hyuck’s attention, too,” he continues, nudging you lightly, and you’re still dazed, unable to get over the fact that he’s impossibly close to you, close enough for you to count the pretty lashes framing his even prettier eyes. You wonder what it’s like to be that beautiful, what it’s like to have people falling at your feet, what it’s like to mesmerize everyone the second you walk into a room.

Honestly, if Jaemin asked you to jump, your only response would be “how high.”

“If I agree to this, will you finally pay attention?” you sigh, and Jaemin instantly brightens up, nodding and giving you another one of those smiles that makes your stomach flip flop. Your Achilles’ heel is one very persistent boy who goes by the name of Na Jaemin, and he has hit you with a direct bullseye.

“Yes, I’ll be a model student, doll.”

You hesitate for a split second before relenting. “Okay, fine, deal.”

iv. i’m a barbie girl in the barbie world.

Jaemin is easy on the eyes, but currently proving to be very difficult for your nerves during your fourth tutoring session. Your wardrobe has increased in style and size by now, and you’re dressed in a pretty lilac top that wraps around you and accentuates your curves and hides what needs to be hidden perfectly. Your jeans may dig a little more than you’d like into your stomach, but it’s your fault that you chose to wear your photo jeans instead of your sitting jeans. Also, your hair has never looked better, all thanks to the boy seated next to you.

“No, when there is a low supply, there’s a high demand. They directly affect each other,” you try to re-explain to the boy next to you, drawing out the line graph once again. He stares down at the familiar graph before looking at the written practice problem in front of him. Professors must have an insane amount of patience, you silently think to yourself.

You sigh. “Let’s put it this way. You and Jeno want to buy the same shirt, but there’s only one left in the right size. So that’s two people who are demanding the one shirt. And the store only has one shirt in its supply. So how would you describe this situation?”

“Oh.” The look of realization flashes across Jaemin’s face as your example easily snaps the puzzle pieces into place for him. “There’s a high demand and low supply. Too many people want the shirt, but there’s not enough shirts.”

“Yes, you got it!” You cheer quietly, mindful of your location at one of the library’s tables. “Now try reading through the practice problems and draw the appropriate supply and demand graphs for each one.”

“And when I’m done with this, we can take a break, and I’ll teach you how to do makeup. My friends will help,” Jaemin says idly as he reads through the first problem again.

Your stomach lurches slightly at that, and you hesitate. “Your friends?”

“Yeah, you know, Jeno, Karina, Lia, and Yeonjun. Somi, too, but she’s been busy. I can teach you basic skincare and makeup, but the girls will have to help you with the rest,” he says casually, scrawling down his first answer and the corresponding graph.

You swallow hard, your voice croaking slightly before you hastily clear it. “Are you sure? Do you think they’ll like me?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, doll. You’re like a puppy, and everyone likes those,” Jaemin mumbles idly, eyebrows furrowing as he rereads the second problem.

“A puppy?” You don’t know whether to be offended or not yet.

Oh, you know, just that you’re cute and all,” Jaemin laughs lightly, starting to write down his next answer, and your heart nearly stops in your chest. You force yourself to breathe regularly again.

“Oh, I see,” you start to answer coolly, but stuttering on the last word, internally cursing your tongue at the last stumble. You try to sit calmly and relax for the rest of the tutoring session as Jaemin slowly makes his way through the practice packet, but the knot in your stomach continues to tangle even more, growing ever bigger. Maybe you should just tell Jaemin that lunch didn’t agree with you and cut this meetup short.

But that means less time spent with Jaemin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Jaemin is nice, so his friends should be as well, you reason with yourself. There’s no need to be nervous. Even if they’re all incredibly beautiful, hot people with the most unapproachable aura you have ever encountered.

Like honestly, how is someone like Karina even real? Her face could start a modern day equivalent of the Trojan War. She is literally the face blueprint for every main female character you play in your otome games.

Turns out, Karina is even more gorgeous up close. Ridiculously close with the way she’s inches from your face as she swipes on some blush on the apples of your cheeks. You never thought you’d see the resident it girl here for you, standing in the middle of your dorm room, let alone have an actual conversation with her that extended beyond a polite hello when she stops by for Giselle. It’s already been 45 minutes, and your nerves still haven’t calmed down.

“You just need to apply a little bit here and here on both your cheeks,” she instructs you, pointing towards your cheekbones and carefully applying the rosy powder to the same areas. She pauses in the application momentarily so that you can type out a few notes into your phone covering her directions. “You can go heavier if you want the cute sunburn, Sabrina Carpenter look, but if you do too much, you’ll end up looking like my ex.”

“What?” You’re startled, glancing over at her and nearly getting blinded once again by her lethal face card. She laughs lightly, giving you a slight smile. “A clown.”

“Oh, got it,” you chuckle, albeit nervously, shooting her a quick smile. “I’ll make sure to not do that.”

“Relax, it’s easy. Just a bit of makeup here and there, and you’ll be fine. All I do is some mascara, falsies, and a good lippie when I’m lazy, and I’m out the door in ten minutes,” Lia jumps in, holding several different tubes of lip tints.

“Are you sure? That’s really it?” You ask hesitantly, glancing over the various makeup products strewn over your desk. It looks a lot more complicated than what she had just described.

“Well, maybe you might need a bit more, like concealer and foundation. And some bronzer and heavy contouring. But just stick to the skincare routine and it’ll help lessen it,” Karina sighs, dabbing some highlighter to the tip of your nose before seeing the uncertain look in your eyes, adding hastily, “But it’s so worth it, trust. You’ll look so pretty, and it comes with so many perks. Girl math is knowing you can go out with no money and just your face card.”

“Hey, you’re friends with Yangyang?” Lia pipes up, noticing the photo strip you have pinned on your corkboard, nestled between the various Mystic Messenger Seven fanart and Zorro art prints.

“Huh? Oh yeah, I am. You know him?” You answer, and she nods before leaning in and evenly applying a thin layer of periwinkle tint on your lips. “Yeah, we’re in the same German class. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

Well, you definitely can’t tell her about the raging heart on he has for his best friend, but it’s not like he really is seeing anyone either. You do vaguely remember Yangyang saying Lia was pretty and talented during his quick 5 minute minute class to Jaemin and his friends, so it’s not like he hates her either.

“No, he’s not,” you answer, hoping you made the right choice, and Lia’s face visibly brightens. “Oh, really? That’s great.”

“Okay, we’re done.” Karina announces, stepping back and holding up a mirror for you. “Not bad, right?”

“Oh, wow,” you suck in a breath, nearly gasping in surprise as you peer at the glass. You almost don’t recognize yourself. The contouring lifts up your face, slimming it down, and the blush gives you a pretty pink hue that makes you look sun kissed. Your lower lashes have nearly doubled in length with the mascara, giving you a pretty babydoll look. Karina had perfectly applied a set of falsies for you, framing your eyes delicately, and the shimmery eyeshadow and soft winged eyeliner accentuates your eyes even more. Your lips are the prettiest shade of pink, tinted and glossy.

You can’t believe it is your own reflection staring back at you.

“Now put this outfit on,” Lia says with a knowing smile, placing a shopping bag in your lap. “Jaemin picked it out.”

“Oh, really? Alright,” you manage to mumble out, dazed and still admiring yourself in the hand mirror. Karina laughs softly, nudging Lia before moving towards your door. “We have to get to a sorority meeting now, but I hope you like it, doll. And make sure to practice.”

“I love it,” you say breathlessly, grazing your fingertips against the cool glass, still in disbelief. “And I definitely will practice.”

“Mm, good, text us if you need any help! And send progress pics! We want to see how it’s going,” Lia answers, waving over her shoulder before the two of them exit your dorm. Sitting there alone, you stare at your reflection for a little longer, admiring yourself. You feel so pretty.

You finally remember the paper bag on your lap, and you immediately dig into it, pulling out a flowy floral sundress. It’s beautiful, and you quickly tug off your jeans and tshirt before going to your drawers to dig around for the appropriate bra for the dress. You manage to find it, snapping on the bra around yourself from the front before twisting it until the clasp is against your back. You hastily push your arms through the straps, tugging on either side until it’s on perfectly. You suck in a quick breath, internally preparing yourself for the battle with the next piece of clothing, a.k.a. your worst enemy: spandex. You’ve familiarized yourself with the awkward jig you have to do around your dorm until you’ve wriggled into the tight elastic enough so that it sits in the correct spot and sucks in all the right places.

At last, you won the war, but you feel sweaty now, flopping back onto your bed for a quick break. You flap your hands in front of your face, thanking whoever decided to invent setting spray. You grab your deodorant spray and douse yourself in a heavy dose of it before picking up the sundress and slipping it over your head. To your great relief, it slides on perfectly, and you quickly shuffle over to the full length mirror hanging on the back of your door. You straighten out the dress and quickly pat down any strand of hair knocked askew from your latest struggles before giving a smile to the mirror.

Dare you say it? You look pretty.

You’ve never looked this pretty before.

You happily take out the dainty gold heart necklace you had carefully tucked into your top desk drawer, struggling for a few seconds before you manage to clasp it around your neck. You quickly pull the pendant towards the front before slipping on the strappy sandals you left next to your desk. You grab the cute purse you bought last week, now packed with the perfect essentials, and give yourself one last once over.

You have nowhere to go, but you decide to take a walk to the dining hall. After all, you’re dressed up so nicely, makeup done so perfectly, you can’t waste it on another night stuffing your face with hot Cheetos and rewatching the first season of Haikyuu!!. Opening your door, you step out and nearly run into someone.

“Oh, finally, you’re done, doll. I thought you died in there or some…”

His eyes widening in utter shock, his next word dies on the tip of his tongue when Jaemin sees you standing in front of him. His mouth falls open slightly before he quickly closes it to swallow harshly, his throat running dry. He’s never seen you like this before, never imagined that you’d be this pretty. He inhales sharply, stiffening slightly as his eyes rake over your figure, seeing how the dress perfectly accentuates your figure, and settles on your face.

“Jaemin? What are you doing here?” Your eyes widen slightly before your cheeks grow warm when you notice his stunned reaction.

“Um,” he croaks out, voice cracking before he quickly swallows again, silently cursing when puberty decides to make a belated appearance. “Lia texted me that you were done, so I wanted to see how it went. You look… wow.”

Your cheeks heat up even further, and you laugh a little nervously, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “R-really? It’s not too much?”

“No!” He immediately blurts out before his cheeks flush carmine. “I—I mean, you look really good. You should dress like this more often.”

You can’t stop the smile spreading across your face, and Jaemin’s heart flip flops in his chest. “Really? Thank you, I will then.”

“Of course, really. I picked the dress myself after all,” He tries to joke before hastily clearing his throat. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. I was just going to go to the dining hall and grab some food,” you answer awkwardly, shifting your purse over your shoulder slightly and tightening your fingers around its strap.

“Let me take you out for dinner.” Jaemin blurts out, a little high pitched, mentally facepalming at how he sounds. “I mean, we can go over some of the harder problems in that packet since I probably need more studying anyway, and I’ll teach you a couple more dating tricks.”

“Sure, okay, that sounds good.” You give him a wider beam, and Jaemin feels his heart beat a little faster. Maybe you don’t need that much teaching from him after all. Seems like you’re a quick learner.

v. life is plastic, it’s fantastic!

“The only thing you’re fucking is stupid.”

“Shut the hell up, Yeonjun. At least I’m not sticking my dick in crazy.”

You watch the light argument going on between Jeno and Yeonjun in amusement. You and Jaemin had just finished your ninth tutoring session two hours ago, and you think he’s getting on track to actually scoring a decent grade for the next midterm. You were initially going to head towards Lana and Moon’s dorm for your weekly anime show marathon, but Jaemin insisted that you stop by the Alpha Sigma Psi house for a small party. Giselle and Karina are both part of that house, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to make a quick appearance. Good thing you spent some time touching up your makeup before today’s tutoring session.

“Hey, doll! Join the photo,” Jaemin calls out to you, gesturing you towards the area he and the rest of his friends are standing. You see another really pretty girl—Minjeong, was it?—standing on the side, holding up a phone and preparing to take the picture.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I can just take the photo instead,” you laugh awkwardly, extending your hand out towards Minjeong, but Jeno gently nudges you forward, “No way, you never take pics with us. Just one, come on, Y/N.”

“Yeah, join us!” Jaemin says brightly, tugging you towards him and you stumble slightly, falling forward into his chest. You quickly catch yourself, hands suddenly pressed against his chest, and the blood rushes to your face.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you start to babble, trying to push yourself away before Jaemin quickly wraps his arm around your waist. “Nope, you’re staying here, it’s just a few pics, please, doll?”

“I—I mean, I don’t really—”

You start to say before Minjeong’s voice cuts through the air. “Okay, I’m taking it in five seconds now. So get ready and pose or be ready to live with the consequences on Insta forever.”

Everyone immediately shuffles around, and you’re squeezed even tighter against Jaemin, and you just know that he can feel your heart pounding rapidly against his chest.

“Smile, doll,” Jaemin laughs gently, squeezing your hip lightly and you inhale sharply at that, your heart rate spiking and increasing exponentially. You muster up a few shaky smiles as the flash starts to go off.

After a few more pictures, you manage to untangle yourself from the group and hurriedly go towards Minjeong. “I can take the pictures, you should join in.”

She immediately brightens up at that, giving you a kilowatt smile as she hands you the phone and slips into your original position in between Jaemin and Karina. “Oh, thanks, Y/N.”

You wait a few moments for everyone to get readjusted before you begin to snap some photos, having already mastered this from the previous hang outs you’ve joined and knowing how to take the best angles for everyone, including all the 0.5 zoom out ones. After taking some additional group and solo photos for the girls, you’re finally free of your duties. Your eyes widen when you check the time on your phone, and you hurriedly make your way over to Jaemin.

“Hey, I need to get going now. I have to get to Lana and Moon’s dorm, so I’ll see you later,” you say quickly, already beginning to brush past him as the realization sets in that it’s been over an hour when you told your friends that you would only be fifteen minutes late.

“Wait, what? Hey, hold on, doll.” Jaemin reaches out to you, but you slip past him, calling over your shoulder. “Sorry, I’m late!”

He strides over, soon matching your pace as you speed walk back to the freshman dormitories. “Can’t you slow down a little bit? It’s not like you all haven’t seen these episodes before, plus we watched a few of them together after our last tutoring session.”

“Yeah, but I’m over an hour late,” you stress, slightly frazzled now as you hurriedly type out an apology to send to the group chat.

“Just breathe, okay? You’ll be fine. They’re your friends. They should understand,” Jaemin reassures you, grabbing your hand and you freeze slightly. He notices your stop and teases lightly, “I said slow down, not stop. What’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing,” you stammer out a little too quickly, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. He’s holding your hand. Na Jaemin is hand in hand with you, fingers intertwined. You almost want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming.

“Well, alright then, come on, let me walk you back,” Jaemin laughs before tugging you along. “You can help me pick out which pictures to post on Insta along the way, too, yeah?”

“Oh, sure,” you say breathlessly, your heart rate quickening to an embarrassing speed when he squeezes your hand gently, and you nesrly trip over your own feet.

“Perfect, so what about this one?” He holds up his phone to show you the picture you had taken for the group earlier, and you falter slightly. Why are you feeling a little disappointed with his choice?

Jaemin notices your hesitation and says a little softly, “I know you’re a private person. So I thought you’d prefer if I posted the group photo you took. You always take the best pictures for me, too. You know my good side the best. And it’d be weird if Hyuck saw, too, right? But did you want the other photo? I mean, if you really want it, I can..?”

“No!” You hurriedly say to reassure him, squeezing his hand lightly. “No, you’re right. I don’t want my picture out there. And um, yeah, that definitely wouldn’t be good if Hyuck saw.”

Jaemin gives you a relieved smile. “Yeah, exactly. You’re not upset, right, doll? We still have that fun pic of us and our homemade pizzas from earlier that I posted on my finsta. I didn’t know making pizzas would be that easy.”

“Of course not, don’t worry about it,” you laugh softly, continuing to walk back to the freshman dormitories, and Jaemin swings your joined hands between the two of you freely.

“Mm, I’m getting free cooking and tutoring lessons in exchange for dating tips. Two for the price of one is quite the good deal for me, right?” Jaemin teases lightly, and you let out another laugh.

“You’re right, it is. You better step up your game then.”

“Oh, just you wait, you’ll get dating tips and a boyfriend, so we’ll be even,” Jaemin chuckles softly, squeezing your hand, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach once again, and you muster up the courage to say something a little more teasing.

“Is that a guarantee?”

“Well, you have a demand, and I must supply, right?”

“…I don’t think that’s how it quite goes, Jaemin. Maybe you need a few more tutoring sessions.”

“All I hear is that you want to spend more time with me,” Jaemin laughs, giving you the prettiest smile, and your cheeks warm up even more, heart stuttering in your chest. Speechless, you let him continue on, his chattering filling the air as you listen with quiet content, your hand securely tucked in his for the remainder of the walk back.

vi. you can brush my hair.

Jaemin sits on the edge of his chair across from you at the table in the dorm common area, anxiously tapping his fingers against the flat surface. You are down to the last page of the mock exam packet, carefully going over his work with a red pen. You made minimal marks on the papers, a stark contrast to the very first practice exam he had worked on near the start of your tutoring. At that point in time, he didn’t even get to the end of the exam.

“Amazing.”

You say in awe, scanning through the last problem Jaemin had completed before tallying up his final score and calculating his results. “I can’t believe it. You got an 87.”

“No fucking way,” Jaemin is wide eyed, staring at you in disbelief, and you give him a wide smile, sliding the packet over to him, so that he can look over the exam and notes you’ve written for the problems he missed.

“Yes fucking way.”

“Holy shit, this is insane,” Jaemin breathes out, carefully reading through each page, and to his utter amazement, he understands every note and explanation you had added next to each incorrect question. He looks up at you, beaming, “I really got a B+?”

“You did,” you confirm, smiling back at him. “And who knows? It might become an A if the exam gets curved.”

“Oh my god, I owe you my life,” Jaemin chuckles, staring down at the graded exam in front of him, still in disbelief. “Seriously, doll, thank you so much.”

“Oh, of course, anytime,” you laugh sheepishly, twisting the rings adorning your fingers around nervously before averting your attention elsewhere, standing up to go towards the adjacent communal kitchen and carrying your filled tote bag with you. “A—Anyway, I brought some things to celebrate a job well done so far.”

“And how did you know I would’ve done well? What if I completely bombed that exam?” Jaemin teases you, standing up and following after you.

“I don’t know, I guess I just believed in you,” you stutter out, cheeks warming up as you set down your tote bag on the counter, unable to look him in the eyes, and he freezes, mulling over your words silently.

You believe in him? Someone who’s a hopeless cause? He honestly didn’t even believe in himself, he thinks to himself, his chest constricting uncomfortably, a foreign feeling making its entrance known to him, constricting around his heart. He inhales sharply, shoving it away with an easy going smile. “Is that so? Well, thanks, Y/N. And what are we doing now?”

“Making pancakes,” you answer, busying yourself with pulling out the ingredients from your tote bag. “You need to be well fed before the midterm. Your brain needs food. And the class is at 8 am, and neither of us are not morning people, so this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

“Pancakes?” Jaemin echoes after you, glancing at the various items strewn across the counter’s surface. “Does it really take this many ingredients? Isn’t it just the box mix and water?”

“That’s the short cut way. We’re making pancakes from scratch,” you laugh softly, taking out a mixing bowl and whisk along with the measuring cups and spoons.

“But why? It’s so much easier the other way.” Jaemin whines softly, and you chuckle lightly. “Trust me, it’s worth the effort.”

You hand the one cup measuring utensil and bowl to Jaemin and nudge him towards the flour. “Help me measure out two cups of flour.”

“Alright,” he sighs, opening the bag of flour and carefully scooping out the first cup, scraping off any excess before dumping it into the bowl before repeating the process. “What next?”

“Four tablespoons of sugar,” you answer, handing him the sugar and appropriate measuring utensil before working on measuring four teaspoons of baking powder and a quarter of a teaspoon of baking soda. You pour those to the mixing bowl as Jaemin quietly measures the sugar and adds it in as well before waiting for your next instructions. You quickly drop in half of a teaspoon of salt before pushing the bowl towards him. “Now whisk this together gently, please.”

Jaemin busies himself with combining the dry ingredients as you take out half a stick of butter from the fridge (The one labeled with your name, of course. You’re no food thief, unlike someone who’s been stealing other people’s leftover takeout). You microwave it to get four tablespoons of melted butter before making your way to Jaemin’s side.

“Okay, now make a well in the center of it,” you say, and Jaemin clumsily makes an indent in the dry mixture before looking towards you for approval.

“Perfect, now add in two teaspoons of vanilla extract and crack the egg into it there,” you instruct him, and he obediently follows your directions. You measure out one and three quarters cups of milk and add it to the well before also pouring in the melted butter.

“Do I just whisk it together now?” Jaemin asks, picking up the whisk again, and you nod.

“Yes, mix it all together. It’s fine if there’s a few lumps, but it should be smooth overall.” Your eyes trail over his face, and you stifle a small laugh. “You got a little something on your cheek.”

“What?” Jaemin looks up, pausing in his whisking and you can’t help but giggle, staring at the flour dusting his cheek. “There’s flour on your face.”

“Oh, really? Can you wipe it off for me?” Jaemin laughs softly, attempting to brush at it with his shoulder but failing to reach that high.

“Oh, s-sure,” you stammer slightly, your hand quivering slightly as you outstretch your fingers and gingerly brush your fingertips against the apple of his cheek. His sun kissed skin is warm beneath your fingertips, and your breath hitches in your throat before you gently wipe away the remaining residue. You can feel his gaze searing into your face, but you refuse to look him directly in the eyes.

“There, all done,” you murmur, hastily pulling away and taking a step back. Jaemin lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. He clears his throat, setting down the bowl. “I think this is all done, too.”

“Oh, great, that’s great,” you say, immediately focusing on the bowl before carrying it with you towards the stove, turning it on. “Let’s set this to medium-low heat. And I’ll add some butter to the pan, so the pancake won’t stick.”

Jaemin hands you the leftover butter and pan for you to set onto the stove. You use the spatula to move around a pat of butter, coating the pan nicely. Once the stove is ready and the butter starts to sizzle slightly, you pour a quarter cup of the batter onto the pan, expertly flicking your wrist to rotate the pan and cause the batter to form a perfect circle. You pull out a small container of blueberries, sprinkling some of them on top.

“Woah.” Jaemin watches you, impressed. “Teach me how to do that.”

“This? It’s easy,” you laugh softly, checking on the pancake until its underside is golden and small bubbles start to form on the top. You quickly move the pan, flipping the pancake onto its other side. “You can try making the next one.”

“Yeah? Will you wrap your arms around me and give me the one on one experience?” Jaemin jokes lightheartedly, and you nearly choke. “I mean—I don’t think that's completely necessary.”

“Relax, doll, I’m just kidding,” he laughs softly, nudging you gently, and you let out an awkward laugh. “Oh, totally. Just a joke.”

Once the pancake is golden on both sides, you carefully slide it onto a plate Jaemin pulled out from one of the cabinets. Your heart rate finally returns to its normal state, and you manage to say calmly, “Maple syrup and whipped cream are in the fridge.”

Jaemin takes out the aforementioned toppings, generously slathering on some butter before pouring the syrup and spraying whipped cream onto the pancake. He cuts out a small piece and quickly spears it onto his fork before taking the bite, nearly moaning in delight at the first taste.

“Holy crap, this is so fucking good.”

“My secret recipe,” you say proudly as you start to pour the batter for a second pancake, evenly spreading it on the pan. “Was it worth the effort?”

“Yes.” Jaemin swallows, almost immediately going for another bite before he gazes at you, giving you a genuine smile, and your heart rate again increases to an alarming speed.

“Definitely worth it.”

vii. undress me everywhere.

You finish the midterm in forty five minutes, being the first one to turn in your completed exam. This means you finished twenty minutes before the class ends and consequently, either failed it spectucularly or knocked it out of the park. You really hope it’s the latter.

Despite being rather preoccupied with other matters a.k.a. your suddenly thriving social life, you managed to cram in some studying here and there because your mother would absolutely kill you if you lost your provost scholarship. Gifted kid burnout? Who’s that? You never heard of her before (Just kidding, you’ve had plenty of breakdowns and cry fests over calculating bond values and stock prices).

Now outside of the classroom in one of the open study alcoves, you drop your Longchamp bag on the empty chair next to you before tugging at the back of your jean skirt before carefully sitting down. You make sure to readjust your bra straps, tucking them under the ruched fabric of your white shirt. Tapping your fingers against the scratched surface of the table, you briefly admire the shimmery gold ombré manicure adorning your nails that Jaemin had chosen last week. You pull out a compact from the inner side pocket of your purse, carefully checking your makeup to ensure it is still in pristine condition before quickly swiping in another layer of your Buxom plumping lip gloss in the best shade: fir royale.

The flurry of text messages pinging across your screen quickly catches your attention, and you tuck your mirror and tube of lip gloss away before scrolling through them, letting out a quiet scoff at Karina’s latest melodramatic outburst in the clout chasers group chat:

[ 11:46 a.m. ] karebear ✨: guys, gals, and yuckjun

[ 11:46 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: what tf ??? why are you calling me out

[ 11:46 a.m. ] karebear ✨: shut up or else I won’t make out with you anymore

[ 11:46 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: 🤐

[ 11:46 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: are you that touch starved bro

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: anyway as i was saying

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: this skank in my marketing class has been copying my outfits and posting them on her insta and she has like 10k followers now

[ 11:47 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: time to tear a bitch apart

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: like look at this shit

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: sent {10 images.jpeg}

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: my followers are gonna rip her apart

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: she’s downgrading my brand

[ 11:47 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: dw girl i’ll do a response video so my followers will see too

[ 11:48 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: she can’t get away with this

[ 11:48 a.m. ] karebear ✨: loved a message

[ 11:48 a.m. ] somi amor 💋: idk… they’re similar styles but that’s what popular rn

[ 11:48 a.m. ] karebear ✨: it’s gonna be song jia 2.0 watergate

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: just say you’re broke and go

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: if she’s gonna plagiarize me, she better do it right like bffr walmart version

[ 11:49 a.m. ] somi amor 💋: you have proof they’re fake?

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: i mean fake bitch fake bags right

[ 11:49 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: idk she’s kinda hot

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: shut up jen be like your hairline and fall back

[ 11:49 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: HELLO ?! back me up yeonjun

[ 11:50 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: um

[ 11:50 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: 🤐

[ 11:51 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: if you wanna be fucking stupid then knock yourself out

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: loved a message

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: hey my place tonight jun 🥰

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: are you gonna listen to your own advice yj

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: excuse me ????

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: ��🤐🤐

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: proverbs 26:11

“Hey, doll, what’s so funny?”

Jaemin appears next to you, and you let out a startled squeak, jumping in your seat, and he laughs, quickly placing his hands on your shoulders to steady you. You look at him wide eyed for a few seconds, his question not yet registering in your mind, and he waits patiently for your answer.

“Oh!” Your eyes light up, and he smiles at the endearing sight. “Just Karina ranting about something and Yeonjun being whipped.”

“Ah, so the usual?” He reaches for your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and you stand up, pulling your skirt down once more to ensure you’re covered. The two of you start to make your way out of the Langley Hall.

“Yep. How was the midterm for you?”

He brightens up, opening the door for you and you thank him. “It wasn’t too bad at all! I actually understood like 90% of the questions and for the others, I was able to narrow down the answers between two choices, so 50/50 chance, fingers crossed I picked the right one.”

You beam when you hear that, and he returns the smile, eyes crinkling in the corners, and you pretend to wipe away faux tears. “I feel like a proud mom.”

“I think my mom actually will be proud,” he says, eyes scanning the cars parked on the nearby street before finding his. He grabs your hand, tugging you along. “C’mon, we gotta go celebrate that our misery is over until finals week. Plus, we gotta prep you when you talk to Hyuck.”

“Wait, what?” You abruptly stop short, and he nearly loses his grip on your hand. “When am I talking to him?”

“This Saturday. You’re coming with me to the Nu Chi party, right?”

“Since when? I don’t go to parties,” you protest, “They’re too loud and noisy, and beer is gross and—”

“You went to the Alpha Sigma one a few weeks ago though?” Jaemin interrupts, and you shake your head. “That was a small party though. This one is the party of the semester. What if I embarrassed myself in front of the entire school?”

“Parties are the prime time for meeting people and getting to know them because alcohol makes everyone friendlier and people don’t stay within their friend groups,” Jaemin interrupts. “Do you really believe that you’ll get him to like you by, I don’t know, one day, your eyes will meet across the classroom, and he’ll fall madly in love with you? This isn’t one of your fanfics, Y/N.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, letting go of his hand on purpose, and he frowns, bottom lip jutting out in a pout before reaching out for your hand again. You swiftly dodge him, and he whines, quickly snatching your hand up and lacing your and his fingers together.

“I hope this isn’t how you’ll treat him on your date. Thank god we’re doing a trial run right now.”

“A trial run?” you echo him, and he nods, flashing you that favorite smile of his that never fails to make you weak in the knees.

“Well, we have to make sure your first date goes perfectly so there will be a second, right? Practice makes perfect,” he says matter-of-factly, and you nod slowly in agreement. The logic makes sense somehow.

“Okay, so where would you pick for a first date?”

“Maybe a cute cafe? Oh, there’s that one place: Cloudy with a Chance of Boba!” You brighten up, thinking about that boba shop’s menu you spent a good half hour scrolling through on Yelp last night.

“Mm, the most popular place right now is that ramen place on the end of Maisie Street. It’d probably be best to go there,” he muses, tugging you along via your intertwined hands. You nearly stumble in your heeled sandals but swiftly catch yourself.

“O-oh, okay, so are we going there now?”

“Nah, let’s do the ice cream place next door to it. Not really feeling noodles at the moment.” He stops to look over his shoulder at you, and you run into his back, causing him to let go before quickly reaching out and grabbing your arms to steady you. “Woah, be careful.”

“Sorry.” You’re flustered, your cheeks now growing hotter than a furnace. Jaemin reaches forward, his finger carefully swiping at the smudged lip gloss on the corner of your lip. “Where’s your lip gloss? You should reapply this.”

Eyes widening, he then shifts and peers behind him, craning his neck to the side in all attempts to look at the back of his shirt. “There’s not a mark on my shirt, right?”

You quickly rub off any shimmery residue. “It’s fine, your shirt is dark blue, so you can’t see it anymore.”

“Oh, good. Wait, where’s your lip gloss?” You fish through your bag, pulling out the tube and handing it to Jaemin. He uncaps it, giving you the lower half of the gloss before gently grasping your chin with one hand. He leans forward and tilts your head towards him, his eyes focused on your lips. The butterflies in your stomach erupt in an instant. You try so hard to stand still, fidgeting with one of the rings on your finger behind your back.

Jaemin’s face is so close to yours that you can count every single long dark eyelash that frames his pretty eyes. His lips are the prettiest shade of carmine, and you wonder what it’s like to be Aphrodite’s favorite child. How lucky you are to already be basking in the attention of her favorite; imagine how much luckier he is to be her favorite.

The beautiful boy in front of you carefully applies the gloss for you, fully concentrating on coating your lips with a pretty sheen once again. When he glances up, he’s almost blown away by the way you’re looking at him.

You look stunning, pretty as a picture in VOGUE magazine. Not quite the cover page, but you’re nearly there. A swell of pride runs through his veins, like an artist admiring his latest masterpiece on show in MOMA.

“Anyway,” he clears his throat, handing back to you the lip gloss. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

“Alright.” You follow behind him like a lost puppy, and he reaches back to grab your hand and interlace your fingers. Your heart nearly skips a beat as your cheeks grow warmer once again, and for a split second, you wonder if he feels the same way.

“We’re here,” Jaemin announces, letting go of your hand to open the shop’s door, the bell above it jingling faintly as he gestures for you to go inside.

You enter the pretty shop, marveling the clean and simple interior with circular white tables and matching garden iron chairs surrounding each one. There’s bright greenery and plants decorating the edges of the shop, and the wall is covered in mismatched frames of paintings and pictures in various sizes and colors. The cheeky neon sign displayed near the front read, “It’s not gonna lick itself!”, and you laugh softly when you see it. The display of different colorful ice creams at the front are absolutely enticing, and you’re already struggling to decide which two flavors to pick.

You finally decide on a Vietnamese coffee and honeycomb swirl, accepting it from the cashier before you start to pull out your wallet. Before you can even pull out your card, Jaemin taps his phone against the screen, paying for both yours and his.

“Never pay on the first date,” he chides you lightly, picking up his ice cream. “Always let the guy pay for the first date.”

“Oh, but shouldn’t we at least split it?” You ask sheepishly, walking towards a table near the back that he gestures towards. He follows behind you, picking up some spoons and napkins.

“If the guy is so broke that he can’t pay $7 for your ice cream, then he shouldn’t be out dating anyway. He should be getting a job,” Jaemin retorts, tugging your chair out for you before sitting across from you and handing you a spoon and napkin. “Don’t you watch that Shera lady? Sprinkle, sprinkle and all that jazz. Maybe you can split for the future dates, but if the guy has any basic decency, he would pay for the first one.”

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” you sigh, taking a hefty scoop of your ice cream and having the first bite. It’s delicious, and you make a mental note to buy a pint and bring back to your dorm to share with Giselle later.

The two of you continue to discuss various appropriate topics to broach on a first date (“Hey Jaemin, you like cheese? My favorite’s Gouda.” “… Please do not ask that.”). You quickly jot down bullet points in your Notes app, your fingers flying over the screen as Jaemin instructs you on good conversational starters and body language.

“So you just need to touch him on his upper forearm and then pull away. Stroke his ego and say he’s funny or some shit like that. At least you don’t have to force yourself to laugh with him though because Hyuck is naturally funny anyway. And he’s good at keeping up the conversation and a people person, so it won’t be awkward even for your first date,” Jaemin continues as you nod, rapidly typing what he says.

“And at the end of the date, touch his shoulder again, glance down at his lips for a brief second before making eye contact. If he’s bold enough, he’ll go for the first kiss. But then just immediately smile and say you had a great time before he can lean in. After that, he won’t stop thinking about that moment, and it’ll drive him crazy, and he’ll be texting you for a second date within the next day.”

“Mm, okay, I think I got it,” you mumble absentmindedly, engrossed in writing down the last few bullet points and Jaemin leans over to take a closer look at your phone, his eyes flitting over the screen.

“So for the last point, do I have to deny the first kiss then? Smile and walk away before he leans in and…”

You start to ask until you look up, and your breath hitches in your throat at the close proximity, your and his noses almost brushing. Jaemin is so pretty, even prettier when you can count the few freckles dotting his face, can clearly see the mesmerizing golden flecks dotting his irises, can admire the way his lips look so soft and curve into the picture perfect smile. Your heart thumps wildly, nearly falling onto the floor along with your jaw when you glance up from staring at his lips and see that he’s already looking back at you with the softest expression on his face.

“You don’t have to,” Jaemin murmurs, and your heart stutters in your chest as he moves in closer, his lashes brushing against your cheek, and suddenly, his lips are pressed against yours. They’re pink and soft and slot perfectly against yours in a way that has your heart skipping beats and stomach doing cartwheels.

Eyes widening, you freeze up, letting out a quiet squeak of surprise, before he pulls away, giving you an amused smile. The lingering warmth on your lips makes your cheeks heat up, and you have to break eye contact, stammering over your words as you gently graze your fingers over your lips in wonderment.

Jaemin laughs softly as he leans back in his chair. “We’ll have to work on this too then. You’re kissing like it’s a Park Shinhye kdrama.”

You’re still dazed, cheeks growing even warmer as you avoid his gaze, fiddling with the loose thread on the hem of your skirt. “That was my first kiss.”

Jaemin pauses at the realization, his cheeks flushing slightly before he clears his throat, giving you a half smile and a light chuckle, “Oh, really? That’s cute, doll. Well, I’ll teach you some tips, so you’ll be better at it by the time you ask Hyuck out. At least you got a decent first kiss, right? No big deal.”

“Yeah, no big deal,” you echo softly, your heart still racing at breakneck speed. You pretend to focus on the remnants of your ice cream in the bottom of your paper cup, fingers gripping around the container tightly.

Jaemin was right.

You don’t think you’ll be able to stop thinking about this moment anytime soon.

viii. come on, barbie, let’s go party!

“Are you sure you wanna do this?”

Moon asks worriedly, helping you with your makeup as you sit, perched on the edge of your bed. She uncaps your eyeliner as Lana fusses with your shirt, smoothing out any of the wrinkles. “Actually, I can’t do it. You do it, Yang. You’re an expert at this.”

“Alright, give it to me.” Yangyang comes over, grabbing the eyeliner and expertly draws on the wing above your right eye. “Years of cosplay have finally come in handy. Although, I still can’t believe you’re putting in all this effort for Jaemin.”

“I need to look pretty. He usually does my makeup for me, but he’s busy right now,” you mumble, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously. “It’s my first time going to a party. I can’t embarrass him when he’s a ten.”

“Yeah, in rupees,” Yangyang scoffs, and Lana frowns at you, stopping in her tracks. “Don't talk about yourself like that. You’re already pretty, and if anything, you should be embarrassed to be seen with that slime ball. I can’t believe he doesn’t even have the decency to pick you up. Why are you the one going to his place?”

“He has some frat meeting right now,” you answer, glancing down at your newly manicured nails. The pearl color shimmers under the light, and you can’t help but admire it even more. You wish they were a little shorter, but they really do look quite pretty.

“What meeting? We’re in the same frat. Also, hold still,” Yangyang huffs, holding your chin as he draws on the left wing over your eye. “We need them to look like twins, not cousins twice removed.”

“I don’t know, he just said there was some meeting,” you mumble, holding perfectly still until he finally finishes. “Maybe it was a one on one meeting or something, who knows?”

“I still think he’s shady,” Lana grumbles, and Moon nods as well. “Yeah, like the first kiss thing?”

“It’s no big deal,” you wave your hand dismissively, hopping off of your bed and taking a look at yourself in your mirror. “Better to get it over with, right? I mean, imagine being this old and not having your first kiss yet.”

“Is that what he said to you?” Moon huffs, affronted, and you shift in your place uncomfortably. “No, of course not. It’s just—everyone gets their first kiss when they’re like fourteen or fifteen, right?”

“That’s not the point,” Lana says indignantly, tucking your hair behind your ear carefully. “You wanted it to be special, didn’t you? It just feels like… he took something away from you.”

“He didn’t. I wanted this,” you answer loudly, ignoring the way your stomach flip flops as you try not to think back to that moment. He kissed you, he really does like you back, he might have not said it out loud, but he knows how much it means to you (Wouldn’t he?).

“Okay, as long as you’re happy,” Moon gives in, and she and Lana exchange a worried look that goes unnoticed by you. But what can they do? They can continue to try convincing you, but it will never work when it falls on deaf ears.

“I am,” you insist, avoiding your friends’ gazes and staring at yourself back in the mirror. Moon attempts to lift the mood again, offering you a tentative smile in the reflection. “This whole thing is like a whole emotional rollercoaster, and Yangyang is definitely not tall enough to ride.”

“Shut the fuck up, I��m literally almost six foot tall,” Yangyang shoots back, and you laugh, relaxing once more as you watch your friends start to bicker again.

“Listen, you can’t be delusional and short. Pick a struggle.” Moon counters, and Lana agrees, handing you your phone to tuck into your pocket. “She’s right. You carry yourself with the confidence of a much taller man.”

You smile fondly as the bickering between your friends continues. You miss them, you realize with a jolting pang of regret, you haven’t been hanging out with them as often as you used to. In fact, the majority of your weeks are spent with Jaemin and his friends.

It’s your first cold dose of reality, and you’re hit with a startling truth. You haven’t been a very good friend lately.

—

Lana drove you to the Nu Chi Theta house, and you felt like a kindergartener being dropped for her first day of school. Your face feels hot as a wave of embarrassment rushes over you as you notice the amount of glances you receive from the insanely pretty girls and boys already on the front lawn and streaming out from the front door. You quickly exit the vehicle, hurriedly waving good bye over your shoulder before making your way into the house, almost tripping over the raised walkway.

You wander around the house, searching for Jaemin and quickly sidestepping a through the couples and other students dancing around, nearly getting bowled over by someone you recognize from your school’s football team. He gives you a quick once over before offering a half apology, eyes set on another girl on the other side of the room. You take a deep breath before pushing your way into the next room, finally spotting Jaemin with his friends, minus Jeno and Somi, by the staircase and letting out a sigh of relief.

“Hey,” you say breathlessly, squeezing through two couples busily making out in the doorway and wincing slightly when you jostle both of them, causing them to give you dirty looks before resuming their activities.

“Oh, hi, Y/N!” Karina says brightly, giving you a perfect smile and reaching over to squeeze your arm gently. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

“My first frat party? Of course, I wouldn’t miss it,” you laugh, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear nervously before fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Jaemin gives you a small smile, and you return it with a slightly shaky one, your eyes flickering towards the fading pink, glossy lip mark staining the collar of his shirt. The color is much too dark to be Jaemin’s, and your stomach churns slightly.

“You look so pretty, Y/N, I love the confidence,” Lia chimes in, gently pinching the fabric of your skirt between her manicured fingers. “I love this, you’ll have to let me borrow it sometime.”

“Oh, of course! You can borrow it anytime,” you agree quickly, flashing her a slightly forced smile before glancing over at Jaemin again, unsure what to do.

“Where do you shop?” Yeonjun asks, glancing over at your outfit. “The shirt is nice, too.”

“Oh my god, yes, we have to go shopping together sometime, and you’ll have to show me all the good places,” Karina cuts in, nudging you gently before letting out a sigh, looking over at Lia. “God, I’ve been feeling so fat lately, like freshman twenty might be getting to me.”

“No, same, I’ve been extending my gym sessions and doing Pilates,” Lia huffs softly, and you remain silent, switching your weight around on each foot, glancing over at Jaemin helplessly.

“I need another drink. You coming, Y/N?” Jaemin finally speaks up before brushing past Yeonjun, and you hurriedly follow behind him, careful not to fall behind or get swept away. He quickly pushes through to the kitchen, finding a spot next to the counter covered in various bottles of cheap alcohol and stacks of red solo cups dispersed in between.

“You want one?” Jaemin asks, extending a shot of vodka he just poured out towards you, and you shake your head before he gives a wry smile. “You sure? It’ll help with the nerves. You were shaking back there.”

Your cheeks grow warm. “You noticed?”

“Everybody noticed,” he snorted, handing you the cup, and you wince slightly before holding your nose and downing it in one go. “Give me another then.”

“Atta girl,” Jaemin hands you another shot and you take that one just as quickly, making a face that causes him to smile subconsciously. As he pours himself a cup of beer, he spots Donghyuck by the pool out back, and a knot settles in his stomach uncomfortably. He almost doesn’t want to tell you, and he doesn’t know why. It’s just because he worked so hard to make you look this good, and his loudmouth friend gets to reap all the benefits, he tells himself, taking a swig of his drink, Donghyuck doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Ignoring all the stop signs and whistles going off in his head, he gestures towards Donghyuck outside, clenching the red cup in his hand a little tighter than normal. “There’s your chance. Gotta do it before the alcohol wears off.”

“Oh, um, actually, I wanted to talk to you,” you stammer out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear again (It’s one of your habits when you’re nervous, and he thinks it might be his favorite). He pushes down the growing knot in his stomach.

“We’ll talk later, yeah? You can’t miss this,” Jaemin insists before nudging you in the direction of the pool outside despite your soft protests.

“W-wait, I jus—” you say desperately, but Jaemin merely waves you off before disappearing back into the party inside. You let out a sigh, shoulders sagging slightly. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him after all the effort he put in these past four weeks.

You’ll tell him later.

—

“Oh? Where’s your little Barbie doll, Jaemin?” Karina simpers as she lazily taps her pretty manicured nails against the half filled red solo cup in her other hand when Jaemin returns to his original spot. “Have you gotten bored of playing with her yet?”

“It’s not like that,” Jaemin answers hotly, “She’s… fun. She makes me laugh.”

“How? By looking at her?” Yeonjun snorts, chugging his own cup before crinkling it in his fist. Jaemin wants to throw up. “We thought you just did this because you’ve been having a dry spell and were bored. Where is she anyway?

“She’s talking to Hyuck right now,” Jaemin mumbles meekly, shoulders slightly hunched over as he stares into the depths of his own solo cup.

“Really? I mean, is she even his type?” Lia asks skeptically, straightening up in her spot to see if she can spot you or Donghyuck anywhere. “If anything, I thought her friend—the pretty English major one—would be his type. How is she anyone’s type?”

“Hey, he turned her from a four to a solid eight. She might even go up half a point once you introduce her to an exercise and diet plan.” Karina says offhandedly, raising her cup towards him in mock salute before taking a sip.

“Yeah, how are you going to do that? It’s not like you can even sugarcoat it for her because then she’d eat it too,” Yeonjun throws out with a smirk, and Jaemin feels sick to his stomach, the nauseating feeling growing exponentially and gnawing at him as his friend continues, “I mean she’s probably already on the seafood diet because she sees any food and just eats it. How can you even stand her, Jae? The way she just follows you around like a puppy. Isn’t it annoying?”

“God, I know, the way she basically chases after us like a lap dog is so pathetic. At least she takes good insta pics for us though, so she’s somewhat useful. But we had that one really good group photo at that last party, and she totally ruined the picture. You can’t even crop her out because she had to stand next to you, Jae,” Lia complains, rolling her eyes, and Karina laughs, taking out her phone and scrolling through her photos.

“Oh my god, I know the exact photo you’re talking about. It’s this one, right? She practically threw herself into your arms,” She flashes her screen towards the group, and Jaemin wants to shrink and crawl into a hole somewhere and die. Was it the best photo of you? No. Was it the worst? Maybe close to it. You’re standing sideways and still taking up more space in the photo than the others, and the flash photography did not do any favors for you. You stand out even worse than Will Smith in the sunflower costume meme. He cringes inwardly, noting the way your skirt had rolled up and you’re smiling a little too widely. He makes a mental note to help you practice better, more flattering poses later on.

“You know that famous baby hippo? Moo Deng? I think we found her twin from the future,” Yeonjun barks out a laugh, reaching over and zooming in on you as Karina smirks before putting away her phone. Lia giggles and glances over at Jaemin, scrutinizing his reaction before a sly expression makes an appearance on her face, saying coyly, “You have a crush on her, don’t you?”

Jaemin flushes, embarrassment coating his cheeks, and he immediately snaps, “Shut up, I might be lonely, but I’m not despera—”

“Oh, Y/N!” Lia says loudly, effectively cutting Jaemin short. “How did it go? Are you and Hyuck gonna be the new couple on campus?”

Immediately, his heart drops even further to his stomach, and Jaemin whirls around to see you standing a few feet away. Did Lia know you were there? How long were you standing there? Did you hear them? Did you hear every horrible thing they said about you?

“Oh, Donghyuck said he wasn’t interested, but he was nice about it,” you say, offering a vague smile in Jaemin’s direction, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief as his heart starts to slow back down to its normal rate. A part of him is glad that Donghyuck rejected you, and he nearly misses what you say next, too caught up in this unfamiliar feeling.

“I think I’m going to head back to my dorm. I’m a little tired. Thank you for inviting me.”

With that, you turn away and walk off, but something still doesn’t feel right to Jaemin. It’s a split second decision but for once, he puts his heart over his mind and chases after you, ignoring the increasing whispers from his friends and their eyes searing into his back.

ix. raise your hand if you have ever been personally victimized by na jaemin.

Jaemin is right on your heels the entire time you walk back to your dorm. All he receives is stony silence from you that he fills with babbling nonsense, asking you what’s wrong to no avail. When you finally enter your dorm, you turn to him at last, and he perks up. However, the two words that come out of your mouth have him deflating faster than Yangyang’s ego when Alice called him a shitty kisser with too much saliva (“You’re supposed to make me wet down there, not up here. Honestly, dude, if I wanted to drown myself, I would’ve jumped into the ocean.”).

“We’re done.”

You decide to bite the bullet.

After freeing your feet from their pointy death contraptions, you peel off each layer of clothing one by one, unzipping the mini skirt and kicking it away before tugging at the spandex, unleashing the breath you’ve been holding in since 8 a.m. to fit into it. There’s still indents marking the dips in your waist and your thighs, a lasting reminder that stays like an embarrassing stain. You fling that abhorrent piece of elastic elsewhere, and it falls near the end of your bed, out of sight behind the pile of textbooks you haven’t touched for the past three days.

“Hold on, what are you talking about? We made so much progress. You wanted to do this,” Jaemin protests, following after you and picking up the discarded garments you threw haphazardly. He waves around the skirt like a white flag. “You wanted to be in the popular crowd, and you got it. You’re this close to dating Hyuck. Yeah, he might’ve said no now, but we’ll come up with a new plan—You can bounce back from this! Why are you quitting now?”

Removing the off-the-shoulder pink top that restricts your arm movement, you quickly slip on an oversized sweater before reaching back and unhooking the strapless bra whose underwire has been digging into your ribs for so many hours, a sigh of relief escaping between your teeth. You toss it onto your chair without another care in the world, and it lands next to the shirt in a heap.

“Because this isn’t me. This isn’t what I like.”

“Of course, it is. This is still you: just new and improved,” he insists, frantically attempting to hand you your discarded shirt and pleather skirt. You ignore them, opting to pull out and put on your favorite pair of stretched out gym shorts from middle school that you had shoved in the back of your closet to make room for all the flashy clothing Jaemin picked out for you. “We’re having fun. You’re popular and pretty now. You’re almost dating Donghyuck. You have everything that everyone wants. You’re the girl the boys want to be with, the girl all the other girls want to be.”

You shake your head, reaching for the packet of makeup wipes near your sink. “It’s not what I want.”

Jaemin scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about? This is what you asked me to do.”

You throw him a scathing glare, and he takes a step back. “God, Jaemin, for once in your life, take off the stupid rose colored heart shades, and you’ll finally see all the red flags around you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaemin asks defensively. He thought everything was going according to plan; he’s going to pass macroeconomics, and you got to talk to Donghyuck and are this close to scoring a date with him. People notice you wherever you go, the two of you receive compliments, his friends like you, everyone likes you.

“I have to pretend to like things I hate and hate the things I like. I have to do things a certain way, act a certain way, pretend this is all effortless. I don’t know if people are being genuine or pretending like I am. I hate this—this fake version of me.” You spit the words out like fuel to a fire, and you stand there in all your blazing glory, ugly uniform shorts and all.

“My thighs keep chafing. My feet have blisters everyday from these boots. This foundation makes me break out even more, and I can’t type up my notes in class or write fast enough because of these nails, and my grades almost took a plunge. I’m basically freezing my tits off out there in a shirt I don’t like. The lashes make my eyes itch, and this skirt is so short that I have to keep pulling it down every five seconds before I end up flashing someone.”

You don’t recognize the girl in your mirror anymore. You pluck off the falsies lining your eyes, scrubbing furiously at the layers of expensive brand name makeup covering your skin. You wipe off every inch of it until your bare face stares back at you, slightly puffy, blemishes, faded acne scars and all. You feel like you can breathe a little better now.

“Did you really think it’s easy being one of us? Do you think people will notice you if you show up in sweats with Cheetos stains?” Jaemin stares at you incredulously. “This is how it is. I don’t get why you’re throwing it all away like this.”

“And yet, you were all for it when I threw away everything before.”

“Because you asked for it! You asked me to—to make you into someone Donghyuck would date!”

“You don’t get it.” You whirl around on your heels to face him instead of the mirror, and the anger and intensity laced in your voice nearly blows him away. “I like myself the way I am. I never hated myself. I may be insecure about how I look sometimes, but who isn’t? Yeah, I like wearing cherry lip gloss and mascara sometimes. It’s fun trying out new hairstyles and clothes and learning to do better makeup. I like getting dressed up for special occasions. I like doing these things on my own terms. But this? What I’m doing to myself right now? This isn’t the same. Am I supposed to keep up this charade for the rest of my life? If I do eventually go out with Donghyuck, am I gonna have to keep lying to him? To everyone? I want people to like me for me. To actually know me.”

“If this is how you feel, then why would you keep doing this?! If you hate it so much, then why?” He’s frustrated, carding his fingers through his hair as he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you’re angry over this. You look gorgeous, so what’s the problem?

“Because I liked spending time with you!” you burst out, “I never liked Donghyuck—I liked you. I wanted it to be you. It was fun at first, I did like it at first, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not. I can’t be friends with someone who’s ashamed of me.”

There’s a jolt in his heart when he hears your confession, but the second jolt comes quickly afterwards at your last words. Denial is the first stage of grief, and he pales at your final declaration. “What are you talking about? This whole thing is so that Dongh—”

“Oh, please. You can drop the act. This isn’t about Donghyuck anymore. This is about you being too embarrassed to be seen with someone who doesn’t fit your aesthetics.” You air quote the last word for emphasis, and his jaw tightens at that. “You’d rather drop dead than go out with a four like me, right?” You smile sardonically at him. “I may be a four on a seafood diet, but my ears work perfectly fine, Jaemin.”

You heard it all, and Jaemin feels like he is going to throw up. All he can do is scramble and grasp for the last remaining straws, protesting vehemently, “I wasn’t the one who said any of that!”

You laugh humorlessly, “Is that supposed to make it better? You’re better than them because you didn’t say it out loud? You didn’t deny it or defend me either, so what’s your point?

His mouth goes dry, and he opens and shuts it several times. Swallowing harshly, he barely manages to croak out a weak reply. “That’s— I didn’t mean—I only really thought that before I knew you.”

“And that’s just it, isn’t it? You already judged me before you even knew me based on how I look. Even now, you still judge me.” He starts to open his mouth again, but you merely shrug as if you’ve accepted this for all your life, and he closes it meekly, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably, unable to meet your eyes

“That’s okay. I’m used to it. That’s how it is for people like me. I know I’m not someone people fall head over heels for immediately. I’m the one who reaches out to people first. Guys don’t fall over at my feet, wanting to carry my books to class for me. The pretty girls ask me to take their Insta pictures for them. I don’t get free drinks at the bar or invited to all the parties. I’ve never been asked out by a total stranger, and no one writes their number on my cup of coffee,” you say matter-of-factly, a resigned smile on your face, and it has him curling into himself internally, his conscience slowly eating away at him.

“And you know what?” you continue, “That's life. That’s okay because I’m happy with who I am. I like who I am. If I have to give myself up to get Donghyuck or you to like me, then he’s—you—are not the one. I shouldn’t change who I am for a boy—or anyone for that matter.”

“That’s not—We were doing this for you. You wanted… you wanted this makeover. You wanted this.” He’s desperately clutching onto the end of the rope, and you’re holding the scissors to cut it off. You show him another half smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“It stopped being about me. It started being about what you wanted, what you liked, what you wanted me to be. I was your charity case, your little Barbie doll.”

You tilt your head to the side, studying the boy in front of you and he silently squirms under your scrutiny. “Tell me one thing, and be honest. Did you even know I existed before Donghyuck mentioned me as a tutoring option? Before you needed me for a grade booster? Would you have liked me then?”

Would you have liked me then? Your question echoes in his mind, and Jaemin freezes, dropping the clothes in his hands. You know. You know he likes you, and the embarrassment creeps up on him in the form of carmine dusting his ears and cheeks, like spilled wine on white linen.

“There are over one hundred students in the class,” he objects. “Sorry for not fighting my way through all of them to find you and have a crush on you sooner.”

Jaemin seems to not realize that he just confirmed his feelings for you aloud, and perhaps, if he had told you this a few weeks ago, you would have been ecstatic and called up Lana and Moon the second he was out of earshot. But this is now, and you’ve grown exponentially since then.

You give him a wistful smile, and as the dread piles up in the pit of his stomach, he knows this is the start of his downfall (or perhaps, he’s already been falling this entire time). He slipped from the pedestal already long ago, and it’s only a matter of time before he hits rock bottom. The higher the pedestal, the harder the fall from grace.

“I sat in front of you diagonally. You asked me to pass notes to my friend. You know, the girl who sat next to me? Alice? The one you asked out and went on a few dates with at the beginning of the semester?” You state the facts calmly, and his eyes widen at that. “It’s okay. But you must’ve remembered that we were in the same group for a presentation last semester, right?”

Jaemin stays silent, and you have your answer. It’s one you’ve known deep down in your heart all this time, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. After all, someone can announce they’re going to punch you, you can even see the strike coming to your gut, but simply knowing doesn’t do anything to ease the painful aftermath.

You chuckle humorlessly, fingers uncurling and recurling into fists as your nails press moon shaped crescents into your palms before you look him straight in the eyes. “I don’t fit into your cookie cutter life or match your rose colored Instagram filters. I don’t have the perfect model figure or the perfect face. I don’t look like the girl of your dreams, and I know that it just fucking kills you inside that you fell in love with me.”

Jaemin flinches, curling in on himself when he finally meets your gaze and finally sees the absolute hell fires of fury and repugnance ablaze in your eyes. You know that he loves you, and he’s ashamed that you’re right. You’re absolutely right.

Why is he so afraid of loving you?

He loves how smart you are, how witty you are, how funny you are, how genuine you are, how you understand every obscure Haikyuu!! reference he makes, how you laugh at his jokes, how you dm him the funniest memes on Instagram, how you wear your purple scrunchie around your wrist during every exam for good luck and how you let him borrow it too. He loves how you treat him as more than just a pretty face, how you actually listen to him and make him feel like what he says matters, how you make him feel different—special—like he doesn’t have to compete with all the other Barbies and Kens out there. He’s much too vain, much too superficial, much too selfish, much too proud to admit it out loud, but he’s in love with you, and yet, he can’t bring himself to love every single part of you.

And the truth of that matter is the ugliest of all.

But there are standards that he has to uphold, why can’t you understand this? He lowered his standards for you, and you still couldn’t meet them. You have the personality already, you are this close to being the ideal girl, and well, you both have to make changes. It’s the prince and princess who live happily ever after, not the prince and the pauper, or god forbid, the ogre (No offense, Shrek). This is real life, and society has unspoken rules. He sacrificed so much for you, he put his reputation on the line, so why couldn’t you do this for him? After all, love always has some sacrifices.

Right?

But when Jaemin looks at you now, there’s everything, but love staring back at him. You look at him like he’s a repulsive piece of chewed gum stubbornly stuck to the bottom of your Steve Madden heel. It strikes a nerve and completely eats him to the core, but he pulls himself upright because nobody talks to him like that, nobody looks at him like that, certainly not someone like you. He invented you, he made you into the next Princess Mia, the next Cady Heron, the next Serena van der Woodsen, and this is how you show your gratitude?

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. You act like I’m the first person to judge first based on looks. Everyone does it. Am I supposed to strike up a conversation with every girl on the off chance she’s everything I want? Do you think anyone would fall for you immediately when you looked like that? The saying is ‘love at first sight’, unless you’re one to believe in the whole ‘love is blind’ idea, which you clearly do,” Jaemin snaps, sneering as he eyes you up and down. His heart and mind are screaming, crying, begging for him to stop, but his pride dropkicks him headfirst into the hole he dug for himself, raging for him to get the upper hand again.

“How is it my fault for not knowing you’re the whole package when the wrapping doesn’t match the contents?”

The unfiltered words slip out of his mouth, and he immediately regrets it, closing his eyes, but it’s too late. He sees the instant look of devastation that appears on your face, and it hits him like a boxer’s punch to the chest. He starts to backtrack to no avail. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.

“I am never going to be enough for you, am I?” you whisper, your breaths stuttering in your chest as your initial sarcasm turns into quiet truths now that eat away at him. “I’m either too much or too little. There’s always going to be something you’ll want to change, something you want to fix.”

“Y/N… I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was an accident. I just—”

Jaemin can’t continue on, his voice trailing off as he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to keep apologizing, he’ll do anything it takes to take back what he just said, but the damage has already been dealt. He’s always known he’s an asshole, sure, but this is beyond anything he’s ever said or done in the past. He just secured the seat of honor in Dante's ninth circle of hell, and there’s no return ticket.

“You just what? You thought it would be okay to say anything to my face just because it’s not up to your standards?”

Jaemin’s face pales. “N-no, I—this isn’t how it's supposed to go, I just—It just slipped out, can we start over?”

A public rejection from any boy or girl would hurt infinitely less than the words Jaemin spat in your face. The things that his friends said before within earshot? You could take it because you couldn’t care less about them at the end of the day. But this? This was coming from someone you trusted, someone you care about, someone you lov—No, you don’t even want to think about that.

Jaemin never loved you. He never even liked you. The harsh reality slaps you like a cold shower in the middle of a winter night, and you want to curl up into a ball under your covers and cry until you fall asleep.

And yet, you will not let him humiliate you any longer. The spell has been broken. Cinderella is back to her rags, and her Prince Charming is nowhere to be found. She’s stuck as a toad that’ll never change. Eyes watering, you inhale sharply, laughing quietly in disbelief before you straighten up and your face hardens.

“Are you actually listening to yourself? You think we can start over? You treat people like they’re disposable, like they’re nothing, and once they don’t match with your theme of the week, you toss them even faster than the time it takes for you to choose an outfit.” Your chest is heaving, and the tears threaten to fall, but you push on, swallowing the lump in your throat. He reaches out for you, and you take a step back, shaking your head.

“You can’t hurt people and expect them to just let it go. I get it, I know I’m not the thinnest, or the nicest, or the funniest, or the smartest, or the prettiest. I know that I’m hard to love. I get it, Jaemin. I’ve always known that.”

You choke on the last sentence, swallowing hard to stifle the hiccup that bubbles up in your throat. “But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit.”

Rapidly blinking back your tears, you march over to your door and throw it open with such force that the doorknob could have left a dent in the wall. You don’t want to cry, you’ve always been an angry crier, and you desperately want the tears to stop. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry and hearing your confession. He doesn’t deserve any of that. Jaemin doesn’t deserve your tears, and he certainly doesn’t deserve your love.

“Get out.”

Jaemin stares at you, mouth agape like a fish on land. You gesture heatedly towards the outside, choking slightly. “What are you waiting for? I said get out.”

“Y/N, I—”

“Am I a joke to you?” you quietly ask, and his eyes widen.

“No! No, Y/N, you’re not, I jus—”

A single tear manages to escape despite your best, frustrated efforts, and Jaemin instinctively reaches out for you. You swat his hand away, angrily swiping away the stray droplet with the sleeve of your sweater. His heart wrenches in his chest as his hand dangles limply by his side. You’re crying because of him. He caused that, and he feels like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

You refuse to let any more fall, glaring at him through the unshed tears and entirely disgusted with the boy standing in front of you. “Don’t touch me. I’m not crying for you. I’m crying because I’m so angry I wasted all my time on someone who never cared about me.”

That’s not true—I love you, he wants to say, but his mouth refuses to form the words because his pride won’t loosen its grip on his heart. He loves you, he’s in love with you, why can’t you see that?

You steel yourself, taking one shaky breath before looking pointedly at the door and repeating yourself, “Get out. Leave me alone.”

Numbly, he makes his way over to the door, ears ringing. You glower at him, the intensity searing and digging into the side of his face. When he stands outside of your dorm, he struggles to turn around and face you helplessly. Your eyes soften for a moment, and it shoves the dagger deeper into his chest when he recognizes that look. It’s the same look he wore when he first saw you, and the shame that emerges nearly chokes him. The mixture of pity and disappointment painted across your face revolts him entirely, and he feels like he’s going to vomit. Jaemin is utterly humiliated.

Your gaze intensifies once more when you stand up to your full height, stare unwavering and chin raised up. Gripping the doorframe tightly, you drive the final words into his heart like a stake.

“I am too good for you, Jaemin, and I will never love someone like you. I deserve better.”

And for a split second, you almost convinced yourself when you said that.

You shut the door in his face.

Jaemin calls your name through the door several times, desperation ringing clear in his tone, but it falls on deaf ears. Apologies are a fool’s best friend, and you’d be a fool yourself to believe them. Holding your breath, you wait until you hear his footsteps echo down the hallway, until the solitude greets you like an old friend. And at last, you drop the facade and let yourself cry. Back pressed against the door and head bowed, you finally let go until all the tears are gone and you’re gasping for breath, the quiet hiccups and sobs bursting forth and breaking the silence in the same way he broke your heart over and over again.

You love him.

There’s no one to blame, but yourself. In the end, it’s all your fault that you were in this mess. How can you be so stupid? You can put lipstick on a pig, but it would still be a pig. Built up insecurities will bubble up to the surface no matter how much mascara and blush you apply. The warning signs were all there in flashing technicolor, but they were all tied up with shiny ribbons and deceiving perfect smiles. They lit up your usual drab life of blacks, whites, and grays, and you were blinded by the glitz and glamor— blinded by him. It is hard to see the red flags and stop signs through the rose colored Instagram filters. You trusted him and gave him your heart when you should’ve known it’d end like this.

You got greedy and tried to steal the spotlight, and you received it, front and center. You are the joke. You are the punchline, the comedic relief, the center stage of a slapstick comedy show. This is what you get for going off script.

Because you love him.

You were supposed to continue to delude yourself into thinking that you don’t want to find love, that you enjoy being on your own, that you enjoy being single, that you are perfectly content with never experiencing romance instead of facing the cold harsh reality head on: no one sees you as desirable or dateable. And when your friends tell you that you’re not missing out on anything with dating, you were supposed to nod and agree, when secretly, you desperately wish you can experience that for yourself instead of living vicariously through your friends’ love lives or the 3 a.m. scrollings through cheesy romance fanfiction on Tumblr. You’re been fine all these years, haven’t you? You were doing so well living on your own.

But you love him.

It’ll come when you least expect it, that’s what they tell you every time, but what are you to do when you can’t help but expect it your whole life? What are you to do when you so desperately want to know what it feels like to be loved in that way? God, when is it going to be your turn? When is it your turn to daydream about someone and know that they’re daydreaming about you too? When is it your turn to have someone walk you home? When is it your turn to hold hands with someone? When is it your turn to feel the giddy butterflies and experience a good night kiss? When is it your turn to be kissed in the rain? When is it your turn to experience the romance you can only dream about?

How much longer will you have to be patient? How much longer do you have to wait, living in denial over the soul crushing reality of it all? How many more stars do you need to wish upon until you learn to accept the painstaking truth? You weren’t meant to be loved in this lifetime.

God, you love him.

It’s embarrassing when it shouldn’t be. You just want to be touched by hands that care, loved by a heart that beats for you, desired by someone who thinks you are enough. It’s the way you would give up ten years of your life in a heartbeat to experience being the prettiest girl in the room just once and have people look at you. The overwhelming shame washes over you when you never had your first kiss until now with a boy who never cared about you, never went on a date before, never had a boyfriend before, and you have to lie and say it’s by choice when it’s not. It’s not. You have so much love to give, you have so much space in your life to share, you have so much time to spend with that special someone, but the grains of the hourglass are spent waiting and longing for a stranger who will never come.

The thought of it all just makes you sick. It makes you sick that you wish so terribly that someone would just look in your direction for once. For once, you want to be looked at in that way like all the female protagonists experience in the movies. And you know your value shouldn’t be based on desire and objectification, you absolutely know it, but it still hurts when you go out with your friends and you’re the one dancing alone or sitting back and watching the purses. You’re the one standing there by yourself, while every single one of your pretty friends is being approached by someone. It still hurts so fucking bad when you try to put yourself out there, but guys have already moved past you or don’t even acknowledge your existence simply because of your face or a number on a scale. And when he came into your life and gave you one measly ounce of attention, you ran with it when you should have run away. It’s absolutely exhausting, leaving you out of breath and on the verge of throwing up, to chase after someone who never even looked at you, to chase after their attention, praying to god that they’ll one day make you feel like you are worth it, that you’ll finally feel some sort of value.

Forget ever being loved, you weren’t even wanted.

There is no such thing as happily ever after’s for the extras. Girls like you don’t get to star in love stories. Why did you ever think it would end differently?

You love him.

And he ruined you. Even worse, you let him.

You wish you never met Na Jaemin.

x. i can’t go out tonight. *fake coughs* i’m sick.

You would like to give a formal apology to Bella Swan for not understanding why she was so depressed over Edward leaving her for six months and making fun of her. In your defense, you were like nine years old when the movie came out, and you were more interested in Barbies back then (Plus, you were Team Jacob because you wanted a pet dog at the time).

You didn’t even go through a break up, but it sure as hell feels like one.

You probably would continue to wallow in your misery for weeks, clutching onto the only two men you could ever trust in your entire life: Ben and Jerry’s while watching every iconic 90s and early 2000s rom-coms on repeat if it weren’t for your best friends. But enough is enough, and you get that you shouldn’t be spending weeks crying over a boy who hasn’t even spent one second thinking about you. It’s just hard to take that first step back up again when you feel like you tripped and fell all the way down to rock bottom.

And so, you finally let your friends into your shared dorm room, and you definitely do not miss the poorly disguised look of disgust and shock when they see the giant mess on your side of the room (You’re very grateful that Giselle has been staying at her boyfriend’s place for weeks now). It’s an intervention at this point—one that you desperately need, and you know it.

“Okay, give it to me straight,” you sniffle, still wrapped up in your comforter like a giant burrito and clutching onto the ice cream carton like a lifeline. You know that your friends will just rip it off like a bandage, and you have mentally prepared yourself for it. Your voice comes out wobbly still from the tears, and you hate it. “I know I was stupid for letting a guy walk all over me like that. I know if any of you were in this situation, I’d tell you that you’re better than that and to get over him, but it’s just so hard to do it.”

“He who shall not be named is a scumbag, and I’m gonna kill him the next time I see him,” Lana states, pursing her lips together. “I hope he has a bad hair day every single day because I know he’d be screaming, crying, throwing up if he could never get a perfect selfie ever again.”

You choke back a sob, giving her a watery smile. “That would destroy him.”

“Good. Fuck him. Metaphorically, not literally. Why should you care if you are the girl of his dreams or not? Be the girl of your dreams. You’re gorgeous, smart, and funny and he’s just some guy who still doesn’t know how to use the correct ‘your’ in an Instagram caption.”

You can write down a thousand and one reasons why he was the most horrendous, most awful, most vile person to ever grace your life. But at the end of the day, why does it matter? What good would it do? You still love him, and that’s the worst pill to swallow.

“I just—I’m having a hard time believing that.”

“Y/N, if you believed that Jaemin wasn’t a shitbag for the past four weeks and all the time before that in his life, then you can believe in yourself right now for two minutes and listen to me,” Lana says firmly, clutching onto your shoulders and forcing you to look her in the eye as she continues on, “Remember the Barbie movie? He’s just Ken. Ken doesn’t have a good day unless Barbie looks at him.”

“Yeah, like channel your inner Gina Linetti. Listen to Chelsea Peretti. ‘Men used to hunt.’ What’s Jaemin doing? He’s pushing twenty and doing aegyo on camera,” Moon chimes in, and Lana nods furiously in agreement before elbowing Yangyang in his rib not-so-subtly. “Contribute to the conversation, Yang.”

“Hold on, I’m thinking,” Yangyang says, pausing in the middle of your room and placing his hands on his hips.

“Oh congrats, I didn’t know you could do that. But stop because you’re not good at it at all,” Moon says, completely ignoring the dirty look he throws at her immediately. The little exchange brings a small smile to your face and it feels nice to laugh. You’ve forgotten how to do that. You miss your friends. You’re grateful for them for not giving up on you when you already have.

“Come on, let’s go see ‘Crazy Rich Asians.’ It’ll be fun. We can watch Lana fangirl over seeing her favorite actor,” Moon encourages you, and Yangyang nods in agreement. “Yeah, she picked a better man after the Jaehyun fiasco.”

“Oh my god, let it go. I didn’t like him that much,” Lana huffs softly, grabbing one of your spare pillows and launching it square into his face in retaliation, and he lets out out a high pitched shriek that makes you giggle.

“Weren’t you gonna go see it with your best friend, Yang?” You ask, glancing over at him and he shakes his head, a slightly sour expression on his face. “Nah, she’s going with Dejun already.”

“So unfortunately, we’re stuck with him now,” Moon says solemnly as Yangyang immediately throws her a dirty look. The look on his face makes you laugh, and it makes you feel a little better and your heart a little lighter.

You shouldn’t have to beg someone to love you; the right person will never make you beg. The right person would never chip away at you, erasing different parts of you, until you fit their picture perfect mold, until there’s nothing left of you. You would never have to call your friends at 4 am, drunk and crying for their validation, praying to whatever higher being is up there for them to take you back. Your friends have never looked at the scars and freckles dotting your skin and suddenly deemed you as unlovable. Your best friend wouldn’t call you fat and point out every single one of your insecurities. You are not unlovable because you decided to eat a third taco or decided to not wear makeup today or didn’t shave your legs. You may fight with your parents and siblings, but never once have you felt unloved by them. Never once did you have to get on your knees and plead for them to love you back.

You know you are worthy of love because your friends and family make it look so easy. They have shown you what love is really like time and time again. You’ve been a shitty friend these past few months, prioritizing a boy over the ones who really matter. They’ve been so patient with you this entire time, and with an open heart, you realize that it is time you finally start properly loving them and yourself too.

You are loved.

xi. that’s so not fetch!

Jaemin slinks out of the lecture hall, noting the dirty looks your friends have sent him from the other side of the room. He’s been standing outside of the classroom before the session starts for the past few weeks in hopes of catching you, looking like a complete creep (and definitely feeling like one). But what’s he to do when you wouldn’t return any of his texts or calls? It’s humiliating, and he feels smaller than an ant under a microscope.

He pretends to leave class early, staking out in the bathroom across from the classroom. Counting down the minutes, he sees the first wave of students pouring out from the classrooms and finally spots you. His heart jumps to his throat, and his hands begin to grow clammy.

You’re back to wearing your loose jeans and basic t-shirts, your favorite purple scrunchie wrapped around your wrist and an old Jansport backpack slung over your shoulder, decorated with pins of all those familiar characters from his favorite anime. Your face is bare, aside from tinted lip balm, and you’re smiling. You’re laughing at something your friend next to you says, and with a sinking heart, Jaemin realizes that perhaps maybe you are pretty in the slightest way.

He finds himself taking one step towards you, then another, maneuvering around the other students rushing to leave. He’s getting closer and closer, if he called out your name, you would hear him. But you wouldn’t stop for him this time. He knows that.

Jaemin is getting closer, just a few more steps until he can just stretch his hand out and tap your shoulder, and his heart is pounding so hard in his chest until a pretty manicured hand grabs his upper arm lightly.

“Jaemin? What are you doing here?”

He pauses, turning around and seeing Somi staring back at him in surprise as she continues, “I thought you don’t have any classes at this time.”

“Yeah, I—” he hesitates, glancing over at your retreating figure and Somi follows his gaze, her eyes softening as she lets go of his arm.

“Oh, were you waiting for her? Sorry about that,” she apologizes, pulling away and he shakes his head, shrinking back. Maybe it was for the better that you got away. It’s probably a sign from the universe telling him to let it go.

“No, it’s okay. She doesn’t want to talk to me anyway,” Jaemin admits at last, starting to slink off, and Somi furrows her eyebrows, a puzzled expression gracing her face as she hurries slightly to catch up with him, matching his pace. He exits the building, crushing the graded economics midterm with a red 89 circled at the top in his fist and shoving it haphazardly into the side pocket of his backpack usually reserved for his water bottle.

“What are you talking about? The two of you are practically glued at the hip. She adores you,” she laughs softly, tilting her head slightly as she glances over at him. He ignores her look, continuing on his way off of campus and towards his safe haven: a small dog friendly boba shop snug in between a bookstore and a 24 hour laundromat he frequents more often than he likes to admit.

“I honestly thought you’d ask her out at some point.”

Jaemin winces at that, her light response rubbing salt into his open wounds, stitches torn and bleeding, and he spits out the next words defensively, his pride rearing its ugly head again. “No way. I never liked her like that. She’s not my type at all. Have you seen her?”

“What is wrong with you?” Somi frowns at him, stopping in her tracks, and he halts, unable to look at her and throwing out a dismissive “What?” In her direction.

“Why are you talking about her like that? I thought you liked her,” she answers, staring at him in disbelief, and he curls his fingers into fists, gripping tightly as a multitude of conflicting emotions war inside of him. He starts to walk again, barely glancing over at Somi.

“She was just my tutor. I passed my midterm, so I don’t need to be around her anymore.” He responds weakly, uncurling and recurling his fingers into fists as he desperately tries to stay calm.

It was so much easier to pretend around his other friends. Aside from Jeno, they always took his words at face value, never one to pry. And Jeno would never push him, knowing that he would eventually come to him at his own pace. But Somi? He’s forgotten about how she can be after she’s been so busy with her schedule, missing out from the majority of hang outs for her social work and events, and their class schedules never overlapped. She can spot a lie a mile away. She actually cares. In a way, she reminds him of you, and he can’t bear to meet her gaze anymore.

“She’s your friend,” Somi retorts, following him into the boba shop, briefly stopping to pet the adorable Samoyed wagging its tail near the entrance. “You spent more time with her than any of us, except maybe Jeno. And you weren’t just studying in the library. I’ve seen her on your finsta and close friend stories.”

“Okay, and now she’s not. She’s not my friend anymore,” Jaemin answers sharply, punching his order into the self service machine. “It happens. People stop being friends. So back off, Somi.”

“Jeez, what is your problem?” she snaps back, following him towards the back, settling on a pillow in one of the comfortable nooks converted into a small seating area across from him. “I caught you following Y/N, and now you say you’re not friends?”

Jaemin hesitates, fiddling with one of the decorative pillows in his lap. “We got into an argument.”

“Yeah, but friends fight. You can apologize, right?”

Jaemin is silent.

Somi stares at him, and he wants to curl into himself. It’s the very same look you gave him before you shut the door in his face, and he feels the bile in his throat already. Her voice is quiet. “Jaemin, what did you do?”

“I—,” he whispers, breaking off and clenching his fists. He is already replaying that moment in his head, seeing the look of utter devastation on your face, and he wants to run away. The ugly truth is front and center, and he is unable to ignore it any longer.

“I fucked up, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” Jaemin bursts out, burying his face in his hands and unable to face his friend. He closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. “I said some shitty things to her, some really fucked up stuff.”

“Like fucked up as in messy drunk thoughts or fucked up, fucked up?” Somi says softly, hesitantly, as if she doesn’t want to believe her friend is the worst of the worst. Jaemin’s heart sinks even lower than rock bottom as he continues to hang his head low.

“I…” Jaemin’s voice is less than a whisper as he finally confesses the horrible truth to someone for the first time. His voice cracks as he recalls every single disgusting thing and insecurity he flung back into your face.

“I said that it would be stupid for her to believe in love at first sight, that she wasn’t up to my standards, that it’s her fault, that I was ashamed of her, ashamed that I even liked her because of the way she looked.”

The silence is deafening, and Jaemin feels the same wave of humiliation wash over him as it did on that very night. Somi is speechless, and he can’t bear to look at her, one hundred percent knowing that there would be a raw look of utter disgust and horror on her face because that is the exact way he would look at himself. He sits there in silence as the guilt and shame pile up even higher; he is past the point of wallowing in self pity, already drowning and gasping for breath.

“Jaemin… she was your friend,” she murmurs, gazing at him, mouth agape as the shock finally settles in, and he flinches slightly at the past tense. “She actually cared about you. She made you happy.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“She was the best thing that ever happened to you.” Somi continues quietly.

Jaemin sucks in a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Because I was stupid, he thinks silently, Because I am a coward. Because she embarrassed me. She made me feel small. She made me feel insignificant. She made me look at myself in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I absolutely hated what I saw staring back at me.

“I don’t know,” Jaemin whispers, staring down at his lap in resignation and unable to swallow the truth.

He knows.

xii. you can’t sit with us.

You continue to avoid Jaemin in Macroeconomics, choosing to slip into class at the very last minute. You see him waiting in front of the classroom every session for the past three weeks, searching for you, but you opt to go to the professor’s office hours every time before class and end up walking with her to class as she answers your questions about the assigned readings and problems. Alice saves you a seat in the front row, and you never told her but you’re grateful when you realize she must have asked her other friends to sit around the two of you, effectively barricading Jaemin from any attempt at sitting next to you. Finals week comes and goes with the winter break following suit, and you think he has finally given up on any attempt at reaching you.

But life has an unfortunate penchant for bringing up things—or people—you wish to forget when you least expect it. It was supposed to be an ordinary Thursday four weeks into the spring semester, and you’re exiting your last class of the day, tucking your laptop into the cute tote bag you bought from the New York Strands bookstore as you walk across campus.

“Y/N.” Jaemin appears in front of you, and suddenly, all the air in your lungs seem to have been sucked out. It’s almost embarrassing how two months of self progress can be toppled over as easily as a house of cards. Your brain says to hate him, but one glance at him still has you weak in the knees. You take a deep breath, counting to three before walking around and ignoring him entirely.

“Please, can we just talk for five minutes? I’m sorry.” He desperately reaches out for you, and you can see some people starting to take note of the two of you, their gazes on your back.

“Leave me alone, Jaemin.” You continue to walk away, hiking up the strap of your bag higher over your shoulder, desperately trying to quell the stupid colony of butterflies in your stomach that have laid dormant for so long. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Please, just five minutes—three minutes—and I’ll leave you alone forever. Listen to me,” he says in a quiet tone. It was an order, a request, and a plea all at once.

You pause, scrutinizing him for a few moments before grabbing his arm and dragging him away from prying eyes. You stop on the secluded side of the building underneath the magnolia trees before dropping his hand. “You have two minutes. Talk.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Good to know you’re self aware. You’re finally experiencing some character growth.”

Jaemin grimaces at your stony expression. “Okay, that was deserved. I truly am sorry, Y/N. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, and I’m an asshole who took advantage of you. You do deserve better. You deserve someone better than me. But I want to be that person. You make me a better person.”

You stay quiet, and Jaemin fidgets around. “Is that… is that okay? I know it’s selfish of me, but—”

“You’re right, that is selfish of you.”

Jaemin falls silent at that, face flushing before he speaks up meekly, “Can’t we start over? Try again?”

In that moment, you truly pity the boy in front of you. The lost expression on his face tells it all as he desperately clutches onto whatever lifeline you’re willing to toss out. But he’s causing you to drown, and you need to cut the cord and put yourself first for once. Maybe you can change him. But you can’t do this to yourself again.

You take a deep breath and pinch yourself, reminding yourself that this is the same boy who broke your heart because it wasn’t pretty enough for him. “There is no trying again. You never tried, and I’m done trying for you. Jaemin, you don’t love me. You’ve never felt that way towards me.”

“Yes, I have! I do! I really do,” he protests, and you shake your head, taking a step back. He starts to take one step forward towards you and hesitates, staying in his original spot. Your gaze is cold, and he finds himself wishing that you would look at him in the way you used to.

“You love the idea of me: the one you built up in your head,” you say, tone growing quiet. “But I’m nothing like her. To some degree, I think I might be the first genuine connection you ever made with a girl. You liked the way I felt about you and how I acted for you. I changed everything about myself for you, I would’ve followed you anywhere, I would’ve done anything for you, and you took advantage of that. You took advantage of the fact that I love you.”

You may not truly know what love is, but you know it’s something he never gave you. It stings, knowing that even after all of this, you still secretly, desperately long for the type of love you know will always be out of your reach. A part of you wants to believe him, but this time, you listen to your mind instead of your heart.

Jaemin’s head shoots up at your confession, eyes widening in belated realization, and you curl your lips inward, biting your lower lip. You love him. You love him, he now knows, and to your surprise, it didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. Three steps forward and two steps back is still one step in the right direction.

“One day, you’re gonna find someone who’s finally enough for you—someone who’s worth making pancakes for,” you say wistfully, pausing for a minute before gathering the courage to continue.

“And you’re gonna fall in love with them. Like really love them. You’re gonna love them so much that you’ll try your hardest to be enough for them. You’re gonna try so fucking hard to be the one they want, the one they love, that you’ll do anything for them. You’ll even change yourself for better—or for worse.” You grip the strap of your tote bag even tighter, a dull pang in your heart making its appearance, and Jaemin winces, lowering his eyes as the regret and guilt pools into his stomach.

“But sometimes, it won’t be enough. It’s not going to be enough,” you continue, swallowing hard. “And it’ll never be enough for them. You’re willing to move heaven and earth for them, but they won’t notice. Or maybe they don’t even care. No matter how hard you try to love them, it won’t matter unless they want you. Unless they choose you. And it’ll hurt like hell. It’ll hurt every single time you see them, every time you hear them, every time you think of them.”

Your voice softens, shaking slightly as you take in a wavering breath before pushing forward. “And when it hurts, you’re going to think of me. You’re going to remember me because that’s when you’ll understand what it feels like. That’s when you’ll know how I felt. How it feels to not be enough. How it feels to have your heart ripped to shreds by someone you care about—someone you love.”

His heart drops, and you give him a wistful smile before it quickly disappears, and your expression schools into one of indifference. You continue to walk forward confidently, brushing past his frozen figure. You see your friends waiting for you on the other side of the lawn, and you look over your shoulder at Jaemin one last time, taking a deep breath and steeling yourself.

“And you know what? I hope to fucking god it hurts you as much as you hurt me.”

The world continues to spin, you keep moving forward, and he remains rooted in his spot, unable to look away from you. There are so many Barbies and Kens out there, so many more Na Jaemins who will come into your life and sweep you off your feet, and you’ll make them feel special and more than a pretty face, he belatedly realizes, he’s disposable and so easily replaceable, but there’s only ever going to be one you.

As he watches you walk away, Jaemin thinks he is starting to understand.

EPILOGUE.

Life likes to play cruel jokes, and the senior year gives you the most hilarious one of all in the form of your final capstone project. Last you heard about Jaemin, he had switched his major to pre med (which was ironic to you since that field would require him to care about other people, which he clearly proved to be incapable of). However, your university decided to implement a cross collaboration between the various schools, and it’s just your luck that you find yourself paired up with Jaemin. Giving him a tight smile as you take a seat across from him in the library room he reserved, you take out your laptop.

Jaemin had asked earlier if you wanted to request a new assigned partner, but you highly doubt any professor would switch up a pairing on account of one person being guilty of being the greatest asshole to ever exist (Plus, you’ll come across many guys like him in your field of work, so you might as well start building up your tolerance now).

It is the final time you will meet up with him before the big presentation, and the two of you work together in silence, only breaking it to discuss the project topic. It is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, settled somewhere in between—kind of like a purgatory for relationships. You’ve stopped thinking about him a while ago already, but seeing someone who once was a part of your life always brings back memories, whether wanted or not.

“I met someone.”

Jaemin breaks the ice, unable to hold it back any longer. He feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn't get this off of his chest. There is a slight pause in your writing before you resume, but he knows you are listening.

“I met her after… after our…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what to call it—what the two of you had. An almost relationship. “… After us.”

You continue to write, taking note of several points to be discussed based on your slide. He puts down his pen, clasping his hands together as he fiddles with one of the rings wrapped around his fingers.

“I made her blueberry pancakes.”

You sharply inhale for a brief millisecond before you jot down another bullet point. One, two, three, four, five bullet points until you can breathe normally again. You’re twenty two years old, but you suddenly feel like you’re eighteen again. You sometimes loathed your younger self, but because of her, you learned so many things (Forgiveness is one of them).

“I don’t know what else to do, except keep making her pancakes.” Jaemin sits there idly for a few moments, entirely unaware of your inner turmoil, before he laughs derisively, “She’s in love with my best friend. She never told me, but I can just tell.”

There’s another pause from him. Staring down at his notebook, he swallows hard, the lump in his throat never fully going away. His voice cracks as he whispers out his question:

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

Your pen stops moving across the paper, dropping to the side. There’s a black scribble from where it fell. You still continue to look at the index card, focusing on the college ruled lines until they become a mosaic blur of blue, black, and white.

“Eventually.”

Your tone is impassive, and his head snaps up at your reply. You pick up the pen again. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s staring at you, an unrecognizable expression in his eyes.

Perhaps, it would have been different if you had met the present day him back then instead. Perhaps, it would’ve worked out. Maybe he would have made another girl fall in love with him, broke her heart, and come out unscathed. Or maybe he would still be the same as his past self if he hadn’t met you. It’s the butterfly effect; you don’t know what would have happened, but you don’t care. Not anymore.

By now, you have mourned him for longer than you have loved him.

“Y/N, you were never hard to love. I was bad at loving. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

And this time, you know he truly means it—that Jaemin truly understands. It is good that he has learned and tried to become a better person. You just wish it didn’t have to come at the expense of you.

Your first love teaches you what love isn’t.

The threads holding the pieces of your heart together these past three years have always been so fragile. Just one tug at the heart strings, and everything unravels so easily, like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. You’ve nearly forgotten what heartbreak feels like, the old wounds opening up for a long forgotten friend that you had prayed you would never meet again.

You discover that it hurts even more the second time around.

“I wish I fell in love with you back then.”

His tone is forlorn, a silent resolution wrapped in happenstance. You continue to write down more notes for your part of the presentation, the soft scritches of your pen against paper almost masking your quiet response, and Jaemin nearly misses it.

“So did I.”

1K notes · View notes

tojicide · 3 months ago

Text

chapter 2 ── too easy, this game.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb x fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

chapter summary. ┆ after you’re forced to check up on caleb, you realize that your methods of revenge can be sweeter and much more interesting than you had originally anticipated.

prev: chapter one. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter three.

“Remember that fundraiser I was telling you about?”

You lift your gaze from the sidewalk, giving Tara a sideways glance. “Yeah, I think so. What about it?”

“Well,” she sings, hugging her thick textbook tighter to her chest before nudging you with her elbow, “I was wondering if you’d like to help us out! We’re always looking for more girls, you know. The sisters of Delta Gamma can only do so much.”

You suck your teeth, tilting your head as your eyes drift to the towering oak tree at the center of the great lawn. The campus had spent the past few days drowning under gray skies and spring showers, but today, the sun had finally broken through. Its warmth pressed against your skin, so bright you had to squint just to avoid being completely blinded.

You look back at Tara. “What day is it again?”

“Next Saturday,” she says with a shrug. “2 PM, in the parking lot between the Delta Gamma house and Lambda Chi Alpha’s.” A pause, as if she was already sensing your impending rejection. “Please? Please!”

You hate when she does this. The puppy dog eyes. That hopeful little tilt of her head. The same look that had managed to drag you to one too many frat parties when you swore you wouldn’t go. Saying no made you feel like some heartless villain stomping on an ant just for the fun of it, and for a moment, you almost caved entirely.

“I’ll… think about it, but midterms are–” you start, but before you can finish, she’s already beaming.

“Yay!” Tara links her arm through yours, practically bouncing as you continue toward Grand Hall. “I’ll text you all the details, ‘kay? I so owe you one.”

You press your lips into a thin smile, debating whether to remind her that you hadn’t actually said yes. Instead, you settle for, “If I end up making it, we’ll call it even for you helping me study for chem.”

She grins. “Good luck on that, by the way. I know you’ll do great!”

The two of you stop outside the building, and Tara leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially like she’s about to tell you a scandalous secret.

“And remember, the electron cloud model—”

“—is the area around an atom’s nucleus where electrons are most likely to be found,” you finish, unable to fight a smile. “I know, I know. You trained me well.”

You squeeze her arm before unhooking yourself and stepping into the lecture hall.

“I’ll find you after class!” she calls after you.

Inside, the air is sharp with cold, and a shiver runs down your spine. The mood of the room seems different today, as if the oxygen you were all breathing in was thick with anxiety. Your seatmate, Yvonne, is already at her desk, supplies neatly arranged in front of her. You give her a silent smile before sitting down and doing the same.

Once again, you can’t help but notice that the room is quiet—eerily so. Everyone is either too tired to talk or too nervous to form a coherent sentence. Probably a mixture of both.

As the exam begins, the only sounds filling the space are the rustling of paper and the scratch of pencils against scantrons. You’re on question 21 when you realize you’ve just marked “C” four times in a row. A bead of cold sweat pricks at your temple, and you read over each question about a hundred times, praying that you’ll catch your mistake. After all, that can’t be right… can it? Your gut says yes.

An hour later, relief ripples through the room as students zip up their backpacks and shuffle toward the front to turn in their scantrons. You’re right behind them, ready to bolt for the door—until Dr. Rappaccini calls your name.

Pausing mid-step, you turn back to face her, plastering on a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah?”

She digs through her bag before pulling out a worn notebook, its cover littered with colorful tabs and sticky notes. Holding it out to you, she looks as if she couldn’t care less about the transaction.

“I believe your lab partner left this in the laboratory last class.”

Your brows furrow as you take the heavy notebook into your hands, flipping it open with a frown. Lo and behold, there it was—‘Property of Caleb Xia’ scribbled in that god-awful handwriting. Raising an eyebrow, you shake your head. “It’s his, yeah… but why are you giving it to me?”

“He didn’t show up for today’s exam, and I’ve canceled class next Monday,” she explains, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. “Since you work closely with him, I figured you’d see him before I do.”

Now that catches your attention. A sliver—no, a slap—of satisfaction rolls through you. So his sabotage in the lab had already come back to bite him? Karma was fast today. You couldn’t be happier. But unfortunately, the thought of voluntarily interacting with Caleb makes your stomach churn, so you extend the notebook back to your professor without hesitation.

“I assure you, I don’t care to see that man. It’s probably best if you return it to him.”

She glances at her watch, and you can practically see the sweat break out on her forehead. “Oh, I wish I had the time to. I’m running late!”

Gathering her belongings, she makes a beeline for the door. You’re quick to try and follow suit.

Her voice adds a swift, “Ask around! I’m sure someone can help you track him down.”

“But wait! I don’t even—”

The door slams behind Dr. Rappaccini, leaving you frozen in place with Caleb’s stupid notebook clutched to your chest.

“—know what building he lives in.”

You groan, dragging your feet toward the exit, already dreading the idea of having to track down that idiot. In fact, maybe you won’t.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Tara’s voice cuts through the air, startling you. The flicked lighter in your hand dies out before you can hold it to the bottom of Caleb’s notebook long enough for the flames to catch.

“The damn thing won’t light,” you huff, shaking your head in defeat. “Do you happen to know anyone on campus who has lighter fluid?”

Tara crouches beside you, watching with mild horror as you attempt—and fail—to ignite the corner of the notebook again. “Uh… no, not off the top of my head.” She pauses, tilting her head. “And just to be clear, you’re aware that you’re about to light your notebook on fire, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not mine.”

Her head snaps toward you so fast you worry about whiplash. “Okay, let me rephrase that. You’re aware that you’re about to commit a felony, right?”

You flick the lighter again, giving her a puzzled look. “Please, Tara, I don’t care about felonies right now. This is war, and I need to take my revenge.”

“Revenge?” she echoes, her lips tugging downward like she hadn’t considered that to be your motive. “On the notebook or the owner?”

“On Caleb fucking Xia,” you reply, punctuating each word with another flick of the lighter. Then, finally, a tiny flame flickers to life at the corner of the notebook. A wide grin spreads across your lips. “Yay! I did it! Look, I—”

Tara leans forward, blows out the flame, and snatches the lighter from your grasp. “Are you nuts? You can’t just burn his chem notebook!”

You hum, twisting your lips to the side. “You’re right. I’d totally get caught. Maybe I should pawn it off to a frat guy? Make a quick buck. They’d probably pay good money for his notes.”

“What? No! You can’t burn his notebook because that would mean stooping to his level!”

You reach for the lighter, but she stretches her arm out just far enough that you can’t reach.

“Tara! When they go low, we must go lower.”

“When they go low, we should be the bigger person,” she corrects, patting your head like a disobedient child. “How did you even get it? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No, I wish. Dr. Rappaccini gave it to me to return to him. Apparently, he left it in the lab.”

Tara tilts her head. “Oh. He didn’t show up for the exam? That’s… unlike him.”

Shrugging, you brush off the singed paper flakes from the bottom of the notebook. “I guess. Can’t say I care, though. It’s what he deserves.”

She scoffs. “Geez, this whole scandal has turned you heartless. The Caleb I know would rather eat glass than miss an exam, especially the first one of the semester. I hope he’s alright.”

“In that case, maybe you should be the one to return it to him,” you suggest, holding it out. “You seem to know where he lives, and you actually care if he’s alive. That’s already two steps in the right direction.”

Tara glances at her phone, then sucks on her teeth before flashing you a wry smile. “Oh, shoot! I can’t. I have my physics exam in four minutes.” Before you can argue, she’s already bolting toward her class. “Uh, I think he’s close with Zayne! The one from our bio class!”

You toss your hands up. “Why the hell am I being sent on a manhunt?” Patting your pockets, you realize something’s missing. “Hey! You took my lighter.”

“It’s for the better!” she calls over her shoulder.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

After a deep dive through Canvas, a trip to Outlook to send Zayne a rather frantic email, and a very long walk across campus, you find yourself stalking through the halls of an unfamiliar dorm building.

Your eyes flick up from your phone every few steps, scanning the numbers on the doors to make sure you haven’t somehow wandered into oblivion. It’s been ten minutes—too long, in your opinion—and you’re beginning to feel like a headless zombie, doomed to wander these halls forever.

That is, until your eyes land on a familiar set of numbers.

Room 323.

Exhaling sharply, you raise your fist and knock three times against the door. The response is almost immediate—an audible thud, followed by an impressive string of curses.

Then, the door swings open, revealing a very panicked and very shirtless Caleb.

And you? Your brain short-circuits.

For a second—just one—you can’t help it. Your gaze drops straight to his torso, where sharp lines of muscle carve into his biceps and abdomen like a damn Michelangelo sculpture. You’re almost positive those weren’t there yesterday. Scratch that. You’re absolutely positive they weren’t.

And you would have noticed. You’re nothing if not boundlessly observant. After all, you’re just a girl. You would have noticed if your infuriating classmate had nice biceps that would have certainly softened the blow of his sudden betrayal in the lab yesterday.

Pretty privilege is alive and well, you can’t help but think.

Caleb, looking equally flustered, yanks the door halfway shut, reducing the view to just his face. His chest still heaves from whatever chaos had preceded your arrival.

“I, uh… um.” He blinks, clearly rebooting his internal system. His brain fries, and of course the first thing he can do is lean his elbow against the door frame while not-so-obviously flexing his much larger bicep in the process. “So… what’s up?”

Dragging your gaze up to meet his with only minor difficulty, you hold up the slightly charred notebook in your hands. “You left this in class. Rappaccini told me to bring it to you.”

Caleb reaches for it, and the moment his fingers graze the cover, his brows furrow. He flips it over, rubbing his thumb against the edge. A smudge of soot stains his hand.

“What… happened to it?”

You lift your shoulders, hands flying up in a gesture of pure innocence. “No clue. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Before he can properly assess the obvious fire damage, you straighten your posture. If you beat him to it, there’s a good chance that you’ll be able to walk away from this entire ordeal scot free.

Just… be civil. You can do that much.

“Are you not going to say thank you? I literally had to email your roommate to find out where you live. It was a total inconvenience.”

Or not.

Caleb presses his lips into a thin line, tossing the notebook onto his desk before giving you a barely-there nod. “Right. Thanks.”

His clipped tone does nothing to soothe your irritation. You’re actually starting to regret not letting the damn thing go up in flames. If it weren’t for Tara and her obnoxious morality complex, you would have.

“You’re welcome,” you say sweetly, pivoting to leave. But just before he can close the door, something crosses your mind. “Oh! By the way, I wrote my number in the margin.��

Caleb’s eyes widen. His grip on the door frame tightens. “What? For me?”

A beat of silence. Then, you burst into laughter, and the fact that he isn’t laughing with you makes it ten times funnier. You have to physically wipe the tears from your eyes before you can speak again.

“Oh, you’re serious?” you wheeze, still catching your breath. “God, no. It’s for Zayne.”

“For… Zayne?”

You nod. “Yup. I have biology with him.”

Caleb leans back slightly, like you’ve just personally offended his ancestors. “And? You have chem with me.”

You flash him an expression that Caleb can only assume is the most passive-aggressive smile known to mankind. “Mm-hmm. Well, maybe I want to get in kahoots with people who don’t sabotage my lab reports.”

Ouch. Caleb rubs the back of his neck, swallowing hard. “About that…”

“Save it,” you hum, turning to leave. “Just be a doll and relay the message, yeah?”

But just before you step away, your eyes flicker to his chest again—this time, with an exaggerated furrow of concern. “Wait a sec… what the hell is that? You should really get that nasty mole checked out.”

Caleb’s brows knit together. He instinctively glances down—

And just as his chin tilts, your hand smacks against it, forcing it back up. Your laughter is louder this time. Almost cruel.

“Too easy, this game,” you taunt, shaking your head.

You’re gone before he can do anything other than stand there, jaw slack, ears burning a shade of red that rivals a fire hydrant. How could you prank him with the easiest trick in the book? He rubs his chin, shaking his head in utter defeat as he nudges his door shut.

Yeah. He doesn’t like you one bit.

Before he can dwell on that fact, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

xavier (pres of lambda chi alpha): i woke up late and missed physics. can U slide me the notes for the past week? i also slept through those days too… btw Ur still coming to the frat car wash next saturday right ?? we need U bro. U brought in so many new customers

caleb: sure man :)

xavier (pres of lambda chi alpha): the goat

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Sirens blare loud enough to wake you, their wailing cries bouncing off the buildings outside your window. The flashing of red and blue does little to ease your nerves—if anything, it invites the perfect storm of overthinking.

Your room is a mess. You haven’t eaten a balanced meal in days. A biology project is due next week. But above all? Midterms are rapidly approaching.

Lately, most of your days are spent holed up on the second floor of the library, tucked away in your usual corner seat. From there, you can people-watch from above and soak in just enough sunlight to keep from feeling like life is draining from you with each word you scribble down or type up. But after a while, even the comfort of routine turns into a cage.

It’s monotonous. Tiring. Far too predictable for your liking. If you don’t see at least one interesting thing each day—whether it’s someone walking their adorable dog or a person wearing a sweater so blindingly neon it makes your eyes hurt—you consider the day a waste. You still study, of course, but you need something of substance to fuel your brain. Something besides your bitter iced coffee, which barely manages to keep you conscious.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of your second midterm season settling into your bones. Maybe it’s the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. Whatever it is, it drives you to seek out a new place to study.

Is it 4 AM? Yes. Are the sirens especially loud tonight? Also yes. You can’t sleep. Sue you.

It makes perfect sense why you find yourself trudging into your university’s 24-hour café, headphones snug over your ears and meal card already in hand. Fuzzy pajama pants and an oversized hoodie hang off your frame, but if the cashier doesn’t care, neither do you. You’d be damned if you didn’t at least get your usual morning drink and a slice of banana bread to kickstart your day.

No more than an hour passes before the faint jingle of the entrance bell rings to life, prompting you to spare a glance over your shoulder, curiosity piqued.

Luck isn’t on your side. Of course it’s Caleb.

And he looks… different. Not in the way he did a few days ago—no, he looks worn. Tired. A bruise blooms across his cheek, stark even in the café’s dim lighting. You force yourself to look away before you can start ogling like a freak. Again.

But as he makes his way in your direction, you barely suppress a groan, turning back toward your laptop in a last-ditch effort to seem busy. It doesn’t work. Not when you feel the weight of his beady little amethyst stare boring into the back of your head.

You sigh, forcing a cheery tone. “Can you maybe not stand next to me looking like a decaying corpse? You’re going to attract flies.”

Caleb shrugs, managing to pick an almond off your banana bread before you slap his hand away. “You’re doing that on your own. Didn’t you hear? This café was infested with fruit flies last semester. Your perfume is basically a mating call for ‘em.”

You huff, tilting your head. “Aw. Is that your way of saying I smell nice?”

Rolling his eyes, Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. You notice a small cut on his bicep, but you do your best not to stare. You've done enough of that lately.

“No,” he flatly says. “I’m just… stating my observation.”

You turn back to your laptop, sliding your headphones over your ears. “Well, stop observing me.”

”Psh. Gladly.”

His actions are the first thing to betray his words, because he makes the executive decision to sit in the chair directly behind yours. He was sitting so damn close that you could feel the warmth of his skin through his hoodie—which you now notice is thrashed in a few places, as if he had taken scissors to the fabric and snipped away. It was odd, but you managed to look away as he shifted around to fish his own laptop out of his backpack.

Then, before you can finish typing the sentence you’d been working on before he walked in, he beats you to it. Obnoxiously so. His fingers slam against his keyboard with such force you briefly wonder if an elephant from the Linkon City Zoo has escaped and taken up tap dancing behind you.

Your teeth clench. “Can you stop typing so damn loud?”

“Oh, I’m not the loud one here.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding that he was already looking at you, “And that means what exactly?”

“It means that I could probably hear your music if I was three miles away.” With his new heightened senses, that was hardly an exaggeration. He gave you an all-too-charming smile. “Turn it down a few levels, yeah? Thanks.”

The lilt to his voice made you want to set him straight in more ways than one. “You little—”

“New Magic Wand by Tyler, The Creator at 4 AM is crazy work, by the way.”

“Boy, I’ll show you crazy—”

Suddenly, a chipper voice rings through the air. Much to your surprise, it called out your name.

Tara strides in as if you all aren’t up at the crack of dawn, looking incredibly enthusiastic about life, much like she always did. You wish you could inherit whatever will she has to live.

“Hey!” she greets with a wave. She plops down beside you, turning around in her seat so that she could face both you and Caleb at the same time. “Funny seeing you guys here. Are you talking about the fundraiser?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Why would we be talking about the fundraiser?” he can’t help but question.

“Well,” Tara sings, “my girl here is going to be helping out Delta Gamma with the sorority wash! And you’re going to be helping out Lambda Chi Alpha again this year, right?”

Caleb is almost positive that his heart has just dropped to his ass.

He looks between you and Tara. “What? She can’t come.”

You let out a short, annoyed breath. “And why can’t I?”

And he knows he sounds like a petulant child when he mutters, “It’s my thing.”

“Aw,” you coo, tilting your head with a forced pout. “Is it your thing? Womp womp.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, but you don’t care to see it as you lean toward Tara, lowering your voice as if you were telling her top secret information. “Why didn’t you tell me he would be there?”

“Because if I had, you would have totally refused,” she says matter-of-factly. “And we need you! We can’t let the guys bring in more revenue than us this semester, they held it over our heads for, like… months last time! Plus, I need you to combat him. I swear, he brought in more customers than anyone ever has, it’s no wonder Xavier begged him to do it again.”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

Tara nods.

You can’t help but rub your chin. “I’m surprised anyone paid him for that.”

Caleb glances between the two of you. “I’m sitting right here.”

You glance his way. “We know.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “Look. If you don’t want to see me there, don’t come. Real easy fix.”

You tilt your head, raising a brow. “Why do I have to be the one to cancel? Why can’t you just skip it? You already had your fun last year playing chick magnet or… whatever.”

“I can’t. I already made a commitment.”

“Well, so did I.”

“Perfect!” Tara beams, clasping her hands together. “I’ll see you both there then. This is gonna be sooo much fun, guys! You can probably even get over the little feud you have going on, I swear, it’ll be…”

Caleb can’t even hear the rest of whatever Tara was saying. His mind is too busy short-circuiting over this very dreadful realization.

You’ll be there.

In a bikini top.

Covered in soap suds.

Trying to pass him up yet again.

This was going to be a damn nightmare.

series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter three.

a/n consider liking, commenting, or rb if you enjoyed :) i’m sorry this update took so long </3 i got so swamped with my uni work and wasn’t entirely satisfied with the chapter sooo i pushed it off.

i know that this is lowkey a slow start with really short chapters and there isn’t much spider-man stuff going on rn but… trust me guys. just trust me.

also ofc there’s a xavier cameo bc that’s my man soooo i had to include him somehow, even if he’s just a sleepy frat boy

edit: if you don’t know what a frat/sorority wash is just look them up on tiktok LMAO, it’s usually shirtless frat guys and sorority girls in bikini tops who wash cars to raise money for their foundations. it’s just a silly college tradition idk 😭

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post!)

@leonskenthusiast @universallysoulcreator @devonjs-blog @lacieohlacie @kisswithyoureyesclosed @lovesick-sylus @livonianmaia @hqnge @yuuuumii @mizzfizz @simpfortheseven @nyxthejinx-rantsaboutlads @mariojins @rcvcngers @yizhoupilled @irlsammy @gloomuri671 @risagichi @drinking2nite @seikamuzu @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane

@that-one-scoundrel @joy-laufeyson @missaengg @wheatrice @gvenone @desiree-archive @jayhyunglover @flwerie @miffysoo @jijijihanji @ssetsuka @mglwhor3 @sureconfused @vorfreudevortex @honehbee42 @angelbeat994 @codedove @cheesemachine44 @mocha-the-muse @msanimeotaku181 @breadiestpuffs @idkwhatursayinh @hannahchk @rxelarailuj @littlebabyypeach @wooasecret @nikilig @theweevilofsweetreef @etsuniiru

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melanchoire · 5 months ago

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PRICE OF CONCENTRATION ──── yu jimin

── ( 📓 ) your focus is laser-sharp on the lecture, but your classmate karina, ever the mischievous one, decides boredom is a personal invitation to drive you wild; first with innocent attempts to catch your eye, then escalating to a secret game of teasing touches that slowly melt your resistance, until a shared, unspoken look seals the deal – textbooks forgotten, and the dorm room beckons for a different kind of study.

pairing. switch!student!karina x switch!student!fem reader

warning(s). cunnilingus, fingering, making out, pet names, scissoring.

word count. 4,5k

request. for some reason this request disappeared from my inbox 💔

the bright lights of the lecture hall hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the professor’s voice, droning on about something you were sure was important, but karina couldn’t for the life of her care. you, however, were a model of academic focus, a bastion of attentiveness in a sea of glazed—over eyes and restless fidgeting. she watched you, her gaze tracing the neat, precise strokes of your pen as you filled your notebook with information. you were a machine, a perfect student, and it was honestly a little vexing.

you were a study in contrast to her current state. your posture was impeccable, your focus unwavering, your pen moving with a rhythmic precision across the page, capturing every nuance of the lecture. karina’s eyes seemed to trace the smooth lines of your handwriting, the neatness a stark contrast to her own messy scrawl.

she straightened a little, trying to emulate your focus. she leaned forward, eyes darting to the screen where the professor was projecting dense formulas and colorful graphs. you could almost see the struggle in her face, her brow furrowing in concentration as she attempted to follow along. but it was like watching a car try to start on a cold morning, sputtering a few times before succumbing to silence. her concentration faltered, her gaze drifting to the window behind the professor, where a few brave sparrows were flitting about.

karina leaned back in her own chair, stretching her legs out beneath the desk, a silent protest against the suffocating boredom of the class. she crossed her arms over her chest, a gesture that screamed, “i’d rather be anywhere else.” she turned to you again, a small frown creasing her brow as she watched you. how could you be so engaged in this? it was like you were a different species entirely. she tried. oh god, did she try. she tried to mimic you, focusing her attention on the professor, willing herself to absorb the words, the concepts. but it was like trying to grasp water — the harder she tried, the more it slipped through her mental fingers. it was as if her ears were working, registering the sounds of the lecture, but her brain was refusing to process them, like a stubborn computer refusing to run a program. her mind was a tangled mess of “why was she even here?” and “does this really matter?”

giving up, a defeated sigh escaping her lips, she decided to go for a different approach. she scanned your pencil case, a kaleidoscope of brightly coloured pens and highlighters, and plucked out a vibrant purple one. she made a pathetic attempt at taking notes, the pencil scratching against the paper, but her handwriting was a chaotic mess of angles and loops, completely devoid of the neatness you possessed. vague, disconnected words filled the page, interspersed with doodles of abstract shapes and grumpy—looking faces.

boredom gnawed at her, a restless beast demanding attention. she turned towards you, poking your arm with the end of the pen. she wanted to talk, she wanted your attention, she wanted anything but this agonizing lecture. you didn't even look up. you knew what it meant. she was like a bored child, seeking attention, eager to find someone to share her misery with. you continued to transcribe the professor’s words, unfazed.

you didn’t miss a beat of the professor’s monotone, your hand still moving across the page. karina felt an inexplicable urge of annoyance bubbling up within her. then came the poke again, this time a little harder. she was persistent, you had to give her that. still, you refused to acknowledge her. so, she poked you again, a third time this time, it was quick as if giving you the pencil. that’s when you reached out, taking the pencil from her fingers. you didn’t even break eye contact with the professor. you didn’t see the small scoff that escaped her lips, the way her eyes narrowed in playful frustration.

she wasn’t going to be brushed off that easily. karina reached for the cord of your headphones, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. she yanked it from your ears, the soft humming of the song you were listening to floating into the air, a low, rhythmic pulse. you finally turned to look at her, one eyebrow arched in a silent question. karina knew that look. she was going to get a lecture about class soon if she didn’t diffuse this now. she’ll take the risk. she loved when she got you going.

you gave her a light punch on the arm, just a playful tap, but it still stung a little. “pay attention.” you mouthed, your voice low, a clear line drawn in the sand, but she couldn’t help but notice the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips.

“class is boring.” she retorted, hitting you back in the arm, a little harder this time. “i’m bored.”

“well, if you paid attention, you might not be.” you whispered back, a hint of exasperation in your eyes, but it was clear you weren’t actually mad.

“you’re weird for actually liking this.” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. you chuckled lightly.

“you know i like learning.” you said. “It’s not my fault you can't focus for five seconds.”

“hey!” she exclaimed, her voice a little louder this time, drawing a quick glare from the professor. you exchanged a quick look, a silent agreement that she had pushed it, before you returned to your notes, effectively shutting her out.

for a good five minutes, she was silent. you figured she had finally run out of energy. then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw her pick up a pen and begin to write in her notebook. “okay.” you thought, that’s unexpected. you didn’t let it distract you, though, because you were focused on the next set of formulas.

that is, until you felt it. a touch, feather—light, on the side of your knee. you glanced down, your heart doing an unexpected leap in your chest. karina’s hand, warm and soft, was resting there, seemingly innocent. she was still writing in her notebook, her attention appearing to be fixed on the professor, but that hand, though, was doing more than just resting.

you tried to dismiss it. maybe she was just being absent—minded, maybe she didn’t realize she was touching you. but then the hand started to move, inching upwards slowly, tracing the curve of your leg as it went, the subtle graze of her fingers sending shivers up your spine. it reached your thigh, the warmth of her palm making your skin tingle.

you shifted slightly. surely she would stop now. it was a blatant invasion of your space, and you were certain she was doing it on purpose. but no, the hand kept moving, its fingers now pressing gently into your flesh. it was heading higher, angling to slip under the hem of your skirt.

your breath caught in your throat. the lecture faded into background noise, the formulas on the screen becoming a blur. your heart was pounding in your chest. you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your cheeks getting warmer, and you were sure you were turning as red as a tomato. you glanced sideways to meet her eyes, not before letting out a small cough, trying to sound as subtle as possible.

“karina.” you hissed in a low, barely audible whisper, a warning laced in your breath. you tried to sound stern, but there was a tremor in your voice that was quite embarrassing. her gaze flickered from her notebook to meet yours, the corner of her lips twitching upwards in a knowing smirk. she raised an eyebrow, as if to say “what?”, her eyes wide and innocent.

“stop.” you mouthed, your voice barely a breath.

she simply shook her head, her fingers now almost touching the edge of your skirt, and whispered back, “pay attention.” her voice an innocent whisper that barely reached your ears. the smirk never left her face, the mischievous glint in her eyes telling you everything. she was playing with you, teasing you, testing your patience. and you had a feeling she was enjoying every second of it.

karina’s hand, a warm, persistent weight on your knee, was the culprit. it had started subtly, a gentle brush, and had gradually escalated, inching higher with each passing minute.

it was a battle against your own body, a struggle to focus on the quadratic equations scribbled on the chalkboard when karina’s hand rested, bold and possessive, on your thigh. it wasn’t just on your thigh, not really. her fingers were creeping higher, inching towards the hem of your skirt, the whisper of fabric against skin sending shivers that had nothing to do with the overly air—conditioned room.

now, her fingers were perilously closer to the edge of your skirt, threatening to slip beneath and find the delicate lace of your panties. your breath hitched. you couldn’t focus on the teacher’s droning lecture; every nerve ending was screaming under the tantalizing pressure of her touch.

a simple glance, a fleeting lock of your eyes with hers, was all it took. you saw the same anticipation mirrored in their depths, a shared understanding of the unspoken desires crackling in the air between you. a silent promise of something more, something that couldn’t happen within the confines of the brightly lit classroom.

you knew the dance by now; the way her eyes, dark and mischievous, met yours, a coded language spoken only between the two of you. it was a simple exchange, a silent understanding of the desire that simmered beneath the surface.

you were barely registering the teacher’s droning voice, your attention consumed by the escalating heat radiating from karina’s touch. your breath hitched, a small, involuntary gasp that you hoped went unnoticed. you glanced at her, a question in your eyes, and her answering smirk sent a thrill through you. it was time.

karina’s voice, smooth as honey and laced with a playful urgency, cut through the monotonous lecture. “excuse me, mr. kim?” she called, her hand still firmly planted on your thigh. your skin prickled with anticipation. “i think that… well, maybe we should go to the bathroom. she’s not feeling too well.”

all eyes turned to you. you felt your face flush even more, a blush that wasn’t entirely faked. the combination of karina’s touch and the sudden attention had your heart hammering against your ribs. you felt the familiar clamminess of your palms, and the slight sheen of sweat on your forehead was real enough, lending truth to karina’s claim. the teacher, a middle—aged man who barely registered his students beyond the first row, glanced at you with a perfunctory frown. “you alright, miss…?” he squinted, searching his register your face.

you could feel the heat rising more in your cheeks, mirroring the flush you already felt from karina’s touch. you pressed your lips together, trying to look convincingly ill. a slight sweat dampened your forehead, the nervousness and anticipation adding to the charade. you gave a weak little cough, hoping it added to the effect.

mr. kim, ever the gullible academic, peered at you with concern. “oh my, you do look a bit pale. are you alright?”

you managed a feeble nod, grateful for the dramatic flare that karina had instigated. “yes, just a bit lightheaded.”

he seemed convinced enough. “alright, go along then. but don’t take too long.” he dismissed you with a wave of his hand, turning back to the whiteboard, utterly unaware of the charade playing out before him.

you practically bolted from your seat, grateful for the reprieve. you expected karina to lead you toward the bathrooms or the infirmary down the corridor, but instead, she took your hand again, her grip firm, and guided you in the opposite direction, toward the dormitories. a thrill shot through you. you glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in question.

“the infirmary is that way.” you murmured, a hesitant question hovering in your tone.

“we’re not going to the stupid infirmary right now. of course, we’ll get there, don’t worry.” karina replied, her hand now resting on your lower back, guiding you forward. “but first things first.” she said, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “my room is closer. we can… recharge there."

“but what about class?” you asked, trying not to let your voice betray your excitement.

karina winked. “after the fun, we'll go to the infirmary, get a note. problem solved. you’re still 'sick', after all.” she said, emphasizing the last word with a mischievous lift of her brow. “we’ll get a medical certificate, and we can give it to your professor.”

“he’ll probably notice that there’s a big time difference between when we left the classroom and when we went to the infirmary. and he’ll wonder why it took us so long to get to the infirmary after we left class.” you pointed out, trying to sound like you were trying to be responsible, even though your heart was already racing at the prospect of what was about to happen.

“we’ll say that we were in the bathroom because you were nauseous or you went to wet your face and cool off. or maybe even that you felt dizzy and almost fainted? i don’t know, but we’ll figure something out.” she says, her grin growing at the look of disbelief on your face. karina bit her lip, her eyes sparkling. “too extreme, isn’t it? well… how about we just say we went out onto the terrace or something because you needed some fresh air? maybe we can even blame it on the awful school lunch, if he still asks.” she added, her voice laced with amusement. “he never pays attention anyway.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, any lingering doubts swiftly melting away under her infectious energy. as you approached her dorm door, you noticed a name tag next to it. “wait, what about your roommate?” you asked, remembering the other girl whose name you vaguely recalled being “giselle”.

karina chuckled, pushing the door open and waves a dismissive hand. “don’t worry about her. she hasn't been in the dorm since the party last weekend. she always crashes at someone’s place after parties… she’s probably sleeping off a hangover at her boyfriend’s place. i haven’t seen her around since then, at least.” you had to admit, you had expected her to be there. you found yourself thanking her party habits internally. “don’t worry about her. let’s just focus on what matters, okay?”

she pulled you into the room, the door clicking shut behind you, and suddenly, you were alone. the room was neat, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of karina’s personality. it smelled faintly of vanilla and something uniquely hers, a scent that made your senses swim.

but the air in the small space crackled with a palpable tension. karina turned, her eyes locking with yours, and all the words, the worries, the questions, evaporated.

she reached for you, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, and you were lost. her lips met yours, a soft, gentle pressure that quickly deepened into a hungry kiss. you tasted her, the sweet tang of her lip gloss, the warmth of her mouth, and you melted into the sensation.

your hands moved, finding their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer, desperate for any skin-to-skin contact. her fingers tangled in your hair, gently tugging as she deepened the kiss, and you moaned into her mouth, the sound raw and unfiltered.

the world narrowed to the feel of her lips on yours, the soft gasp of her breath mingling with your own. you could feel her body pressed against yours, the soft curves of her hips and the firm press of her chest, sending shivers of desire through you. you could practically feel her grin against your lips, as if she was just as giddy as you were.

but of course, you two couldn’t stay as two lovey—dovey people for long.

now the kiss was hot, demanding, a release of all the pent—up tension that had been simmering between you since earlier in class. her hands, now free from the confines of your skirt, tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss. you leaned into her, your body pressing against hers, the soft texture of her shirt against your skin igniting a fire within you.

karina broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. she was a sight to behold, dark eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red: an absolute goddess. “wow.” she whispered, her voice husky. “that’s... more than i was expecting.”

you, a little flustered still, managed a breathy laugh. “better than boring classes, right?”

she grinned, a flash of white teeth against her flushed face. “absolutely. come here.” she murmured.

she grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you towards her bed, her nails digging into your skin. as soon as you two reached it, she pushed you down onto the mattress, crawling over you with a predatory grace.

she straddled your hips, her knees on either side of your thighs as she loomed over you. her hands gripped the hem of your shirt and in one swift motion, she yanked it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. she took a moment to admire your bared skin, her eyes roaming over your curves hungrily.

leaning down, she pressed her lips to your collarbone, her tongue tracing the delicate bone before she nipped at your skin. her teeth grazed your neck, leaving a trail of red marks in her wake as she made her way up to your jawline.

she captured your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging on it gently before soothing the sting with her tongue. she kissed you deeply, passionately, pouring all her lust and desire into the kiss. her hands slid down your sides, her fingers splaying across your ribcage.

karina’s hands slid further down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt. with a wicked grin, she tugged them down your legs, taking your panties with them. she tossed the pleated fabric and lace aside, leaving you bare and exposed beneath her.

she took a moment to admire your naked form, her eyes darkening with unbridled lust. she licked her lips, her gaze lingering on the juncture between your thighs. slowly, teasingly, she ran a finger along your slit, feeling the slick heat gathering there.

“fuck, baby, you’re so wet already.” she purred, her voice low and dripping with desire. “i’ve barely touched you and you're already dripping for me. such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

she circled your clit with the pad of her thumb, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. her other hand slid up your stomach to your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. she pinched your nipple between her fingers, rolling the hardened nub between them.

karina leaned down, her hot breath ghosting over your aching core. she inhaled deeply, the scent of your arousal filling her nostrils. a low, approving moan rumbled in her throat before she dragged her tongue along your slit, tasting your essence.

”mmmh, you taste even better than i imagined.” she murmured, her voice vibrating against your sensitive flesh. she circled your clit with the tip of her tongue before suckling on the hardened bud, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

she dipped a finger into your entrance, pumping it in and out of your tight channel. she curled it upwards, stroking that special spot inside you that made your toes curl. her thumb continued its relentless assault on your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles around it.

karina could feel your walls fluttering around her finger, your body tensing as she brought you closer to the edge. she added a second finger, stretching you further, filling you completely. she pumped them in and out of you, her palm slapping against your clit with each thrust.

karina could feel your body trembling beneath her touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. she knew you were close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy. she doubled her efforts, her fingers pumping into you harder, faster, determined to push you over the edge.

“that’s it, baby, come for me.” she growled, her voice rough with lust. “i want to feel you come undone on my fingers, i want to taste your pleasure on my tongue.”

she sealed her mouth over your clit, sucking hard as she thrust a third finger deep inside you. she curled them, stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves, pushing you ruthlessly towards your peak.

your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets as the coil of tension in your belly snapped. you cried out, your voice echoing off the walls of your dorm room as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

karina didn’t let up, continuing to work you through your climax with her fingers and tongue. she drank down your release, moaning in satisfaction as your essence flooded her mouth. finally, as the aftershocks began to subside, she slowed her movements, gentling her touch.

she crawled up your body, her fingers trailing over your sweat—slicked skin. she captured your lips in a searing kiss, forcing you to taste yourself on her tongue. she smiled against your mouth, a wicked, triumphant smile.

“not bad for a warm-up, gorgeous.” she purred, nipping at your bottom lip. “but we’re far from done.”

her fingers find the waistband of her jeans, unbuttoning the button and lowering the zipper, pulling down her pants along with underwear from her long legs in the blink of an eye. a wicked grin spread across her face as she rolled onto her back, pulling you on top of her. she gripped your hips, her fingers digging into your soft flesh as she guided you to straddle her waist.

“c’mon baby.” she purred, her voice low and dripping with lust. “let’s see how well you handle being on top. impress me.”

she reached up to cup your breasts, kneading the supple mounds in her hands. she rolled your nipples between her fingers, pinching and tugging on the hardened peaks until you gasped.

karina’s other hand slid down your back, her nails raking over your skin until she reached your ass. she gripped your cheeks, squeezing the firm globes in her hands before pulling you forward, grinding your slick heat against her own.

karina’s eyes darkened with lust as she felt your wetness coating her skin, your arousal evident in the slick slide of your folds against her own. she rocked her hips up against yours, the hard ridge of her clit rubbing against your sensitive nub in a delicious friction.

“fuck… you’re so fucking wet.” she groaned, her voice strained with desire. “i can feel how much you want this, how much you need to fuck me.”

she guided your hips in a slow, sensual grind against hers, the movement allowing you both to feel the heat and pressure building between your thighs. her hands slid up your sides to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh roughly as she watched your face intently.

karina could see the pleasure playing out across your features, the way your lips parted in soft gasps and moans as you moved against her. she leaned up to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, her tongue delving deep to dance with yours.

she nipped at your bottom lip before trailing her mouth down to your neck, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. she sucked hard, intent on marking you as hers, on leaving her claim for all to see.

“ride me, baby.” she commanded, her voice low and rough with lust. “take what you need, what you want. ise me for your pleasure.”

karina’s hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you as you began to move. you rolled your hips in a slow, sensual grind against hers, your slick folds sliding against hers. the sensation of your wetness mingling with hers was intoxicating, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.

as you found a rhythm, you started to bounce on her lap, your breasts jiggling with each downward motion. karina’s eyes were glued to your chest, watching the mesmerizing dance of your curves. she leaned up to catch a nipple in her mouth, suckling hard as her hand kneaded your other breast roughly.

her hips jerked up to meet yours, the head of her clit catching on your own with each thrust. the pressure built inside both of you, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your bellies. you could feel karina’s muscles tensing beneath you, her body drawing closer to the edge.

karina’s fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks wide as she pulled you down harder, urging you to give her more. she could feel your walls fluttering around her, your body tightening like a coiled spring.

“that’s it, baby, fuck me just like that.” she panted, her voice ragged with desire. “i’m so fucking close. come with me, come on my pussy. i want to feel you fucking soak me.”

karina could feel your movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. your hips were moving frantically, grinding and rolling against hers in a wild dance. the obscene sound of your wetness filled the room, the slick slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

she could feel her own release building, the tension in her core winding tighter and tighter. she was so close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy. she needed you to come with her, needed to feel your pleasure as you rode her hard and fast.

“fuck, don’t stop.” she growled, her voice strained and rough. “i’m gonna come, baby. come with me, fucking soak me with your cum. i want to feel you fucking drench me as i come undone.”

she slammed sharply her hips up against yours, her clit rubbing hard against your own. the sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pure pleasure shooting through your core. your body stiffened, your back arching as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave.

karina let out a guttural moan, her voice echoing off the walls as her own orgasm consumed her. her hips jerked and twitched beneath you, her body shaking with the force of her release. she could feel your walls clenching around her, your essence gushing out to coat her skin.

she gripped your hips hard, holding you in place as she ground against you, riding out the aftershocks of her climax. she panted harshly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. finally, she collapsed back onto the bed, pulling you down with her.

karina wrapped her arms around you, holding you close as she peppered your face with soft kisses. she smiled up at you, her eyes shining with satisfaction and contentment. “... that was incredible.” she murmured, her voice soft and sated. “we’re definitely doing that again, baby. and again, and again…”

just as she was about to continue, a knock on the front bedroom door brings you two out of the intimate moment you were having.

“karina? are you in there? it's me, giselle. can you open the door? i lost my keys during the party last friday! actually, i think i lost my entire handbag…”

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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eowynstwin · 5 months ago

Text

professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

#john price #price x reader #price x you #captain price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #professor price #does tagging even work anymore or are the tags all just clogged by now #mwritesprice #madi writes #that is in fact a photo of barry

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thesvnandthemooon · 18 days ago

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

or: niko’s a heartthrob and natasha’s jealous of her own son

part of the short n’ sweet universe

a/n: this is your reminder that if you have requested something, i will end up writing it; but it might take a while

this is basically pure smut. id apologize but i know you guys like it so 😭 enjoy

summary: based on this request; natasha doesn’t mind niko charming every person on campus, but she’d rather keep you to herself

warnings: contains smut (penetration/p in v, brief handjob, oral/nat receiving), orgasm denial (i think?), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex

word count: 11.2k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Natasha can handle not being the campus heartthrob anymore. She understands why — being covered in spit-up and pushing around a Bugaboo stroller on a weekly to daily basis isn't attractive to many people. That's more than fine, as she's not interested in being approached anymore. She has other things to focus on now.

Does she still enjoy occasionally being flirted with? Yes. She's only human. But it's not something she needs anymore, and it's certainly not something that happens often anymore.

Instead, the attention has shifted to someone else: Niko. Someone much smaller, who shares her features. Girls coo over his cheeks, professors offer to hold him during tests (which Natasha isn't a fan of). Even with crumbs smeared around his mouth and his baby curls a mess, he's able to make everyone on campus fall in love with him.

He's the charmer now. He inherited that from her, just like the reddish hair and lazy smirk he's got down to a baby science. A duck onesie never managed to stop him.

The lecture hall is cramped and silent by the time Natasha arrives. The professor, standing on the podium and discussing the importance of eco-friendly stadiums, doesn't even flinch. He's used to her being late, and truthfully, he doesn't mind.

Natasha, however, does mind. She's sweaty and exhausted from a sleepless night, but the baby strapped to her chest couldn't be more alert. Eyes wide open and one sock missing, he cranes his head to get a good look at everyone in the room. When a girl waves at him, he lets out a shriek that makes the entire room glance at him.

"Shush", she mumbles, rubbing his back. She sits down in her usual spot — all the way in the back on the very left — and starts unpacking. Her laptop, thermos, a teething ring, some tissues. Niko arches his back in an attempt to escape from the baby carrier. "Okay, no. We don't do that."

The girl that waved at him turns around. She tries to soothe him with a smile, and unfortunately, it seems to work. His mouth drops open and he lets out a cheery gurgle. But all Natasha does is wrap an arm around him and turn slightly to shield him.

"Alright", the professor says loudly, skipping to the next slide, "we've all welcomed our honorary student. Let's keep going, shall we? Please get into pairs of three or four and discuss this next question. You have 15 minutes."

Natasha groans quietly. Sitting in class is difficult enough when you have a hyperactive baby in tow. Working in teams only makes that worse. No matter what, they never get anything done as long as Niko is somewhat awake.

It's not different this time. The second she's joined by three other students, he's giggling and reaching out like he's getting paid to get away from her. She'd be offended, but it gives her the chance to actually think about the question for a moment.

She's in the middle of scribbling down some answers when the guy next to her leans in a bit. His hand comes closer, fingers almost touching Niko's, and her own hand darts up to grab his wrist.

"One rule", she says, not looking up from her laptop. "Don't touch the baby."

Fortunately, the guy lets it go. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed and the hood of his hoodie pulled over his eyes, and doesn't move a muscle until the professor tells them to stop and present their results. Natasha wants to slide under the foldable little table and hide, but the professor hears Niko screech. He nods encouragingly.

"Romanoff", he says. Thanks to the baby, she has the honor of being known by name. "What about you? What'd you guys come up with?"

An hour later, class is over. Natasha has no idea how she survived presenting her results in front of the entire class, but she did it. She's even sweatier now, thanks to Niko imitating a pterodactyl whenever someone tried to talk. Her head is pounding, her shirt is stained with more spit-up and coffee, and the only thing she's looking forward to is seeing you. Not to get rid of the baby, no — she just needs a kiss and attention from someone who isn't drooling constantly.

She spots you outside, by your car. You're in a short dress, reapplying lipstick and looking too good for a normal Thursday afternoon. Her footsteps speed up, so much so that Niko grunts in quiet protest. But she ignores him.

"Hey", she calls, making your head turn. You light up when you see them. "Wow, you're gorgeous. Any chance I could get your number?"

"Smooth", you say and push off the car. The engagement ring on your finger glistens in the sun. "How was class? Was he good?"

Natasha cracks a smile as you meet her halfway. Her cheeks are warm and pink, her eyes green and full of relief. It's unfortunate she can't just put Niko aside for a minute to get a moment alone with you.

"He was", she lies. She wouldn't call his little show 'being good', but she can't blame him. She isn't too fond of class, either. "Thanks for waiting, I-"

Before she can say anything else, Niko lets out a whine and starts squirming in her arms. In an instant, your attention shifts — you're no longer looking at her, no longer asking about her day. Instead, you're cooing and scooping the baby out of her arms. Natasha's used to this, of course. All it takes is a clumsy smile or a well timed huff and people are fussing over the baby.

She's used to it. She doesn't mind. What does bother her, though, is that you're no better.

"Poor baby", you mumble, bouncing him and rubbing his back. He lets out a pitiful noise, and Natasha narrows her eyes. Faker, she thinks. "Oh, you're hungry? Babe, did you not bring his bottle?"

"Of course I did", she protests. You're already unlocking the car and buckling Niko up in the back. Bent over a little, dress hiking up and exposing more of your thighs. She feels a familiar coil form in her stomach. "He drained the entire thing."

When you turn around again, she's already in the driver's seat. There's fussing coming from the back, which tells her she won't be getting some relief anytime soon. You'll probably get home and spend the entire afternoon coddling the baby.

She shouldn't complain about that. She loves Niko more than anything. But it's been weeks, and she's too horny to think straight. It's a miracle she isn't dragging you into the bushes behind the parking lot. They're not too uncomfortable — you both know that from experience.

You slide into the passenger seat, looking as sinful as ever. Your perfume fills the small space, your lipstick is flawless. Natasha subtly shifts in her seat to conceal her problem and then starts the car.

"Is he tired?", she asks. "He seems tired. He needs a nap, I think."

You nod, one elbow resting against the window and your head in your hand. Niko's a bad sleeper, unfortunately. He wasn't always — you used to be thrilled by how good of a sleeper your son was. Multiple naps a day, lasting hours. Rarely waking up at night (at least during the first few months). You were never fully rested, but you weren't exhausted.

You're exhausted now, though. Niko has a classic case of baby-FOMO. If he even hears the shoe cabinet open, he starts wailing like the end of the world is near. Somehow, your seven month old has learned to recognize the little signs that tell him you're about to leave.

"I'm putting him down for a nap after nursing", you say. "He's hungry. Do you have practice today?"

"Coach canceled", she says, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. She glances at you from the corner of her eye. "I have the afternoon off, you know. And so do you..."

"Yeah", you say absently. The implication went straight over your head. Natasha can't blame you, but she's growing more desperate. "That's good. I need to clean out the fridge, I think I saw something come to life in there."

Natasha exhales slowly. Behind you, Niko lets out another noise. She can see him kick his feet through the rear view mirror. She hasn't even tried anything with you yet and he's already determined to stop it.

"I'll clean out the fridge", she says confidently. "Tomorrow, while you're in class."

You turn your head and give her a doubting look. She helps around the apartment — of course she does. She's better at folding laundry than you are, she took over vacuuming, she cleans the windows. But she doesn't handle anything food-related apart from her protein concoctions.

"You've never done that", you say. "Sure you know how to?"

"Please", she says, turning the steering wheel. She parks the car in front of the apartment building and unbuckles. "How hard can it be? I'd rather you get some rest today."

You hum and get out of the car. Natasha pokes her head out of the window to watch you for a moment, then she gets out as well. The sun is warm on her bare arms, but the wind is messing with her hair. Someone down the street yells for their kid to stop running.

Niko is still hungry and grumpy. Though his tears have dried and his wailing has stopped, he's still looking at you like you committed a war crime.

"Greedy", Natasha says. She unlocks the door to the apartment and lets you in first.

"He's a baby", you retort, carrying him with one arm. "Give me a minute, alright?"

All she can do is stare as you disappear into the bedroom. The door doesn't fall shut, but it's only slightly ajar. Natasha curses silently at the loss of your presence, then she takes off her clothes and steps into the bathroom. If she has to wait, she'll at least make sure she's clean by the time the gremlin is asleep.

Ten minutes later, she reemerges from a cloud of steam. One hand towel-drying her hair, she dares peeking into the bedroom. The second her eyes land on the bed, she groans quietly.

You're both on the bed, but now you're asleep. Niko is still latched on, one hand fisting the fabric of the shirt you pushed up, and you're knocked out as well. Your arm is tucked under your head and the soft sounds escaping you let her know it's over. Niko has won once again.

. . .

Card games, pizza boxes, and adult animation playing on tv.

It's loud in Tony's house. Voices fill every room, which overlap with the music playing in the kitchen. What's happening here isn't a party, really. You're not sure whether you would've brought Niko if it was.

For once, your arms are empty. You're sprawled out on the couch, legs draped over Natasha's lap and a mocktail in your hand. You're laughing at something Wanda said, but you're still trying to keep an eye on Niko. He's being passed around like a very sweaty, very heavy football.

Natasha's focus is on something else, though. She doesn't even feel ashamed. Your legs are bare thanks to the dress barely reaching the middle of your thighs. You smell like a mixture of her and your own perfume. Your cheeks are as warm as the summer night is, and you keep stretching and sighing quietly.

Her shorts have been growing tighter for over an hour now. If it keeps going like this, she might explode. You reaching out to trail your fingertips along her bicep doesn't help, and she swallows another large gulp of beer.

She quietly wonders whether leaning forward a bit would help. The possibility of nutting right in her shorts, however, makes her reconsider that idea. Tony Stark's couch is gross enough as it is.

"He's so well-behaved", Wanda coos. She stole Niko from Daisy when she wasn't paying attention. "Can I keep him? You guys just make another."

"I'd give it a shot", Natasha mutters, shifting again. One wrong move and it's over for her.

You've noticed by now. You can feel her bulge press against the side of your knee, hard and unrelenting. You've been testing her limits quietly, by moving your legs a bit or — accidentally, of course — rubbing your leg right against it. So far, she's been doing well. It's surprising.

You'd love to drag her into any of the empty rooms. You've done it before, and it always ended well. But now, you have the aftermath of one of your sexcapades drooling all over Wanda's top.

"Ew", Daisy mumbles. Natasha rolls her eyes at her. "Hey, he looks sleepy."

"He is", Wanda whispers. You raise your eyebrows at the sight: your son, usually wanting to stick to you and Natasha like glue, has curled into Wanda's chest and closed his eyes. He yawns, which means he's still awake, but you can't deny he's about to knock out.

You look at Natasha. Natasha looks at you. Someone coughs.

"Five minutes", she mumbles, shrugging. Her hand runs up and down your thigh. "I can be quick."

"No kidding."

"Can't blame me", she mutters. A frown appears on her face. "Look at you."

Clint has already gotten up and hidden in the hallway. He's seen this before, way too many times, and he's sick of it. But you're both ignoring his presence — or rather, lack thereof — and getting up from the couch instead. You ignore everything else as well. The raised eyebrows and muffled laughter don't bother you as much.

You hurry up the stairs and down the hallway like you're running away from something. Natasha pushes open the first door she can reach and tugs you into the dark space, not even bothering to check where you're going. The door slams shut, you blindly feel the wall for a light switch, and suddenly you can see everything clearly.

"Nerd", you mumble, glancing around the room. A huge desk with a three computer screens and a glowing keyboard, dozens of high tech toys, a bunch of magazines about science and technology.

Natasha has one hand against the door already, resting right next to your head. She glances at Tony's tech room and shrugs. "What'd you expect?"

"It's not exactly sexy."

"Neither is your complaining", she retorts, turning back around. Her lips meet your jaw and her hand bunches up your dress a little. "I wanted to nut on the spot down there. You're a menace."

Your head lolls back against the door. When you feel her body against yours, boner and everything, you shove your hand into her boxers. She moans against your neck, nails sinking into your bare thigh. It's a warm enough night, her hormones are in overdrive, and if she doesn't get some relief soon, she might chase after it herself.

"Five minutes", you say, breathless. Blood has mounted in your cheeks. "He...he'll notice."

"Five", she agrees, but the way she's trying to take your dress off entirely says something different. "Don't have a condom."

You scoff. Baby number two may only be a couple strokes away, but that's never stopped you before. You jerk her off in her boxers instead, watching her face turn more panicked.

"No", she says. She awkwardly wriggles off her shorts and lets them pool around her ankles. "Fuck."

Your underwear has been discarded already. Natasha tugs your dress up enough to see you, and once she's gotten her fill of that, she parts your thighs and settles between them. The tip nudges your clit, then she sinks in deep.

It's been too long since you last had her like this. You're almost out of practice, her size seeming to rip you in half for a moment. But she doesn't move, which allows you adjust a bit, and a soft breath leaves you.

"Good?", she mutters, face buried against your neck. She's one word away from pounding into you like she wants to tear down the door, but hurting you isn't worth that.

"Better", you agree. You grasp at her back, nails leaving behind faint red lines. "Quick."

"Right, yes, sorry." She nods against your neck, peppering it with kisses that are supposed to be soothing. They're hurried instead, but they match the way she starts pulling out and thrusting back in.

Mouth, hips and heart all beat at the same tempo. You clutch her back muscles, rip into her skin, swear and curse under your breath. She throbs inside you, you feel every line and vein against your walls. She tilts her head and lightly sinks her teeth into your neck.

Another thrust. She feels her orgasm creep closer, even though you just started. But it's been way too long, and the pressure is building up inside her like fire in a sealed container. If she finishes too early, she'll just keep going. It's no big deal.

Your hips roll up to meet hers. You close your eyes and try not to curse again when she starts thumbing your clit.

"Babe, baby- too fast."

"You said five minutes", Natasha pleads. Her forehead is covered in beads of sweat, baby hairs sticking to it stubbornly. "Gotta be quick."

"Yes, but..."

The moment she fucks into you again, she hears something she doesn't want to hear. She once read that babies cry to prevent their parents from getting pregnant again — just a theory, nothing to be taken too seriously. But the way Niko managed to interrupt right as she was about to hit that sweet spot tells her otherwise.

Of course, you stop in your tracks when you hear his scream. Muffled, offended, probably fueled by sweat and a lack of sleep. Before she knows what's happening, you're pushing her away.

"Wait", she complains, terror filling her eyes. "Love, only ten more seconds."

"The baby", you say, hurried, and get into your underwear again. "What if he's sick? I told you he was too sweaty."

"He's a furnace", she says, touching your arm. "He's okay, I swear."

It's pointless. You're not listening anymore — instead, you're back in mom-mode. All it took was a wail from your spoiled infant son, who's now probably making your entire friend group panic.

"Shit", Natasha curses when you leave the room. She's still hard, still leaking, but there's no way she can stay up here and finish it herself. If she does, everyone will know. She has no choice but to pull her shorts back up again, awkwardly adjust her jersey so it's covering most of the bulge she's sporting, and then make her way downstairs.

Niko is already in your arms by the time she gets there. He's happy now, nursing like he hasn't been fed in a week. His hands grasp at your skin and his eyes are wide as he stares up at you.

You're completely infatuated. You've forgotten about what the tech room, about Natasha. You're cooing at the baby and wiping the leftover crocodile tears off his chubby cheeks.

"Seriously?", she mutters. Wanda gives her an amused look. "I'll kill you. Why'd you wake him?"

"Wake him?" Wanda frowns. "I didn't 'wake' him. He just noticed you were gone, I think."

"He's seven months old! He can't notice that."

Niko gives her a side eye when she sits down next to you. His fingers curl into your skin and he makes a smacking noise. You smile at the sound, but Natasha is sulking. Not only is the little gremlin fine, but he's thriving.

And you? Fully reset as well. Skin dewy, eyes glowing, the smile on your face telling her you're almost completely unaffected. Which hurts, considering you used to drag her away only to have a quick orgasm.

"I'm waking you up at 2am", she mutters, picking at her shorts. "We're seeking refuge. Which country has the lowest birth rate again?"

"Funny", you shoot back, barely glancing at her. Niko grunts and reaches up, his hand hitting your cheek. "Seven months old, by the way. You're beefing with a seven month old."

"He's a cockblock."

Around you, conversations are going back to normal. Your interrupted hookup isn't interesting anymore, even if Natasha is still sitting there like a horny soldier that got denied her last wish. She's got her arms crossed over her chest, still hard and blue balled.

She tells herself you'll continue this once Niko is asleep. But he's her son, and though she is proud of the fact that you birthed her tiny clone, it's still a bit annoying to see him act all smug. Cockblocked by her own bloodline, dethroned and defeated.

When she looks at him again, he raises his eyebrows in that clumsy little way he does. His hand is grasping at your cheek, he's mid-slurp, yet he's giving her that look.

Natasha knows what that look means. You both know because he made you find out before, back in a hotel room. You weren't careful while sneaking into the bathroom, and he made sure to voice his complaints in the only way he knows.

It's about to happen again. He's not falling asleep anytime soon. He's going to stay latched on, which means she can prepare for a very long, very hard night. Literally.

. . .

"Babe, did you see my socks?", Natasha calls from the bathroom.

It's 1 in the afternoon. You're at your makeshift vanity — a desk, complete with a table mirror and two pencil holders full of makeup —, getting ready for her basketball game. It's a mild spring day, and the sun is shining in through the windows.

You look at yourself in the mirror again. A navy polo shirt, paired with a white tennis skirt. You touch up your eyeliner and start looking for a lipstick shade that will match. Niko, sitting on your lap, gurgles when you pull out the acrylic organizer full of lipsticks.

"No", you call back, refraining from rolling your eyes. You let Niko 'gift' her new socks for her birthday one time and they immediately become her lucky charm. "You have other socks too, you know."

"These are special!"

This time, you do roll your eyes. You grab a pink shade of lipstick and open it with one hand. Niko reaches for it, his fingers stretched out and his mouth dropping open.

"Oh, you like this?", you mumble, smiling. You apply some and hum at your reflection. "Doesn't match though, does it?"

Niko doesn't care. He grunts and tries to lean forward to reach the acrylic organizer, but you tut and nudge it away from his uncoordinated hands. Ignoring the sound of protest he lets out, you wipe the lipstick away again and try a deeper shade of red.

The baby looks up at you and suddenly stops whining. Instead, he lets out a giggle and slaps his palm against your mouth.

"This one, honey?", you ask, grabbing his wrist and kissing his palm. You don't even notice how Natasha, hair damp and body only wrapped into a white towel, steps out of the bathroom again. "This one's better, yes?"

She stops in her tracks, eyes landing on you and the baby. You're giggling at him, brushing your fingers over his red curls and bouncing him on your lap. Then you lean in to kiss his cheek, and a red lipstick mark is left behind.

She crosses her arms. Usually, it's her thumb you use to blot your lips with. She loves the bit of color it leaves behind, whether she admits it or not. Apparently, those days are over. Niko's the one getting cuddles and kisses instead.

It takes you a moment, but you end up spotting her through the mirror. The second you turn around, she's on her way to the kitchen. Maybe she can pretend she was on her way there. Maybe it'll be believable. But you tilt your head, eyebrows raised knowingly, and she immediately clocks that won't be the case.

"Socks", she mumbles, scooping protein powder into her shaker. "They're gone. They were in the clean laundry when I saw them last time."

"You don't need them", you reply. You use a napkin to make sure the lipstick looks flawless, then you follow her into the kitchen. Niko stares at the shaker as Natasha rattles it to make all the clumps go away. "They're just socks."

"They're lucky socks."

"You say that about everything. Lucky kisses, lucky handshakes. Just admit you don't need those."

"They help me win", she says, taking a sip of her protein shake. "Also, I still haven't gotten my lucky kiss."

You sigh, but it's all for show. Stepping closer, you get on your tiptoes and lean in to press a kiss to her cheek. You could stop there, but instead, you leave one on the corner of her mouth as well. Then, her lips. She tastes like vanilla and artificial sweetener, but you're used to it, so you let her cup your cheek with one hand and deepen the kiss.

Her lips feel warm against yours. Teeth bump, noses brush. She smudges your lipstick and doesn't even care, because if you have to reapply it, she'll get to blot it and feel useful again. Only when she puts the protein shake aside to move her hand under your skirt and palm your ass, you pull away.

Natasha pouts, still groping your butt and feeling the cotton fabric of your underwear. You raise your eyebrows.

"The baby", you say. "Your game. We're leaving in twenty minutes."

"I only need five", she promises. Niko frowns at her, one hand clutching the neckline of your shirt. "He can stay in his playpen."

"You have a game!"

"Screw the game", she mumbles, pulling you closer again. The baby lets out an audible huff this time. "Look how cute he is. Another one wouldn't hurt, you know."

Much to her dismay, you let out a laugh. It's not that you disagree with the sentiment — Niko is cute, cuter than anything you've ever seen. You both love him more than life. But you're not going to go through nine month of sitting in lectures, pregnant and nauseous, again. You're not about to soothe a colicky baby in the middle of someone's presentation again, either.

One and done. That's the motto for now. Niko is exhausting enough.

"You're insane", you say, adjusting your hold on the baby. "Poor me. My fiancée has lost her mind."

"Yeah, well, I was joking", she retorts. She wasn't — her eyes are filled with the kind of offense that tells you she was hit right where it hurts. "He's more than enough."

"I know", you say. Niko tilts his head at her. All that's missing is him sticking out his tongue or flipping her off. He's her son, so she wouldn't be too surprised. "Now go get dressed. We're leaving soon."

By the time you arrive in front of the gym, Niko is asleep. Of course, he decided to knock out right when the timing isn't right. If you were at home, Natasha could pull you into the kitchen for some privacy. You're surrounded by her teammates instead, who have been waiting for her.

Natasha gets out of the car, and you follow close behind. Once the baby is in his stroller, you walk into the building.

Inside, everyone immediately gets to work. Warm-ups, team strategy, quick conversations over Gatorade and peanut butter sandwiches. Basketballs thud against the court or hit the rim with a loud clank. You ignore the people around you and walk to the bleachers, the stroller clicking quietly as it rolls over the floor.

Thankfully, Niko stays asleep even when someone gets yelled at for ruining a shot. He's red-cheeked and drooling, one sock slipping off and his hand clutching a stuffed elephant he got from one of Natasha's teammates. You fix his sock absently before pulling out your phone. You start looking for cars — your current one keeps breaking down — but something else catches your attention.

Natasha's in the middle of the court. With her hair in a low bun and her jersey showing off every inch of her biceps, you suddenly regret not taking things further back home. Even now that she's supposed to be listening to the coach, her eyes keep drifting over to you.

All she sees is you. What she should be thinking about is the game, or the fact she needs to make up for the fact that she only slept three hours last night. But mentally, she's still in the kitchen. Still trying to get you to leave the baby in another room and instead coddle her for a moment.

She loves that you attend all of her games, but most of the time, it's more distracting than it is helpful. When you sit there looking like that — hair pristine, legs crossed, lipstick still flawless — staying on the court is possibly the hardest part of the game.

The others know that, too. Which is why you get flirted with by randoms occasionally. She knows it's all a scheme to rile her up, but unfortunately, it works.

"Romanoff?"

Natasha's head whips around. Her coach doesn't look too impressed, with his eyebrows raised and his fingers drumming against the back of the clipboard he's holding.

"Yeah?", she says, clearing her throat. "Everything good?"

"We don't want to kick them out", he says slowly. "You'd throw a fit if we did. So don't make us do it, alright? I need you to be at the top of your game."

"I am", she lies. You, naked and all over her, pops into her head. At least one thing she's at the top of the game at. "It's just...Niko's not doing too well. Wanted to check if he's okay."

"Your spawn is asleep", Carol informs her. Natasha barely keeps herself from grabbing a basketball and chucking it at her head. "You're just horny."

The coach doesn't need to add anything else. He just tilts his head pointedly and she sighs.

"I'll be good", she promises, stepping back. "I swear. One lucky kiss and it's all peachy."

"Romanoff-"

"Just one!", she cuts him off. She's walking backwards, right toward the bleachers. "You'll be so proud of me, I swear. Let me just do this."

He sighs, but doesn't argue anymore. The second he's looking at someone else, she turns around and jumps over the barricade. You've noticed her approaching you by now, so you put the cup of iced decaf coffee you brought aside. Condensation slides down the side and pools on the bench beneath.

"Everything good?", you ask. She stops right in front of you, towering over you, so you tilt your head up.

"Perfect", she assures you. She cups your face and leans in, pressing her lips to yours like she's starving. You make a surprised noise, but quickly melt into it.

Your hands grasp the sides of her jersey. She steps even closer, so close you can smell her deodorant and body lotion. When you tilt your head to deepen the kiss and finally use some tongue, she feels a rush of heat that pools right in her lower half.

You raise your eyebrows and pull away. "You're going to play like that?"

Natasha glances at the very obvious tent in her shorts and groans. She shouldn't complain — this 'lucky kiss' was her idea. She got herself into this mess, and now, a gym full of basketball players is going to see her like this. A crowd of students as well, if she doesn't get herself under control soon.

"Dammit", she curses.

"Nice", you tease, cupping her through the thin fabric. Her cheeks flare up with heat. "All for me?"

"Babe", she hisses. She grabs your wrist, still gentle but also rock-hard and flustered. "Don't do that."

You wrap your fingers around it fully, looking up at her with feigned confusion. Slowly but with the pressure of someone who wants her to nut in her meshed shorts, you drag your hand down her length. Her knees nearly buckle.

"You're an idiot", you state, moving your hand back up. You squeeze slightly, and she barely keeps herself from whining. "Good luck making a single shot."

This time, she's a bit more firm. She pulls your hand away, which is good. But your hand applies pressure to the head, briefly but overpowering, and a whimper slips from her lips.

"Now you want to?", she complains, her voice raspy and hurried. "The game's about to begin!"

"Consider it motivation", you reply. You adjust your polo shirt a little, just enough to reveal more cleavage. It's not much, but breastfeeding has enhanced certain beloved features, and Natasha blanks. She'd love to say something, but all she manages is a long 'uhmmm.'

You smile faintly and pat her stomach with the back of your hand. She blinks a few times.

"The game", you remind her. She turns around and looks at the coach, who's staring her down. "Come on, you're about to get benched."

"Fuck", she curses. She jumps back down the bleachers, still hard and flustered but filled with the kind of determination only she possesses.

Back down on the court, she tries to practice a few moves before the game starts. The bleachers fill up until an actual audience is watching the teams warm up. Finally, they get into position.

Natasha looks up at you again, still flushed and nervous. You wink at her, but don't get anything in return. Instead, she tries to focus on the game.

Tipoff happens. She barely reacts in time, her mind still spinning and her body still thrumming. You watch her fumble with the ball, watch her miss a shot. It's only been a couple minutes since the game has started, but the coach already looks like he's about to bench her.

Sloppy — that's the best word to describe her current performance. She's stuck replaying the kitchen scene from earlier, which doesn't help with the boner she's sporting. At this point, half the gym has noticed. You resist the urge to take a picture.

Natasha almost doesn't catch the ball when Carol passes it to her. The blonde's eyes widen.

"Jesus. You're embarrassing me, Romanoff."

"Fuck off", she hisses. Turning around, she tries to find a way to tuck herself into the waistband of her shorts and maybe make her problem go away. But she has an audience, so all she can do is let her shoulders drop and exhale quietly.

Only when the second quarter begins does she find her footing. Niko is wide awake by now, sitting on your lap and suckling on his fist like tiny royalty. Natasha manages a clean three-pointer and the entire gym starts roaring. She was disappointing them at first, but it seems like she's getting some brownie points now.

By the time halftime rolls around, she's gotten rid of her hard-on and the fantasies in her head. For the first time in months, she ignores your presence on the bleachers — instead, she sprints into the locker room and leans over the sink. The water feels cold when she splashes her face with it, which helps more than she'd imagined.

As she dries her hands and face with a paper towel, her phone buzzes. She doesn't know why she looks at it; a gut feeling tells her to let it go and return to the court. But she fishes it out of her locker anyway, and she foolishly opens the message you sent.

Natasha doesn't mind you sending her nudes. In fact, she encourages it. But in this very moment, she wishes you didn't have access to a camera.

Smudged lipstick. No bra, no shirt. Only a pair of her boxers cover some of your skin. Eyes that stare up into the camera, which is slightly blurry from the heat.

You didn't take this now, obviously. It was clearly taken in bed. You did wait for the perfect moment to send to her, though — and oh, did you succeed.

Natasha stares at the picture like she hasn't seen you naked in a decade. She's so distracted she doesn't hear the door to the locker room open at first, but when she does, she nearly tosses her phone into the trash can. Face glowing red, she blinks at the coach.

"Romanoff", he says, narrowing his eyes. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah", she stammers. She tries to subtly adjust her shorts. "Everything alright?"

"We're continuing in five", he reminds her. "You're making people talk, by the way, so try and...calm down a bit, okay?"

She nods hastily, still tugging at her shorts like they're going to make the issue go away magically. That's not the case, obviously, so she groans before tucking herself into her waistband again. Before she steps out onto the court again, she reaches for her phone. You get the text message right as you're about to feed Niko some puréed carrot.

Natasha: you're evil — 4.30pm

Natasha: genuinely — 4.30pm

Natasha: i want you

to make up for this. — 4.31pm

You don't bother texting back, as you can already see her reemerge from the lockers. Your eyes meet, you smile, and she rolls her eyes and gets back into position. Niko gurgles at the sight of her, spitting carrot all over his new onesie.

For some reason, all of this is enough to make her lock in. She plays like she's possessed, swishes the ball through the net like she's getting paid for every point she makes. She gets fouled, too — she hits the ground hard, and the sound echoes through the gym.

You jump up like you're ready to sue, which makes Niko whine. But she's on her feet again, looking like nothing ever happened.

The game ends with the final buzzer. Her team wins by 17 points, which is a reason to celebrate. Everyone is cheering, yelling, tossing popcorn and jumping up and down the bleachers. The teams shake hands, but Natasha decides not to partake in that this time. Instead, she's sprinting toward the bleachers.

You meet her at the barricade. She's dripping with sweat, her jersey already in her hands. She swaps it for the baby.

"Good game", you tease, putting on her jersey. She kisses Niko's cheek. "I'm proud of you."

"Uh-huh?" She nods and bounces the baby. "That's good. I was struggling for a bit."

"I know."

Natasha hums and glances at you. She nods at her teammates, who are still celebrating. Someone is dumping a water dispenser over the coach's head.

"I'll be back in a minute", she promises. She's still holding Niko as she starts walking back to the court. You tilt your head. "I swear. He needs a high five too, you know."

"Sure", you say. You're used to this. Every now and then, Natasha will carry Niko onto court like he's the team's new mascot. Which, by now, he kind of is. Everyone on campus knows him.

Natasha has a plan, though. The moment everyone got to touch his sweaty little fist, she hands him to the person she trusts most before running back to the bleachers.

You raise your eyebrows at her, but she doesn't reply. She just grabs your hand and pulls you up.

"Where's-"

"He's fine", she quickly says. Don't drop, don't lose, don't break — that's what she told Clint as she gave him Niko. If there's one person she trusts with her son, it's her best friend.

You frown as she tugs you down the stairs. Natasha is strict about giving Niko to anyone, friend or not. Even your family members have gone through background checks.

"You're desperate."

Natasha scoffs, edging past groups of people and stepping over empty bottles. She's heading straight for the locker room.

She doesn't say anything, though. Because she is desperate. Because she spent half of her basketball game with a hard-on in her shorts and palms that wouldn't stop sweating. Because it's been weeks, literally, and she's sick of getting off in the shower by herself.

"You're not?", she retorts. She pulls you into the showers with her and shuts the curtain hastily.

Before you really know what's happening, your back is pressed against the tiled wall. Cold, still wet from the showers that were taken earlier. Natasha's hands push under your shirt and roam your upper body, her mouth on your neck already.

You moan. You can't help it. You're worried about Niko being left alone with a bunch of basketball players, but your brain is foggy already. Natasha nudges the handle on the shower faucet, and water starts raining down on you.

"Missed you", she mumbles, mouth hot and urgent against your skin. Her fingers find your bra and quickly unclasp it. "Missed this."

"Nat, the-"

She lifts her head enough to shut you up with her lips. Her hands knead and squeeze flesh on their descent, all the way down to your skirt. Your clothes are clinging to you, water is dripping down her jaw. Your moans are barely covered by the sound of water running.

Shorts off, skirt hiked up. Her fingers slide into you easily, and she grabs your thigh to hoist it up. She finally sinks into you and sees stars.

"Fuck", she mumbles, voice muffled by your neck.

"Oh", you breathe, agreeing. Your hips roll up against hers, and she nudges deeper. Her tip prods against a spot deep inside of you. It makes her moan.

You're both slippery, and her hands keep sliding down your skin whenever she doesn't pay attention. It happens too often, but there's not much she can do about it. She'd rather focus on the feeling of you clenching around her, and grinding against her. You moan and her brain short-circuits.

She smells like deodorant and sweat. Her curls are drenched. Your head lolls back, against the tiles, and hers drops forward. Kisses cover every inch of exposed skin, warm and wet.

You meet every thrust with a roll of your hips. In the showers, it's as foggy as it is inside your brain. You're focusing on Natasha, on her fucking into you like this is the last time she'll ever get to do this. She lifts your shirt enough to reach your breasts — thanks to Niko still nursing, her access to them hasn't been sufficient.

The second she starts peppering them with kisses, the haze in your head clears up a little. You still feel her inside of you, deep and relentless, her hands grasping at your sides and her lips around your nipple. But suddenly, you're not as immersed in it anymore. You lift your head, eyes clearer now, and bite back a breathless moan.

"Nat, where- where's the baby?"

Natasha curses, still buried deep inside of you. You're hot and tight and she really doesn't want to pause this to respond. Your mom-brain has awoken again, it seems.

Your nails rake down her back when she pulls out so only the head is inside. She presses open-mouthed kisses against your breast and thrusts back into you. She has your thigh pressed snugly against her side, and her fingers grip your skin for stability.

"He's fine", she finally murmurs. One hand moves to your ass, palming it. "I'm close."

"Yeah, I know", you pant. You can feel her twitch against your walls already. "But Niko..."

She groans against your breast. If you don't stop talking about the baby, she might never finish. She's so close, so close it hurts, but you're stubborn and overly cautious. Usually she is, too. There's no way she'd just leave Niko with anyone. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

"One more minute", she grunts, face buried in your chest. She has to try and speed run her orgasm. Her own fault for building up her stamina like this. "Promise he's okay."

"Natasha, the baby."

And again, you're talking about Niko. She knows she's having some kind of effect on you — you're flushed and breathless, trying your hardest not to be too loud. Despite you being in the locker room, the walls aren't entirely soundproof. If someone walks past the door, they'll hear you.

She's starting to wonder whether she's doing something wrong. There has to be a reason why you can't focus on her for a few minutes, after all.

"Babe", she moans, eyes squeezing shut, "you're distracting us."

You pause, if only briefly. She's so deep inside of you she doesn't even have to move, really — all she does is grind deeper, hitting spots that make tingles shoot down your spine. You almost feel bad for your mom-brain kicking in again.

"What if they- oh", you moan. Your eyes slip shut. "What if they drop him?"

Natasha laughs against your skin, then moans. Her thumb finds your clit, and she circles it.

"They won't."

You'd love to believe her, but the internal tug-of-war continues. You're somewhere between the deep, aching pleasure she's causing you, and the nagging worry that's keeping you from coming on the spot. Your body is begging for it at this point — you can feel the orgasm creep closer with every sloppy thrust.

"What if he-" Another moan. You meet her hips with your own. "Shit, right there."

Natasha has been leaving hickeys all over your chest. Your breast, collarbone, shoulder. She throbs inside you and cums, finally, unloading herself in you and filling you up until it drips down your thighs.

Her thrusts slow down, then stop entirely. You're both soaking wet and out of breath. Soft pants echo from the discolored tiles.

She nuzzles your chest with her face and you, fingers raking through dripping wet red hair, pause. You blink, then slowly push her off you. She wants to grab you and turn you around, pin you against the wall so she can continue from behind. However, she knows that won't happen.

"Niko", you say, staring at her. She seems to shrink a bit. "You left our infant son alone with a bunch of- bunch of jocks! Are you stupid?"

"I promise he's okay", she says, still roaming your body with her hands. "He loves them, they love him. He's fine."

You scoff and bat her hands away. She gives you a sheepish look.

"'Fine'", you mock. You turn off the water and step out of the shower, clothes soaking wet. "He probably thinks we abandoned him!"

"No, he-" She falters and grabs a towel to wrap it around you. You let her — begrudgingly. "I bet he's relieved to get a break from us."

You shoot her a glare that shuts her right up. Part of you feels smug, watching that happen. Natasha's still scared by you. She's six feet of muscle and confidence, but you manage to make her go quiet with just one look.

You dry your arms and face with the towel as you step out of the locker room. Natasha hurries to keep up, the wet soles of her shoes squeaking on the vinyl floor. You leave water puddles in your path.

The second you step into the gym, Clint looks up. To your surprise, he doesn't seem panicked — he doesn't look happy either, though. And neither does Niko. You start running when a pout forms on his face.

"Oh, my poor baby", you coo, scooping him up. He lets out a whine. "I'm so sorry, my love. This was mama's fault."

Natasha exchanges a look with Clint. She's used to taking the blame by now, no matter what happened. Truthfully, sometimes nothing has to happen for her to take some kind of blame.

"See?", she says. "He's fine."

Niko and you both turn your heads at the exact same moment. The look of judgement is identical as well. Natasha wasn't sure whether a baby could be passive aggressive before, but Niko just answered that question.

"He looks disgusted."

"He is", you retort, bouncing him. He frowns at Natasha, then looks at you and switches up. A wide smile, exposing gums and a single tooth. He grabs the necklace you're wearing and clutches the charm in his chubby fist. "Oh, my angel."

Clint glances at Natasha. "When's the last time she coddled you like this?"

No reply. Instead, she picks up a half empty bottle and chucks it at his head. He jumps to the side just in time, laughing. He knows he's stirring the pot, and he's enjoying every second of it. It's his duty as Niko's godfather.

Natasha, however, isn't too amused. She doesn't like to admit that she's jealous. Of a baby, too. Her own son, her DNA, her own flesh and blood. He got his charm from her — the smile, the green eyes. Red curls and head tilts. He knows how to make others fall in love with him.

Unfortunately, he's using that to divert all attention from her as well. You only have eyes for him.

You're still not looking at her. You're turned to the wall, your shirt lifted enough to be able to feed him. Natasha barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. Just minutes ago, that was all hers.

"A baby", Clint reminds her, using that same voice you always use. "Grown adult, by the way."

He might have a point. Natasha will keep trying, though. She'll get your attention eventually. You're not going to keep neglecting her forever, after all.

. . .

For once, the room is silent. No baby snoring, no white noise playing. No rain, either, and no sounds of traffic thanks to the windows being closed. All Natasha hears is ragged breathing and the sound of slick mouths meeting over and over again.

Her hand slowly creeps up your back. Fingertips graze the clasp of your bra, and she manages to undo it despite you being a distraction. The pressure around your chest loosens, and the bra leaves behind pressure marks. Red lines, faint and wrapping around your torso like vines.

Not even the baby monitor on the nightstand fazes her. She's completely focused on you.

"Slow down", you murmur. You wrap your arm around her neck and pull her closer, so close that she's chest to chest with you. "Why're you in a hurry?"

She shakes her head and doesn't answer. Instead, she tugs the bra straps off your shoulders. More skin is exposed, slightly paler than the rest of you, and she leans in to pepper it with kisses. All hers at last. Nobody to interrupt.

Your back arches when her hand sneaks between your legs. You're only wearing shorts, so it's easy for her to push past the thin piece of fabric. Calloused fingers run through your folds and you try to rut your hips against her hand.

"Thought you told me to slow down", she mumbles, voice muffled against your chest. "Who's impatient now?"

You can't speak anymore. She's got you pinned to the bed, all sweaty and covered in kisses. She's full of lipstick as well — the red color is smudged all over her collarbones, arms, stomach. Not even her thighs were safe.

It's your turn. She's kissing all over you now, smelling sun lotion and perfume. A hint of something sweet, too. Maybe milk.

She traces the marks on your back as she nuzzles into your chest. You're still grinding your whole soul into her fingers, and honestly, she's living for it. No sharing. No baby who knows how to pick the worst moments. Just you and her, trying to stay quiet as to not wake the sleeping infant in the nursery.

There's no way for her to speak through the mouthful of breast she's apparently trying to swallow, but there's no need for it, either. All she has to do is curl her fingers and listen to your gasp.

Things are going good. She's knuckles-deep inside you, she's hard and close to ruining her shorts, and if she plays her cards right, she'll finish inside you instead of on her own hand.

Another thrust of her fingers. You're swollen around her by now, your sensitivity skyrocketing with each pump. You seem immersed enough for Natasha to believe that nothing will distract you — eyes half-lidded, moans shaky and erratic. You keep clenching around her.

You're getting closer. Natasha's free hand starts fumbling with her shorts, trying to free herself. Then, the baby monitor releases a cry of complaint.

Immediately, you're sitting up and scrambling to grab the little device. You can see Niko on the screen, sitting in his crib and screaming like a banshee. You let out a curse, and Natasha realizes protesting is pointless. You won't be able to focus until the baby is happy again.

You get out of bed before she can properly pull her fingers from you. The door opens and you disappear down the hallway, heading straight for Niko's nursery. Natasha sighs and slumps into the messy sheets. Even from all the way over here, she can hear your voice as you soothe the baby.

It takes a while. Five minutes, then ten. Twenty. Eventually, she's had enough. She scoots out of bed and makes her way to the nursery.

She hears your voice and stops in the doorway. You're in the middle of the room, carrying Niko and humming something. He's not having it — one hand curled into your bare shoulder, he lets out an undignified huff. Tears are drying on his chubby cheeks.

"What happened?", she finally asks, still sulking a bit.

"I don't know. Maybe a bad dream, or maybe something woke him up. Did you hear the cars outside earlier?"

Earlier — back when she was knuckles-deep inside you, when you were moaning into her ear. Soaked fingers and swollen lips. Of course she didn't hear the damn cars.

"No", she says, glancing at Niko. He raises his eyebrows in the clumsy way he does. "Want me to take over?"

Natasha knows what she's doing. For some reason, it takes him way longer to fall asleep when you're there. When it's just her, he gets sleepy way faster. If she's lucky, he'll be out cold in ten minutes.

You give her a hesitant look and cradle him a bit closer. He lets out a wail and kicks his socked feet.

"I don't know", you say. You get an unimpressed look in response. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

"He is okay", she says, walking up to you. "He's thriving. Look at him."

"He cried."

So will I, Natasha thinks. She's still bitter. She scoops him from your arms, anyways. The way he nestles into her makes her forget about her little grudge, if only briefly. He's her baby, after all. No matter how many times he interrupts, no matter how much attention he steals from her.

"See?", she says, rubbing his back. He blinks slowly. "He's good. Better than good. Doing better than I am."

You hesitate again, then cave. You could use a break, and they need to bond a little, anyway. It's been a rough few weeks.

You kiss both their cheeks before leaving. The door shuts quietly, and the second Niko realizes you're gone, he turns to Natasha. A frown appears on his face and he slaps his hands against her chest. She sighs, but the corners of her mouth tug into a smile.

"Alright, mister", she mumbles, walking to the rocking chair in the corner. She opens the window before sitting down. "Just you and me now. You happy? I doubt it."

No response — obviously. She leans over to grab the folded blanket on the dresser, which she drapes over the baby. He's yawning already. The air coming in through the window is definitely helping her with putting him to sleep.

She studies his face in the soft lighting of his nightlight. Definitely her own features, but much sweeter. There's very little he got from you, which is a shame.

"This isn't fair, you know", she mumbles. She starts moving the rocking chair a little. "You look like me. You're replacing me, aren't you? She already likes you better."

He coos, his suckling on the pacifier getting a bit quicker. Sleepy eyes blink and stare up at her, then close again. Natasha smiles and brushes a red lock out of his face.

"It's my turn", she says. "You need to sleep through the night, sir. Do you know how long it's been since I had mommy all to myself? Way too long. But you wouldn't know, would you?"

His eyes stay closed for half a minute, which is almost long enough to make her believe he's passed out. But then he opens them again with a start, one arm flailing as he attempts to sit up. She shushes him and pats his back.

"No, no, you're sleeping. You've got her wrapped around your finger, you little bastard. If you stay up, it's over for me."

Somehow, that does the trick. Niko yawns, his pacifier almost falling out of his mouth, then closes his eyes again. He snuggles into her chest and lets out a tired little huff. Relief floods her, and she lets out a sigh.

"Mhm, that's right", she mumbles. "She's neglecting me, kid. All because of you. You better stay asleep."

She stays seated for another ten minutes, just to make sure he's actually asleep. Once his breathing has evened out and he isn't moving too much anymore, she carefully gets up and balances the sleeping baby in her arms. The most difficult part is the transfer to his crib — a lot could go wrong here. But she lowers him down onto the mattress slowly, removes the blanket, shushes him when he stirs. She even manages to put his wearable blanket back on.

As she closes the door to the nursery, you adjust the fabric that's hugging your body now. Skin tight, short, definitely bought before you had Niko. Maybe that's not a bad thing, though — the dress accentuates every curve nicely. It looks even better paired with the lipstick you're wearing.

Natasha has no clue you heard every word. The baby monitor was still on, and even if it didn't film her since the camera is right above the crib, you could still hear her talk. You heard every complaint, and though they mostly seemed like jokes, you couldn't help but feel bad. She adores Niko, you know that. Yet, she's pouty and a bit annoyed that her nights have changed so drastically.

You can't blame her. She sees you gush over someone else now. What you're doing is basically dote on a smaller, cuter version of her.

The door opens and you turn around. Natasha looks up and pauses. She wasn't expecting you to be out of bed, or even awake. She definitely wasn't expecting you to be wearing that, either.

There's no way she can say anything. Her mouth dries up and her body stays frozen in place. All she can do is stare.

"You okay?", you ask softly. You tilt your head and step closer. "What's with the look on your face?"

Natasha clears her throat. "That's my favorite dress", she mumbles, voice cracking. "Summer break."

A smile tugs at your lips. You remember that day. Strolling through Rome with your family, looking at cute little shops and eating ice cream. Bending over to pick up a coin you dropped. The dress rode up a tiny bit, but just enough to make her tug you into some alleyway.

"Almost got us arrested", you add. You're not going to tell her that you heard her whine to Niko. You grab her hand instead and pull it to your waist. "Still want your turn?"

She scoffs, her fingers pressing into your side. She draws you closer, dips her head to press a kiss to your exposed shoulder. Her fingers twitch, restless and impatient to put them to use.

"Don't even have to ask", she mutters, still sulking but slightly soothed. "I've waited long enough, I think."

"I know", you whisper. You put your finger under her chin to tilt her head up. She chases after the brief kiss you place on her lips, but you're already walking her backwards. "Come on, sit down. Don't move a muscle."

Natasha doesn't argue. She doesn't want to, either. She sits down, hands resting on the mattress and eyes glued to you. There's one good thing about being touch-deprived, and that is getting hard way quicker. Not that it ever took her long, anyway.

You put your hands on her shoulders to push her back against the headrest. The dress makes it a little harder to move, but you manage to sit on her lap anyway. Lifting your hand, you brush loose strands of hair behind her ear.

"You deserve more", you say quietly, tilting your head. She repeats the gesture without noticing. "More attention, more time, more everything. We both do. I know it's hard with the baby, but if we're too busy, we need to try and make time."

Natasha shakes her head. "No, I just...I sometimes miss the way things were."

"Mhm?" You lean in and place a kiss on her cheek. "Just us two, huh?"

"Yeah", she admits. Her hand runs up and down your side, to your back, smoothing along the curve of your ass. "It was different."

"I know", you mumble. Your finger hooks into the necklace she's wearing. "You want my attention back."

Natasha scoffs, her hand lightly patting your side. She shrugs, but the mask of indifference she's putting on wouldn't even fool your son. You can see right through her — she's jealous, she's starved, she's been patient. She has no expectations, but that doesn't mean she can't miss it.

"I like having your attention", she eventually admits, eyebrows furrowed. Her hand grips your side. "I know why you're distracted, but it sucks sometimes."

You hum and cup her face. She closes her eyes when you start peppering slow kisses all over it. You expand the area you're targeting and continue along her jaw, down her neck. You're determined to kiss the scowl on her face away.

"Don't be mad, mama", you mumble, nuzzling her neck. Your hand reaches between you, slipping into her boxers. "I'm here now, aren't I? You got my attention."

Psychological warfare — that's the first thing that enters Natasha's mind. The second thing is how good your hand feels as you start jerking her off, slowly but firmly. Her hips almost buck.

"Not mad", she says, trying not to close her eyes. She's getting out of breath more and more with each movement of your hand. You squeeze gently and she curses. "Fuck- I missed you."

"I'm right here", you promise. You kiss her on the mouth, hand still moving inside her boxers. "I'm not going anywhere. You're still the one."

Every stroke of your hand makes the pressure grow more. She throbs hotly, squirming underneath you and trying to keep herself from nutting two minutes into the handjob. It probably won't end at that, but it'd be embarrassing.

You let go without warning her first. Before she can complain, you're tugging down her shorts and scooting off her lap. Her eyes widen a bit when you position yourself between her legs.

"Oh", she moans, raking her fingers through your hair. "That's, uhm..."

"Don't talk", you coo. "Let me take care of you tonight. You've done enough."

Natasha nods, breathless and blushing. She tips her head back so it rests against the wall, her hand still buried in your hair. You're right — she has done enough. She's the one who initiated a large majority of sexual intimacy over the past few months. It's your turn.

You kiss her thigh, leaving a red lipstick mark behind. Another one follows, then you kiss up her shaft. You taste precum before taking her into your mouth. You can't see her, but the noise that leaves her tells you enough.

Slender fingers grip your hair. She hears you gag, feels the silky heat of your mouth, and nearly loses it. If this is what happens when she waits a bit longer than she's used to, she'll do it over and over again.

White heat shoots through her body. She told herself she'd hold back, but your tongue runs through the slit, you twist your hand around the base, and suddenly she has no choice anymore. You taste her on your tongue and down your throat. When you look up again, your mouth is smudged with a mixture of cum and lipstick.

"See?", you say, already stroking her from base to tip again. The overstimulation makes her whine. "All yours. Don't forget that."

"No", she agrees, eyes squeezed shut. "Never forgetting it."

"Good." You lean in and kiss her, still jerking her off. "Now tell me: what do you want, baby?"

There're a million things she wants, and they all involve you. But that's impossible, so she settles for the one thing she's been seeking out for weeks at this point. She needs to be inside you, and she needs to come inside you, too.

Hands on her shoulders and eyes on hers. No words, just rapid breathing and quiet noises coming from the back of your throats. You don't worry about protection too much. Nothing's happened so far. The universe wouldn't be cruel enough to punish you for finally having time for intimacy again, after all. Or that's what Natasha tells herself.

You let her finish inside, and it's magical. What's almost just as magical is lying down afterwards and not hearing a sound. Instead, silence. The traffic outside, the overlapping of your breaths inside. She buries her face in your chest and listens to your heartbeat slow down to a normal pace again.

"He's asleep."

"Yeah", you agree, running your hand through her hair. "It's quiet."

Natasha hums and kisses the side of your breast. It hasn't been long since you got Niko used to sleeping in his own room. No more crib right next to your bed — instead, he spends almost every night in his nursery.

She looks up and you immediately know she's about to say something stupid. She knows it's stupid, too. She says it anyway.

"I kinda miss him", she says. "Can I go get him?"

You raise your eyebrows at her, but don't reply. There's no need to, as she can pretty much read your mind at this point. She shrugs sheepishly.

"You're thinking it, too."

"Thinking that I want to wake my peacefully sleeping baby?" You scoff and swat at her shoulder. "No. Are you insane?"

"Come on", she pleads.

"No", you repeat, frowning. "I got you to myself for ten minutes and you want to ruin it? No. Seriously."

Natasha sighs, but caves. She slumps into you again, body half draped over yours. Her hand runs up and down your thigh, thumb tracing the faint stretch marks there. She's happy about it, though. It tells her you feel something similar to what she felt.

"Funny", she mumbles. "Are you jealous now?"

For that, she almost gets banished to the nursery with Niko.

#short n sweet #short n sweet au #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #wlw #lesbian #marvel mcu #marvel #wlw smut #smut #fluff #moon’s fics

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strwbyoons · 4 months ago

Text

HEARTWEAVE

STARRING ... SPIDEY!J. JUNGKOOK X READER

WORD COUNT ... 9.0K

SUMMARY ... in which jungkook realises his heart is caught in your web.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... PATHETIC KOOK ALERT!! cringefail!jungkook, mostly pure fluff. unrequited(?) love if you blink. slow burn(?). unresolved crush. idk i had a lot of fun writing this tho!! not proofread, so there may be mistakes 🫣

taglist. next.

jungkook doesn't know how to approach you.

he's seen you in passing countless times, walked your path because the two of you share the same class. he's considered saying hi, or asking if you need help with schoolwork, or literally doing anything else other than following you and staring like a creep.

the only genuine interaction the two of you have had was during freshman year when jungkook asked you to point out the lecture hall for chemistry, and you laughed and told him you were headed the same way — and just as lost as he was.

he thinks about that moment more often than he should. not because it was anything significant, but because it was the last time talking to you felt easy—effortless. before he let hesitation sink its claws into him, before he started overthinking every glance, every opportunity to speak.

now, jungkook just watches from a distance, caught somewhere between curiosity and cowardice. he wonders if you remember that day at all, if you ever think about him in passing the way he does you. probably not. he wouldn’t blame you.

still, the thought lingers. maybe tomorrow, he tells himself. maybe tomorrow he’ll say something.

jimin always makes fun of him for it, saying he’s fought villains before and yet one girl makes him shy?

“bro, you’ve literally been thrown through a building,” jimin snickers, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth. “but god forbid you say hi to a girl in your chemistry class.”

jungkook rolls his eyes, staring down at his untouched burger. he doesn’t pay jimin’s teasing any mind—he never does. it’s easy for jimin to talk; he’s never had to hide a whole second life, never had to balance midterms with stopping armed robberies. he doesn’t get it.

(though, to be fair, jimin is right. jungkook has gone toe-to-toe with some of the worst criminals in the city. yet somehow, the idea of talking to you makes his palms sweat.)

“it’s not that simple,” he mutters, picking at the edge of his tray.

jimin snorts. “right, because saying ‘hey, what’s up?’ is way harder than getting launched off a bridge.”

jungkook groans, dragging a hand down his face. he doesn’t have a good rebuttal for that. mostly because jimin’s right, and he hates that.

“it’s different,” he insists, even though it really isn’t.

jimin raises an eyebrow. “how?”

jungkook opens his mouth, then closes it. then opens it again. “because—” he starts, but the words get stuck in his throat, tangled up in excuses that don’t make sense even to him.

jimin grins, sensing victory. “you’re scared of her,” he sings, dragging out the last word obnoxiously.

jungkook scowls. “i’m not scared of her.”

“you so are,” jimin laughs. “like, imagine this. you’re mid-battle, bad guy’s got you in a chokehold, and suddenly—boom! it’s her. she’s watching. do you still pull your usual show-off stunts, or do you fumble and get your ass kicked?”

jungkook doesn’t answer.

jimin gasps, slapping the table. “you’d fumble.”

“i would not.”

“you so would.”

jungkook glares at him, but it’s weak. because, again, jimin is right. jungkook has had guns pointed at his head, has dodged death more times than he can count, but somehow, the thought of you seeing him trip over his own feet is what keeps him up at night.

jimin waggles his brows. “just talk to her, dude. it’s not that deep.”

but it is. it is that deep. because talking to you is different. talking to you is real, not some masked-up alter ego that people only half-believe in. and if he messes up as spiderman, he can hide behind the suit. if he messes up as jungkook—well.

there’s no hiding from that.

jungkook stabs at his fries with unnecessary aggression. “it’s not that simple,” he mutters again, knowing full well jimin won’t let it go.

“bro, it’s literally that simple,” jimin says, leaning back in his chair like he’s exhausted by the sheer weight of jungkook’s awkwardness. “just go up to her, say—i dunno—‘hey, you dropped this’ or something, even if she didn’t. instant conversation starter.”

jungkook squints at him. “so, lie?”

“not lie,” jimin corrects, “strategically mislead. big difference.”

jungkook exhales through his nose. “you are the worst person i know.”

“and yet, i’m the only person willing to help your pathetic ass,” jimin grins, stealing one of jungkook’s fries.

jungkook should be used to this by now. the teasing, the dramatic reenactments of how he supposedly looks when he freezes up around you (jimin does this thing where he goes stiff as a board and stares blankly into space—it’s completely inaccurate, by the way). but today, it gets under his skin more than usual. maybe because he knows he’s been avoiding this for way too long.

“whatever,” jungkook grumbles, shoving jimin’s hand away from his tray. “it’s not like i have time for dating, anyway.”

jimin rolls his eyes so hard his whole body moves with it. “oh my god, it’s not about dating. just be normal for once. be her friend. say more than two words to her that aren’t ‘thanks’ or ‘sorry’ when you accidentally bump into her in the hallway.”

jungkook hates how easily jimin reads him. it’s not like he hasn’t considered all of this before. but the thing is—he’s not good at the whole “normal” thing. he doesn’t know how to balance both sides of his life, how to let himself want something outside of the web-slinging and late-night bruises.

because what if he lets you in, and you see everything? what if you see the real him, and you don’t like what’s underneath?

“just think about it,” jimin says, shoving back from the table and tossing his empty tray onto the pile near the trash. “but not too hard. your brain might overheat.”

“ha ha,” jungkook deadpans.

but later, when he’s walking home with his hands stuffed in his pockets, he thinks about it. he thinks about it way too hard.

today is the day. jungkook is going to do it. he’s going to walk up to you, give you his biggest award-winning smile, and he’s going to ask if you want to study together.

he’s going to do it. he’s going to do it.

he’s not going to do it.

because now you’re here—actually here, walking straight toward him, completely unaware that he’s been psyching himself up for this for the past fifteen minutes.

his heart stumbles over itself.

he keeps walking, like a normal person. normal people walk. normal people breathe. normal people don’t panic just because the girl they like is getting closer with every step.

you’re looking at your phone, scrolling absentmindedly, your brows pulling together in a way that makes jungkook wonder what you’re thinking about. your bag is slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, and you look—god, you look good. not in some over-the-top, magazine-cover way, but in the kind of way that makes his stomach feel weird and his feet feel heavier than they should.

he was not prepared for this.

his brain short-circuits. every pre-planned conversation starter he practiced disappears into the void. his feet slow down before he can stop them.

he’s close enough now that he could just say something. one word. one syllable. literally anything.

you look up, and jungkook stops breathing.

and then, like the complete disaster he is, he stops walking altogether.

which is unfortunate, because you don’t.

he realizes his mistake half a second too late, just as you get close enough that you nearly crash into him. nearly, because at the last second, you sidestep smoothly, like it’s no big deal, like you totally meant to almost collide with him just to keep things interesting.

and then you smile.

“oh! hey, jungkook!”

your voice is bright, cheery, like this is just another normal interaction between two normal classmates, not the catastrophic event jungkook’s body is currently treating it as.

his brain goes static. you said his name. you’re smiling at him. did you always smile at him like that? did the hallway lights always make you look this—

“you okay?” you ask, tilting your head. “you kinda just froze.”

jungkook blinks. words. say words.

“i—uh.”

good start. solid foundation.

you don’t seem fazed by his awkwardness. instead, you just grin and shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “what’s up? where are you headed?”

this is it. this is his chance. the perfect opportunity to say something cool, something casual, something that doesn’t make him sound like he’s barely holding it together.

jungkook swallows. “library.”

…right. just one word. like a total weirdo.

but somehow, you don’t seem to notice, nodding along like that was a perfectly normal response. “same! i have a psych paper due, but i was procrastinating, so now i have to power through. you too?”

jungkook should say something. something about school, or studying, or—oh, right, the reason he even stopped you in the first place.

ask her to study. ask her to study.

his mouth opens. what comes out instead is:

“you look… happy.”

he immediately wants to throw himself into the sun.

you laugh. a surprised, airy sound that makes jungkook’s chest feel tight. “thanks? i try.”

he nods. good. cool. nailed it.

(jimin is going to clown him so hard for this.)

you shift your weight, still standing in front of him and obviously waiting for him to contribute something meaningful to this conversation. as if he’s capable of that right now.

“so,” you continue, oblivious to the fact that jungkook’s brain is actively short-circuiting, “are you studying for midterms, too? or just, like, catching up?”

this. this is his moment.

just say it, he tells himself. it’s so easy. just ask if she wants to study together. worst-case scenario, she says no, and you move on, and you never speak again, and you have to drop out of school and move to a remote island where no one knows your shame—

“yeah,” he blurts out. not an answer to your question, exactly, but something.

your smile doesn’t waver. “cool, cool.” then, as if the universe is giving him the easiest possible setup: “wanna study together?”

jungkook’s entire soul leaves his body.

because—what? what?? that was supposed to be his line. that was the whole plan. but now you’re standing there, looking at him expectantly, like this is a totally casual, no-big-deal offer.

he should say yes.

he should absolutely say yes.

“uh.”

your head tilts. “you don’t have to,” you add quickly, as if you think he’s the one who might not want your company. “i just figured, y’know, since we’re both headed there anyway…”

this is so much worse. now you’re giving him an out, and if he hesitates any longer, he’s going to look like an idiot. more than he already does.

“yeah,” he says, a little too fast. “i mean, yeah. let’s—uh. let’s do that.”

you beam, like this is the best news you’ve heard all day. “awesome! let’s go.”

then you turn and start walking, fully expecting him to follow.

and jungkook? jungkook thinks he might actually die.

not from a supervillain attack, not from getting thrown off a building—no, it’s worse than that. he’s dying because you just asked him to study, and now he has to actually go through with it.

he forces his feet to move, catching up to your side even though his entire body feels like it’s running on autopilot. this wasn’t how this was supposed to go. he was supposed to be the one taking the initiative, proving to himself (and to jimin, unfortunately) that he could be normal about this.

instead, he’s trailing after you like a lost puppy, barely keeping up with the conversation.

“so,” you say, tucking your phone into your bag, “what class are you studying for?”

jungkook opens his mouth, then immediately panics because he didn’t think this far ahead. he is studying, technically, but he didn’t have a specific subject in mind. his only plan was talk to you and try not to embarrass himself.

which—so far? not going great.

“uh, chemistry,” he says, because that seems like a safe bet.

you hum in acknowledgment. “oof, rough. you started on that assignment yet?”

“yeah,” jungkook lies, because sure. why not.

you wince sympathetically. “brutal. hope you’re not failing as bad as i am.”

jungkook lets out a weak laugh. hope you’re not failing. if only you knew the things he actually had to juggle on top of school. but no big deal—he can totally pretend to be a normal college student for a couple of hours.

the library comes into view, and suddenly, it hits him—he’s about to spend an actual study session with you. at the same table. breathing the same air.

“you good?” you ask, shooting him a curious glance.

jungkook clears his throat. “yeah. just—uh. mentally preparing.”

you snort. “for studying?”

“yeah.”

you shake your head, laughing. “you’re a little weird, huh?”

jungkook nearly chokes.

but you don’t say it in a bad way. you’re smiling as you say it, like you find it endearing. like it doesn’t make you want to walk away. jungkook has no idea what to do with that.

his brain is still buffering by the time you step through the library doors, pushing them open with ease. this is just another regular day for you, like you didn’t just tell him—straight to his face—that you think he’s weird.

and that you don’t seem to mind.

he follows in a daze, letting the cool, quiet atmosphere of the library settle around him. there are plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the study area, but you don’t hesitate, making a beeline for a spot near the windows. sunlight spills over the wooden surface, and you plop your bag down, evidently having claimed this space a hundred times before.

“this seat good?” you ask, pulling out a chair.

jungkook nods dumbly. “yeah. good.”

(why does he sound like he just learned how to talk?)

you don’t seem to notice his internal struggle. instead, you pull out your laptop, sliding into the chair with the kind of ease that makes him jealous. how are you so normal about this? why does it feel like this is just a casual, no-pressure situation for you, while jungkook is actively fighting for his life?

he sits down, trying to regain control over his body. trying to focus on literally anything other than the fact that he can smell the faint scent of your shampoo from here.

(focus, he tells himself. be normal.)

you glance at him as you open your laptop. “do you need to charge anything?”

jungkook blinks. “huh?”

you gesture toward the outlet beside the table. “your laptop? phone? charger?”

right. yes. because normal people bring chargers to study sessions. normal people actually bring their school stuff.

slowly, with the painful realization that he is so unprepared for this, jungkook unzips his backpack and stares into the absolute void of nothingness inside.

no laptop. no charger. no notebook.

just… snacks. and, for some reason, an extra pair of gloves. his stomach sinks.

you peer over curiously. “uh—did you forget your stuff?”

(lie. lie, you absolute idiot.)

“yeah,” jungkook says, forcing a laugh that does not sound normal. “guess i left it at home.”

you blink at him. then, without missing a beat, you shrug. “that’s fine! we can just share.”

his brain nearly explodes. “what?”

you gesture toward your laptop. “i mean, if you’re studying chemistry, i have my notes from last semester. we can go over them together?”

together.

as in, sitting close. looking at the same screen. existing in the same breathing space.

jungkook swallows. he is not ready for this.

but somehow, he forces his legs to move, pulling his chair closer so he can see your laptop screen. the metal legs scrape lightly against the floor, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet library, but you don’t seem to care.

you rest your elbows on the table as your laptop boots up, fingers tapping absently against the keys. “so, chemistry,” you say, glancing at him with a playful smirk. “you’re totally failing, huh?”

jungkook lets out a breathy laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. “i mean. define failing.”

“oh my god.” you laugh, shaking your head. “yeah, okay, you definitely need this.”

your screen flashes on, illuminating your face as you navigate to your files. but jungkook isn’t looking at your notes.

because just before you click away, his eyes catch something else.

an open tab. a news article.

Spider-Man: Hero or Menace? City Officials Weigh In.

his heart jumps straight into his throat.

he doesn’t mean to react—doesn’t mean to tense up, doesn’t mean for his fingers to curl against his jeans—but it happens before he can stop it.

you don’t notice right away, too busy sorting through your documents. “i think i have an old study guide in here somewhere,” you mumble, scrolling. “oh! do you wanna—”

then you pause. jungkook can feel the exact second you realize where his attention is. you glance at the screen, then back at him.

“oh,” you say, blinking. “you’re a spider-man fan?”

he should lie.

he should lie, laugh it off, make some offhand comment about how everyone is at least a little curious about the city’s masked vigilante.

but his throat feels tight, and his brain is still processing the fact that you—of all people—were reading about him.

his hesitation must look weird because you tilt your head, smiling lightly. “i mean, i don’t blame you. he’s kind of cool, right?”

(kind of cool.)

jungkook swallows. “uh. yeah. i guess.”

you glance at the article again, then back at him. “i was just skimming,” you say, feeling the need to explain yourself. “some people in class were talking about him, and i realized that i don’t actually know much about him, so—” you gesture vaguely at the screen, “—research?”

jungkook’s head is spinning. “research,” he echoes.

you nod, chin resting in your palm. “it’s kinda crazy, though. no one even knows who he is.”

he forces himself to breathe. to relax. to be normal.

“yeah,” he says, voice even. “crazy.”

you huff out a laugh. “what do you think? hero or menace?”

jungkook blinks. “what?”

you nod toward the article, eyes bright with curiosity. “the headline. do you think he’s a good guy? or is he, like, actually sketchy?”

he should say something neutral. something vague. something that won’t give him away.

but for some reason, looking at you—sitting there, genuinely wondering, genuinely curious—he can’t stop himself from asking:

“what do you think?”

you blink, surprised by the question. but you consider it, eyes flicking back to the screen as you chew on your bottom lip.

then, finally, “...i think he’s just trying his best.”

jungkook’s stomach flips.

you shrug, scrolling absently through the article. “i mean, yeah, the whole vigilante thing is kinda illegal, but—” you pause, then shake your head, like you’re struggling to find the right words. “i don’t think he’d do all this if he didn’t care, y’know? like, he doesn’t have to help people. but he does anyway.”

you turn back to jungkook, smiling softly. “so yeah. i think he’s a good guy.”

jungkook is silent.

because suddenly, sitting here, right next to you and hearing you say that, he’s pretty sure you just turned him into an even bigger mess than he already was.

jungkook doesn’t know what to say. he just sits there, staring at you, heartbeat in his ears, hands curled into fists beneath the table.

he’s just trying his best.

he swallows hard. you have no idea.

but you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, already clicking away from the article, pulling up your notes like this conversation didn’t just make his brain short-circuit.

“okay, so, chemistry,” you announce, stretching your arms over your head before settling in. “i have, like, three different study guides, so take your pick.”

jungkook is still trying to remember how to function as a person.

he clears his throat, shifting in his seat, eyes flicking away from you as if that will help him not think about what you just said. “uh. yeah. sure.”

you hum, scrolling through your files. “oh, also—before i forget.”

he glances up. “huh?”

you flash him a grin. “you should totally tell me your opinion on spider-man sometime.”

jungkook chokes.

he should’ve seen that coming.

his reaction is immediate—too immediate, too obvious, and you blink at him like you weren’t expecting that much of a response.

he forces himself to play it off, coughing into his fist. “uh—why?”

you tilt your head, amused. “you just seemed interested, that’s all.”

interested? yeah, that’s one way to put it.

you shrug, tapping at your keyboard. “not now, though. we’re totally studying. no distractions.”

(no distractions. funny.)

jungkook nods, gripping his pencil a little too tightly. “right. studying.”

but as you start explaining your notes, flipping through equations and diagrams, jungkook isn’t paying attention, because all he can think about is the way you looked when you said it. like it was obvious. like you didn’t even have to think twice.

"i think he’s a good guy."

yeah.

he’s so not ready for this.

the next time jungkook sees you, he’s in the suit.

he doesn’t expect to find you all the way across town, so far from campus—especially not here, where the streets are rough and the people are meaner. and he definitely doesn’t expect to see you sprinting full-speed down the sidewalk.

his stomach drops. and then he sees why.

before he can think, before he can second-guess, his body moves on instinct.

jungkook swings down without hesitation, landing hard on the pavement just a few feet ahead of you. the second you see him, you skid to a stop, sneakers screeching against the concrete.

“whoa—” you breathe, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling from the sprint.

but jungkook isn’t looking at you. his focus is already behind you, on the two men barreling toward you from the other end of the street.

his web shoots out before they can get any closer, yanking the first guy clean off his feet and sending him crashing into a lamppost. the second guy isn’t any smarter—he reaches for something in his jacket, but jungkook is faster, spinning and kicking the guy square in the chest before he even has a chance to react.

it’s over in seconds. too easy.

but the part jungkook wasn’t prepared for—the part making his heart pound harder than the fight itself—is you.

because when he finally turns back around, you’re still standing there, staring at him like you’ve just seen a ghost.

he swallows. he should leave. he should web them up, say something cool, and leave.

instead, he says, “you good?”

you blink at him. your breathing is still uneven, adrenaline still high, but... you smile.

“yeah,” you say, nodding. “that was… really cool.”

jungkook has been shot at before. he has been punched through windows, thrown into walls, nearly crushed by collapsing buildings. but somehow, this—you, standing there, grinning at him, eyes bright—is what almost knocks him on his ass.

he clears his throat, trying to regain control of his entire existence. “uh. yeah. just—y’know. doing my job.”

you huff a laugh. “well, thanks for that.”

(you’re thanking him. you’re actually thanking him.)

jungkook knows he should leave. he knows this.

but instead, his eyes flick to your bag, then back up to your face.

“what are you even doing here?” he blurts.

you blink, surprised by the question. “uh. getting very nearly robbed, apparently.”

jungkook exhales sharply. great. real smooth.

you shake your head, adjusting your strap. “i was just picking something up for my friend. obviously didn’t think that one through.”

jungkook doesn’t say anything, just clenches his fists at the thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t been here. if he hadn’t been on this side of town tonight.

“seriously, though,” you continue, tilting your head at him. “you okay?”

jungkook freezes. “what?”

“you just… looked kinda tense for a second.”

his brain short-circuits. because what kind of person almost gets mugged and then asks if their rescuer is okay?

he shakes his head, stepping back, forcing himself to get it together. “yeah. i’m good.”

you don’t look convinced. but you nod anyway, shifting on your feet.

“…guess this is where you do the whole mysterious-hero thing and disappear, huh?” you joke lightly.

jungkook should, he needs to. but he hesitates. because for the first time, standing here, watching you look at him like this, he wonders. if he took off the mask right now...

would you still look at him the same way?

jungkook needs to leave. he should web up the guys groaning on the pavement, throw out a quick “stay safe,” and disappear into the night like he always does.

but he doesn’t.

because you’re still looking at him. really looking at him. and for some reason, that makes it impossible to move.

he swallows, gripping his fingers into fists at his sides. don’t be stupid. don’t linger. don’t let yourself wonder. his fingers twitch and he almost—almost—reaches up.

but then you sigh, shaking your head with a small, amused smile. “well, thanks again, spider-man,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “i should probably get going before more weirdos show up.”

just like that, the moment shatters.

jungkook blinks, the weight of reality crashing back in.

right. spider-man.

not jungkook. not a guy who shares your chemistry class, who has spent so much time psyching himself up just to talk to you like a normal person.

just a masked stranger you’ll forget about by morning.

he exhales, finally forcing himself to take a step back. “yeah,” he mutters. “probably a good idea.”

you nod, gripping the strap of your bag. “guess i’ll see you around?”

jungkook hesitates. he shouldn’t answer that. he shouldn’t make promises. but then—because he’s apparently the biggest idiot alive—he hears himself say,

“yeah.”

your lips twitch, eyes flicking over him one last time. and then, without another word, you turn and walk away.

jungkook watches you go, his chest tight, his heart pounding like he just walked out of a fight.

and that—the way he feels right now, standing frozen in the middle of the street, watching you disappear around the corner—is more terrifying than anything he’s ever faced.

after that first time, jungkook just keeps running into you.

you’ve been caught up in a gas station robbery. your train got derailed. been a victim in three separate mugging attempts.

either you’re trying to manifest him showing up, or you might actually be the unluckiest person jungkook has ever met.

and the worst part is you don’t even seem bothered.

the first couple of times, sure—you were a little shaken up, a little breathless, wide-eyed and gripping your bag like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. but by the fourth time he drops out of the sky to save you, you barely even flinch.

“oh,” you say, blinking up at him as he lands in front of you, cutting off yet another guy who thought it would be a great idea to corner you in an alley. “you again.”

jungkook stares. you again?

he webs the guy’s wrist before he can bolt, yanking him forward just enough to knock him out cold with one clean punch. then, once the guy is down and sufficiently tied up, he turns back to you. arms crossed. head tilted.

“...okay,” he says slowly. “you have got to be doing this on purpose.”

you snort, shaking your head as you adjust your bag strap. “oh, totally. i go wandering through crime-infested areas just hoping you’ll show up.”

he points at you. “see? that’s exactly what someone who’s doing this on purpose would say.”

you just roll your eyes, amused. “do you think i want to be constantly in danger?”

jungkook narrows his eyes. “...i don’t know. do you?”

you laugh, and something about the sound makes his stomach do something weird and annoying. “trust me, spider-man,” you say, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “if i had it my way, you and i would never be seeing each other again.”

for some reason, that makes his chest tighten. he should let it go. he should web this guy to a fire escape for the cops to find and leave. but instead, he hears himself saying, “what were you doing here, anyway?”

you blink. “going home?”

“through an alley?”

“it’s a shortcut.”

jungkook throws up his hands. “it’s also where people get mugged!”

you squint at him like he’s being dramatic. “not all the time.”

jungkook lets out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “oh my god.”

you snicker. “relax. i’ll take the long way next time, okay?”

he doesn’t believe you. not even a little bit. but he can’t exactly force you to change your entire route home.

he exhales, shaking his head. “if you say so.”

you smirk, tilting your head. “aww, do you worry about me, spider-man?”

jungkook nearly chokes. “what— no. no, i—” he shakes his head aggressively, backing up like that will help him recover. “i worry about the crime rate.”

you nod, way too entertained. “right. of course.”

he glares. “i do.”

“sure, sure.”

he groans, already regretting everything about this conversation.

and then—because he really needs to get out of here before he embarrasses himself any further—he steps back, flexing his fingers before shooting out a web.

but just before he swings away, he hears you call out:

“see you next time, spider-man.”

he freezes. that almost sounded like a promise.

“dude.”

jungkook sighs. “no.”

“dude.”

“jimin, no.”

“duuuude.” jimin is vibrating in his seat, practically buzzing with excitement as he leans across the cafeteria table. “you know what this means, right?”

jungkook takes an aggressive bite of his sandwich, staring him down. “that i have terrible luck?”

jimin gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like jungkook just personally offended him. “terrible luck? bro, are you hearing yourself? this isn’t bad luck—this is literally fate.”

jungkook makes a face. “it’s really not.”

“okay, so let’s go over this one more time,” jimin says, ignoring him entirely. he starts ticking off on his fingers. “you meet this girl in class. you like her. but you’re too much of a coward to do anything about it—”

jungkook glares. “thanks.”

“—and then, suddenly, the universe just keeps throwing her in your path. over and over and over again. and not just in normal, everyday ways—no, no, no. she gets into highly dangerous situations that just so happen to require your heroic intervention.”

he wiggles his fingers dramatically. “it’s like magic.”

jungkook takes another bite, chewing slowly. “or, and hear me out—maybe she just has bad luck.”

“bad luck doesn’t land you in the same masked superhero’s path five different times,” jimin says, slapping his hand on the table. “this is literally the plot of, like, half the romcoms i’ve ever seen.”

jungkook groans, dropping his head onto the table.

“you’re actually insane,” he mumbles into his arms.

“insanely right,” jimin corrects, grinning.

jungkook lifts his head just enough to squint at him. “you’re telling me that if you got randomly mugged three times in the span of a month, you’d consider it romantic?”

jimin shrugs. “depends on who’s saving me.”

jungkook groans again, slumping further into the table.

jimin, unbothered, just leans in closer. “look, bro, all i’m saying is—you clearly have some cosmic connection to this girl. so use it.”

“use it?” jungkook repeats, deadpan.

“yes. as in, maybe instead of waiting for her next near-death experience, you actually talk to her for real.”

jungkook scowls. “i have talked to her.”

jimin makes a face. “you’ve talked to her as spider-man. that doesn’t count.”

jungkook hesitates.

because… yeah. he has technically talked to you. but barely as himself. hardly without the mask.

and the worst part? he kind of likes it that way. because spider-man isn’t awkward. spider-man doesn’t trip over his words, or overthink every interaction, or panic every time you smile at him.

spider-man is confident. quick. easy.

but jungkook? jungkook is an absolute mess.

he presses his lips together, staring down at what’s left of his sandwich.

jimin watches him, expression shifting slightly. “look,” he says, voice a little softer now. “you don’t have to do anything. but… don’t you think it’s a little crazy that she keeps showing up in your life like this?”

jungkook doesn’t answer. because yeah, it is crazy.

but what’s even crazier is the way he already knows this isn’t the last time it’ll happen.

jimin squints at him. “wait, hold on.”

jungkook braces himself, because he knows that look. that’s the i’m about to make your life hell look.

“didn’t you guys, like… study together once?” jimin asks, tilting his head.

jungkook shifts uncomfortably. “uh. yeah.”

jimin slaps the table. “exactly. so that means you already had an in.”

jungkook sighs, rubbing his temple. “what’s your point?”

“my point is,” jimin says, voice heavy with dramatic exasperation, “you had a perfectly normal, non-life-threatening interaction with her before all of this. meaning, you had every opportunity to follow up—y’know, send a text, sit next to her in class, act like a human being.”

jungkook stares at his sandwich, avoiding eye contact.

jimin’s grin sharpens. “...so?”

jungkook exhales, slumping back in his seat. “i, uh… didn’t actually talk to her again,” he mutters.

jimin blinks. “after studying?”

jungkook nods, already regretting admitting anything.

jimin’s jaw drops. “not once?”

jungkook shrugs helplessly. “i was gonna, but then—”

jimin points an accusatory finger at him. “but then you saved her as spider-man and decided that totally counted as interacting with her, didn’t you?”

jungkook opens his mouth. closes it. scratches the back of his neck.

jimin gasps. “oh my god,” he says, full-body flopping back in his chair. “you absolute loser.”

jungkook groans. “i know.”

“no, you don’t know, because if you did know, you would have done something about it.”

jungkook buries his face in his hands.

“i tried, okay? but it’s—” he groans, dragging his hands down his face, “—it’s just easier this way.”

jimin levels him with the flattest look imaginable. “easier?” he repeats. “easier how?”

jungkook hesitates. because if he says it out loud, then it’s real. but jimin is staring at him, waiting, and—well.

he’s already lost his dignity at this point.

“…spider-man is cool,” jungkook mutters finally, eyes glued to the table. “spider-man doesn’t get nervous, or embarrass himself, or say dumb shit and then want to throw himself off a building.”

jimin snorts. “oh, buddy. that’s cute. you think you haven’t embarrassed yourself?”

jungkook glares. “shut up.”

jimin is grinning now, full and unrestrained. “bro. do you realize how weird you probably sound to her? imagine getting rescued by the same guy five times in a row and every time he acts progressively more awkward about it.”

jungkook groans. “i hate you.”

“no you don’t,” jimin says, smug.

jungkook drops his head onto the table again. because, unfortunately, he’s right.

jungkook groans into the table. “okay. fine. let’s say you’re right—”

“i am right.”

“—and i have been weird about it—”

“super weird.”

jungkook lifts his head just enough to glare. “jimin.”

jimin grins, unrepentant. “continue.”

jungkook exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. “whatever. what am i even supposed to do now? just waltz up to her in class and pretend i haven’t been awkwardly saving her from disaster every other week?”

jimin shrugs. “yeah.”

jungkook stares. “you cannot be serious.”

“why not?” jimin says, stealing a fry off jungkook’s plate. “you already know she’s cool. she doesn’t freak out around you, she doesn’t think spider-man’s a menace, and she definitely isn’t scared of you—”

jungkook scoffs. “yeah, because she doesn’t know it’s me.”

jimin points at him with the stolen fry. “exactly! you have nothing to lose!”

jungkook squints. “that’s not how that works.”

jimin waves him off. “look, bro. i love you. i do. but you overthink literally everything.”

jungkook frowns. “i do not.”

jimin gives him a look so flat it could be legally classified as a murder weapon.

jungkook shifts. “…okay, sometimes.”

jimin nods approvingly. “glad we’re on the same page.” he shoves the fry into his mouth before pointing at jungkook again. “so, let’s think about this logically.”

jungkook groans. “oh, now we’re thinking logically?”

jimin ignores him. “you already know she likes talking to spider-man. you’ve literally heard her say she thinks he’s a good guy. and you also know she was cool with studying with you before you started avoiding her like a total dumbass.”

jungkook winces. “ouch.”

jimin grins. “so, what does that tell us?”

jungkook crosses his arms, scowling. “that i’m a dumbass?”

“correct. but more importantly,” jimin leans forward, voice going annoyingly dramatic, “it means you’re already in.”

jungkook blinks. “what?”

jimin gestures vaguely. “she already likes you. not just spider-man, but you-you. maybe she doesn’t have a crush or anything—”

jungkook’s face burns at the mere mention of the possibility. “dude—”

“—but at the very least, she doesn’t hate you,” jimin finishes, undeterred. “so, all you have to do is act normal for once in your life, and maybe you can stop making things harder than they need to be.”

jungkook stares at him.

jimin stares back.

“…that’s it?” jungkook asks, skeptical.

jimin shrugs. “that’s it.”

jungkook exhales.

because—okay. it does make sense. maybe he is overcomplicating things, like he always does. maybe he really is just making his life ten times harder for no reason.

but then he thinks about actually doing it. about sitting down next to you again, about saying hey like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t been a complete coward for weeks.

and suddenly, he’s panicking all over again.

“…okay,” he mutters. “sure. i’ll talk to her.”

jimin beams. “hell yeah.”

“eventually.”

jimin’s smile drops. “no.”

“yes.”

“jungkook—”

jungkook shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and stands up. “gotta go, bye.”

“jungkook, don’t you dare walk away from me—”

but jungkook is already halfway across the cafeteria, ignoring the way jimin’s voice follows him, loud and accusing.

because, yeah.

maybe he’ll talk to you.

but eventually sounds a hell of a lot safer than right now.

it turns out you end up talking to him first.

jungkook barely has time to process the end of the lecture before you’re suddenly there, standing next to his desk, shifting on your feet like you’re nervous about something.

which is weird.

because you’re never nervous. not when you were nearly mugged, not when a guy pulled a knife on you, not when you looked spider-man in the eye and grinned at him like it was just another tuesday.

but now, standing here, looking at him?

you’re fidgeting.

and jungkook’s brain immediately starts malfunctioning.

“hey,” you say, voice a little softer than usual.

jungkook stares.

then, realizing that yes, this is real, he forces himself to swallow the dumb why are you talking to me that nearly slips out.

“uh. hey,” he says instead.

you shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “so, um.” you clear your throat, glancing around the emptying lecture hall. “this might be kind of random, but… do you, uh. know anyone who tutors?”

jungkook blinks. “tutors?”

you nod, still looking strangely hesitant. “yeah. for chemistry.”

chemistry.

the subject he lied about needing help with.

jungkook can feel the irony punching him directly in the face.

but beyond that, beyond the fact that he is absolutely not qualified to help you with this, there’s something else creeping into his mind.

the fact that you came to him.

out of everyone in this class—hell, out of everyone on campus—you chose to ask him.

his stomach flips.

it has to be fate, right? this is too much of a coincidence. after all the near-misses, after all the nights he spent convincing himself to just talk to you already—you end up coming to him first?

it doesn’t feel real.

but you’re still standing there, watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

jungkook swallows. “uh. yeah. i mean, i—” he clears his throat, scrambling to make his voice sound normal. “i can ask around.”

your shoulders drop a little, like you were bracing for rejection. “oh. cool. yeah, that would be great.”

you pause, glancing at him, hesitant. “and, um… if you hear of anyone good, could you maybe… let me know?”

jungkook nods so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “yeah. of course.”

your lips curve into a soft smile. “thanks, jungkook.”

his breath stutters.

(oh, he is so screwed.)

and then, just like that, you wave and disappear out the door, leaving him sitting there in the empty lecture hall, gripping his desk like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

he doesn’t move for a solid minute.

his heart is still hammering, his brain is still catching up, and all he can think is jimin is going to have a field day with this.

and jimin fucking does.

“you’re actually kidding me.”

jimin is staring at jungkook like he just confessed to being an alien.

they’re in jungkook’s apartment, controllers in hand, some game running on the screen—but jimin has completely forgotten about it, pausing mid-match to turn and gawk at him.

jungkook, on the other hand, is doing his best to act normal. which is hard, considering his entire life has just been flipped upside down.

“i’m not kidding,” jungkook mutters, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “it happened.”

jimin lets out a loud, incredulous laugh, tossing his controller onto the couch. “so let me get this straight. you—who have been avoiding this girl like she’s an actual fire hazard—you were literally just sitting there, minding your own business, and she just walks up to you? and asks for a tutor??”

jungkook grits his teeth. “yes.”

jimin cackles, grabbing a pillow and whacking him over the head with it.

“bro, fate is spoon-feeding you a love story and you’re just sitting there like a fucking brick!”

jungkook groans, shoving the pillow away. “okay, first of all, relax. it’s not a love story.”

jimin scoffs. “it could be.”

“it’s not.”

“it could be.”

jungkook sighs aggressively, running a hand down his face.

jimin flops dramatically against the couch, shaking his head. “so? what did you say?”

“i said i’d ask around.”

jimin blinks. “you said you’d—” he stops, eyes narrowing. “...ask around.”

jungkook shifts. “…yes?”

silence.

“you idiot!” jimin yells, smacking his arm.

“ow!” jungkook jerks away, scowling. “what? what was i supposed to say?”

“literally that you could tutor her yourself!”

jungkook’s stomach flips. “i can’t tutor her, dumbass, i'm barely passing chemistry myself.”

jimin throws up his hands. “bro, she doesn’t know that! just pretend!”

“pretend?”

“yes! look up some notes, re-learn a few things, do what you need to do!”

jungkook shakes his head aggressively. “no way. i am not tutoring her when i don’t know shit.”

jimin levels him with a deadpan stare. “so instead, you’re just gonna, what? let her go find some other guy to tutor her?”

jungkook freezes.

jimin grins. “ah.”

jungkook clenches his jaw. “fuck you.”

“no, no, let’s think about this,” jimin continues, voice full of fake contemplation. “some dude, sitting real close, explaining things all smart and helpful. maybe he’s got nice hands. maybe he’s charming. maybe he’s better at chemistry than you—”

jungkook throws a pillow at his face.

jimin laughs as he catches it. “so? what’s the move, lover boy?”

jungkook scowls, but deep down, he already knows.

he sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“…i’m gonna have to tutor her, aren’t i?”

jimin claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him with excitement.

“yes, you absolutely are.”

jungkook hasn’t seen you in days.

which is weird, because ever since this whole thing started, you’ve been everywhere. in class, in study sessions, in the middle of very questionable situations that require his immediate intervention.

but now, you’ve just vanished.

he’s checked the usual places. your usual seat in lecture, the library, even the coffee shop on the corner where he thinks he saw you once. nothing. no sign of you anywhere.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.

(yes, he does.)

but he pushes it out of his mind. or at least, he tries.

because right now, he’s got other things to focus on—like swinging through the city at just the right angle to catch the breeze, flipping effortlessly between buildings, scanning the streets for trouble.

except there is no trouble. not tonight. it’s weird. quiet. almost peaceful.

and then he sees you.

not running. not being chased. not clutching your bag like your life depends on it.

just… standing there.

paintbrush in hand, clothes speckled with color, entirely focused on the massive mural in front of you.

jungkook nearly crashes into a building.

he just barely manages to recover, swinging onto a rooftop ledge, crouching down to watch from a safe distance.

because what the hell?

you’re supposed to be in a classroom. or getting into some ridiculous situation that requires his immediate assistance. not this. not standing in the middle of an empty lot, surrounded by paint cans, filling an entire wall with streaks of blue and gold.

you look… calm.

you step back, tilting your head at your work, lips pursed in thought. then, with a small nod, you dip your brush into another color and go right back to it.

jungkook stares.

because somehow, in all this time, in all the chaotic ways he’s seen you before—he’s never seen you like this.

focused. steady. completely lost in something you love.

he exhales, watching the way the city lights catch in your hair, the way your brows pinch slightly when you concentrate.

for once, he doesn’t have to worry about saving you. for once, he just gets to watch. before he can help himself, jungkook is swinging down.

it’s instinct, like muscle memory. one second, he’s crouched on the ledge, watching from a safe distance, and the next, he’s mid-air, descending toward you before his brain can even catch up.

he lands a few feet away, boots hitting the pavement with a soft thud.

you don’t even flinch.

just glance over your shoulder, brush still poised against the wall, and say “hey, spider-man.”

no startled jump, no wide-eyed what the fuck?, no immediate questioning of why a masked vigilante just casually dropped into your art session. just… hey, spider-man, like you expected him to show up.

his brain malfunctions. “uh.”

you smirk, finally lowering your brush. “you always this quiet?”

jungkook clears his throat, scrambling to pull himself together. “uh—no, just… wasn’t expecting you to be so—” he gestures vaguely, “—chill about this.”

you tilt your head. “should i not be?”

“i mean, most people don’t just greet me like i’m their next-door neighbor.”

you hum, considering. “well, most people don’t run into you five times in a row, either.”

jungkook exhales sharply. “true.”

you grin, then turn back to your mural, wiping your hands against your paint-stained hoodie. “so,” you say, glancing at him. “what brings you here? crime’s looking pretty low tonight.”

crime is low. there was literally no reason for him to come down here. he just saw you. and… well.

you smile knowingly, like you can see the wheels turning in his head. “you were watching me, weren’t you?”

jungkook chokes.

“what— no. no, i—” he shakes his head aggressively, backing up like that will help him recover. “i was patrolling.”

you arch a brow. “patrolling from a rooftop directly above me?”

he groans. “oh my god.”

you laugh, bright and easy, and jungkook swears his entire world tilts for a second. “relax,” you say, dipping your brush into a new color. “it’s kind of flattering, actually.”

jungkook short-circuits. “it’s what?”

you just wink. “so, you sticking around, or was this just a quick check-in?”

jungkook should leave.

he knows that.

but then you turn back to your mural, completely at ease, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re casually talking to spider-man like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

and jungkook, against all logic, against all common sense, sits down on the curb.

“guess i’ll stick around.”

you glance over when you hear him sit, eyebrows raising slightly. but you don’t question it, don’t make it weird. just hum, like this is normal, like masked vigilantes dropping into your painting sessions is a completely regular thing.

jungkook doesn’t know what to do with that.

you dip your brush into another color, dragging long, confident strokes across the wall.

for a while, neither of you speak.

it’s… oddly comfortable.

jungkook watches, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted as he tries to figure out what you’re painting. it’s not quite clear yet, but the colors blend together in a way that makes his chest feel weirdly tight. like something about it is important.

finally, he clears his throat.

“so… what is it?”

you pause, glancing at him before looking back at the wall. “not sure yet.”

jungkook squints. “you’re not sure?”

you smirk. “it’s a process.”

he huffs a soft laugh. “so you’re just winging it?”

“more like… feeling it out,” you correct. you step back, tilting your head, eyes scanning over the patterns of color like you’re looking for something only you can see.

jungkook doesn’t know why, but that makes sense.

for a while, he doesn’t say anything else. just watches as you paint, as your hands move with purpose, as you fill the blank spaces with something real.

and then, before he can stop himself, “why do you do it?”

you pause, brush still hovering over the wall.

jungkook feels his stomach drop. “uh—you don’t have to answer that, i was just—”

“because it’s mine.”

he stops.

you’re still looking at the mural, voice calm, steady. “it’s something i can make real. something i can create, and leave behind, and know it’s mine. even if someone paints over it later.”

jungkook stares at you. he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. just watches as you pick up where you left off. and that’s when it hits him. this is the first time he’s ever spent time with you since the library without worrying about saving you. the first time he’s seen you just be.

and it’s terrifying, because suddenly, jungkook isn’t sure what scares him more. the thought of you getting hurt again, or the thought of you never looking at him the way you look at spider-man right now.

jungkook hates this. hates the way his stomach twists every time you look at him—at spider-man—like this. open, unguarded, like you trust him. like he’s someone worth trusting. hates the way he wants you to keep looking at him like that.

because he knows this isn’t real. or at least, not fully real. not like it would be if it were him sitting here beside you, mask off, just jungkook.

(but would you even talk to him if you knew?)

he exhales slowly, pressing his palms against his knees. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, still completely focused on your painting, eyebrows furrowed just slightly in concentration.

“you’re staring,” you say after a moment, not looking away from the wall.

jungkook jolts. “what? no, i’m not.”

you smirk, finally glancing at him. “you totally are.”

he crosses his arms, tilting his head at you. “you want me to lie?”

“i want you to at least try to be subtle about it.”

he scoffs. “okay, and what exactly am i supposed to be staring at? the back of your head?”

“or my art.” you gesture to the mural dramatically. “y’know, the thing that’s actually interesting here.”

jungkook huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah, okay. so what’s it supposed to be now?”

you step back, surveying your work. “dunno.”

he stares. “so you still don’t know?”

you shrug. “told you. it’s a process.”

jungkook exhales, shaking his head. “yeah, well. not every process ends up making sense.”

“maybe not right away,” you say, glancing at him. “but eventually.”

eventually.

the word sticks in his head, clinging to something deeper, something he doesn’t want to think about right now. so instead, he sighs, shifting to stand. “well, don’t get mugged while you’re doing your whole process thing.”

you grin. “what, no more rooftop patrols?”

“depends,” he says, adjusting his gloves. “you planning on wandering into any more dark alleys?”

you pretend to think about it. “maybe. depends on who's gonna save me.”

jungkook groans. “i hate you.”

you just laugh, waving your brush at him in a mock salute. “see you next time, spider-man.”

jungkook’s fingers twitch. he lingers—just for a second. because for the first time, he knows something you don’t. he knows he’ll see you again. not just like this, not just as spider-man, but as himself.

because eventually isn’t good enough anymore.

#spideykook #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts x fem!reader #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fanfction #bts au

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rafeandonlyrafe · 1 year ago

Text

reserved chair

words: 10.9k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, college au, past car crash, anxiety/ptsd, shy!reader, virgin!reader, soft!rafe, fingering, female recieving oral, p in v sex, protected sex

you take a deep breath before pulling open the door, eyes scanning the lecture hall. despite being ten minutes early to class, most of the seats are already taken. you turn quickly towards the stairs, climbing them slower than your feet want to, desiring to speed up the stairs to stop being able to see everyone's eyes and just the back of their head.

you let out a second deep breath when you get to the top, only a few students in the back row. you walk until you're as far away as possible from any other students, sinking into your chair the second you're sat down. you allow yourself a moment to breathe before working on getting your stuff out, placing your head down to just focus on lessing your anxiety.

upon picking up your head, you swear everyone's eyes are on you. you glance around towards your fellow classmates, but they've almost all turned to stare at the back row, not even trying to hide looking at you.

“wh-what is it?” you whisper to the girl in front of you, the one closest who thankfully looks nice.

“that's rafe camerons seat.”

“who is rafe cameron?” you question. it's the first week of classes, how could he have already claimed a seat?

the doors open before she can respond, and despite other students entering without anyone caring, everyone's attention shifts, his energy and presence entering the room before he does.

you instantly know that he must be rafe cameron. his eyes land on you before you can scurry to a different seat, trapping you in place, a slight smirk on his face as he casually makes his way up the stairs, and then down the aisle until he is hovering over you.

“is-is this your seat?” you manage to mumble out. “ill move.”

“nah, pretty girl, you stay right there.” rafe grabs the chair next to you, pulling it closer than the allotted distance between work areas before sitting down, so close you can practically feel his leg hovering close to yours, making you shrink even more in your seat.

you can feel his eyes staring at you, paying no mind to anyone else in the classroom, even as the professor enters.

“do you need a pencil?” you ask, reaching down to place your bag on your lap, knowing your voice just came out pathetically timid and weak.

“nope.” he hums, placing a laptop on the desk from a bag you didn't even realize he was carrying onto the table. you should have known he was the type to write notes on a laptop. you wish you had that kind of funds, but you have to head to the library every time you need to use a computer, already struggling just from the tuition alone.

you nod, keeping your head turned down as you get out your notebook, favorite mechanical pencil, and the syllabus you pre-printed out and highlighted.

“what's this?” rafe questions, reaching over to tap your finger, making your eyes widen at the touch, even though he just taps the bandaids around three of your fingers.

“oh! um…” you move quickly to hide your hand. “i write a lot. i get sores on my hand from holding my pencil if i don't bandage them.”

“shit.” rafe laughs. “that's intense.”

you're not sure if he's making fun of you, if he's mocking or sincere. “yeah.” you just whisper.

“what's your name?” he questions, head tilting to the side out of curiosity.

“y/n.” you mutter out. he's probably the first person you've introduced yourself to at college, even going as far as to manage the extra money to get a single dorm, knowing you'd need the privacy and silence to recover from the social interactions.

“im rafe. rafe cameron. where you from y/n?”

“norfolk.” you whisper your answer, your professor starting to introduce himself, but rafe keeps talking as if he isn't going over the syllabus, and for some reason the professor ignores him.

“ah, nice. im from the outer banks.” rafe nods. “you must be pretty smart to get into duke.”

“i guess.” you shrug. you know your test scores are impressive, and you had plenty of time to start dual enrollment since you were homeschooled for high school. it's why you're technically a freshmen in a class full of sophomores and juniors.

“whats your major?”

“general literature.” you shrug. at least thats your major for now, you are considering changing to research psychology, knowing you have to figure it out soon.

“good class for you then.” rafe chuckles, looking at the screen on the wall, words blown up large to show the name of the class LIT 290: SPECIAL TOPICS IN INTERNATIONAL LITERATURE AND CULTURE.

“what's your major?” you question, whispering while rafe talks at a normal volume. you wait for the professor to scold him, occasionally giving him angry glances, brows furrowed together, but the shushing never comes.

rafe shrugs. “just kinda taking classes for now. i guess im technically in government. gonna take over my dad's development company once i graduate and he retires.”

“oh, like real estate development?” you quirk your head to the side, half listening to him, half listening to the professor as you scribble down notes.

“yup. you've probably heard of the company.”

your brows furrow as you think, not sure why he's so confident about having heard of it before, it's not like you can really name any real estate- oh.

“rafe cameron. cameron enterprises.” you mumble, eyes widening.

“exactly right.” he smirks. “you stay in one of our dorms?”

you nod, you do in fact. there's several cameron sponsored dorms around campus, you're in east campus: cameron.

“i guess that explains a lot.” you take a deep sigh. no wonder everyone was staring at him, why the professor refuses to say anything to him, his family's company practically sponsors the entire school.

“ill let you focus now.” rafe sits forward, hands coming to his keyboard as the professor begins the actual lecture.

you furiously write, nervous to miss any information, not wanting to waste the scholarship money allowing you to take this class.

“y/n.” rafe says, making you jump slightly, forgetting he was next to you, so focused in paying attention to the professor.

“yeah?” you hum, putting your notebook into your bag as the professor ends class, reminding everyone to review the syllabus and get their reading done.

“sit there next week.” he says, tapping the table in front of you before standing, striding out of the class without a care in the world, people stopping in their tracks to let him pass.

you can hear their whispers and footsteps, breaking the silence of the evening as you sit on front of your window, desk pushed up close as you take notes, textbook opened up, the lamp on your desk switched on as the setting sun turns the sky a warm orange with hints of pink, making the fall colors in the campus trees looking even more red.

there's a knock on your door, making you jump as the pencil clatters to the floor. you expected the whispers and footsteps to pass. certainly they must be at the wrong room.

you consider staying silent, but want them to go away, not try to knock again thinking that their friend just didn't hear them.

“hi.” you smile as you open the door. “i think you have the wrong room.”

“no, we've got the right one.” you recognize one of the three girls as the girl in front of you in lit 209, the one who told you whose seat you were in.

“im angie. this is chelsea and veronica.” she gestures to the girls behind her. “we saw you talking to rafe. i… kinda overheard some of your conversation. chelsea is also from norfolk and im also studying literature. i thought we'd invite you out to join us at the dining hall.”

it takes you a second to realize what she's asking you. finding commonalities, inviting you out, basically asking you to be friends without the direct words.

“yeah.” you nod. “let me just grab my bag.” you step into your dorm to grab your bag off the book, double checking that your student id is inside to get into the dining hall. you shove your phone into your back pocket before stepping out, not letting your anxiety stop you from making friends, you need at least one person to confide in and hang out with.

“so, where did you graduate from?” chelsea asks, the one also from norfolk.

“oh, i was homeschooled.” you hate having to explain it, but the reason why you had to drop out of public school is the same reason your heart beat is skyrocketing as you head towards the elevator, palms sweating and nervously swallowing.

“oh, nice!” chelsea smiles. “i graduated from maury high.”

you're thankful it's not the high school you pulled out of, there's no way that she would have heard about you, about your intense anxiety after you were in a car crash, then sudden disappearance from school.

the conversation shifts to the other girls high schools, veronica telling a funny story from her graduation. you occasionally chime in, but the girls seem happy to keep the conversation flowing between each other as you head out of the dorm room and through the walkways to the dining hall.

the conversation doesn't shift until you until you're sitting down at a booth.

“so, rafe, huh?” chelsea asks.

“i don't know him.” you shake your head. “i just sat next to him and offered him a pencil, really, that's it.”

“you do know who his dad is right?”

you glance around the cafeteria, even that has signs of cameron enterprises sponsorship. “oh, i know.”

“that's why he goes here.” angie says. “he wouldn't have gotten in if it wasn't for his dad.”

“he's so hot, right?” veronica giggles before taking a bite of her pizza.

“yeah, is he even better up close?” chelsea turns to ask you.

you shrug. “i mean, i wasn't really paying attention.” it's a half truth. you absolutely were aware of how attractive rafe was, but you spent all of the lecture and most of the conversation trying to avoid looking at him for fear of eye contact.

“i heard he's such a bad boy. apparently he broke like five girls hearts last year because he was sleeping with them all at the same time.”

“oh, jeez.” you cringe. you should have guessed rafe was a player, but you also don't know the truth behind the rumors.

the conversation shifts from rafe to about other boys at the school, allowing you a moment to breathe and center yourself, calming down slightly. the girls make you feel comfortable enough that you finish dinner and bid them goodbye without a major anxiety attack, but the second you get back in your dorm, you collapse into the bed and pass out.

you stare at the seats, wondering if you really should sit in the same one. angie looks back at you with a gentle smile, mouthing a quick “sorry.” as there's already people sitting on either side of her.

you shake your head. it's fine, you tell yourself, and pull out the chair and sit down, right in the same spot you were at last week.

rafe walks in moments later, a real smile on his face when he sees you. you glance at him quickly before looking down, fiddling with your pencil and writing random gibberish until he's sat next to you.

“so i didn't scare you off?” rafe questions, setting his laptop down and fishing out his cord to charge it. you notice the outlet inset into the table is directly in front of you, rafe having to lean over into your personal space to plug it in.

“we can switch spots.” you blurt out, despite the cord being plenty long enough to reach.

“nah.” rafe shakes his head. “you look pretty in my seat.”

you're not sure how you looking pretty relates, and how you would look any different sitting in the opposite chair, but your face blushes and you stammer something intelligible, making rafe smirk.

“you're real cute, you know that right?”

“oh, i um- noooo.” you chuckle awkwardly.

“even cuter when i make your face all red like that.”

you don't say anything in response, not sure you can even form words as you reach to press your fingers over your cheeks, willing them to cool down.

“i got something for you.” rafe reaches into his bag. he pulls out his computer and then a second laptop, making your brows furrow as he sets it in front of you, along with a charger and bluetooth mouse.

“what is this?” you question. you’ve heard of loaner laptops through the school, but this brand is way too nice to be the one they’re handing out to dumb college kids to give back at the end of your semester.

“a laptop. for you.” rafe says, like it’s obvious.

“i-i can’t!” you shake your head as the professor begins his lecture. for once, you don’t even bother to pay attention as you pick up the laptop and move it back towards rafe. “i can’t afford it.” “it’s already paid for.” rafe places it back in front of you, opening it up. “the password is my name.” he smirks as the screen turns on, illuminating your face.

“its too expensive, i really can’t accept this.” your hands go to the keyboard despite your words, typing in his name rafecameron. you click enter, the computer unlocking for you to a clean home screen.

“its pennies to me, really. i want you to have it.” he glances at your still bandaged fingers. “so you can stop wrapping your fingers.”

“i-i don’t know how to thank you.” you shake your head.

“oh,” rafe reaches back into his backpack. “i got this for you. its touchscreen.” he sets the pen for the computer next to the mouse. “in case you prefer to write over type, but please, try typing for the sake of your fingers.”

“thank you.” you smile at him, opening up a browser and logging into your email, quickly opening up google docs to take notes, attention turning only half to the professor, the other half of your mind stays focused on rafe smiling at you.

“how did i know i’d find you here?” the voice makes you jump. it’s strange to hear rafes voice outside of the lecture hall, even as the weeks have gone by and you’ve hung out occasionally with angie and the few friends you’ve made, you’ve never seen rafe outside of class.

“no one is ever here.” you look around the empty room. it’s a study room, technically met for literature majors, but you’re sure no one would say a word about rafe being inside.

“thats how i knew you’d be here.” he plops down on the seat across from you.

“do you need help with your homework or something?” you ask. your professor assigned you an essay, maybe rafe is seeking out your help.

rafe lets out a scoff, looking at you with an exasperated expression. of course. you should have known he didn’t need to really try on his homework to get straight a’s.

“i want to take you on a date, come on.” rafe cocks his head toward the door.

“oh!” your eyebrows rise in surprise. sure, rafe has always been flirty before and after class, but you thought it was mostly out of teasing you, riling you up, not serious enough to actually ask you on a date.

“your choice. now or in two hours.” rafe glances at the clock on the wall.

“now is fine.” you also look at the clock. you don’t want to stay out too late, needing to get back in your dorm and work, and you also don’t want to end up at a party, it’s probably your worst nightmare to be surrounded by drunk college kids shouting and dancing.

“perfect.” rafe picks up your bag when you put your stuff away, slinging it over his shoulder as you follow behind him, having to pick your pace up to keep up with his long strides.

“taking you to dinner off campus.” rafe says, leading you out of the building and towards the parking lot. you freeze ups, eyes widening. rafe doesn’t realize you’ve stopped following him, stuck in place on the sidewalk, until he’s feet away from you.

“hey…” rafe says softly, approaching you carefully. “you alright?” “i-i-” you hate how much you’re stuttering, you can’t help it when the nerves take over and your hands start to shake. “i don’t like- um. i don’t like being a passenger.” just uttering the words make that night come back to you, you trusting your friend, getting into their car, only for them to roll it repeatedly, somehow all walking away, but the scars inside of you are mental ones.

“you can drive then.” rafe holds his keys up like an offering. “or we can eat dinner here, whatever you want.”

“im okay driving.” you trust only yourself. maybe someday you’ll learn to feel safe with someone driving you, but it took you weeks to get behind the wheel with even your mom, having to use calming techniques every time you’re on the road.

“perfect.” rafe stays pretty quiet, only making small comments about how to turn on his car (you’ve never been in a push to start before) and how to get to the restaurant. he doesn’t even turn on the radio, seeing how nervous you are, letting you concentrate fully on driving. you do feel better when you’re in control of the vehicle, but the fear of a rogue driver hitting you is always there.

“i want to tell you something, rafe.” you say shyly, now sat at your table at a nice restaurant, wishing you would have changed into something fancier, but rafe doesn’t seem to care, so you don’t either.

“okay.” he nods.

“i was in a car accident in high school. that’s why i don’t like being a passenger. thats why i have…” you take a deep breath. “so much anxiety.”

“hey.” he says softly, reaching across the table. “its okay. you don’t have to explain yourself to me. i like you just how you are.”

the comments angie and chelsea come to the front of your mind. “why do you even like me? everyone says you’re some sort of bad boy.” you don’t have to point out that rafe has only ever been nice to you, ridiculously kind and generous.

“when i walked into the classroom that first day and saw you sitting in my seat, looking at me like that…” rafe shakes his head. “you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen. i love that you’re shy. it’s cute, i swear.” “you like my anxiety?” you giggle, sure that no man could actually mean that.

“well, no.” rafe shakes his head, his eyes bright. “i like that you’re like a puzzle, waiting for me to solve.” “i-i don’t know what to say. im not mysterious or anything.” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe not, but i want to figure out what makes you tick. how you like to be kissed, held…” rafe raises an eyebrow and you don't need him to say the next word as you're suddenly very interested in staring at your food.

“there's that blush i love so much.” rafe smiles. “you're so gorgeous.”

“there's like, way prettier girls than me at the college. i don't get your interest in me at all. awkward and… shy.” you shrug.

“don't sell yourself short.” rafe reaches across the table, squeezing your hand in his. “you're beautiful. plus, half the girls just want me for my dad's money, and the other half hate me for sleeping around last year.”

“yeah, i kinda heard about that.” you admit, trying to concentrate on your palm to keep it from getting sweaty. “angie told me you were sleeping with five girls at the same time.”

“they were all just hookups.” rafe shakes his head. “never went farther than that with any of them. it isn't like that with you.”

“well… it's nice to know you're serious about me.”

“hold your hand out.” rafe says, still sat in the same classroom, the rest of the students long gone, and with no other classes scheduled for the rest of the day, you feel like you could stay here with rafe all night.

you cup your hand and wait for whatever surprise, unsure how anything could beat the laptop he gifted you.

rafe unclips his gold chain from around his neck and drops it into your palm. “for you to wear. if you want of course.”

“is this the college equivalent of giving me your letterman jacket?” you giggle, perception of high school skewed towards idealized versions in books and movies since you missed out on most of the personal experience.

“i would love to call you my girl.” rafe smiles softly, so genuine it makes you almost want to lean forward and plant your lips on his.

“like… exclusively?” you wiggle the chain in your hand, feeling the weight shift around. certainly real gold.

“of course. i told you, im serious about you. i want you and only you, but im willing to move at your pace. if you're not ready yet, ill wait.”

you take a moment to think about it. weighing the pros and cons. con, you're inexperienced. pro, you really like rafe. con, rafe could get bored with you after a week. pro, you really like rafe. con, a boyfriend would distract from your schoolwork. pro, you really like rafe.

you hand the necklace back to rafe, watching the way his face falls, thinking it's a rejection, before you pull your hair up. “put it on for me?”

rafes smile is brighter than the sun as he strings the necklace around you, fingers gently teasing your skin, grazing against you anytime he can while he does the clip.

you smile back at rafe as you turn back towards him, feeling giddy. “so, what now?”

“what do you mean what now?” rafe chuckles. “now i kiss you.”

rafe leans in as your eyes widen, heartbeat skyrocketing as you suddenly shout out. “im a virgin!”

rafe sits back in surprise and confusion.

“im a virgin, ive never had a real boyfriend and ive never had a first kiss unless you count one that happened in second grade with a boy named lincoln on the playground-” you know you're rambling, so you're thankful when rafe cuts you off.

“that's okay.” rafe says. “i like that you're untouched. just means i need to do things right for all your firsts.”

you nod, not really understanding what he means, but knowing that you like the sound of it.

“as much as id love to lay you out on this table and wreck you-” your eyes widen at that very image. “your first time will not be in an empty classroom, and your first kiss definitely won't be either. are you free tomorrow night?”

“im… kinda free whenever.” you admit. you only have homework and studying, but you're willing to move those around for dates with rafe, as long as your grades don't slip.

“well, im about to make sure you are a very busy lady.”

rafe doesn't try to kiss you the following night. or the date a day later. or at your next class when you end up staying after again. you expect it to be that moment every time, but rafe keeps it slow, almost too slow.

he started with holding your hand. then wrapping his arm around his shoulder. he finally advanced to kissing you on the cheek, and while you appreciate his thoughtfulness, you're starting to go crazy.

“you're lost in thought.” rafe says, making you shake your head and refocus on him. “i just hope it's about me and not about your upcoming assignments.”

“it's always about you.” you smile. your grades are still perfect, you just spend all your study time working hard to complete everything perfectly and quickly to get back to rafe.

“just what i like to hear.” rafe is sat on the end of your dorm bed, twinkling fairy lights above your head as you just relax, both in casual clothes.

“do you think you could stay the night?” you blurt out before quickly going to explain yourself. “not to… have sex. but just to sleep in the same bed.”

“are you sure? you don't have to-”

“rafe!” you squeal. “i want this! i want you!”

rafes eyes widen at your outburst, probably the loudest he's ever heard your voice, before he dissolves into laughter. “ive been taking this too slow, haven't it?” rafe asks as you pout and nod.

“jesus, ive been trying so hard to hold back and not fuck it up, i ended up just fucking up in the other direction. im not used to caring about girls, or anyone, this much. im sorry, y/n. you dictate the pace, not me.”

“i want you to kiss me. tonight. and i want you to stay over and cuddle and hold me.” you allow the sudden rush of boldness to loosen your tongue.

“then that's what we will do.” rafe nods.

he doesn't kiss you immediately, he waits for the perfect moment. the lights are still on, now set to slowly fade in and out.

rafe is laying facing you, not touching you at all, but you can feel the presence, practically itching to reach out.

you're nervous, but you're not letting it stops you. as the lights dim again, your hear the movement on the bed, and then feel rafe move closer.

the second the lights begin to turn back on, rafe is on you, his lips pressed against yours. he doesn't let your first kiss be a simple peck as an arm rounds your back and pulls you into him. he leads the kiss, leaving you just to follow his movements and not stress about being perfect.

rafe slows the kiss down gradually until he pulls away, both of you taking a deep breath.

“that… was amazing.” you giggle, watching the way rafes eyes light up as you laugh. “oh my god! how have i been missing out on that?”

“wanna do it again?”

“yes!”

rafe kisses you until you start to feel dizzy, having to remind yourself to breathe as he holds you close, but it's still not enough.

you sling a leg over his hips, attempting to pull your bodies flush together when rafe suddenly turns onto his back.

“i don't think you want to do that, baby.”

“why- oh!” you're about to question the sudden change of attitude when you look down rafes body and see how your kissing has affected one particular part of his body.

“i can't help that you're really sexy, but we aren't doing this tonight in your college dorm. i need to lay you out and make you cum many times in a place where you can be as loud as you want.”

“should i… put on a tv show until it's gone then we can cuddle and sleep?” you offer, trying to ignore his words despite knowing your face is now beet red.

“i don't know if ill ever be fully soft when laying in bed with you, but that will definitely help.”

“you have to tell me everything.” angie says, a plate of fries pushed between you to share.

“oh my god he's just… such a gentleman, which i never expected just based off-” you wave your hands around. “everything.”

“that's good because i don't care who his dad is or how rich he is, if he was treating you bad id kick his ass.”

you let out a soft giggle. “i don't think he's gonna mess this up but if he does, ill remember that.”

you both groan as you glance at the clock. you can only spend so much time talking with your new friend when you're supposed to be studying.

“alright.” you pull out your textbook along with the laptop rafe gave you. rafecameron. you didn't even think about changing the password.

“how many words is this essay supposed to be again?” angie hums, also powering on her laptop.

“2,000.” you roll your eyes. “which is just so ridiculous you know the professor isn't reading everyone's.”

“he probably puts them into some ai grader shit.” angie agrees. you both quickly get to work, even getting a refill of fries. you've found that when you have a friend with you you prefer working in the dining area.

“hey baby, i figured you were down here.” rafe slides into the seat next to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “how's the essay?”

“actually im pretty much done.” you shrug. you know you have a talent for writing, but its when the topic genuinely interests you. “just don't really know how to end it.”

“can i help?” rafe asks. you nod and angle the screen towards him, letting him read over the words.

“oh my god.” angie mouths to you, glancing between you and rafe.

you blush and duck your head, resting your shoulder against rafes as he reads, watching as he types out a couple sentences to finish off your conclusion paragraph.

“wait, shit, thats perfect.” you pull the laptop back close, checking the word count quickly to confirm you've hit your minimum amount.

“jeez, can you help me with mine too?” angie asks, her eyebrows furrowing together.

“ill read over it.” rafe shrugs. “afterall,” he looks to you. “y/ns friends are my friends.”

you gasp when you get back from your shower to find rafe laying in your bed. he immediately tosses aside his phone that he was mindlessly scrolling on.

“missed you.” rafe tugs on your hips as you step closer. your mouth presses against him, the kisses calming your anxiety rather than spiking it like you originally worried it would.

rafes hands stay on your hips as he pulls you down onto the bed, allowing you to fall forward against him, bouncing softly on the springy mattress.

“you're gonna end up missing me a lot over break.” you chuckle softly, knowing a week off is coming up soon.

“about that…” rafe flips so you're both on your sides, facing each other. “what's your plans? driving home to norfolk?”

“actually, i was just gonna stay here.” you shrug. “the college let's out of state kids stay in their dorms during the holiday breaks and i applied for special permission.”

“well, you won't need that.” rafe says. “that is, if you want to come to the outer banks with me.”

“oh- oh my god! yes.” you nod quickly. despite not living far away, you've never actually been to the area before, and you've grown used to rafes constant presence. you're not sure what a week would be like without him.

“my family is out of town until friday anyways, so we will have the place to ourselves for most of the time…” rafes hand moves to your lower back, tugging you in close to him. you understand the implication and despite everything, you only feel excitement and anticipation.

“here ya go.” rafe hands you his car keys. you never had to reiterate your need to be in control of any vehicle, rafe just went along with it without pushing.

“actually…” you swallow harshly. “you can drive.”

“baby.” a smile breaks out on rafes face as he talks softly, carefully helping you into the passenger seat, making sure to keep everything slow and relaxed.

“i trust you.” you tell rafe, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “just… don't speed.”

“i wouldn't even think about that.” rafe says, kissing your forehead. “ive got special cargo.”

you giggle and roll your eyes, surprised how corny rafe has become as you both fall further.

rafe seems to have a sense of when your anxiety spikes. he moves to the drivers seat and just stays there for a moment while you breathe, not even turning the car on until you give him a slight nod.

you can tell he's going the long way, turning around a couple side streets to avoid getting onto the highway home too soon.

“ill go this speed the whole way if that's what you need.” rafe says when he pauses at a stop sign.

“just a little more around the neighborhood and ill be fine.” you assure him. you reach over and lay a hand on rafes arm as he drives, the physical connection allowing you to take a deep breath.

when rafe eventually pulls onto the highway, you find yourself breathing regularly, mind racing through all the coping mechanisms the therapist who saw you after the car crash taught you.

“im… im actually doing okay.” you admit to rafe, leaning forward to turn the radio on but keeping the music turned downed low. “thank you.”

“im just glad you trust me.” rafe reaches over and squeezes your thigh before quickly putting both his hands back on the wheel. “it's a long drive for you to do solo.”

in truth it's not much longer than the drive from duke to norfolk, but you're glad that you can relax as the hour passes.

everytime your mind wanders, or worry strikes about a crazed driver hitting you, you just look to rafe and allow yourself to breathe.

you even manage to lay your car seat back.

rafe smiles over at you as he watches your eyes blinking slowly, recognizing the sure signs of sleep as you end up napping the rest of the way to his house.

“darling…” rafe says softly, rubbing his hand over your thigh.

you wake up with a start, gasping and sitting up, looking around rapidly.

“hey, hey.” rafe says softly, pulling you into a somewhat awkward hug over the center console. “it's okay. you're safe. we're at my home.”

you press your face into rafes chest and inhale his familiar scent. he doesn't bring up the anxiety spike as he gets out of the car.

you're about to step out when you look at your surroundings, jaw dropping at the stunning house in front of you.

“rafe- this. this place is beautiful.” you allow rafe to help you stand, stretching your legs out. your bags can come in later, you need a tour immediately.

“welcome to tanneyhill.”

“we'll have to go out on the boat tomorrow.” rafe twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. “what do you want to eat? we can make something or we can order in…”

you let out a yawn, the nap on the drive just making you more tired now that the excitement of seeing rafes home has worn off somewhat.

“pizza is fine.” you hum, snuggling closer to rafe on the expansive couch. “your house is very pretty.”

“but…”

“but what?” you look up at rafe. “i mean it's… it's so grand.”

“but impersonal, right?” rafe reads you so well. “it's just not my families style. no pictures of us kids on the wall or sports medals hung up. it's gotta be kept perfect.”

“that's not how i want our house to be one day.” you frown, eyes widening when you realize what you just said.

“relax, princess.” rafe says when he feels you stiffen up. “i imagine what it'll be like to live together some day too. in fact, i think for next semester you can ditch your little dorm and stay with me.”

“move from east campus: cameron to cameron hall?” you giggle at how everything is named after his family.

“exactly.” rafe hums. “because just the walk to the east side of campus is too far from me.”

“you're… too damn sweet.” you press a kiss to rafes lips, groaning when your phone buzzing distracts you from deepening it.

“who is it?” rafe asks, confident it's probably angie or veronica.

“my… my friend from high school.” you quickly sit the phone face down on the coffee table.

“the friend?”

“yes.” you say bitterly, knowing it's not rafe you're really snapping back up but rather the “friend” who still has the audacity to message you even after causing the car wreck that ruined your life.

“it's the anniversary coming up and… i know she's said sorry a million times already, but i just don't want to hear it. i just want to put everything behind me.” you let the words out in a rush.

“maybe what your friend needs for her to heal is to know you've heard it.”

you look at rafe, blinking at him as your mind works. “what are you doing being so wise?”

rafe breaks the tension with a laugh. “honestly, im just quoting back shit my dad has said and hoping it works.”

“can't wait to meet your dad then if he's anything like you.” you smile, trying to keep up the light attitude when rafes face drops slightly. there's such a small difference you barely even pick up on it.

“rafe?”

“my dad… isnt my biggest fan.”

“but he's your father.” you question, laying back down, slotting your arms around rafe instead of the usual other way around.

“yeah, and therefore anytime i differ slightly from him, it's a huge disappointment.”

“well… then fuck him.”

rafes eyebrows raise up at your bold words, not used to sharing you cuss often and definitely not against someone.

“you're the best and if he doesn't see that, then that's his loss. if he doesn't completely love you, he's out of his mind because he's known you all your life and ive only known for a couple months and i love you.”

rafe launches forward, lips pressing harshly against yours, a mix of tongue and lips sliding over each other's as you kiss. the passion rafe is putting in is unlike any other time, and you know what you want.

“take me upstairs, rafe.” you nod as he looks at you for confirmation.

rafe picks you up, carrying you effortlessly up the stairs until he's in his bedroom and placing you gently down on the soft sheets.

“are you sure?” rafe asks, hovering over top of you.

“im sure. i love you. i want this.”

rafe nods, then gulps. “why am i the one nervous now.” he ducks his head, and you swear you see the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks. “i love you too. ive never said that to anyone before but… i love you. i am in love with you. i want you and only you.”

“oh, rafe.” you coo out, sitting up to kiss him. you intend for it to be a soft kiss, a gentle caress but it quickly turns fiery.

“god, you've turned me soft.” rafe says, making you laugh.

“not all of you…” you can feel a certain part pressing against you that is not soft at all.

“yeah, but he'll have to wait. not his turn yet. first…” rafe smirks at you. “i need to worship you with my hands. then my mouth. and then ill take you properly.”

rafe gives you no time to complain as his hands delve under your shirt, stroking the soft skin of your stomach, eyes staying on your face in case even a flicker of doubt comes across it.

his hands slowly move up until he's cupping your chest over your bra, keeping everything concealed by your shirt as you get used to the feeling of his large palms engulfing your breast.

“take my shirt off.” you tell rafe. “im okay.”

rafe nods, but his movements are still slow as he peels your top away. “you're a lot better than okay, baby.”

you can feel rafes eyes on your chest, but it just makes you happy, wanting to share this with him and only him. you make the next move, reaching behind your back to unclip your bra.

“shh, slow down.” rafes hands cover yours. “i know you want this, but let me just… appreciate you.”

rafe nudges your legs apart and lowers himself in between, pressing kisses against your stomach. his movements are so soft, covering your entire belly before moving up.

rafe kisses over the swell of your breast that's pressing against your bra cup, tongue occasionally flicking out to tease underneath the fabric.

rafe picks his head up to ask if you're still doing okay, but upon seeing your face, he knows he doesn't need to.

your eyes are already glazed over, blissed out and mouth ajar as you slowly blink down at rafe. “more.”

rafe smiles and tugs your bra away, mouth dropping over your nipple with his fingers find the other side, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the bud as his tongue does the same.

his movements continue until your nipples harden. he pulls away only to quickly switch to the other side.

“feels good.” you whimper, hands finding the back of rafes head, holding him to your chest.

“not as good as it feels to have my mouth on you.” rafe moans against your skin, tongue flicking out to press against your breast like he can't get enough of it.

“you can… you can touch me um…” you're about to say down there which just sounds stupid, but rafe thankfully understands you, his hand reaching down to graze his fingertips over your thighs.

he continues teasing, sweeping every time closer to your center until he delves between, finger rubbing against your covered clit as you gasp, back arching off the bed.

“does that feel good?” rafe asks, a smirk gracing his cheeks.

“y-yeah.” you nod quickly, spreading your legs slightly, ignoring the urge to clench them together and trap rafes hand there.

“can i get these leggings out of the way then?”

“take your shirt off first.” you giggle, looking between your exposed body and rafe still completely clothed.

“yes ma’am.” rafe jokes, making you roll your eyes.

you've seen rafe shirtless before, but this is the first time you've been able to unashamedly check him out as your eyes take in every inch of him, every line of muscle and smattering of hair.

rafe is well aware of your eyes on him, subtly flexing his muscles to make them appear bigger as he peels your leggings off your body. you let out a sigh of relief.

rafe presses himself onto the mattress on your side, partly leaned over you so he can continue to play with your chest.

you allow your eyes to close as his hand rubs against your underwear, swirling over the growing wet patch before moving up to your clit, tapping against it before rubbing.

you let out a soft moan, unable to hold back as a high builds inside of you. rafe suddenly presses forward, his hips thrusting against thigh, needing some sort of relief for his hard cock.

“you… you can fuck me now.” you tell rafe, not wanting to have him suffer in waiting.

“two orgasms first.” rafe says, focusing back on rubbing your clit, determined to get you there once before diving between your legs, even though he could drool right now just from the thought.

“i- ohhh.” whatever you were going to say in protest is forgotten as rafe adds a second finger, working them in sync around and over your clit.

“come on baby.” rafe says, breath hot against your neck as he moves up, pressing kisses and nipping gently at your sensitive skin. “i need you to cum for me.”

rafes mouth connects with yours, swallowing your moans as your arms wrap around his shoulders. it only takes a few more moments of his intense rubbing for you to feel something break. your high rushes over you as you cum loudly, squealing and hiding your face in rafes neck as your entire body shakes, surprised by how intense the feeling is.

“i got you.” rafe says softly, his fingers slowing to take you through your high, not stopping until your body slumps against the mattress.

“god, that was beautiful baby.” rafe kisses your forehead, not caring that there's the slightest sheen of sweat covering it. “if you need to stop now…”

“no!” you say quickly, eyes shooting open. “absolutely not, i need you.”

“gonna take your panties off then, yeah?” rafe makes sure you nod before moving lower, sighing with happiness as he pulls the last barrier away.

you don't even hesitate for a second before spreading your legs wide, letting rafe see every single part of you.

rafe looks up at you, a sense of seriousness in his eyes and tone. “you're beautiful. you're absolutely beautiful.”

rafe leans forward, and all it takes is a quick lick through your wetness to have you screaming out in pleasure.

“delicious.” rafe mumbles, pushing his hips into the bed for some relief as his tongue explores your pussy, purposely avoiding your clit knowing you're still coming down from your high.

“i- oh my god.” you squeeze your eyes shut as your hands grip onto the sheets. “i never thought it could feel so good.”

“only because you're with me baby.” rafe presses kisses to your open thighs. “no other man could make you feel this good.”

you chuckle and shake your head. “relax rafe, im not thinking about anyone else, trust me.”

“just making sure.” rafe grins up at you.

his attention quickly returns to your cunt as his tongue makes broad stripes through your folds, flicking over your clit every time he reaches it.

you're almost sure that you can't cum again so soon, that your body surely isn't able to, but your high builds steadily with every swipe of rafes tongue.

despite pressing his hips forward into the bed, rafe barely pays attention to himself, too wrapped up in swirling his tongue to taste every inch of you, wondering how he managed to hold off so long when he's spent so many nights in the same bed as you.

rafe refocuses on your clit, lips suctioning around it as his eyes flicker up to you, watching the surprise and pleasure across your face.

rafe knows he can't let you cum too soon as he raises his hand to prod a finger against your entrance. rafe can tell by how wet you are that opening you up should be easy and painless, and he couldn't probably enter you right now with no issue, but he won't risk it.

rafe keeps his eyes on your face as one long finger pushes inside of you, feeling your gummy walls clench around him at the sudden intrusion, but your face doesn't change from the consistent moans.

rafe begins to pump the finger as his tongue surges forward to press against your clit, tapping the bundle of nerves in the same rhythm as his finger entering you.

“oh- oh my god im close!” you squeal, only spurred closer when rafe fits a second finger inside, your slick making it easy and seamless.

rafe picks up the speed, occasionally scissoring his fingers and feeling your walls give way to his movements.

you thighs attempt to close, the pressure suddenly sending you over the edge, but rafe lays a hand against your leg and keeps them open as your high hits, body shaking as you scream out, clenching repeatedly around rafes fingers.

“mmm.” rafe hums against your clit, pulling away only to press a kiss to your core. “can't wait to feel you squeezing ‘round my cock like that.”

rafe kneels between your legs, watching your chest rise and fall, your nipples perky and pink from his attention. your body is completely slack from the intensity of the two orgasms as rafe undoes the buttons on his pants.

“do you want me to… do anything?” you ask.

“no.” rafe shakes his head. “this is all about you baby. ill teach you exactly how i like to be touched some other time.”

“okay.” you nod, glad that you can just relax and let rafe do all the work, especially knowing he's far more experienced than you are.

“you can touch me if you want though.” rafe offers, tugging his pants down so just his underwear is covering his cock, tight against his thighs and clearly bulging against the material.

“i- yeah.” you sit up, forcing your tired body through with the excitement and adrenaline of finally doing this with rafe.

your hand pets over his thigh, moving closer and closer until his cock twitches like it's calling out for you to touch him.

you place your hand firmly over his length, squeezing gently as rafes jaw drops open. such a simple motion but he's surprised how much better it feels having it be you touching him rather than a random girl he has no feelings for.

“god, baby.” rafe groans as you open your palm and stroke it over his length from base to tip. “you're already making me feel so good.”

“want me to keep going?”

rafe is so lost in the feeling he doesn't even realize you've asked him a question until a minute later when his hand rests over yours, stopping you. “no, in fact, i need you to stop before this ends way too soon.”

you can't help but giggle, wrapping your hand around rafes neck and giving him a kiss. “how do you want me?”

“you can lay on your back, or hands and knees, however you want. you can be on top too.” rafe offers as he reaches to his nightstand, digging out a condom.

“um… ill just stay like this.” you say, laying back, knowing you can change your mind later if you need to.

“perfect.” rafe smiles at you, leaning over to press a kiss to your tummy. “you're so perfect.”

you're about to respond when rafe pulls his underwear down and all other thoughts leave your mind.

“like what you see?” rafe smirks, his cock hard and seeming even bigger now that its not hidden by any fabric.

you squeeze your thighs together, and it's the only cue rafe needs to see to understand how much you want this. he wastes no time rolling the condom over his cock, sheathing himself in the latex. it's a non negotiable for your first time, not wanting to overwhelm you with worry about getting pregnant or not liking the feeling of his cum inside you.

rafe is excited for the day when he doesn't need a barrier, but he can wait for you.

“just relax.” rafe says, laying himself down over you. “it'll be better if you don't tighten your muscles. if it does hurt at all-”

you interrupt rafe with a kiss. “ill tell you. i know.”

rafe smiles at you, his cheeks stretching even further when his cock pushes forward and rubs through your folds, covering the condom in your slick.

rafe reaches down to line his cock up with your entrance, pushing in very slowly just in case you change your mind at any minute. he pauses when he feels your hips rise up and body tighten, only for you to take a deep breath and relax a moment later.

“feel so good, baby.” rafe says earnestly, pausing fully pushed inside of you, letting himself enjoy your warmth.

“i- just give me one second.” rafe pushing against your walls feels good, but you need a moment to adjust, hips moving up and down then side to side. “okay.” you nod. “you can move now.”

rafe presses a kiss to your lips as he begins to move, the make out turning into open mouthed moans as his hips swing back and forth, fucking into you with a steady rhythm.

“ohhhh!” you moan out as rafe speeds up slightly, your hands coming to hold onto his biceps, bulging as he keeps himself held up above you.

“that's it, baby.” rafe praises you as your thighs spread further apart, opening your pussy further for him.

“i really like it.” you whine, back arching as rafe digs his cock in deeper, pausing every couple thrusts to circle his hips and grind into you.

“i like it too.” rafe hums. “best ive ever had.”

you roll your eyes, certain any of his other hookups are more experienced and a better time than you, but rafe won't let your doubts slide.

“im serious, baby.” rafe says, not pausing his thrusts as he speaks. “it's because i am completely in love with you.”

“come here.” you pull rafe into a kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close.

“you're so good i don't know how long ill last.” rafe admits.

“i-i already think i could too.” you giggle. “if you just touch me down there.”

“im gonna hold off as long as possible though.” rafe vows. “wanna give you the best time.”

“you already have.” you kiss rafe deeply, obsessed with the taste of his lips, the way they slide against yours and his tongue pokes out to enter your mouth, exploring every inch he can.

rafe picks up his pace and depth of his thrusts, knowing now that you've had plenty of time to get used to the feeling. despite wanting to give you the best experience and focus just on the pleasure of being together, he has to put his mind elsewhere to not cum too soon.

“so wet.” rafe groans, head tipping back as the sounds of your wetness gushing with his every thrust, the sound invading his ears along with the slapping of skin.

“ive never felt like this before.” you admit shyly.

“you're gonna feel this a lot more often.” rafe laughs softly, swallowing thickly when he realizes just seeing your smile and the light in your eyes pushes him closer to the edge.

“gonna touch you now, baby.” rafe shifts his weight slightly to one side, hand ghosting down your stomach before he places the pad of his thumb directly over your clit.

“oh, oh!” you squeal. “rafe!”

rafe keeps pumping into you as you moan, your high suddenly bursting forward, unable to hold back even a second longer as your legs wrap around rafes hips and pull him in.

rafe let's out a sigh of relief as he cums as deep inside of you as he can, bodies pressed flush together.

“do you have sunscreen?” you ask. “i know it's autumn and we aren't going to be swimming but it's still pretty bright out.”

“yeah, already got some in the bag.” rafe had woken up early and stayed cuddling you in bed for as long as he could before knowing he needed to get the day started.

while he let your body recover from last night activities, he prepared every single boat anchored on the dock so you could choose any one you wanted, as well as prepared a bag and cooler for the day.

by the time rafe crawled back into bed, you were blinking your eyes open.

“perfect.” you smile and give rafe a quick peck, taking the bag from his hands so he can carry the cooler. you shot down his protest with a quick look.

“fine.” rafe grumbles. “you can carry this one thing.”

“considering i don't even have to lift a finger when you're around, i really don't mind.” you chuckle, following rafe out the back door and across the patio to the long expansive dock stretching deep into the water.

“so…” rafe begins. “there's a smaller speedboat, a pontoon and then obviously the yacht.”

“is it okay if we take the pontoon?” you ask.

“anything you want.” rafe nods. “we got the pontoon for wheezie and her friends, but it's a nice smooth ride and a lot of space. when it gets warmer out im absolutely taking you for a swim.”

“that actually sounds really fun.” you admit. you swam in the ocean a lot in norfolk, always going to virginia beach to be alone with the sand and the calming waves whenever your anxiety levels got too high.

“mhm.” rafe nods. “fun for me too, get you out in a tiny little bikini, away from all other people…”

“oh my god.” you roll your eyes as you laugh. “we had sex once and you're already fantasizing!”

“i was fantasizing about you since the moment i saw you in my seat.” rafe takes the cooler and sets it on the pontoon before taking the bag from you. “i was just gentlemanly enough to keep it to myself.”

“sure.” you roll your eyes again, but it's all in jest, rafe knows you find him hilarious and love his silly jokes. rafe, to prove his gentleman status, reaches a hand down to help you up onto the boat.

“so…” rafe gives you a quick tour, showing you where towels are stored, even though you're not planning on swimming, and lifejackets, just in case.

“but seriously, it's basically impossible to sink a pontoon. you're very safe.” rafe stresses.

“it's okay.” you say. “i trust you, really.”

“my girl.” rafe pulls you onto his lap as he sits down in the captains seat.

rafe navigates easily through the waters, pointing out different landmarks along the coast. “thank you for showing me your home.” you tell rafe, pressing your back into his chest as you round a cove and the wind picks up slightly. “ill show you norfolk one day but it's not as pretty as here.”

“i can't wait to raise kids here.” rafe says. “teach them how to fish and golf and drive the boats.”

“you think about kids?” you turn on rafes thigh to look at him rather than the scenery.

“our kids.” rafe winks at you, causing you to giggle and press your face into his neck, but he really means it, especially bringing you back to his home. he could imagine toddlers footsteps running around tanneyhill.

“you're sweet.” you kiss his cheek.

“don't let that get around.” rafe squeezes your hip as he steers with one hand. “it'll ruin my reputation around here.”

“oh yeah?” you raise your eyebrows. “tell me more about this reputation…”

you happily listen to rafe talk until your stomach starts to growl. he picks up on it quickly, moving the boat further out so you can float down the coast while you eat.

you continue to talk all through lunch, snacking on what rafe had packed.

“there's a million things i want to show you around the island, which means you'll have to start spending all your breaks here if you're not going home.”

“let's see how your family likes me first…” you mutter, giving rafe a look.

“relax. they'll love you. my dad will just be happy i found someone serious. that was the main point of him sending me to duke, was to get my shit together. and i look at you… and i want to be perfect for you. i love you so much.”

“this movie is boring.” you groan. “how can you make a movie about sharks and have it be boring as hell?”

“we can change it.” rafe offers, going to grab the remote when you stop him.

“no, im too deep into it now. i just want to complain.” rafe nods at your explanation and cuddles back into the couch, pulling you in tight to him.

“well…” he whispers in your ear, breath causing you to shiver. “since you're bored, how about i entertain you?”

you're not sure what rafe means until his hand pushes between your thighs, three fingers pressing against your core and rubbing.

“ohhh.” you moan out softly, eyes fluttering closed.

“sorry, love.” rafe says. “i couldn't wait until we got up into bed, not with my family getting home tomorrow. i need you too bad.”

“in… in my pants, please.” you take rafes hand, moving quicker for him to slip it below the hem and into your pajama pants, where rafe is pleased to find you aren't wearing any underwear.

his fingers stroke through your folds, feeling your wetness steadily growing before his finger prods against your entrance, slipping in with ease.

rafe watches as your eyes open to watch a scene playing out on the television before they close again when another boring part comes on, another monologue when you expected action.

“feel good?” rafe asks, glad that you aggressively nod.

“don't you dare stop.” you spread your thighs a little wider, having to lift a leg over his to give him even more room to press into you, hand pressing in so his palm can rub against your clit.

“as soon as this stupid movie is done im taking you upstairs and fucking you so hard.” rafe growls the last words, putting all the effort he can into fingering you and massaging your clit that he possibly can.

his eyes light up when your back arches, mouth opening as small moans fall from your lips before you turn into a shaking mess as your high breaks, reaching down to stop rafes hand as you immediately become oversensitive.

“yum.” rafe says, pulling his hand away to lick your wetness off his fingers.

“ill just read the synopsis later, come on.” you tell rafe, standing up off the couch and pulling him up the stairs.

“please, call me ward.” rafes father says, graciously giving you a hug.

“well, it's nice to meet all of you.” you say with a wide smile on your face to hide your nerves, looking between rafes step mom rose and his littlest sister wheezie who looks genuinely excited to meet you. “and thank you so much for letting me stay in your beautiful home.”

“we were so glad when rafe told us he met someone.” rose lays a hand over her chest. “and my goodness, you're just even better than we imagined.

“she's a keeper for sure.” rafe places an arm around your waist, smiling down at you as you tuck your head down, cheeks tinging pink.

“so, you've got to tell us all about yourself.” ward sweeps his arm towards the living room, and soon you're all chatting on the couch that rafe fingered you on the night before. you push the memory to the back of your mind as you answer all of wards questions (and occasionally a few from wheezie).

“im a duke alumni myself.” ward says.

“oh, im well aware.” you chuckle. “your name is plastered all over the school. i think it's amazing that you invest in your alma mater.”

hours go by, rose insisting you all eat dinner together, before rafe finally has you alone in his room.

“god, they love you.” rafe says, watching you while you changing into pajamas, making him promise he wouldn't try anything with his parents under the same roof.

“i was trying to say all the right things.” you giggle. “i really like wheezie though, she's sweet.”

“im sure she won't argue if you want to take her out shopping tomorrow.” rafe offers.

“id actually love that. maybe ill invite sarah too so i can actually meet her.” sarah had ward drop her off at her boyfriend's house before they even came back home from their vacation, but you can't blame her for being a teen in love.

“ill give you my card then.” rafe says. you roll your eyes. rafe pays for everything, not that it even makes a dent in what you know he's being given as an allowance from ward and cameron enterprises.

“thanks babe.” you climb into bed, snuggling under the covers as rafe sets an alarm on his phone and makes sure both of yours are plugged in and charging.

“come here.” rafe opens up his arms once he's also under the covers, and you're glad to snuggle into his chest, heart rate instantly slowing and breathing deepening just from your cheek being pressed against his tshirt.

“rafe.” you hum, placing a hand on his thigh as he starts up the car.

“yeah baby?” rafe is fully prepared for you to ask to drive, or tell him you're not ready to go yet. he's willing to make whatever concessions needed to get you back to duke.

“can we make a stop in rahleigh? that's where my… friend from high school lives now, and id like to stop by quickly and just tell her im okay and that i accept her apologies.”

rafe nods, blinking away a few tears as he reaches over to give you a tight hug. “im so proud of you baby.”

you press your face into rafes neck, knowing you can do this when you have rafe by your side.

-- four years later --

“are you nervous?” rafe asks, watching you adjust the cap on your head.

“actually, no.” you admit honestly. “and if i do get nervous,” you turn away to face rafe. “ill just look at you.”

“oh god, come here.” rafe pulls you in tight, kissing the top of your head.

“alright, come on.” you step out of the hug before it can go any further. “i dont wanna be late to my own graduation.”

“ah, you know i can delay it all with one phone call.” rafe tugs on your hand, tempting you back towards the bed.

“show off.” you roll your eyes, allowing rafe to pull you back to the mattress.

2K notes · View notes

hivemuthur · 4 months ago

Text

Hi Anon(s)! I'm intermingling the request and prompt into one:

Filth, Unspoken

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! you know the drill, they end up doing stuff by the end of this. The premise is: Reader secretly writes love letters and poems to Viktor and one day she accidentally slips him some. From warnings: massive cringe warning regarding my attempt at poetry :v

word count: 4,1K

author’s note: Remember when I said that sometimes I need to remind myself that I can publish anything because nobody has my address and won't come and boycott me in real life? I had to do it ten times harder with this. You don't like my poems? High five, I don't either :') Viktor does tho, hehe :v @rennethen as usual thank you for beta reading and surviving :v

artist on X

—

Chaos. The only word capable of describing your day. From the frantic oversleeping—jumping around your bedroom while picking up yesterday’s clothes—to the rushed, half-hearted teeth cleaning your dentist would surely condemn, to breakfast consisting of a single apple, to bumping into Sky and painfully clashing foreheads, to nearly stumbling over the threshold of Heimerdinger’s classroom. And then, the realisation: you’ve forgotten your textbook.

You’re forced to borrow the classroom copy, the one Heimerdinger keeps for emergencies. Poor book—barely holding together, its pages threatening to break free from their loose stitching, stained and scrawled on by generations of equally forgetful students.

In the middle of a page, you spot a tiny drawing of Viktor, ink bleeding into the text you’re supposed to be reading. He’s hunched over a desk, his back abruptly cut off by the edge of the paper, his hair reduced to sketchy, heavy-handed strokes. And yet, it’s undeniably him. Signed J.T.—Jayce, you assume. Around the drawing, various hearts have been added in different inks and handwritings, a quiet chorus of affection from students past. No wonder the book is so worn. You smile to yourself—you’re not the only one, it would seem.

Your eyes flick to where he sits, finding him in the exact same position, only now with the full curve of his back visible. The eraser end of a pencil rests between his lips, his gaze blank as he stares off, lost in thought. You imagine it’s something else entirely that finds its way into his mouth.

Slowly, you draw your own heart next to his tiny, sketched lips.

The lecture blurs as the last of your adrenaline fades. Secretive yawns slip through as Heimerdinger’s monotonous voice grows heavier, pressing your eyelids shut. Eventually, you succumb, head resting against your hand.

The next thing you know, a warm hand presses firmly against your forearm, and your name is murmured close to your cheek, laced with the scent of coffee and something sweet. You lean into it before you can think better of it.

“I must admit, I agree with your review,” Viktor mutters, far too close to your lips for your pupils not to dilate.

There’s a stupid look on your face, and he must notice, because he adds, “Eh. Not the most thrilling lecture, I suppose.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Damn, I barely took any notes,” you whine, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Viktor chuckles, clearly mistaking the heat in your cheeks for lingering drowsiness rather than the way his closeness sets your pulse stumbling. You’re still leaning toward him, caught between the haze of waking and the warmth of his voice.

“I have a free period now,” he offers. “We can go through them together.”

For a fleeting second, you consider lying—mumbling a heated yes, forsaking another lecture only to spend some time in his proximity and get a good whiff of his scent. But a nagging sense of duty wins over the frantic thrum in your chest.

You fidget, pushing yourself up from your seat too fast, nearly toppling over in the process. “Ah—next class—I have to—” Papers crumple under your fingers as you shove them into your bag with all the grace of a landslide.

Viktor watches you with quiet amusement. He has seen this flustered scramble before—usually when someone is running late or, occasionally, when someone is running from him. But he isn’t one to give up easily.

“If you do not have time,” he says smoothly, “I can review the notes myself.”

You pause, blinking at him. “You’d really do that?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I like collecting favours.”

Still not entirely awake, you dig through your bag and pull out a stack of papers. It’s not a particularly pleasant sight—edges curled, some pages crumpled beyond saving, a coffee stain blooming across the corner of one sheet like a spreading bruise. You give him an apologetic shrug.

Viktor takes them without hesitation, his smile turning playful. “I do like a challenge.” He taps the stack against the desk to straighten it. “I will drop them off later?”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that you just handed over your notes—your disaster of a note-taking system—to Viktor, of all people.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” The words leave your mouth before you can rethink them, and by the time you do, Viktor is already slipping the papers into his bag with a satisfied little hum.

And so you go your separate ways, the needy thing in your chest both sated and still starving, your mind already drifting to what the evening might bring. You wrap your fingers around your forearm where Viktor’s hand rested for a moment, itching to roll up your sleeve and inspect the skin beneath.

All this time, you’ve been pouring your heart out onto sheets of paper that no one has seen. Technically, Sky once found one you accidentally used as a napkin—deeming it trash after you’ve read it back to yourself, mortified. You snatched it from her hand and shoved it deep into the bin. Thankfully, it was a tame one.

Love letters, poems, confessions—all of them left unseen. For someone so secretive about your little crush, you take surprisingly few security measures. You stuff them under your pillow, into your drawers, sometimes into your pockets, books, or notes you carry around in your bag. Or, they become an eventual napkin, but that has only happened once so far.

You should probably keep them safer. But the thought vanishes the moment you sit down for your next class, forcing yourself into the focused state you need to brace through the lab exercise. Occasionally, your mind drifts back to later.

Viktor, true to his word, spends the period back at his dorm, where all the notes he might need are. He sets up at his desk, intending to correct your scribblings and annotate what you might have missed, only to realise soon after that this won’t be a one-sitting job. How you’ve been passing your classes eludes him.

It’s pure chaos incarnate. What starts as notes on one page quickly devolves into a caricature of Heimerdinger, his poro gnawing at his foot, before abruptly resuming a page later. He chuckles at your commentary—hastily scribbled words underlined whenever boredom struck: yawn, no idea what this man is talking about, kill me.

Until it’s no longer chaos. His eyes fixate on a small sheet of paper wedged between your class materials. A poem. No mistake here. But what kind of poem is this? Has this bloomed under your pen? He reads the first two verses, convincing himself it’s to identify your handwriting.

when you brush my fingers I don’t wash my hands

And there is no mistake here either. He places the sheet face down on his desk, looking around as if anyone might be there to spy on him. He steadies himself with a deep breath before peeking back in.

your touch lingers, stains my skin seeps into every tender place I press against in the dark it’s cruel, how you favour my left hand how you never take the right— the one I slip between my thighs the one that does you no justice, I’m sure

Your words pour into him, his mind racing as he imagines you saying them. Writing them, tapping your chin with your pen at your desk—or better yet, in your bed. Or have you written this in class? Heart begins to thump loudly in his temples as he re-reads the poem a couple of times, each pass making his cheeks hotter. He tries to focus on the words, imagining you, wondering who you’ve written this for. By the time he’s forced to pack up for his next class, his hair is dishevelled from running a hand through it too many times. He eyes the rest of your notes suspiciously, his mind racing.

After lectures, he’d like nothing more than to run back to his dorm, but instead, he walks briskly, the thought of your writings nagging at him. The stack of papers teases at his mind, and as he turns the corner, a sudden impulse hits him—what if he searched the rest of the notes?

He sits down faster than he would admit to anyone and begins to go through the papers, one by one. It doesn’t take long to identify another hold-withered sheet, folded in half unevenly, which he opens with excited hands.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass

Stop. Can’t be. He twists the cane in his fingers and falls against the chair’s backrest. Head lulls back on his shoulders and a hand comes to cover his mouth. Can’t be, so he reads the whole thing again.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass make it red make it many every night, I regret that I cannot kiss where past life lovers have kissed you— under your eye, above your mouth

Zatraceně, Viktor thinks. He runs his fingers across the mark under his eye, then the one above his lip. Still, can't be, can it? Every blush, every fidgeting of hands he mistook for your general anxiety—was it all him?

Every time you’ve shied away from his eyes or slipped from under his touch. His mind races through your interactions, trying to remember how many times he’s touched your left hand. Countless. Unbelievable, how blind a smart man can be.

With trembling hands, he fumbles through the rest of the stack. And as if he weren’t sure enough already, a tiny piece of parchment, presumably ripped from one of your notebooks, glares at him with his name scribbled in loving letters.

Fuck me, Viktor. I don’t want to die— Untouched by you, Unfucked by you, Unruined by you, Unmade in the way only you could.

Such words, coming from under your wrist, unthinkable. He finds his collar tight and his mind foggy as he reads all three of them over and over. Images of your lips reciting the poems flood his brain. Then, images of your lips doing other things.

He loosens his tie, after a while discards it completely. Determined to finish what he promised, he goes through the rest of your notes, thankfully finding no other filthy scribbles. Or unluckily.

He considers completing the task tomorrow, but there’s no use. His cock is relentlessly stiff, and if he doesn’t hand you your filth back, he will most likely stay awake until the morning. When the knock lands on your door, it's late, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t waiting.

“Hello,” says Viktor, and he looks… tired. His clothes are dishevelled, his hair a mess, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. He looks pretty, too.

“Hi, um… am I this unreadable?” You wince, eyeing the notes in Viktor’s hand, which look somewhat neater than you remember.

You have no idea, he thinks. “Eh, it was a little bit… challenging, but everything should be here,” Viktor says, hesitating before passing you the stack. “Can I come in?”

You step away faster than you can say yes. Then, you take the notes from his hand and put them on the table, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”

This time it’s Viktor fidgeting, and it gets you mildly self-conscious. He turns to you, then eyes the stack on the table. “You have an interesting way of cataloguing knowledge,” he chooses to say.

“What… do you mean?” you ask, and feel your heart stop, drop out of your chest, and stumble to the floor. For a moment, you feel bloodless, before all this blood comes rushing up to your face with an ice-cold gush.

“I might have stumbled upon some of your… eh, original work, so to speak?” he offers and smiles of all things. Curiosity lingers in his eyes, and you swallow, hard.

“Original… oh, fuck.” you exhale sharply, and your hand shots up to cover your mouth.

“You are very talented. I know not much of poetry, but—”

“Poetry?! Gods, these are the worst!” You rub your temples, mortified, eyes flicking to the floor, desperately trying to hide your embarrassment.

“There’s more?” he asks, bewildered. This is the most animated he’s seen you… perhaps, ever. Always quiet. Always shy around him. How interesting.

“Viktor, I beg you,” before you know it, you fist his shirt, and your face is inches away from his. Your cheeks burn and your temples hammer with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t mock me. Which ones have you read?”

The proximity moves something within him, and suddenly, the images of your lips come back to him. Of you, begging for his cane against your ass and his cock in your mouth, and it’s thrilling.

His hands come to rest on your hips, and a chill runs down your spine when a smirk blooms on his face. “What can I say… forgive me for favouring your left hand. I shall fix my mistake.”

“Oh gods, I’m going to die,” you lament, covering your face and pulling away, but Viktor’s grip tightens.

“Wait! Wait,” he pleads, pulling you close, cane pokes between your shoulder blades. “You cannot die yet,” he whispers, and it doesn’t take you long to connect the dots. All the blood thriving and gushing under the skin of your face immediately drains when his mouth comes to your ear and he hums, “Not before I touch you.” A breath gets trapped in your throat when his hand slides up your side to wrap around your neck. “Not before I… fuck you,” he whispers against your lips and waits for your reaction. “Or ruin you,” comes last and well, almost ruins you there, on the spot.

Then, he stills and just stares into your eyes. Wide and frightened, you search his—pupils black and huge, eating up the gold to the rim. “Unless… your writing is of the past. Or untrue.”

Feeling the weight of his scrutiny, you surrender. “It’s not,” you murmur, your voice so small it’s barely there. You don’t dare look at him, so you miss the way his lips curl into an amused smile. “Which ones did you read exactly?”

“Oh? Are the themes reoccurring?” Viktor asks, tilting his head, his tone deceptively innocent.

You let out a weak, mortified whine, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he pulls you in, guiding your head to rest beneath his chin. The scent of him fills your nose. When he speaks again, the low timbre of his voice vibrates against your cheek. “Oh hush, I’m only teasing you.”

“Well, have you considered stopping? I’m barely hanging in here,” you mutter against his throat. You feel the slight shift in his breath, and if you weren’t so dizzy with embarrassment, you’d swear you felt goosebumps rise under your lips.

“Why? It’s only me. You’ve known me for years,” he muses, his fingers tracing idly along your back.

“Yes, but—” you start, only for him to interrupt.

“But what? Am I so intimidating?”

“No, you are just so…” You hesitate, your breath hitching as you realise how close you are, how warm he feels against you. “Nice,” you whisper, barely able to force out the word. And then, quieter still, almost a confession: “And hot. I can’t think straight around you.”

Viktor tilts your chin up, gold eyes searching yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Do you mean it?” he asks, voice low. “This and everything you’ve written?”

You force yourself to answer with a weak, “Yes.”

Your lips brush his as you press forward, seeking out his tongue, inviting him in needily. He obliges, mouth breathing into yours slowly—a deep kiss that’s both cautious and wanting, melting the two of you together. It’s slow, and it grows, each inhale Viktor takes deep and measured, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your breath. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and a moan escapes you when his hand moves from your chin to the base of your skull.

His thumb brushes under your hairline, almost soothing, when he asks, “Would you like me to touch you, then?”

When he pulls back, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips are still ghosting over yours.

“Please,” you whisper, the word bouncing between you.

Wordlessly, he nods, takes your hand in his, and guides you toward your bed. Then he sits, props his chin on his palms resting atop his cane, and says calmly, “Strip for me.” His voice is steady, but inside, he is anything but.

With trembling hands, you undress, your skin prickling under his stare. Once bare, you clasp your palms at the bottom of your stomach, shifting from foot to foot as you await his next instruction. Viktor smiles—kind, knowing—and sets his cane aside before extending his arm.

His hands find your thighs, running up and down, leaving cinders in the aftermath of his touch. Then, he turns you around and pulls you down until your back is flush against his chest.

“Now,” he whispers into your ear, his voice a slow drag of heat down your spine as he spreads your legs, hooking them over his knees.

“I will touch you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your bare skin, “and you will tell me what else you’ve written.”

His touch trails up your inner thigh, barely there, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind. The anticipation is unbearable—he enjoys it. Your breath stutters when he finally, finally brushes over where you need him, only to pull away just as quickly.

“Go on,” he prompts, voice smooth as silk, his mouth close to your ear. You swallow hard, heat coiling deep inside you. You shift uncomfortably on his lap, hook one arm around his shoulder before breathing your weak plea into his neck. "Viktor."

He hums in response, his hand returning, teasing, fingers slipping between your thighs but still refusing to give you what you ache for.

"Say it," he coaxes. "For me?"

You gasp when his knuckles brush against your centre, his second hand slipping up your other thigh, joining the right one—a promise of what awaits you if you share this with him.

"What if you come," you whisper, voice shaking, "into my throat?"

A sharp inhale from Viktor, his fingers playing at your entrance. He nuzzles into your hair, breath hot against your temple. "More."

"I’d eat mud to touch the root of you," you murmur, heat flooding your face. "I go hungry if you don’t feed me."

Viktor groans and plunges two fingers inside you, his right hand rubbing lazy circles over your clit. You can feel him, so painfully hard against the small of your back, and your head lulls onto his shoulder, a shuddered whimper slipping from your lips.

"More," he demands with a soft moan.

Your mind is slipping, drowning in the way he touches you, but you force the words out. "I kneel at the altar of your hands," you whisper, your eyes meeting his. "I part for them like a prayer."

Viktor swears under his breath, his mouth pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. His tongue parts them effortlessly, devouring your filthy testament to your infatuation straight from your throat.

"It tortures me," you say, voice hitching, "that I cannot mould the shape of your cock from the slope of your groin."

The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of you, the feeling of them curving just right, the heat of his chest against your back, and his hair tickling your forehead—it all has you dizzy. You tighten your grip on his shoulder, fingers grasping his shirt tightly as you press your face against his.

"Good girl," Viktor breathes against your lips, each word a quiet indulgence. Something roars in his ribcage at the feeling of being this adored. His fingers push deeper, curling mercilessly, coaxing the slickest, filthiest sounds from your body. The other hand does a deft work of your clit, and you jerk, a breathy moan escaping into the open air.

"That’s it," he murmurs, nipping at your jaw, letting his teeth linger over your skin before soothing the bite with a kiss. "No more left hand torture."

His hips shift against you, slow at first, a teasing drag of his cock over the swell of your ass, letting you feel the hard, aching length of him through his trousers. He groans, a deep, broken thing, and his breath stutters when you push back, rolling your hips to match his movement.

"Fuck," he hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he grinds against you more deliberately. "I could listen to you endlessly."

You whimper, arching against him, hand clutching at his shoulder as he builds the pressure inside you with every firm thrust. Your whole body is taut, trembling at the way his hips rut against yours, the way his breath catches when you moan his name.

"Will you come for me?" he rasps, lifting his head, catching your mouth in a kiss that’s hot and searching, swallowing every little sound you make. "Let me hear you. Let me feel it."

You gasp into his mouth, shaking, so impossibly close as his fingers drive into you faster, rub your clit harder. His legs spread further apart, keeping you open for him, guiding your pleasure. "You’re so lovely," Viktor whispers, breathless, voice thick with awe.

The coil inside you tightens, unbearable, your body wound so tight you think you might snap in two on his lap. And then Viktor shifts, bites down gently on your lower lip, and it’s too much—you break, gasping against his mouth as you come undone around his fingers.

And it’s so much more than you’ve imagined. None of your hands have done him justice. Nor your pillow, nor your shower head. Nothing could compare, save for the promise of his cock lingering in your mind.

"Yes," he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, voice laced with something dangerously close to devotion. "That’s it. Just like that. Let me have it."

Your body trembles in his hold, pulsing around his fingers as he guides you through the aftershocks, his movements slowing, softening. He keeps kissing you, swallowing your ragged breaths, grinding himself against you as his own breath turns uneven, as his own restraint frays.

"Tell me," he pants, grinding harder, desperate, aching. "Tell me you’ll write more for me."

His cock throbs against you, his fingers still buried inside you, and you barely have the strength to whisper back—

"Yes."

And Viktor groans like he’s the one coming apart. You hook your arms over his neck and kiss him, grinding your hips against him. “Yes,” you say into his mouth again, breathless, fervent.

Slick fingers come to press bruises into the skin of your thighs as he chases the friction, the heat of you against him, edging him toward his peak. His hips jerk, rutting against the curve of your ass with a desperate, needy rhythm. You can feel him, so impossibly hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers, the damp heat of you seeping through to him.

"Fuck," he hisses against your lips, his voice wrecked. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering as he thrusts against you, chasing relief, needing it like air.

Your hands slip into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans, his body shivering with pleasure. "Come for me," you whisper, rolling your hips back, pushing against him with just enough pressure to tip him over the edge.

Viktor gasps, his hands flying to wrap around your stomach, pulling you flush against him as his body seizes. A guttural moan tears from his throat, his hips stuttering as he spills into his trousers, panting against your skin, trembling. His grip on you is bruising, grounding, as waves of his orgasm crash through him.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, only breathes, his mouth brushing over your cheek, your jaw, your lips—soft, reverent touches. His hands ease their grip, smoothing over your belly, your waist, as if trying to memorize you by touch.

When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, ruined. "I fear you’ll be the death of me." “It’s only fair,” you say quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “You’ve been the death of me for the longest time.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #requests

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covenofagatha · 7 months ago

Text

Two professors and a student (part 6)

Word count: 4300

Warnings: fingering, oral, semi-public, orgasm denial, implied overstimulation, strap-on, edging maybe?, bondage, sex toys, reader is a brat, voyeurism

It’s been a week since the spring semester started, and you’ve barely seen Rio and Agatha at all.

You had spent practically the entire holiday break entangled between the two of them in their bed.

Or on their couch. On their table. Even in the shower.

The memory makes you blush and you can feel your clit start to pulse because you haven’t been touched in days.

The beginning of the semester was always a frantic time for professors, which you soon found out. While you were chilling with your syllabus quizzes in most of your classes, Agatha and Rio were already emailing back and forth with students and dealing with those who were adding or dropping and working on their lectures.

You hadn’t even tried to set up a time to get dinner or hang out because you didn’t want to add more to their plates. You figured when they had some free time, they would reach out.

But today, you’re tired of the waiting. You are needy and desperate, and feeling like a little bit of a brat.

So after your one class for the day, you stroll to Rio’s office. You try the younger woman first, thinking you might have better luck. Rio seems to at least appreciate taking a break from her work every now and then and she might be in a generous mood.

You knock on the door and wait for her to tell you to come in. Pushing it open, you find Rio at the window, pouring a cup of water into a vase with beautiful flowers.

“Forget me not,” she says, glancing at you and then back to the plant. Is she telling you to not forget her?

You don’t think you could.

“What?” You ask, stepping inside and letting the door close.

She walks back to her chair and sits, lounging back to assess you. “The flowers. They’re called Forget-me-nots.”

You nod. “Ah.” Sometimes it feels like Rio is having a completely different conversation with you than the one you think you’re having.

She smirks. “What’s up, doll? Having a good start to the semester?” You pout dramatically and slowly saunter over to her side of the desk and lean against it.

“Yeah, it’s been alright, I’m just a little stressed already and I haven’t seen you or Agatha in awhile, so I thought I’d come pop by,” you say, your voice dripping with suggestion.

Rio’s tongue presses against the inside of your cheek, a quirk you find yourself always entranced by, and she chuckles in amusement. She pushes her chair back and turns it so she’s facing you directly.

“Thought you’d come pop by to…just say hi?” She says, eyebrows raising like she knows what you want but she’s going to make you work for it.

Luckily, you’re prepared for this. Getting what you want with these women is never easy, but you’ve learned.

“Well,” you start coyly, head tilting to the side and giving her your best sad doe eyes. “I was hoping I could do a little more than ‘say hi.’ I’ve missed you. It’s been so long since we’ve spent some quality time together.”

“Doll, these are my office hours. Anyone could walk in right now,” Rio warns, but the look on her face tells you that she doesn’t really care.

“I can lock the door,” you say, sounding a little too eager.

She studies you with her intense gaze, eyes raking up and down over your body, and you fight the urge to squirm. “You’re such a desperate slut, aren’t you? Coming in here when anyone could walk in, begging to be fucked. You’d probably like it if someone saw, wouldn’t you?”

Your lips part, a forced exhale coming out of them, and your eyes glaze over at the thought. You’re not sure if Rio’s going to give in though, so you play your one last card.

Shrugging dismissively, you wait until she leans forward a bit, encouraging you on. “If you’re too busy, I’m sure I could go find someone else to spend quality time with,” you say, and her eyes flash just like you’d hoped.

Whether you’re talking about Agatha or a random stranger, Rio doesn’t care to find out.

She reaches out, grabs the belt loops on your jeans, and pulls you forward so you crash onto her lap. She makes quick work of unbuttoning and unzipping your shorts and she slides her hand inside.

“Wow, doll, you’re soaked,” she says and your sensitive clit pulses when she presses against it. You whimper, the urgency of the situation also affecting you, and she shoves two fingers inside you.

Your head drops back at the stretch and your heartbeat quickens while you wait for her to fuck you so well, like she always does, but she doesn’t move.

“Rio,” you whine, pleading for her to do something.

An evil smirk spreads across her face. “Oh, no, doll. You’re the one who wanted this so badly, so you’re the one who’s going to do something about it.”

You grunt in frustration but begin to ride her fingers, bouncing up and down faster. Your arms wrap around her neck for leverage as she holds her hand still and leans back to watch you appreciatively.

“Rio, please,” you beg. While it feels good, it’s really hard for you to get her fingers deep enough to the right spot like this, and she’s not even touching your clit. “I need more, I can’t.” You roll your hips to no avail, the pleasure staying the same.

She huffs, mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “Too bad, slut. This is all you get.”

You grumble in frustration, forcing your hips down as far as they’ll go to take her fingers as deep as you can get, and rut back and forth. This position works a little better and you can at least feel the sensation in your body heightening.

You also find that grinding against her hand like that also means her palm is right against your clit and you’re finally able to get somewhere.

“There we go, doll. You’re so smart, I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” she drawls but you’re exerting yourself so much chasing your high that you can’t respond. You can feel yourself getting closer and your walls begin to flutter more around her fingers, and from her tell-tale smirk, she knows it too.

You’re just about to crash over the wall of pleasure and cum when she finally moves.

But not in the way you’ve been wanting.

Her fingers pull out of you faster than you can blink and her hand swipes across your face, smearing your wetness over your lips.

“What?” You cry, completely dumbfounded, tongue instinctively darting out to lick, and she laughs.

“Do you think a brat like you deserves to cum?” She asks and you nod furiously, willing to do anything it takes to get her to put her hand back between your legs. But she grabs your waist and gently shoves you off until you’re standing again. “Well I don’t. Now get out of my office, I have work to do.”

Disappointed, and still massively turned on, you decide to see Agatha in her office. It might take a little more coaxing with her, but you bet that if you work hard enough, you could wind up with her fingers in you as well.

And Agatha never leaves a job unfinished.

When you push open the door to her office, she’s in the middle of reading something, chewing on her pen in her left hand.

You’re not sure why, but the fact that the older woman is left handed does something to you that you can’t quite explain.

She looks up, and her face brightens. “Hey, sweetheart, what brings you over here?”

“Nothing much, just wanted to say hi. It’s been a bit,” you say sweetly, walking over to her desk to lean against it, just like you did with Rio. Agatha instantly pushes back to give you more space. She gives you a soft smile.

“I know, baby. Rio and I were thinking maybe we could all do something this weekend? If you’re free of course. We just know how busy we’ve been and we feel bad that we’ve been neglecting you.”

Her words are coated in sugar and they make you feel so much better, and normally, those would be enough to satiate you for now, but your brain is completely fogged with desire.

You frown. “This weekend? But that’s so far away.” You drag the word out petulantly, making her laugh.

“Aw, poor baby,” she mocks. “Is someone not getting enough attention while Rio and I are working?”

You stick out your bottom lip and shake your head, trying to look as pathetic as possible, hoping she takes pity. “You could make it up to me right now?” You offer.

“What would Rio think?” Agatha whispers conspiratorially and you debate whether or not to tell her that you don’t think she’d mind as her girlfriend’s fingers were just buried inside you.

But you don’t want to risk Agatha getting upset.

“I won’t say anything,” you say instead. Agatha thinks for a second and looks back at the pile of papers on her desk, worrying on her bottom lip. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Why don’t we make a deal?” She says, turning back to you, and your spirits jump. “Get on your knees under this desk and if you can make me cum before I’m done grading these papers, I’ll reward you.”

You fall down to the floor so hard that you can feel the impact in your teeth but you don’t even wince and crawl so you’re where she wants you. You know why she did that; the desk completely covers any sign of you, so if someone were to walk in, you would be totally out of sight.

A little different than Rio, who let you ride her fingers in plain view, door unlocked. You both could’ve been in serious trouble had someone interrupted.

Agatha’s wearing a dress so it’s easy to hike up the hem to her hips. You gently blow over her underwear, smile as you watch her shiver, and turn your head to leave a trail of kisses over her inner thigh. Her hand comes down to tangle into your hair and she yanks it roughly.

“I would hurry up if I were you,” she hisses. “I only have about ten more of these to grade.”

Sufficiently spurred on by her warning, you pull her underwear to the slide and drag your tongue forcefully up her slit, making her hips jump. You moan at her salty taste and her musky smell that fills your nostrils.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” she chuckles and you lay off on the pressure a little while you lap at her clit. You can hear her make little gasps, but you can still hear her pen scribbling, so you lick even harder.

There’s the crinkling of paper and a louder moan, and you smirk into her pussy. Her hand tightens in your hair, a silent message, and you move down to dip your tongue into her opening and stroke against her walls. You’ve realized that you’re also making noises, but they’re muffled by her body.

And then there’s a knock on the door and you jerk so much that your head hits the desk above you. You bite back a strangled groan as her hand swats your cheek and then it retreats back up on top of the desk.

“Come in!” Agatha says, voice shaky and she clears her throat. You grin to yourself.

“Hi, uh, Professor Harkness?” It’s a man, a student of hers, if the nervous twinge in his tone is any indication.

“Yes, that’s me,” she snaps out, maybe harsher than she intended it to.

She shifts in her chair and you realize that her legs are still partly open. A wicked idea runs through you and you gently pry her thighs apart even more. She tenses under you, and you freeze, just to make sure she doesn’t want you to stop.

And then she opens them wider and your heart almost stops.

“I had a question about the syllabus,” the kid says and you roll your eyes. Poor Agatha and Rio for having to deal with incompetent students. At least you might be able to help her here.

You suck her clit between your lips and take a great deal of pleasure in how her voice breaks in the middle of her sentence. You can only hear tidbits of their conversation with Agatha’s thighs crushing your head (what a way to go, though) but you think you can hear her words getting higher and higher as you continue your administrations on her pussy.

You thrust your tongue inside her hole as far as it goes and curve it, and you hear her break into a loud fit of coughing, presumably to hide a moan. You speed up and suck harder on her clit, scraping your teeth against it just to see if it does the same for her as it does for her girlfriend, and you’re delighted when it does.

Agatha’s legs tremble and her walls clench around your tongue the next time you lick inside. Your jaw starts to hurt but your face is drenched with her wetness and you don’t dream of stopping.

And you can tell she’s getting close.

“Thank you very much, Professor,” you hear the kid say, sounding far away. “I hope you feel better.” Then there’s the sound of the door closing.

You laugh into her pussy with your tongue inside her and the vibrations send her over the edge. She cums all over your face, free now to make noise and grind her cunt on your mouth.

You continue softly licking, even slurping once or twice, just so she’s completely cleaned up while she slumps against her chair. When you finally look up at her, she’s already staring at you, eyebrow raised.

“I made you cum before you finished grading the papers,” you say proudly and she snorts.

“That was a dangerous game you played,” she says lowly, fingers wiping her wetness off your cheeks and sticking them into your mouth. You suck, flicking your tongue around them, never breaking eye contact until you finally see a hint of a smile from her.

You sit back on your heels. “A deal is a deal.”

She chuckles darkly. “It sure is. Why don’t you come sit on the desk?”

You’ve never moved so fast in your life, scrambling to your feet and then plopping down, legs already spreading. She stands up so you have to look up at her and then her fingers are opening your jeans.

There’s a mutual gasp when she first slides her hands into your underwear, her from how absolutely soaked you are, and you from how close you already are. Being denied by Rio and then making Agatha cum has you positively dripping.

“Someone liked that,” she muses, sliding a finger into you. Your back arches and you let out a throaty groan. You know it won’t take very long for you to cum at all and it’s the only thing you need right now.

She pushes a second finger in you, and then a third, and she stretches you out so nicely and curls her fingers and rubs your clit with your thumb and you’re so close, so close, reaching the edge –

– and she stops.

Your eyes fly open to find her smirking at you. Before you can say a word, and in remarkably close fashion to her girlfriend, she pulls her fingers out of you and you clench around nothing.

“Why?” You wail. How is this the second time this has happened in less than an hour?

Agatha grabs your jaw and forces you to look straight at her. “That’s for your little stunt under the desk.”

You gape at her. “I gave you a chance to stop me, I paused and you opened your legs!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says innocently and you whine, hands scrambling for purchase on the front of her dress, trying to pull her back into you. “Now you better get going, I have a meeting in ten minutes. And stop pouting, fix your face before I do it for you.”

You roll your eyes, dropping the pitiful act, button up your pants, and storm out of the classroom.

It’s two hours later and you’re still stewing over being refused an orgasm twice when you get a text from Rio: We’re outside your dorm. Come down.

You debate pretending to not be home, but ultimately respond that you’ll be down in a minute.

They better be fully prepared to make it up to you.

“Hey, baby girl,” Agatha says when you slam the door to the backseat shut and you know immediately that something is wrong.

“Hey,” you answer tentatively.

“How was your day?” Rio asks.

Hang on.

Are they acting weird because they both don’t know that you had sex with each of them? And they’re trying to keep it a secret from each other?

You feel like you can breathe a little easier now. “Pretty good. How about you guys? Finish all your work?”

You can play this game too.

They both hum in response and nothing else is said on the way to their house. It’s strange and you begin to get the prickly feeling on the back of your neck, like you’ve just wandered into their trap.

When Agatha parks, you wait for them to get out of the car before you do and you follow them inside and up to their bedroom.

“What’s going on?” You dare to ask.

They share a look and then glance back at you. “Isn’t this what you wanted, doll?” Rio asks. “The both of us?”

Your mouth goes dry and you eagerly nod. They both chuckle and Rio walks over to grab something from the nightstand where they keep their toys. Your breathing quickens, immediately back in the same lustful state you were earlier.

And then Agatha flips you around by the shoulders and Rio ties silk around your wrists to bind them. You struggle and look at them, shock written all over your face.

“You think you can mess with both of us?” Rio says into your ear, shoving you onto the bed by the arm. You almost fall back without the use of your hands but you manage to keep your balance. “You think acting like a brat will give you what you want?”

Agatha trails a finger lightly down your cheek and you try to open your mouth to catch it but she pulls away too fast. “Imagine my surprise,” she says and you know that this won’t be good. “When Rio told me that you stopped by her office earlier begging for her fingers. And after she didn’t let you cum, you came to me, hoping I would give you the relief you so desperately needed.”

Rio comes back into view with a strap and a harness and you gasp sharply. She hands it to Agatha, who pulls up her dress and steps into it.

“And when I heard what you had done to Agatha,” Rio starts, breaking off to giggle darkly. “I knew what we needed to do.”

“See, a brat like you needs to be put in her place. Shown what happens when you misbehave,” Agatha taunts, fastening the harness so the purple cock juts out from her hips.

“You know what happens when you misbehave, doll?” Rio asks, dropping her pants to the ground and revealing her pale white legs.

You squirm against the bed and your restraints, needing to touch or to be touched. “What?” You whisper.

Agatha leads Rio over to the vanity in the bedroom and bends her over on the counter so that their backs are to you.

But they’re looking into a mirror. Your breath catches in your throat when they both lock eye contact with you through their reflections.

“You don’t get fucked,” Agatha says, rubbing the toy up and down Rio’s folds. “You just have to watch. And just in case you get out of those restraints and try to touch yourself, we’re watching you the whole time.”

You moan involuntarily at the memory of you disobeying their orders the first night you slept with them.

How it had led to four orgasms.

But you’re quickly pulled from the memory of that when Agatha begins to slowly push into Rio, the younger woman’s head falling forward onto her elbows.

“Uh uh,” Agatha tuts and pulls her hair so that her face is looking in the mirror again. You feel a thrill run through you when you meet Rio’s eyes that are glazed over with pleasure. “Keep your eyes on her and why don’t you tell her how good I’m making you feel? Just so our little brat knows exactly what she’s missing out on.”

You whimper but you can’t move because you’re so enthralled by the sight when Agatha starts to pick up her face.

“Oh god, you feel so good inside me,” Rio moans and you want to cry. Heat has settled into every crack and crevice in your body and your head feels dizzy. “Aggie, your cock, oh god, fucking me so good, please don’t stop, right there.”

It’s like you can feel it too, the overbearing pleasure you are sure is washing over her.

“Taking my cock so well,” Agatha grunts, slapping Rio’s ass and Rio groans. “This is what happens when you’re a good girl.” Your eyes dart up to meet Agatha’s in the mirror and you can see her smirk. “When you behave, you get rewards. When you’re a brat, you get punished.”

You exhale in time with Agatha’s thrusts into her girlfriend and you ever so slightly dare to grind your hips on the bed. The seam in your shorts lines up directly with your clit so you’re able to get the slightest bit of relief.

“So good, Aggie, gonna cum all over your cock, you’re fucking me so good,” Rio keens and you’ve never heard her be this vocal before. You know it’s just because Agatha told her to rub it in, but it’s turning you on so fucking much you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a puddle on the bed through your jeans.

You switch between looking at both their faces in the mirror and the toy sliding in and out of Rio’s pussy with ease. It is such a delicious sight that you want to drop to your knees, crawl over, and hold your tongue there just to feel it.

“Please, Aggie, please, right there, gonna cum, fuck baby, so good,” Rio chants and your face burns. You’ll never get tired of watching one of them cum, it’s the hottest thing ever. But you’ve also never felt an ache so deep in your bones like this one.

You think if one of them touched your clit, you might spontaneously combust.

“Come on my cock,” Agatha growls, somehow thrusting even faster into her. The sound it makes when Agatha slams all the way in and claps against Rio’s ass echoes in your head, along with Rio’s tiny gasps and Agatha’s pants of exertion. “Be a good girl and cum for me.”

How are you overstimulated when there’s nothing even happening to you? Can you cum without being touched? You wonder if you’re about to find out.

Rio’s entire body convulses and this time, Agatha allows her to drop her head down while the older woman continues to move in and out of her. You’re practically shuddering on the bed from need.

“Poor slut,” Rio chuckles weakly, observing you in the reflection. “Who knew watching would get you so desperate.Think we have a little voyeur on our hands.”

Agatha pulls out and you feel yourself clench as you see Rio’s swollen and red pussy looking thoroughly ruined. Agatha turns to you and your mouth falls open, a stream of begs and pleas for them to touch you.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says, walking to the nightstand again and pulling out another silk ribbon and a vibrator. You gulp as she comes back near you and you move further onto the bed. “Did you finally learn your lesson about misbehaving?”

You nod. “Yes, Agatha, I’ll be good, I promise, just please let me cum.”

“Oh, we’re going to let you cum alright,” Rio says with a smirk, coming over to hold your legs open. Before you can ask what they’re doing, Agatha turns the vibrator on and presses it against your clit.

Something akin to the noise a dying animal makes escapes your mouth and pleasure washes over you as you cum immediately.

But she doesn’t take it off.

Instead, she positions it so it rests against your pussy by itself and then Rio ties your legs together with the silk so tightly that your clit has direct stimulation.

You try to force words out but you’re already close to cumming again. You try to move so that you can get the vibrations to ease up, but there’s no moving with the restraints on your wrists and ankles.

You are truly bound.

“You wanted to cum so badly, angel,” Agatha says, walking to the door with Rio in tow. “You’re going to get as many orgasms as you could possibly want.”

You gasp, tears already pricking in your eyes, as you cum again.

Rio smirks and gives you a wave. “See you in a bit.”

And then they’re gone.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #agatha x rio #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal x reader #agathario #agathario x reader #rio x reader #covsfics

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honeyncherry · 29 days ago

Text

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out moving on takes exactly eleven months. the twelfth is for remembering why you tried to leave in the first place

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part four

JANUARY

Regret doesn’t announce itself.

It seeps in, slow and stupid. Not the knife to the chest you now brace for, but something sneakier. The kind of pain that sits in your bones like cold air and doesn’t leave when the heat kicks on. It’s there when you wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like pine and aftershave and him. It’s there when your thumb hovers over his contact, then backs away. It’s there when you realize you haven’t told anyone, not really, what happened.

Maybe because you still don’t know.

The cabin felt too quiet that night, like the walls knew something they weren’t saying. Every creak in the floorboards, every shift of snow off the roof, felt like accusation. You thought maybe they’d all found out—that someone had heard something, maybe Connor said something, passed it along. That the shame inside you had somehow stained the air.

But the next morning, Dom and Caleb wandered in, half-asleep and hungry, asking for pancakes like nothing had cracked. Like the world hadn’t changed while you were busy pretending it hadn’t.

So no, maybe you weren’t dealing with the fallout of them knowing.

You were just dealing with the weight of you knowing.

The final day passed gently, almost too gently, like the house was trying to apologize. The Burrows had left early—flight times and long drives. Connor and Nate didn’t stop by; maybe they’d already said their goodbyes to Dom the night before. Bridget was a ghost, vanishing with the same quiet pride she always carried, as if she’d never been there at all.

But it wasn’t that day that wrecked you.

It was the day after. And the one after that. And the next one, too.

Because the silence doesn’t hit all at once. It builds. It builds in the pauses between texts you don’t send, in the ache of rerunning the last thing he said to you. It builds when you walk past someone wearing his cologne and your body stiffens like a warning. When your Spotify shuffle dares to play a song that played in his truck that second night together.

Can it be heartbreak if it was never real? If there was no claim, no label, no promise?

You don’t know.

But it feels real enough. And so does the way his face won’t leave you alone—flickering behind your eyelids every time you close them, wearing that same expression he had when he walked out.

Not guilty. Not sorry. Just gone.

And that’s when it hits you, really hits you—what regret actually is.

It isn’t the moment you messed up. It’s every minute after. Every morning you wake up and wish you’d said something different, stayed a little longer, walked away a little sooner. It’s the echo of a choice you can’t undo, stretching itself across your days like shadow.

It doesn’t announce itself.

But it never leaves, either.

FEBRUARY

Loneliness wears red this month.

Not the pretty kind. Not the red of candy hearts and roses and lingerie and wine lips and declarations. A different red. The kind that pulses behind your eyes after too many nights of pretending everything meant nothing. The kind of red that coats the back of your throat when you say “I’m fine,” and it tastes like copper. You scroll past his name like it’s nothing. You put on mascara like it’s armor. You laugh when you need to. You bleed in private.

Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday this year. You wake up late. The sky is gray and spitting snow. The girl across the hall is wearing heart-print pajama pants when you pass her in the bathroom, and someone’s taped a glittery construction paper heart to the inside of the elevator.

You go to class. You wear red. Not because you’re in the spirit of it—just because you like how it looks with your jacket. Someone hands out Hershey’s Kisses in your afternoon lecture.

You say yes when Maggie invites you out that night. It’s a casual thing for all the lonely singles; beer pitchers, half-priced mozzarella sticks, a handful of people from your program talking about anything but love. Someone passes around a bag of candy hearts, you get one that says “CALL ME” and pretend to laugh.

It’s not a bad night.

When you’re walking home with Maggie, able to do so without feeling sorry for yourself. You unlock the apartment door and kick your shoes off, saying goodnight to Maggie as she rushes off to her room. You brush your teeth. You wash off the mascara. You almost feel normal.

Laying in bed, basking in the comfort of your plush pillows and blankets, you open your phone to do one last scroll for the day. Clicking through stories on Instagram, your mind goes blank as the face in front of you finally registers.

Bridget sits in front of her vanity mirror, dressed in red with a vase of red roses hidden off in the corner. The Steve Lacy song that plays over her picture is almost mocking:

I haven’t seen you in a while, you know I miss you, babe

When you hear this song, feel flattered, it’s about your face

And how I miss it, and I wish that I could see it more

But you’re in college now, and—

You swipe out fast, mind spiraling before you can stop it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just a song, it doesn’t mean anything.

But she looks like she’s loved. Like she’s celebrating. Like the red she’s wearing means something different entirely. And for one second, you wonder if the song was meant for someone. If it was meant for him.

You set your phone down, rolling to your side. You stare at the wall until your eyes adjust to the dark.

Loneliness wears red this month—for you.

But maybe for Bridget, it wears roses. Maybe it wears a pretty dress. Maybe it wears a smile.

You wonder what color red wears for Joe.

MARCH

Memory is not kind.

You don’t get to choose which parts come back. It’s never the softness. Never the way he held you in bed, palm warm against your back, or the way his laugh dipped low when you said something stupid just to make him smile. That’s not what lingers.

What lingers is the door swinging open. Her face—smudged, startled, trying not to cry. Lipstick blurred at the corners, mascara pooling like guilt. His expression, pale and unmoved. Like he didn’t expect to get caught. Like he didn’t care that he had.

That’s the part that loops. Over and over. Not the sound. Not the context. Just the image. That stillness. That nothingness. The moment before you turned around and left, and he didn’t call after you.

And the worst part is, sometimes you wonder what you would’ve done if he had.

Would you have stopped? Would you have listened? Would you have forgiven him?

You hate that you don’t know the answer. You hate that it even matters. You hate how long it’s taken to pull yourself out of the wreckage of someone who never actually said the words you built your world around.

Maybe Connor was right. Did Joe dictate your life?

No.

You won’t let him have all your memories.

So you start reaching for different ones. You think about the morning sunlight in your kitchen, the way it hits the counter just right when you’re making coffee. You think about Maggie, about how she once showed up with flowers and Red Vines after a shitty week, no questions asked. You think about how it felt to walk home from class with your headphones in, coat zipped to your chin, breathing in cold air and not feeling like you were suffocating.

You let yourself remember things that have nothing to do with him. You let yourself feel good in them.

You cook more. Dance around your apartment with a wooden spoon in one hand, music too loud. You call your brother and laugh until your face hurts. You read a book in one sitting, curled into the corner of your couch with coffee gone cold on the table beside you. You forget to check your phone sometimes. You remember to moisturize daily. You take a picture of the sky on your walk to class—not for anyone else. Just because it was pretty. Just because you wanted to remember.

You make space. Not always successfully. Not always gracefully. But you try.

And slowly, slower than you’d like, but steadier than you expect, something shifts.

The memory of the door still comes back. Her face, his silence. But now it’s just one memory.

Not the only one.

And maybe that’s what healing actually is. Not erasing him, just letting more exist.

APRIL

Healing is boring.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s slow and silent and filled with more questions than answers. You drink tea instead of texting him. You go to class. You wear headphones. You almost kiss someone at a party and spend the whole Uber home wondering if not doing so makes you a coward or just human. And when his name lights up your phone for the first time in months, your hands shake like he never left.

joe b: Do you ever miss me

You stare at it until the screen goes dim and you don’t respond. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do.

Later that week, Maggie and some other friends drag you out. Somewhere crowded and too warm, where the music pulses like a second heartbeat and everyone smells like sugar and sweat and spilled vodka cran.

You don’t want to be there. You’re wearing a dress you used to love but now feel strangely detached from, like it belongs to someone else. You sip something pink through a straw and nod when you’re supposed to, half-listening to Brynn explain how she’s finally cut things off with that guy from her 8AM.

You feel like you’re not standing in your own body.

And that’s when Jalen shows up.

You don’t notice him at first. He slides into the space beside you like it’s always been his, leaning against the bar, glancing sideways like he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth interrupting.

“You look like someone who hates it here,” he says finally, and it makes you laugh, just a little, more out of shock than amusement.

“I’m just...tired.”

“You and me both,” he says, taking a sip of something brown and overpriced. “This place feels like if Grown Ups was a club instead of a movie. Everyone’s thirty and sad and pretending it’s still funny.”

That makes you laugh for real. The first time all night.

You turn to look at him. Really look.

He’s tall, warm-eyed, loose-limbed. His mouth is a little too pretty, like it’s used to getting what it wants. He doesn’t look like someone trying to impress you. He looks like someone waiting for you to notice him.

And now you have.

You talk longer than you mean to. About nothing. About everything. His childhood dog. Your favorite cereal. The weirdness of getting older and not feeling like it. You don’t flirt. Not intentionally. But something starts sparking underneath the words. A closeness that wasn’t there before. The way his knee brushes yours and doesn’t move. The way he watches your mouth when you speak.

Eventually, Maggie reappears and tugs at your arm, mouthing we’re leaving over the bassline.

You nod and reach for your phone to check the time, but Jalen’s hand is already out.

“Here,” he says, taking it gently. His fingers graze your palm like they’ve been there before. He types something, saves it, and hands it back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything.” He says the words like he means more than a favor. Like he knows something about you you haven’t said out loud yet.

Jalen gives you a once over, really making sure you understand his message before finding his group of friends again.

Maybe healing doesn’t need to be boring.

MAY

Some silences feel like punishment.

Not from him—though maybe partly. From the universe, maybe. From yourself. Because you were supposed to be over it by now, supposed to be fine, supposed to be laughing at brunch and flirting at bars and deleting the playlists you made in your mourning time without hesitation. But all it takes is someone saying the wrong thing in passing—Joe, Joey, Jalen, whatever, the quarterback—and you forget how to breathe for half a second. You twist up and can’t decide whether to curl into a ball or text him back.

You settle on going through your old messages instead. It starts as a reflex. Just something to check. Something to prove to yourself that you’re over it. That you can scroll through without feeling anything.

You pass by the one you never answered, the words that still haunt you some nights more than others: Do you miss me.

You scroll further, thumb moving slower the deeper you go.

Old messages. Fragments of flirtation. A photo of him on a hotel bed, shirtless and half-asleep, room service untouched in the background. One of you in your kitchen, grinning with a spoon in your mouth. Another—you’re in bed, cropped tight to your lips and collarbone. He’d sent a text that made your heart race after seeing it that first time. You’d pretended not to care.

But you remember exactly how it felt.

Your body does, too.

That slow, molten feeling creeps back in—uninvited but familiar. You shift onto your side. One hand under the pillow, the other slipping low. The screen glows beside you. You’re breathing heavier. You know where this is going and you don’t stop.

Not at first.

But then your eyes catch on a different text—something stupid. Something casual. A joke he made about one of his classes. And just like that, the heat flickers out.

You freeze, pulling your hand away like it betrayed you.

You stare up at the ceiling, chest tight, jaw clenched. You’re not turned on. You’re angry.

Because you wanted to forget and instead you let yourself want.

Again.

You lock your phone and roll to your back. You try to stop imagining what his hands would feel like now, whether he’s thinking of you too. Whether he knew you wouldn’t answer, and sent his message anyway.

You don’t cry. But you don’t sleep either.

JUNE

Desire makes fools of everyone.

It doesn’t matter that you know better. That you’ve played this game before, and lost. That the heat of June makes skin easier to forgive, and voices harder to trust. He walks in and the whole room tilts.

Like when you were a kid, sitting in the backyard with Dom, each of you placing an ice cube at the top of the picnic table. Watching them melt in the sun, water pooling beneath them until they began to slide. Your parents would yell that you were ruining the wood, that the moisture would warp it, rot it—but you never listened. You watched, and you waited, held your breath as gravity took over.

That’s what this feels like now.

You sit still. You don’t move. You let the heat creep into your skin, let the weight shift in your chest, let the air change around you.

Because for one second, just one, you want to see if gravity still works the way you remember.

And when his eyes land on you, something inside you starts to slide.

It shouldn’t. Not after Tahoe. Not after everything. But your skin remembers. Your body remembers. And even though you break the gaze before it lasts too long, something in you still wants to see how far it’ll fall.

The kitchen’s quieter than the backyard—where someone’s yelling about the grill and Dom’s playlist keeps skipping. You offered to grab drinks mostly because it meant coming inside, away from all that sun. You open the fridge and start stacking bottles against your chest, balancing two sodas in your fingers, one water bottle pinched between your forearm and ribs. Not your best system.

The bathroom door opens just as you’re trying to nudge the fridge closed with your hip. You don’t turn, but you hear him step into the doorway.

“…Figures.”

“You say that like I planned it,” you murmur.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

That makes you pause. The weight of his words is heavier than the drinks you’re trying not to drop.

“Charming,” you say, shifting your grip. One of the sodas starts to slip.

One of the bottles wobbles, threatens to slip. You move to catch it, but his hand gets there first. He catches it without effort.

Joe glances at the bottles, then at you. “You’re gonna drop all of these,” he says flatly.

“You think I don’t know that?”

He huffs, taking them from you one by one like he’s punishing you with helpfulness. You let him. Mostly because you don’t trust your voice if you keep holding eye contact.

When your arms are empty, you finally look at him. “You didn’t have to help.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to watch you make a mess.”

Your mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

He always did say things that made you want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

“You’re still such an asshole.”

That gets him. Just a flicker of something across his face. Annoyance. Memory. Something else entirely.

He nods toward the counter. “You gotta get the last one though.” You reach for the stray bottle, already lukewarm from the heat. When you look up, Joe is already walking away.

Feeling embarrassed, you follow behind him and listen as everyone praises him for carrying all the drinks. You sit through the rest of the evening in a fog, tuning in and out of conversations. He never looks at you again, not that you catch.

The worst part is that you keep hoping he will. Not for any reason that makes sense. Just to feel chosen in the smallest way. A glance, a flicker of attention. Something that tells you that moment in the kitchen meant more than what it looked like.

It’s not that you want him back. It’s just that wanting hasn’t stopped. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe that’s what keeps catching you off guard—how easily your body confuses recognition with permission. How familiar he still feels, even when he’s indifferent. Especially when he’s indifferent.

The next morning, when Maggie texts about a last-minute trip, you say yes before she even finishes asking. You don’t ask who else is going. You don’t care. Somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere that feels different. Somewhere he won’t be.

You pack like you’re in trouble—shoving things into your bag with no order, no plan. The kind of trip you say yes to just to escape the aftermath of something that doesn’t look like a mistake but still feels like one. You don’t want to be near him if all you’re going to do is hope he looks at you. If all you’re going to do is wait to feel that sick, slow heat under your skin again.

Because desire makes fools of everyone, and you’re not ready to be looked at like one. Not again.

JULY

Some people are best seen from a distance.

Like fireworks. Like wild animals. Like him. Too close and you get burned, or bitten, or worse—disappointed.

You don’t plan to talk to him. You don’t even plan to look at him. But the Fourth of July always blurs lines. It’s the sweat of bare shoulders and bug spray, the sound of glass bottles clinking and flip flops scraping across concrete. Too many people crammed into one backyard, the sun already sinking, turning every surface gold.

You’re leaning against the side of the house, halfway behind a hedge, pretending to scroll through something important. The popsicle in your hand is already dripping, syrupy red pooling along the curve of your thumb. You lick it before it can reach your wrist, tongue dragging slow along the stick.

Your swimsuit is still damp beneath your jean shorts, clinging in places you’d rather not think about, and your hair is half-dry, curling wild in the humidity. You threw your Birks back on without adjusting the straps, and the soles are gritty from walking across the driveway barefoot.

You don’t know why you’re hiding. You’re not twelve. You’re not the kind of girl who corners herself at parties.

“Hey!” Dom calls out for you, voice carrying from the back porch. “Tell me you didn’t take the last cherry one.”

You glance up slowly, popsicle still resting against your mouth, and spot him through the hedge. He’s standing near the cooler, squinting against the light, shirt wrinkled, backwards cap tugged low. Joe is beside him, one shoulder propped against the rail, beer bottle in hand, half-listening until Dom points at you.

“There she is,” Dom says, mock betrayal thick in his voice. “Took the last one and disappeared.”

You raise your eyes in silent acknowledgment, about to offer something sarcastic back, but your mouth stalls when your eyes catch on Joe.

He’s watching you.

Not glancing. Not bored or aimless or letting his eyes wander the way people do when they’re just passing time. He’s watching.

Chin slightly lowered, mouth slack, one hand wrapped around the neck of his bottle like he’s forgotten it’s there. The sun catches in the pale strands of his hair near his temple, and the shadow from his cap cuts clean across the top half of his face—but you still feel the weight of his stare. Your skin starts to burn from it. He’s looking at you like you’re interrupting something. Like you are something.

Your legs shift instinctively, adjusting your weight. Not because he’s staring. Because of how he is.

Slow. Unbothered. Bordering on emotionless except for the way his eyes drag down the column of your throat, over the scoop of your chest, to where you still have beading water drying down.

You feel the sweat start to build behind your knees again. The popsicle in your hand drips noiselessly onto the dirt.

Dominic stops across the yard, jerking your attention away. “You really did take the last one?” he asks as he comes up beside you, mock scolding in his voice.

“Yup.”

He leans against the siding, forehead shiny from the July humidity. “You’re the worst.”

You shrug. “Should’ve gotten here earlier.”

Dom keeps talking—something about sparklers and the battery pack he left in your car. You nod along, but it’s like your hearing’s gone soft. Muffled like your brain’s still catching up.

You can feel Joe’s gaze like it left indents on you.

“Whatever,” Dom says finally, pushing away. “Just be ready to go by eight.” You hum in reply, eyes flicking once toward the porch. Joe hasn’t moved. Not until Dom disappears again, only then does he step down, one slow, measured step at a time.

The popsicle drips again. Sticky, cherry red tracing a slow line down the inside of your wrist. You feel it curl along the groove of bone, catch on the crease of your knuckle. Your fingers twitch slightly in response, and then you lift the stick to your mouth and lick it once, just to keep it from slipping further down.

His gaze moves like it’s walking a tightrope—starting at your mouth, tracing the popsicle, your fingers, the trail of juice that’s already dried sticky in a half-moon across your hand. It drops lower. Over the slope of your collarbone, the red bikini top that hugs our tits just right. Your damp shorts, open at the button. The space between your thighs.

You hold still, but not from confidence. It’s something more precarious than that—curiosity, maybe. Your mouth is too sweet. You can still taste the syrup, the artificial dye clinging to the roof of your mouth. It makes you suddenly aware of your tongue, the shape of your lips, the heat of the sun still trapped behind your knees. You think about your posture, your breath, how long your hand’s been hanging at your side. Too long.

You shift, just slightly, more weight to one leg, a quiet reset. His eyes come back to yours.

“You’re dripping.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it, a stutter in your chest, but you feel it everywhere. In your throat, in your spine, between your legs. Your eyes flick away and then back again, sharp with instinct, like you’ve just been accused of something.

He sees it. He sees everything.

And you know it because of the way he tilts his head, how the expression on his face changes. A half-beat of silence follows, stretched thin and unbearable. Not because of what he said. But because you both know what you thought he meant.

He cocks his head again, almost amused.

Like: That’s where your mind went?

Like: You still want me that bad?

You feel heat bloom under your skin in an instant, slow and shameful, curling into your cheeks and collarbones. You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s nothing safe to say when your body has already spoken for you.

Joe wordlessly turns and walks away from you, leaving you hanging, yet again. Embarrassed, you turn and throw your half finished popsicle away, using a little more force than necessary when slamming the trash can shut.

You swipe your wrist against your shorts, smearing the cherry into denim. It leaves a pink shadow above the seam. You stare at it for a beat longer than necessary, just to avoid looking up. Avoiding the realization that he’s gone. Just like that.

You don’t go near him again.

While everyone else filters toward the front yard, claiming coolers and towels and extra sweatshirts for later, you stick inside. And when you’re ushered out of the house by your parents, you stick close to the adults.

At eight, when Dominic yells your name from the driveway, you ask if there’s room anywhere other than the backseat of Joe’s truck.

“No?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Just get in.”

You hesitate, and maybe it's long enough for him to notice this time. Then you nod once, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t matter. Like your legs haven’t gone hot and restless at the thought of climbing into that seat again.

Dom’s already sliding into the passenger side, fumbling with something in the glove compartment. You open the back door and duck in, keeping your knees close together, hand bracing against the doorframe. You sit carefully, knees angled toward the window, shoulder pressing into the cool glass. The seat is sun-warmed, sticky at the back of your thighs, and you remember too much.

So you keep your distance.

For the rest of the night, you say only what you have to. You keep more space than necessary between your body and his, and between your thoughts and the temptation to fall back into whatever you used to be.

You don’t look at him during the fireworks. You don’t sit near him at the bonfire. You don’t stay in the same room longer than necessary. It’s the safest route, probably the only route, before you get pulled even further into a person who’s made it clear he has little care for what happens after he gets his fix.

You stick to that choice through the rest of July.

Even when he shows up unannounced at your house two days later, standing in the kitchen with you while waiting for Dom. Even when you pass him in the hallway and pretend not to notice the way he smells, or how close his hand comes to brushing yours. Even when he stays late on nights you weren’t expecting him, lounging on the couch like he belongs.

There are moments, small ones, where you almost forget. Where you let your guard slip, just for a breath. But each time, you catch yourself and you remember why you won’t let him get close again.

Because Joe is the kind of person who looks better from across the room—where you can still pretend he’s everything you wanted him to be. Where the edges stay clean and the coldness doesn’t sting. Where you can admire the shape of him without feeling the sharpness.

Some people are safest when they’re just out of reach.

And he’s always been most beautiful just before he ruins you.

AUGUST

Discipline frays faster when the body remembers what the heart is trying to forget.

You held the line in July. You were careful, measured, distant. It worked… until now.

It’s not the heat that gets to you. It’s him in it.

Tan like he lives in the sun, hair longer than you’ve seen it, curls damp from the lake or the shower or the sweat at the nape of his neck. Shoulders loose, posture lazy, that half-lidded gaze he tosses around like he doesn’t know what it does to people. To you.

He looks like summer the way movies pretend summer looks—golden and a little wild, like rules don’t apply to him, nothing bad ever sticks. His shirt is off, like always. Swim trunks sit low on his nose, his wrist lay limp over the back of a lawn chair, laughing at something someone said.

You tell yourself not to look. You do anyway. You always do.

It doesn’t matter how careful you were in July. That kind of effort doesn’t hold when he’s tan and sweat-slicked and sprawled out, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose like gravity wants to give you a better view.

And maybe you were strong once. But strength doesn’t last where lust settles.

And lust, this month, is everywhere he is. Which is always too close, and never close enough.

You can only muster enough courage to watch his chest ripple with a boisterous laugh once more, feeling it bloom in your throat before it settles lower, and by the time your thighs draw tight you’re already standing.

Around you, no one notices. They’re sunk into that golden-hour haze, drunk on cheap beer and warm seltzer. It’s the last night before everyone scatters again—to separate towns, separate campuses, separate versions of themselves.

Your dress catches the breeze as you cross the yard, rising just enough to make you glance down, hands smoothing the fabric back into place.

The coolers are half-sunken in melting ice at the edge of the deck of someone’s house, you’re not even sure whose. You crouch and sift through the cans, fingertips brushing condensation, vaguely searching for a flavor that’s probably long gone. Strawberry. Lime. Tangerine. Your hand lingers near the bottom, searching.

Then the fabric tightens against your thighs, the hem of your dress is jerked back into place.

You shoot upright, ice clinking behind you, heart spiking. Turning, you can feel the warmth of him before your eyes really focus. His cheeks are flushed, whether from sun or alcohol or something else you don’t want to name. He looks down at you, head tilted, lips twitching.

“Do you need something?” you ask, more bite in it than you intended.

“Just being helpful,” he says. “You bend over like that, someone’s bound to see what color you got on under there.”

“No one—” you start, but he cuts in, smooth.

“Pink. Not bright. Kind of pale. Little lace at the top, maybe?” His eyes flick downward, hinting. “Real cute.”

Your face burns. The kind of heat that crawls up your neck and settles beneath your skin like a warning. You scoff, because you don’t know what else to do. Because it feels safer than admitting he’s right.

You push him, hand firm against his chest—not hard, but enough. Enough to clear a path and get away. The kitchen is a mess of red cups and empty bottles, someone's abandoned pizza boxes stacked on the counter. You open through the sliding door harder than necessary, the glass rattling in its frame.

The Kirkland vodka bottle sits half-empty next to a tower of solo cups, and you grab both with shaking hands. The pour is too generous, clear liquid sloshing near the half-way point, but you don't care. You tip it back and drink like it's water, like it might wash him away.

It burns. Good. You need something that burns worse than the humiliation crawling up your spine.

"Classy."

You freeze, cup still pressed to your lips. Of course he followed you. Of course he couldn't just let it go, couldn't let you have even this small moment of peace.

"Go away."

"Cute tantrum." His footsteps echo behind you. "Very mature."

You slam the cup down. "I'm not having a tantrum."

"No? What do you call storming off like that?"

"Smart." You turn around and immediately regret it. He's closer than you expected, and the sight of him makes your pulse spike. "Staying away from you."

"Funny. You never were good at that."

Heat flashes through you—anger and something worse. "Fuck you."

"Been there." His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second. "Done that."

Your face burns. "You're disgusting."

"And you're being a brat."

"A brat?" The word comes out strangled. "For what, not wanting you to announce my underwear to everyone?"

"I was helping." He takes another step closer. "But I guess you prefer the attention."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Bending over like that. Real innocent."

"I was getting a drink."

"Sure you were." That infuriating smirk tugs at his mouth. "Just happened to give everyone a perfect view."

"You're unbelievable."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You turn away from him, hands fumbling with the empty cups on the counter, stacking them with shaking fingers just to have something to do. Anything to avoid looking at him, to pretend your pulse isn't racing.

Maybe if you ignore him, he'll leave. Maybe if you just focus on cleaning up this mess, he'll get bored and walk away. But then you feel him move closer. The heat of him at your back, the way the air shifts when he steps into your space.

His hand touches your calf first, barely there, fingertips trailing up the back of your leg with agonizing slowness. Your breath catches in your throat as his palm slides higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up with it, and every rational thought in your head evaporates.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is low, rough, spoken against the shell of your ear.

But you can't. Your whole body is trembling, caught between the urge to run and the terrible, traitorous pull that's been eating at you all summer. It all brings you back to that night before Thanksgiving all those months ago, in the parking lot of some dingy bar but stuck completely in his orbit.

Your body remembers. It remembers the weight of his hands, the way he used to touch you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once. It remembers how he tasted, how he sounded when you made him lose control, how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

"Don't," you whisper, but even you can hear how broken it sounds.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying against your thigh, and you can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his breath on your neck, the familiar scent of him making your knees weak.

"Don't what?" His thumb traces a slow circle on your skin. "Don't touch you? Don't remind you?"

You can't answer, can barely breathe, because eight months of pretending you don't want him is finally catching up to you, and you're drowning in it.

His hand moves to grip your thigh fully, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and then he's turning you around. You let him, helpless to resist, until you're facing him with your back pressed against the counter and nowhere left to run.

He's so close you can see the flecks in his eyes, you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that when he breathes, you feel it. "I hate you," you whisper, but your voice cracks on the words.

"I know." His forehead drops to rest against yours. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

You should push him away. Should remind him about Bridget, about Tahoe, about all the reasons this can never work. Instead, you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

One second you’re clinging to him like the floor might give out, and the next you’re backing into the hallway, his mouth finding your sweet skin with the kind of reckless urgency that makes everything else fall away.

He follows you blindly, hands on your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your back hits the wall outside the bathroom as he opens the door and nudges you inside.

The bathroom is small, dim, sterile in the way guest bathrooms always are, like no one’s supposed to see too much of themselves in the mirror. But you do. You catch a flash of your reflection as the door clicks shut, and it's dizzying. Kiss-bitten lips, wide eyes, dress askew. Him behind you, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror like this could be the last time and he’s trying to burn it into himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, even as he crowds you from behind, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist before sliding up your arm.

“I know.” His breath is hot against the side of your neck. “Neither should you.”

You close your eyes when his hands settle on your hips. There’s a second of hesitation. One more second where either of you could stop this. Could walk away. Could pretend it was just a lapse, a mistake, another almost.

But then you feel his lips at your shoulder, the drag of his teeth, the low sound in his throat when you tilt your head to give him more, and that second is gone. Forgotten.

Your hands are at the hem of your dress before you can think, dragging the fabric up with shaking fingers. He helps, wordlessly, his hands replacing yours, pushing it higher until it bunches at your waist and your thighs are bare against the cold counter edge.

With maddening care, knuckles brushing the insides of your thighs. You watch his eyes light up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he drags your baby pink, lacy panties down like he wants to feel every inch of you on the way. The fabric peels away from your skin, damp and delicate, and he lets it fall to the tile without looking.

He lifts you onto the counter in one fluid motion, fingers digging into your thighs as he spreads them apart like your body still belongs to him. The marble is cold against your skin, but his mouth is hot, the contrast making you shudder as he sinks to his knees and pulls you to the edge.

His breath ghosts over you once before he presses in, as if he’s been starving for this. His tongue drags through your slick with unbearable slowness, savoring every inch like he wants to memorize the way you taste before the world takes this away again.

You gasp, head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers knot in his hair. He groans when you tug, the sound vibrating through you, hips instinctively canting forward, chasing more.

He licks into you again, deeper this time, and when he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is hoarse. “I missed this.” His fingers flex on your thighs, pulling you open wider. “Fuck, I missed—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharp and breathless, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

His eyes flick up to yours, unreadable in a way that makes you second guess your words. Your chest heaves.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, softer now. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Something flickers across his face—hurt, anger, understanding. You don’t know. Maybe it’s all three, but he doesn’t argue back. Instead, he shoves your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between them like he’s punishing you for the lie.

It’s not slow anymore. Not gentle. His tongue moves with a rough insistence that makes your thighs shake, your breath come in ragged little gasps. His hands are locked tight around your thighs, holding you open and in place, the pads of his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your skin, dragging you against his mouth each time your hips try to lift.

Your fingers claw at the edge of the counter for something—anything—to hold onto that isn’t him.

All you can do is feel. The pressure building, winding tighter and tighter, his mouth relentless. He must be able to tell you’re close between the way your thighs are trembling around his head, your breath breaking apart in tiny whimpers, body so tight you feel like you might snap. One more flick of his tongue, one more second, and you’d fall.

But he pulls back.

Just like that—gone.

Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his mouth, but he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes unreadable and burning. It’s not satisfaction you see there. Not pride. It’s something sharper. Something that carves straight through you.

"Why—" you start, voice hoarse, but you stop yourself. Because you already know why.

Because you told him not to talk. Because you said it didn’t mean anything. Because even if your body begged otherwise, your words cut deeper than you meant them to.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, your chest still rising and falling like you’ve just been yanked from underwater. For a second, you think he’s going to leave. That this was about control, about proving something.

But then his hand drops to his waistband, pulling down in one firm motion. His cock is already pink and swollen, glistening at the tip from the precum that leaks down his length. He steps between your legs, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And it’s unbearable.

Your dress is still bunched high around your hips, panties discarded somewhere on the tile, your thighs wet from what he started and refused to finish.

His eyes drop to where you’re aching for more, and when he reaches between you and drags the tip of his cock through your folds, your whole body jolts. You feel the slick of it catch against his skin, hear the sharp inhale he can’t quite swallow.

"Still doesn’t mean anything?" he asks, voice rough, almost mean. But his hand trembles slightly where he grips himself, and that’s how you know, he’s not as composed as he pretends to be. Not even close.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he pushes in, splitting you open with a stretch that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek just to keep from making the sound that wants to rip out of you. He fills you too perfectly, too easily because your body remembers him even when you tried to forget.

He hasn’t kissed you.

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, and stays there—buried deep inside you, unmoving. The air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the way it catches and staggers and syncs. It feels like a countdown. Like the silence before the storm.

Then he pulls back, pushing in again with a choked breath.

And it’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s all the things you never said. It’s the ache of wanting him every day since Tahoe and hating yourself for it. It’s the sting of seeing him with Bridget. It’s the guilt, the jealousy, the desperation, the need. His hips slam into yours, dragging you forward on each thrust like he’s trying to drive the memory of everyone else out of your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, his mouth skimming your cheek, your jaw, but never your lips.

He still won’t kiss you.

You whisper his name once and his rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t stop.

He just fucks you harder.

And you let him. Because even if it’s not love—especially because it’s not love—it’s still the closest either of you have felt to something real in months.

SEPTEMBER

Shame has a rhythm.

It follows you through crosswalks and crowded hallways. It settles in the bottoms of coffee cups and the breath between text vibrations. It shows up when your roommate says, “You seem lighter lately,” and you smile like it's true.

You should not have let him touch you.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. That your body doesn’t miss him. That your heart is healed enough to not pick at that scab.

But then you find yourself lying in bed at night, replaying it in your head. Just once. But then maybe it’s twice. But is it really only twice if it's all that clouds your mind day by day?

“You sure you’re not feeling it?” Maggie’s voice filters in through the mirror, distorted by the haze of your own reflection. You nod anyway.

Truth is, you were feeling it. For a second. It felt good to be somewhere loud and alive, to forget for a little while. But like clockwork, he crept in—soft-footed and cruel—until his name was curled around your ribs again, pressing from the inside. You hate how easily he gets in.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rifling through your purse until your fingers close around your phone. “I’m just gonna call an Uber. Head back.” She sighs, one of those deep, knowing ones, and nods without pushing. She always knows there’s more. You just never say it.

You push through the crowd together, the bar thick with sweat and too-sweet perfume and limbs that don’t know their boundaries. Maggie squeezes your arm in goodbye, yelling something about texting her when you get home. You nod again, already pulling away.

Outside, the air hits your skin like a slap. You lean against the brick wall of the building, opening the app. The screen loads slowly, painfully so, and then:

No drivers available.

You tilt your head back, eyes stinging. Of course. Of course.

Could you not catch a single goddamn break?

Other options flash through your mind. Bus, walk, call your parents—but they all shut themselves down. You're a broke college girl with parents who agreed to fund your safety, not your night life. We don’t care if you go out, just get home in one piece.

Sweet, in theory. Tonight it makes you want to scream.

You start walking.

Your boots slap the sidewalk with more anger than rhythm, muttering under your breath about Ubers, the price of gas, the way every man’s eyes seem to follow you just a beat too long. You throw in a curse for good measure—for the cold, for the ache in your feet, for the stupid, stupid boy eight-hundred miles away who still manages to ruin your night.

Tears sting again. You don’t wipe them away. You try to think of a movie. Something warm, something distracting.

What a Girl Wants? No, too wistful.

10 Things I Hate About You? Close. Too on the nose.

Grown Ups?

The title sits in your brain, stubborn. Familiar.

Oh.

Jalen.

The memory hits: lustful honey eyes, crooked smile, the echo of his voice—“Let me know if you ever need anything.”

You shouldn’t, but maybe you will. Blame the tears. Blame the night. Blame everything.

Your thumb finds his name before your brain catches up. You press call. It rings. Once. Twice. The voice that answers isn’t Jalen’s. It says your name—soft, surprised, a little hoarse.

You freeze.

This is not Jalen.

This is not—

“Hey,” he says again, quieter. “You okay?”

Your throat closes. “Yeah. Wrong person.” You go to hang up. You almost do.

“Wait.” Urgent, a little breathless like he knows. Like he felt you about to disappear. “Where are you?”

You roll your eyes, the burn of tears sharpening again. You bring the phone back to your ear, voice flat. “About eight hundred miles away from you.”

Joe lets out a short laugh and you can feel his eye roll through the phone. “No shit,” he mutters. There’s a shift in the background, the faint rustle of sheets. Was he in bed? On a Friday night?

“You downtown?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You alone?”

The word sticks, but you let it out. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for it to mean something. You hear the pull of breath through his teeth, like your answer displeases him.

“You can hang up,” you offer quietly.

“I know I can.” Another shuffle. That sound again—cotton on cotton, something heavy creaking beneath him. Yeah. He was in bed. Probably still warm under the covers, one arm slung over his face, already regretting picking up.

Your eyes close for a second, the weight of everything creeping up your throat. That old shame curls tight around your chest. The kind that sinks into your skin and clings to your bones. Is this what the rest of your life is going to feel like? That sinking pit of regret you carry just for sleeping with Joe Burrow?

You don’t even remember how the conversation turned. He’s asking something again, why you’re alone, maybe, and it drags you back from the tide of your own thoughts.

“I wanted to leave, so I left,” you say, and your voice is steadier than it should be.

He hums, a noncommittal sound that makes your stomach twist. “You almost home?”

It hits you wrong. You don’t know why, but it does. Something in the way he asks it, like he’s just checking a box. Like he’s waiting for the right moment to hang up.

You swallow hard. “Goodnight, Joe. Sorry for bothering you.”

You move to end the call but his voice cuts through, harsher than before. “Can you fucking stop?”

It startles you, makes your hand jerk back from the screen. You stare at the phone like it’s betrayed you.

“What?”

He exhales—aggravated and heavy. “How far are you from your place?”

You glance down the road. Your building is in sight, a little washed-out box beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Not far.”

Silence drags again. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know what you’re thinking.

“Who were you trying to call?” he asks eventually.

You hesitate. The answer’s right there, ready to spit out like venom. But instead, you say it plainly. “Someone I met last year. Said to call if I ever needed anything.”

You step through the front door, the musty lobby swallowing the noise of the street behind you. The elevator groans when you press the button, that familiar mechanical cough echoing like it’s about to give out.

He doesn’t say anything at first. You glance at your screen just to make sure the call’s still connected.

It is.

Then his voice rumbles back through the speaker, lower now, like he’s sitting up straighter. Like the question costs him something.

“What’d you need?”

The words catch you off guard. Your breath hitches before you can stop it, and your body betrays you completely—knees softening, warmth pooling low. You hate that he still does this to you, with nothing but his voice.

You lick your lips, lean back against the elevator wall, and let the bitterness curl around your next sentence.

“Nothing that concerns you,” you snap, fingers tightening around your phone as you step into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

There’s a pause, and then his voice comes through, quieter now, but edged with something sharper, cool amusement that wraps around your spine.

“That right?” he murmurs. “Didn’t sound like nothing a second ago.”

You can hear it in his tone, the way it slants downward—dangerous, suggestive, just shy of mocking. Like he’s picturing you. Like he’s already figured out the angle of your hips and the heat in your voice.

You toss your keys on the counter, letting the silence stretch, then ask like you’re bored, like this is nothing: “What did it sound like, then?”

“Sounded like a girl who was two seconds from begging.”

Your jaw tightens. You sink down onto the edge of your bed, the phone still pressed to your ear. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Only when you make it that way.”

He sounds tired. And a little smug. And a lot like someone who’s spent the last few weeks trying to forget how your skin feels under his hands and failing. You shift, thighs tightening together. There’s no point lying anymore. Not when your body’s already moved ahead of your mind.

He exhales, the sound grating, like he’s rubbing a hand over his jaw. You can picture him pacing, shirtless in whatever shitty Baton Rouge apartment he calls home now, hair mussed, boxer waistband rolled down from where he dragged a hand under it but didn’t follow through.

“You touching yourself?”

The question hits hard. Not crude—just honest. Familiar in a way that’s worse than filthy.

You don’t answer right away. You slide your hand down your stomach, the cotton of your panties is already damp, sticking to you.

“I could be,” you murmur. You can hear him suck in a breath. Then nothing. You imagine him gripping the phone harder, refusing to speak. Refusing to give you that. “I didn’t mean to call you,” you add, softer now. “But then I heard your voice and…”

You trail off. Let him fill in the rest. “You drunk?” he asks finally.

“A little.”

“Figures.”

“Does it matter?” You drag your fingers lower, past the waistband. “If I’m the one doing it?”

The silence that follows is long enough to sting—and maybe that’s the point. When his voice returns, it’s quieter, but sharp.

"It does if I have to hear it."

You press your thighs together like that will help. "No one asked you to stay on the phone."

"You called me. Remember?"

"And you picked up."

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Stupid decision.”

But he doesn’t hang up.

You shift against the sheets, one hand still resting low, just barely applying pressure. The room feels warmer now. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the voice in your ear. You don’t know why he hasn’t hung up. Maybe he wants to hear you fall apart. Maybe he wants to punish himself for still wanting to.

You let your fingers slide lower, tracing over yourself lightly, just enough to tease. Just enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” you ask.

Another pause. Then—

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

His voice is lower now, not softer, but heavier. Like it’s dragging something with it.

You don’t answer, not right away. You breathe, slow and deliberate, pressing down harder with your fingers until your hips lift slightly into the touch. The friction isn’t enough. Not yet. But it’s starting to pull something out of you. Something slow and burning.

“I’m thinking about your hand,” you say eventually, almost to yourself. “How it felt the last time. How deep you got. How easy it was.”

He groans, sharp and quiet, and you can picture him now—flat on his back, knuckles white around the phone, trying not to touch himself but failing.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

“No,” you whisper. “You just make it really hard to forget.”

You hear him shift—fabric scraping, a breath sucked through his teeth.

You press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, lifting your hips quick, one hand slipping beneath the waistband. The fabric drags over your thighs, past your knees, and hits the floor softly.

The air against your skin is just sharp enough to make you flinch. “Joe,” you say, just loud enough. “That sound you just heard? That was me being helpful.”

He breathes hard, like that alone costs him.

“You can touch yourself,” he says, “but you don’t finish until I say.”

His words echo through your head. You obey, fingers slipping back down, sliding between wetness and pressure and the memory of what he used to do better than anyone else ever tried to.

You keep your eyes closed. Pretend it’s his hand. Let it feel like that.

“I bet you’re soaked,” he murmurs.

You hum, a sound low in your throat, your back arching into the motion. “Wish you could see.”

“I do too.”

He sounds almost disappointed, like this wasn’t the plan, like none of this was, and he’s just riding it out the same way you are.

“Joe?”

“Mm.”

“Do you still look at those pictures I sent you?”

The question slips out quieter than you meant it to. Almost an afterthought. But not really.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows is taut, intimate in the way only silence like this can be. You know him. Know that delay means he’s considering whether to lie.

You circle your clit slower, lighter, letting the stillness thicken in your bedroom while you wait.

“Sometimes.”

It hits harder than yes.

“Late at night,” he adds, voice rougher now, like the words drag up something in him he didn’t want to offer. “When it’s too quiet. When I’ve had a shit day. Or a good one, doesn’t matter. I see your name in my head and I—I look.”

Your breath hitches. The rhythm of your fingers falters for a second before picking up again.

“I think about how you looked that last night,” he murmurs. “In the bathroom. When you had your legs all spread for me, you were dripping for me. But then you told me not to talk. Said it didn’t mean anything.”

Your whole body flinches like he touched you.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whisper, but it sounds more like breath than admission.

“I know,” he says. “But you said it anyway.”

You press your palm harder, try to drown it out with sensation, with pressure, with the way your thighs are already trembling. But the memory won’t let go. Him on his back, your hands on his chest. His mouth silent beneath you. His eyes not.

You’re wetter now. Messier. The slick sounds echo faintly in your bedroom and you wonder if he can hear them, if he’s picturing it—your fingers sliding over skin in the same way his once did.

“Are you touching yourself?” you ask, trying to redirect, to shift the weight of whatever just cracked open between you.

He breathes out, short and low. “Yeah.”

The sound you make in response isn’t quite a moan. It’s something needier than that. “Tell me how,” you whisper. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

You can hear the faint shift of fabric, the subtle friction of skin. He’s quiet for a moment, maybe working through how much he wants to give you, maybe too far gone to hold anything back.

“Got my hand on my cock,” he mutters finally. You can tell he’s holding back, maybe he’s scolding himself for already reaching this point. “Been hard since you started talking.”

Your stomach pulls tight. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You picture him clearly—sprawled somewhere dark, one hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched. Hair mussed. Eyes closed like he’s trying not to see your face but can’t help it.

You bite your lip and press your fingers down again, sliding through the slick at your center. It’s almost too much now, every nerve raw and waiting.

“You trying to come?” you ask, not quite steady.

“I’m trying not to,” he says. “But you make it impossible.”

You breathe in through your nose, shaky. “You did this too,” you say. “You didn’t hang up.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You arch your hips, just a little, and your fingers catch that perfect spot—pleasure meeting need in a way that makes your breath stutter out. You shift your weight on the bed, angling deeper. The sound you make is half-moan, half-exhale.

It feels good, yes, but it also doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way it should. Because it's not his hand. It’s not the way he touches you—slow at first, then greedy, like he’s owed every inch of you and plans to take his time collecting. Your fingers are just fingers. His were something else. You burn with it. That sharp, aching, hollow feeling of want that only ever follows the wrong version of closeness.

“Joe—”

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, voice strained.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts to say it. Your fingers don’t stop. They can’t. You’re too far gone now, teetering at the edge—but this slips out anyway, softer than you meant it to.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” you whisper.

He exhales hard. You can hear him falter, hear the grip he has on himself weaken. You sink your fingers deeper, try to chase what’s building, even as the words tumble out, cracked and breathless.

“It should feel good, it—does, I guess. But it still hurts.”

Your voice shakes. You hate that it does.

“Because it’s not you.”

There’s silence on the other end, thick and loaded. You can picture him frozen, his hand maybe still, his jaw locked. You imagine his chest rising too fast, his eyes closing like they always did when things got too real.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I know.”

And that ruins you more than anything else.

The confirmation. The knowing. That he feels it too. That he’s still buried in all the same places you are, and neither of you can do a thing about it except this—except moan into a phone line and pretend it matters.

Your fingers don’t stop. They move faster now, chasing something you don’t want to name. It builds low in your stomach, deeper than before, more painful somehow. Like it’s not just your body tightening—it’s everything else. Every breath you ever took with him in it.

“I hate you for this,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer.

But he does.

“I hate me too.” He swallows. “You can come now, baby.”

Your orgasm comes sharp, deep, curling in on itself. It doesn’t explode; it implodes, drawing every sound and breath and thought into that one unbearable second where nothing is real except the pain of needing him and the fact that he’s not there. Your back arches. A broken moan claws out of your throat. You choke on his name. It tastes like blood and memory.

You go still. Just for a second, and then you realize he’s still breathing, heavy. Shaky. You hear the slick sound of his hand moving faster now, more frantic, like the sound of you finishing distorted him the way he knew it would.

And you hate yourself for waiting to hear it, you should hang up.

You lie there, eyes shut, hand still caught between your legs, sticky with proof of something that shouldn’t have happened. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is hammering.

Then, through the speaker—so faint you barely catch it:

“Fuck. Fuck—fuck.”

You’ve heard it before. Felt it in your skin, your jaw, your hips. You know that sound like the back of your hand. It crashes through the line like thunder and you feel it everywhere.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The air hums with breath and static and tension.

“I think about the pictures,” he says then, slower now. “But not the ones you sent.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I think about the ones I never took,” he says. “You under me. That shirt of mine you always slept in at Tahoe. No makeup, hair a mess. You used to look at me like I was it. That’s what I see.”

Something about that unravels you, makes your chest cave in and your throat burn.

And then, like you always do when the high fades and the shame creeps in, you run.

Only then do you hang up.

OCTOBER

Jealousy wears a crown in October.

It drips down Joe's back, lazy and regal, settles to him like it belongs there. He watches your Halloweekend stories through a cracked screen, thumb hovering, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You're dressed as something slutty and ironic—he doesn't even know what, exactly. All he knows is that your skirt barely covers the curve of your ass, your smile is sharp and wine-drunk, your eyes glassy under purple club lights. And some guy's hand is resting on your waist in the mirror picture you reposted, fingers splayed like he owns that piece of you.

His face is half out of frame, but that smug tilt of his jaw is enough to make Joe want to hurl his phone across his shitty apartment.

You look happy. You look free. You look like you've forgotten all about him.

And maybe you have. Maybe you should.

But he still taps through every frame like a man starved, rewatching the same five-second clip of you dancing until his screen burns the image behind his eyelids.

You always were good at pretending.

There's glitter dusted across your collarbones and fake blood streaked down your thigh, and Joe doesn't know if he wants to text you or block you. Doesn't know if he wants to book a flight to Cincinnati just to prove you still go breathless when you see him.

But there it is, out there for anyone. For whoever that guy is, grinning at you like he doesn't know he's standing in Joe's grave.

He shouldn't care. But he does. He cares so much it makes him physically sick, bile rising in his throat as he watches some stranger's hand rest where his could.

Because it's not just jealousy—it's grief. Grief dressed up like ego. Wrapped in what-ifs and laced with things he won't admit, even to himself.

He's tried to convince himself you didn't mean anything. That Tahoe was just lust and bad timing. That Thanksgiving was a fluke born from loneliness and too much alcohol. That none of it ever had a real chance. But every lie tastes worse than the last, because he remembers exactly what it felt like the first time you kissed him in that dark parking lot.

How it felt less like a surprise and more like finally.

The wanting had been there for years, buried under friendship and circumstance. Best friend's sister. Too awkward at first, then too off-limits after. So he forgot it and told himself it was just proximity, just familiarity. When things finally turned physical, he convinced himself that was enough. That having you in any way was better than not having you at all.

But then Tahoe happened. You laughed at his terrible jokes. Fell asleep curled against his chest. Looked at him in those quiet moments like maybe he was worth keeping, worth more than just stolen kisses and a quick fix. And he let himself hope for something he'd never dared to want: not just your body, but you.

You were in his lap in the back of his truck, breathless and desperate. You were sprawled beneath him in bed, saying his name like a prayer. You were whispering dirty things over the phone that made his blood run hot and his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to love.

But then Connor appeared in that hallway at Tahoe, looking at you with those knowing eyes, and Joe saw the panic flash across your face. Saw how quickly you pulled away, how desperately you wanted to hide what was happening between you. How easily you made him feel like a dirty secret you couldn't afford to keep.

And Joe, jealous and spiteful and suddenly seventeen again in the worst way, did the one thing guaranteed to make it all worse.

Walking into that guest room with Bridget was like a dare he was making with himself. Let her kiss him though it felt like betrayal from the first brush of her lips. Let her hands roam over him though every touch felt wrong, foreign, like his skin belonged to someone else.

It wasn't about wanting her. It was about punishment—for him, for you, for the hope he'd been stupid enough to feel.

Sleeping with her was supposed to prove he didn't care. That he could move on. That whatever the hell had happened between you two didn't matter as much as it felt like it did.

All it did was light the match to everything he actually wanted.

Walking out of that room, seeing your face—the way it crumpled before you turned away—he knew he'd put the final nail in his own coffin. There was no fixing it by explaining how empty it felt, how he'd barely been present for any of it. Couldn't tell you he'd been picturing your face the whole time, your hands, your voice saying his name. That every sound Bridget made felt like a lie his body was telling. That he'd wanted to crawl out of his skin the second it was over.

You were gone in seconds, and part of him stayed frozen in that moment forever.

He could have followed you. Could have called, texted, shown up at your door with the explanation burning in his throat. But that would mean admitting he'd been trying to forget you and failed spectacularly. Would mean confessing that every touch with Bridget was just him trying to prove he didn't need you, only to discover he needed you more than breathing.

So he swallowed his pride and told himself time would fix it. That eventually this ache would fade into something manageable, that wanting someone who didn't want him back was just another phase he'd outgrow.

The semester was hell.

He told himself the distance was good. Better not to see your face, better not to be reminded of how badly he'd fucked it all up. But silence has a way of growing teeth when you're already bleeding, and the absence of you wasn't quiet—it was deafening. It filled every corner of his apartment in Baton Rouge. Followed him to practice, to class, to bed. Made him dream about apologies he didn't know how to make.

By April, drunk and stupid and tired of carrying the weight of it alone, he finally cracked. Typed the words he'd written and deleted a hundred times:

Do you ever miss me?

You didn't answer, but it felt good to finally let the words go.

Summer brought him back to Ohio, and with it, hope he didn't want to feel. He started looking for your car in driveways. Felt lighter when your laugh carried across a crowded backyard. Died a little every time you looked through him like he wasn't there.

But then he started noticing other things. How your eyes would linger on him just a beat too long to be casual. How your breath would stutter when he walked into a room. How you'd disappear the moment it was just the two of you, like you didn't trust yourself alone with him.

You were still in it. Just like him.

August proved it.

All that tension finally snapped. Mouths on skin, desperate and angry and everything he'd been dreaming about. Hands fumbling with the urgency of people who don't know how to say I miss you any other way. The way you felt around him was like coming home and falling apart all at once.

For those stolen moments, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe you'd finally opened the door to let him back in.

But then you looked at him like he was a mistake you didn't want to make again. Snapped at him with words that cut deep, made it clear you were still trapped in Tahoe. He wanted to scream, to tell you it didn't mean anything, that you were the only thing that ever did.

But he didn't. He just watched you walk away. Again.

In September, when you called him—accidentally, you said, trying to reach someone else—he let himself believe it anyway. Maybe you'd changed your mind.

It was stupid. But he stayed on the line, letting the sound of your breathing lull him into old rhythms. He let the silence between your words feel like forgiveness because it felt right again.

Now it's October, and you're posting pictures with fake blood on your thighs and someone else's hand on your waist, and Joe realizes he still hasn't learned how to let you go.

He tells himself you were always meant to be temporary. A moment. A mistake. A lesson in wanting things he couldn't have.

He tells himself you were just lonely, and maybe he was too. That it wasn't about him specifically. That it was never real.

But then he sees you, even through a phone screen, even with glitter in your hair and someone else's fingers on your skin, and his heart beats so loud he forgets how to lie to himself.

You are real.

And he's still completely fucked.

NOVEMBER

Longing is quieter when the leaves start to fall.

It doesn’t thrash. It doesn’t scream. It curls into you instead—slow and soft like the corner of a blanket tucked too tight, pressing into your skin just enough to leave a mark. It moves through the day like breath, like static. You don’t notice it until your fingers still halfway through folding laundry, or your eyes blur at the end of a text you’ve read four times over.

And the worst part is how welcome it feels.

How easy it is to fall back into the thoughts you swore you were done having. The versions of things that never happened. The moments you could’ve changed, if you had just paid better attention. If you’d known what to listen for.

You pull away from them like you would from a hot stove—fast, instinctive, ashamed of the reflex.

But they always find a way back.

Because there’s a particular cruelty to this time of year, when everything is winding down and you’re still wound too tight. When the air smells like memory and the sky keeps offering the illusion of softness. When even your body betrays you by remembering what it once wanted. What it once had.

Thanksgiving without him feels like trying to breathe through gauze.

Dominic mentioned it over dinner—casual, like it wasn’t supposed to sting. Joe’s staying at LSU this year, something about keeping focus, getting ahead on training. Dom said it like it made sense. Like Joe had always been the type to choose football over family.

But you know better.

You know it’s because of you.

The realization hits you low in the stomach, leaving behind guilt, but also something dangerously close to relief. Because if he’s avoiding you, it means he’s still thinking about you.

It doesn't help that Dan and Jamie couldn’t make it either. Dan’s in Chicago with Carrie’s family. Jamie’s stuck at the office, buried under some end-of-year deadline. The Burrow side of the table feels decimated, just Jimmy and Robin, smiling too much, trying to fill the space where their boys should be.

You catch Robin’s eyes going soft when she glances at the empty chairs. See how Jimmy’s laugh comes out too fast, too thin, when your dad tells the same joke he’s been telling since 2002. Everyone’s pretending not to notice that something’s missing.

And you’re pretending not to notice that it’s your fault.

If you hadn’t played your part in wrecking everything, Joe would be here. Robin would be laughing, dabbing her eyes at some stupid story. Jimmy would be yelling about the Lions. Dom wouldn’t be so eerily quiet beside you, stabbing his green beans like they wronged him personally.

Later, when the dishes are done and your family is passed out in front of a game no one’s actually watching, you slip outside. Wine in hand. Coat forgotten. Just the cold and your silence for company.

The wind is chilling, November at its meanest, but you don’t go back inside.

Your phone buzzes—some guy from class asking about drinks tomorrow—and you delete the message without opening it. No one else’s voice makes your pulse skip. No one else knows how to touch you in the ways you pretend you don’t miss. No one else ever looked at you like you were worth the risk of ruining everything.

The wine makes you bold. Or stupid. Or honest.

You scroll to the thread that hasn’t lit up since April. His last message is still there, waiting like it knew you’d come back eventually.

Do you ever miss me?

You hadn’t answered. Not because you didn’t want to, but because the wanting hurt too much. Because the question felt like a trap, like a door creaking open you weren’t sure you were allowed to walk through.

Your thumb hovers. There are a thousand things you could say. You’ve drafted them all in your head; lines about timing, about mistakes, about how badly you wanted to say yes but couldn’t.

But in the end, the truth is smaller than all of that.

you: sometimes.

You hit send and you hate how immediately your chest tightens with hope. How quickly your eyes flick back to the screen.

Because deep down, you know: No matter how far you try to push it down, you’re still that girl who would’ve chosen him. Every time.

DECEMBER

Ambiguity sits easier than it should.

You don't feel good, exactly. But you don't feel ruined either. There's something strange in your chest now—not quite the crushing weight of before, but not emptiness either. You imagine it's like soot after a fire that didn't take the whole house. It's in your breath, your bloodstream, the backs of your knees. A hum that doesn't hurt the way it used to, just reminds you of everything that was, like smoke clinging to fabric long after the cigarette is stubbed out.

For two weeks, for the first time in close to a year, you aren't stuck in emotional turmoil.

Well. That's a lie, and your body knows it even when your mind tries to pretend otherwise.

You are. The restless anxiety still pulses beneath your skin some nights, different now but familiar in its relentlessness. Your fingers still search for something to hold when conversation lulls—a pen, the edge of your sleeve, anything to fill the space where certainty used to live.

Just, maybe not the same sort of turmoil. The kind that used to send you spiraling into frantic, desperate acts of self-destruction has mellowed into something you can almost manage, like learning to walk with a limp instead of crawling.

The first text came the morning after Thanksgiving.

Good morning.

You'd stared at it for twenty minutes, your heart doing that complicated dance between hope and self-preservation, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you were defusing a bomb. The simple act of typing back felt monumental, each letter a small act of faith.

morning

From there, it's been careful. Tentative. Like two people learning to walk on ice that might crack at any moment, every step deliberate and measured. He sends you funny videos sometimes. Memes that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound startling in your quiet apartment. You send him pictures of your coffee when it's particularly terrible, complaints about your professor who assigns last minute papers. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of conversation that feels like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now hang slightly wrong.

joe b: This smoothie place spelled my name jow

you: honestly an improvement

joe b: 😕

you: could’ve been worse

you: joey

joe b: Stop while you’re ahead

It's become some unspoken rule between you and Joe; no one mentions Tahoe, no one mentions where it all fell sour. The silence around it has weight, sits heavy in your throat like words you've swallowed too many times.

joe b: You ever finish that paper?

you: barely. used the same paragraph twice

joe b: That’s called resourcefulness

joe b: Proud of you

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

joe b: Someone walked past me wearing that perfume you used to wear

you: which one?

joe b: The vanilla one

you: lol that doesn’t narrow it down

you: i’ve got like five versions of vanilla

joe b: Nahhhhh it was yours tho

joe b: Knew it straight away

You don't know how to name what's left. There's no label for this, whatever it may be. The rhythm of almost-healing feels fragile as moth wings. The dull throb of things not being broken enough to hurt in that sharp, immediate way, but not whole enough to forget the ache. You sleep better. But not well—still wake sometimes in that liminal space between dreams and memory, your chest tight with the ghost of things unsaid. You feel more like yourself. But not quite. More like who you're trying to become, which is terrifying in its own way.

There are still landmines everywhere, buried just beneath the surface of every exchange. He mentions practice, and suddenly your skin remembers his hands on your waist, the phantom touch sending heat crawling up your neck. You tell him about work, and he asks if you're still at that apartment downtown, and you both know he's remembering that call in September, the weight of everything that went wrong hanging in the digital space between you. The subtext lives in every conversation, humming underneath it all like tinnitus—constant, inescapable, a reminder of damage done.

But it's manageable. This thing you're doing. This careful friendship built on the bones of everything you're not talking about. Some days the effort of it exhausts you in the same way quitting smoking did—that constant vigilance against your own instincts, the deliberate choice to be different than you want to be.

Some days you almost forget why you were so afraid to text him back in the first place. Those are the dangerous days, when the scar tissue feels strong enough to bear weight.

In the library, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects, you're scrolling through Instagram, trying to catch more stories people post for Joe's birthday. The screen's blue glow makes your eyes water, or maybe that's something else entirely. You'd already texted him this morning, a simple happy birthday with a cake emoji that felt safe enough. He'd sent back a smiley face and a thank you, and that was that. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of interaction that doesn't leave you bleeding.

The notification slides down from the top of your screen, interrupting your scrolling.

joe b: so I know this is random but we play Oklahoma in a couple weeks. The 28th. Big game and all that. Was wondering if you'd maybe want to come? Could be like a birthday present or something lol

Your heart does something complicated—not quite the violent thrashing it used to do, but a stuttering rhythm that reminds you why you learned to be careful in the first place. This would be crossing a line. Moving from safe texts into something that looks suspiciously like real life, with all its messy, uncontrollable variables.

But maybe you're ready for that. Maybe two weeks of easy conversation has healed something you didn't know was broken, the way a bone mends stronger in the place it breaks.

You're about to swipe up to respond when the story timer runs out and automatically flips to the next one.

Two kids bundled up in snow gear, arms thrown around each other like they own the world. Joe's gap-toothed grin. Bridget's pigtails poking out from under a knit hat. Years old, but posted today. The image hits you like a physical blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a way that's becoming familiar again.

The caption makes your stomach drop, that sickening lurch of free fall: happy birthday burrrrow 🎂 can't wait to c u

You stare at the screen until your eyes water, the letters blurring together like looking through tears or smoke.

Can't wait to see you.

Present tense. Future plans.

The careful balance you've built these past two weeks suddenly feels impossibly fragile. You've been trying so hard to convince yourself you didn't need an explanation. That you could heal around the wound instead of cleaning it out.

Maybe some things are meant to stay broken. Maybe pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie you tell yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, the vibration sharp against the table.

joe b: Is that a yes??

The eagerness in his message makes you want to do something impulsive. Destructive. Watch something shatter against the library wall just to hear it break like everything suddenly did.

Because this is the thing about almost-healing: it only works if you don't look too closely at what's still broken underneath.

You delete the text thread without responding, hands shaking as you hold down his name. All of it disappears—the late night texts, the careful small talk, the invitation that made your chest flutter with a stupid pipe dream.

It vanishes in seconds, all of it, like it was never there to begin with.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

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scremogirl · 2 years ago

Text

✪⁂✫彡𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓✵✥☆ミ★ ???

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞-𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞

Yandere Student Council Pres x Nonchalant reader

I’m not sure if I should retitle this to Yandere! Childhood friend x reader or not. There’s not a lot of the fact he’s the SCP shown in the story. I felt like I went a little off track. I got so consumed in writing😭. I already have a post like that on my page so I didn’t want to make it confusing. I don’t know if I should’ve said unemotional reader either. Idk let me know what you think. Have fun reading!

He was at the top of the food chain. Good grades, teachers liked him, students feared him, rich, good looking, and most importantly; the student council president. With that being said, why wouldn’t he leave you alone?

Takenya was a stuck up priss in your opinion. Always lecturing you about things you could do in order of improvement. You weren’t popular but you weren’t one of those weird Naruto kids that sat in the back of the class and ate crayons either. You just existed. Someone so average at everything somehow attracted the most “perfect” guy in school. Your grades were fine; a straight A-B student with the occasional C here and there. Your attendance on the other hand… well maybe he’s not so wrong about that, but who actually wants to be at school anyways?

“I don’t understand why you don’t try harder? You could easily surpass most of our class,”

“You need to come to school. This behavior would never pass in the real world. What would your employer think of you just not showing up?”

“Chocolate for lunch…really? If you want to stay healthy you’ll need to-“

Why does he care so much anyways? Sure, you used to be friends in like what, fifth grade? You used to get bullied in school for being different. You just didn’t like the things that kids your age were supposed to like. But… it never bothered you. You weren’t emotionless per se, it’s just, why care what others have to think?

Mellisa Grey. The girliest of all girls. She used to have it out for you when you were younger. Calling you names and bumping your shoulder whenever you walked by. You put up with it until the end of the year; fifth grade graduation. That evening she and her crew thought it’d be funny to pour milk on the shy little nerdy boy in your class. Some spilled on your dress, that you didn’t mind, but the tears of the boy next to you made you. Something inside of you just snapped. You shot up from your seat grabbing a first full of her hair and slammed her head onto the wooden table. Not stopping until you saw the wire of her pink, sparkly braces fly out her mouth. Well, that was what you wanted to do; the teachers came too early for you to inflict any further damage. The most you got was a broken nose and a lawsuit. She transferred schools after that, and you got the whoopin of a lifetime. You didn’t care. You didn’t feel bad at all. If anything you felt elated seeing her in pain and the rage on her parents faces as the cussed child you out. You didn’t cry or yell when your parents picked you up. You weren’t phased by the belt or the palm of your mothers hand striking you. You didn’t feel anything. So why were you so upset on someone else's behalf anyways?

You knew this kid. I mean, how couldn’t you when he would follow you around 24/7.

“H-Hi… my names Takenya” you just blankly stared. His sheepish gaze barely meets yours from behind his big fat glasses.

“…Do I know you?”

“Well…no. But I know you!”

“Good for you I guess.” You continued to go back and forth on the swing, not acknowledging the boy's existence at all. The swing he sat on remained stationary, never once dropping his gaze from you.

“Uhm… I just wanted to thank you for yesterday,” Hm? What was he talking about? He saw the confusion in your face when you turned around to ask and beat you to the point.

“You probably don’t know me. We’re not in the same class,” Right. So why is he talking to you? Again, before you could ask he cut you off.

“The other day when recess started you helped me pick up all of my stuff after Carter pushed me down; remember? I-I just wanted to say thank you for sticking up for me” Ohhh, you do remember him now. He was that shy little rich kid that transferred here at the end of fourth grade. He didn’t have many friends, let alone any at all. Everyone had grown up with each other and formed friend groups at this poin. He was a little late to the party so he didn’t fit in. He wasn’t worried about the next episode of Ninjago and didn’t find humor in looking up the words penis and vagina in the dictionary at the school library when the teacher wasn’t looking. His hair long, tied back into a neat ponytail and not buzzed into a Mohawk like half the boys in your grade. He had glasses that almost covered the entirety of his upper face. He always ate his pb&js on whole wheat instead of white and preferred celery sticks over fruit snacks. So, just like you, he got bullied just because he was different.

“Oh yea. I remember you now. You’re welcome by the way,” he grinned. The first time you saw him smile ever since he came to your school.

That marked the day of a long friendship.

That was until you went to middle school. You think puberty had something to do with it. He grew into his face more and sized down those jellyfishing glasses. His scrawny figure gained slightly more bulk and dressed in a more modern fashion. His hair remained the same; a bit shorter than before but still longer than most guys. You’ve always liked his hair. He would let you braid it sometimes when he was too distracted playing on his DS. He didn’t get acne like many of the other kids your grade either, skin smooth and clear. All the girls found him to die for. Your nonchalant behavior rubbed off on him and he became more confident in himself. Not letting his elementary school self be reflected into now. He became a bit too obsessed with his studies for a middle schooler; pushing all his ways on you. He would always follow you around blabbing about not attending gym class. He even started hanging around the same snotty rich kids he would complain to you about. You became annoyed. So you cut him off. Just like that. Stopped talking to him, answering his texts, not sitting with him at lunch or in class. Even after all the rejection at his advances, he came running back to you. Not willing to let you go so easily.

The school bell rings signaling the end of 4th pd and beginning of lunch. You were planning to go off campus today and not come back. Keys in hand you make your way to the student parking lot. However, someone’s blocking the exit. He’s gotten taller, about 6’2-6’3; sleeper build accommodating his height. Glasses thinner and sit perfectly on the bridge of his nose. Hair as long as ever, tyed back with that same white ribbon you gave him years ago; revealing an undercut. He fixes the collar of his button up and readjusts his tie and vest.

“And exactly…just where do you think your going?”

“To lunch,”

“The cafeteria is that way,” he points with a slender finger, decorated by a diamond ring. It shimers under the lights above reflecting against his matching earrings.

“Off campus,” he raises his eyebrow, folding his arms.

“Knowing you, you won’t come back. You do realize your request for a half day schedule is still pending right? You also recognize that I’m the one who assists the principal in granting them as well?” You don’t answer him, already knowing we're going with this.

“As I said before, your attendance needs improving before I-… we can grant it,” what a pain in the ass this guy is. You try to walk past him but he stops you, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“I don’t eat school lunch. I’ll be back after,” he gives you an unamused look. Hand gripping your shoulder a little tighter as you try to take another step.

“You know I can’t let you do that. Not unless you don’t want a new schedule,” he pauses.

“Not unless I come with you,” you look up.

“You’re paying?” His eyes widened slightly, shocked at your willingness. But he can’t be too surprised, he knows you don’t care about anything unless you get what you want.

“Of course I am. You need to spend your money on other priorities; like a new math textbook,” you ignore the subtle jab and walk to his car. No need to ask where as he parks next to you everyday to make sure he knows you’ve actually show up. Definitely not because your the first thing he wants to see in the morning.

“I don’t understand why you come to McDonald’s of all places,” he lets out a sigh, handing his card to the drive through worker. He drives up to the next window waiting for the food.

“It’s not healthy. You seriously should consider my offer in taking you to that new place down the street,”. He looks over when he doesn’t get a response; noticing the music blasting from your headphones as you look at the door. He sighs again before taking the food from the workers hand and grabbing your headphones. You turn your head to look at him but your gaze shifts to the bag in his hand. You reach over and grab a fry out of the bag and he s his eyes. Pulling into the parking lot, he silently watches you eat. This brings him so much nostalgia. He misses eating lunch with you everyday. Ranting while you just sit there and chew. He misses having someone listening to him about something that’s not related to school. After you stopped *attempted* talking to him in the beginning of 7th grade, his heart felt like it got ripped out of his chest.

He’s never felt anything his whole life. His father would tell him that one day he’ll find someone who makes him feel everything, makes life worth it. He’d seen the love shared between his parents everyday. He always wanted that. In the fourth grade all of that came true. He saw you getting off the bus making your way to school. He saw the way you helped up Michael Lemitzki, a dorky little boy, after Conner pushed him down. Shaggy hair, braces lining his teeth, comic books all on the floor. How pathetic. You weren’t scared of Conner at all. He was bigger than you and more popular than you, but you didn’t care. You kept a straight face as he threatened you and held your composure. No emotion showing whatsoever.

He thought you were beautiful. It was love at first sight. He was too busy staring at you to hear his father calling out to him. He followed his son's gaze to you. He looked back down at the small boy and gave a knowing smile. Takenya just stared at the other boy hugging you with tears down his face. Why is he touching you like that? Push him away already! That day he purposely made himself a target to the bullying of Melissa and Conner. Hoping that one day, you’ll save him the same way you did Jacob. He got bigger glasses, grew his hair out, and started dressing like the typical “nerd”. He would leave candies in your cubby, prized limited edition Pokémon cards in your backpack, brand new color pencils and markers showed up around you. He started to lose hope though. Why haven’t you noticed him yet!? Sure he’s never actually talked to you.. but still! Could you not see his effort?! Did you not care? He sat alone at recess that fateful day. He was randomly pushed down, papers and crayons flying out his small hands. He wasn’t in the mood for Connors teasing today. To caught up on the fact that the love of his life may never see him they way he’s dreamed of. Oh the dramatic mind of a fifth grader. He clutched the safety scissors that flew out of his pencil pouch watching the dick of an elementary schooler turn around. He was about to get up but stopped as he saw someone bend down beside him. It was you! You helped gather all his things and placed them into his arms. His heart pounded in his chest and the blush on his face spread like wildfire. Before he could say anything you walked away. Taking your place on the swing set. He hurriedly put all his things away before trying to build up the courage to come talk to you. He took to long, however, as the teacher soon yelled for everyone to make their way into the line back to their respective class.

As he reminisces on the past, an alarm rings. Telling him that it’s time to make his way back to school. You’ve already finished all your food and somehow managed to take your headphones back.

“What?” You say snapping him out of his trance. He didn’t even realize he was staring.

“Nothing,”

You make your way back to the school and go your separate ways. He walks you to class ensuring that you get there. Out the corner of his eye he sees someone wave to you. Lemitzki. His hairs more well kept, ditched the glasses for contacts showing of his green eyes. He’s taller and has more muscles now. The only thing that hasn’t changed is the jagged line that makes it’s way across his right cheek, interfering with his dimple as he smiles. It’s been awhile, the scar healed well. The once clutzy boy looks at the door and freezes, hand dropping and going pale. There’s a silent stare off between the two before the late bell rings. Takenya makes his way to class, a slight smile on his face at a sudden memory.

Watching him walk away, a fist tightens. Little does he know someone was planning on getting their revenge.

Hi loves! I hope you guys enjoyed. Take is an OC of mine I’ve had for a while just never had a name for him until now. Like his concept was in my head foreverrrr. He might be a reoccurring character. I really like him. But I did put one shot so I’m not sure. Lemme know what y’all want. Check out this post below for a little more context. Hope you enjoyed.

-Love, Sos❤️

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere childhood friend #yandere student council president

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ashwhowrites · 8 months ago

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i love love love your writing and i have been waiting for your requests to be open!! can you please write a billy hargrove x reader story where he rejects her and then he regrets it and has to grovel?

Like she is super nice and friendly with everybody, and she can even get Billy to soften up to her. She's had a crush on Billy for the longest time like since he's arrives in Hawkins but he always is hooking up with somebody or flirting with somebody else. Then she notices that he's been alone for a couple of weeks and thinks this is her chance so she confesses to him and he lets her down gently because he doesn't feel the same (he so does but in his experience romance never lasts and he could never ever bear to lose her) and so she decides that having him as a friend is better than nothing.

But obviously she can't act the way she acted before and she starts distancing herself from him. No more grabbing his arm for security when the hallways are crowded. No more asking him for rides to and from school. No more chattering in his ear during lunch. Instead, she's doing those things with her best friend Steve or Eddie because they knew about her heartbreak and they're trying their best to be supportive.

And obviously he can tell right away that things are different and he's fighting the urge to shove Steve/Eddie away and take back his place next to you. He's trying to reach out and spend time with you and he doesn't care if he sounds desperate when he's doing so but she keeps blowing him off because she wants to get over him and she thinks he's just pitying her.

He finally snaps one night and sneaks into her room and tells her how he's been going crazy. She apologizes for being distant and says that she's moving on so that they can be friends. And Billy just says screw that and he doesn't care what he said before he just wants HER.

Sorry if this is a lot but I can't wait to read what you do with this!!!

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

Relationship guy

Y/N and Billy had a touchy friendship. From afar they looked to be a couple, with the way they held hands, hugged, kissed each other's cheeks, and the way Billy would do anything for her. She was the only person in the world Billy had a soft spot for, that had to mean something.

There wasn't much time when they were apart. Billy was at her house first thing in the morning, the door open as he waited. The way he leaned against his car made her heart race every time. Then they arrive at school, and as usual, everyone is watching. They moved around the school and when people got too rowdy, Y/N would latch herself to Billy's arm.

"I got you," he smiled as he threw his arm over her shoulder. It wasn't the first time and probably wouldn't be the last.

Lunch was Y/N's favorite part of the school day. Not only because of no class but because she got to talk to Billy non-stop for those few moments.

"Do you think you'll win today's game?" Y/N asked, crunching down on Billy's ignored apple.

Billy scoffed, stuffing his face. "Duh, I'm on the team."

Y/N laughed and nodded, "Fair point, and Steve too!"

"Oh yeah because he does a lot," Billy rolled his eyes.

"Be nice, he is my other best friend," Y/N playfully lectured.

"Yeah, but we know I'm better,"

"In basketball or being a friend?" Y/N asked to clarify

"Both, babygirl," he winked.

The bell rang and they packed up their trash. Before they went separate ways for class, Y/N kissed Billy's cheek goodbye.

~~~

Y/N fell for him, of course. She had eyes for Billy ever since he moved to Hawkins, but he didn't have the eyes for her. His eyes looked at every girl that passed by him. Y/N never made a move because he was always sleeping around with a new girl, but lately, he seemed to be alone more than usual.

With his eyes not looking elsewhere, Y/N found a boost of confidence to ask Billy out.

They were lying in his bed listening to music when she turned to look at him. She took in his handsome features, studying how gorgeous he was up close. She watched as his lips formed a smile and he turned to look at her.

"Why are you staring at me?" he laughed, placing an arm under his head and propping himself up. He reached out and placed his arm over her waist. She smiled at the feeling, her heart racing.

"Have you ever seen me more than just a friend?" she asked, her stomach twisted as his smile slowly disappeared from his face.

"What do you mean?" he asked, licking his lips nervously.

She took a deep breath, cuddling closer into his warm body. He hoped she couldn't hear how fast his heart was pounding.

"I like you, Billy. I have for a long time but never said anything. Lately, you've been alone and it got me thinking maybe this is my chance to tell you."

Billy was in awe of her soft voice and the beauty of her heart. The truth was, he did like her. He was alone because no girl could get his mind off of her. She was the only person in his life that made him happy and he wasn't sure if he'd live if he lost her. He never tried to have a relationship so he had zero hope he would treat her the way she deserved.

"I think you are incredibly beautiful, inside and out. You've given my life a whole new purpose and I'm grateful to have you. I'm not a relationship guy and that won't change. I love you and hold a place for you in my heart, but in a friendly way." Billy said gently. He softly rubbed her hip as she sighed.

"If you were a relationship guy, would you go for me?" she asked, moving to look up at him. There was so much emotion in his blue eyes and she wished she could detect it.

"My first and only choice, baby," he said softly, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Are you going to be okay? I really don't want to lose you as my friend," Billy admitted. He feared she'd pull away and he wouldn't blame her.

"Yeah, I'll be okay," she smiled. The rejection slightly hurt but she had a gut feeling Billy wasn't the boyfriend type anyway.

Billy hummed as a response. He moved to wrap both his arms around her, setting his head on hers as she cuddled into his chest.

~~~

Turns out she wasn't as okay as she thought she'd be. Spending all her time with Billy was fun and exciting. But now all she could think about was how badly she wanted more and how it would never happen. The kisses to her cheek that made her heart race were starting to make her stomach sour. And riding with him to and from school felt suffocating as his cologne filled the space.

She realized she would never be able to move on from him if she didn't change things. So, she figured creating a little distance would help her clear her head and heal her heart. Once she felt over him, they could resume their friendship and it wouldn't hurt her anymore.

Y/N got in Billy's car, her mind reeling. She was in deep thought and had been struggling with what to do.

"Steve is going to bring me home today," she said quietly. Billy turned down the music and turned to look at her. But she kept her eyes on the road as he drove.

"Oh, why?" He asked, moving his eyes back to the road. He ignored the ping of jealousy that ran through him.

"I think I need some space from you. Not in a bad way, it's just to help me. We'll still hang out and be best friends. I promise," she smiled. She reached over to place a comforting hand on his thigh.

Billy wanted to do what was best for her, but selfishly he didn't want space. He nodded and focused on the road, he hoped she couldn't see the water filling his eyes as he pulled into the parking lot.

The end of the day arrived and Billy could feel her lack of presence. He walked in the hallways alone, watching as she clung to Steve instead. She didn't sit with him at lunch, but that didn't stop him from staring at her the whole time. He dreaded driving home alone all day and he hated that it arrived. He also hated that her needing space meant everything changed.

He gave her a small wave as she drove by in Steve's car. His heart sped up as she excitedly waved back with a big smile. At least she still cared about him.

~~~

Billy tried to be patient with giving her space but after a week, he was ready to throw in the towel. He had to physically hold himself back from slamming Steve against the lockers whenever Y/N touched him. That was Billy's place. He fought the urge to sit at her new table, and beg her to gossip about her friends, anything to listen to her talk.

He missed driving with her, her smell in his passenger seat was slowly fading.

He sat on his bed as he held the phone to his ear, he hoped with everything in him that she would pick up.

"Hello?"

Billy smiled at the sound of her voice, "There she is, I've missed you," he admitted.

"I've missed you too, Billy," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Want to come over? We can order your favorite and watch those horrible movies you like," Billy offered.

"That sounds amazing, but I can't tonight. I'm sorry."

"That's alright, maybe next time," Billy said disappointed. The call ended shortly after and Billy slammed the phone down. He pulled at his hair as he took deep breaths to calm himself down. He was mad, frustrated, and hurt.

"You okay?"

Billy looked up as hot tears streamed down his face. Max stood at his door with a worried expression, a look he'd never seen her have before.

"I'm fine," he snapped. He walked up and slammed his door. Max didn't take it personally, it was the first time she ever saw Billy cry.

"I know we aren't friends, but it's okay to be upset. It's okay to feel things other than anger." Max said before she walked away.

The more time they spent apart, the more desperate Billy got. The more he called, the more he begged. He didn't care if he sounded crazy or pathetic, all he wanted to do was see her.

She noticed all the attention, and it was hard to look the other way. But she knew she'd never get over the love she had for him if she went back. She couldn't talk to him without getting lost in his eyes, or be in the same car inhaling his cologne. She couldn't touch his skin and not think about how much she wanted to taste it.

She figured he was pitying her, trying to lessen the blow of rejection. She knew Billy cared about her and it was something he'd do, but it didn't help her. It only made it harder.

She went to turn off her lamp when she heard knocking on her window. Only one person went through her window so she prepared herself to see him again.

She quickly fluffed her hair and smoothed out her sleep clothes. She walked over and opened the curtain. She didn't say anything as she unlocked the window and let him through.

"I can't do it anymore. I tried and I want to do what is best for you but I can't do it anymore!" Billy ranted as he paced around her room. "I can't take the distance. It's selfish, I know but I am falling apart here."

"Billy," she sighed, "It's hard now but trust me, it'll help us in the end."

"No, it won't!"

"If we don't do this now, I will never get over you. It'll damage our friendship in the long run. I'll never be able to accept when you get a girlfriend or decide one day to get married. I'll be tortured and unhappy. I'm doing this for the future us," she explained. "This is the only way I'll be happy for you."

"I don't care about future us. I care about us right now. I care about you being in my life right now." Billy begged. She watched Billy walk around the room, tears building in his eyes.

"I can't have you in my life right now!" Y/N argued, "You don't understand how painful it is to be in love with someone who can't love you back."

"What if I can?" he whispered, she felt her anger come to a halt.

Y/N scoffed, "You said it yourself, you're not a relationship guy."

"I don't give a fuck what I said. It was all bullshit, okay? I'm scared and have no idea what I'm doing and I don't know if I'll be who you want me to be, but I don't care. I want you," he confessed. He walked over and placed his hand on her cheek. She felt her breathing pick up as he looked down at her, so much emotion in his eyes.

He leaned in and she followed, turning her chin up as she closed the gap between them. She sighed in bliss as his warm lips worked against hers. He wrapped his arms around her, desperately pushing her body against his. Kissing her was better than Billy imagined, she was sweet and soft. He wanted to beat himself up for waiting so long.

Needing air, he pulled away. He placed his forehead on hers, opening his eyes as he panted against her mouth. "I'm ready to be a relationship guy. I love you."

"I love you too, Billy," she smiled, placing her lips on his.

Billy couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he pulled up to her house. He got out of the car and opened her door. He crossed his arms as he waited for her to walk out.

"There's my girl," he whistled as she walked down the driveway. She rolled her eyes but blushed at the nickname. She greeted him with a kiss, loving the way he wrapped his arms around her to deepen it.

"Good morning to me," Billy said against her lips. She pulled away to smile. She got in the car and Billy followed.

His hand was on her knee the whole drive. Y/N felt butterflies in her stomach ever since they kissed. She couldn't believe she and Billy were in a relationship.

They held hands as they walked into the school. He was happier than ever to have her by his side again, and this time as his girlfriend.

#billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove stranger things #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove angst x reader #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove request #billy hargrove angst x female reader #ashwhowrites #ashwhowrites Billy Hargrove #billy Hargrove fluff #billy hargrove fluff x reader

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hysteria-things · 1 year ago

Note

can you do a teacher!chris and a college student pleasee. (With smut. And if you want to!!)

PROFESSOR STURNIOLO

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!teacher!chris x student!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: this isn’t your first problem with this specific professor, but at this moment you’re fed up and want to put your foot down.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY SMUT, p in v, degradation, spanking, masturbation (female), making out, stomach bulge, overstimulation, dumbification, squirting, cream pie

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,535

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: we are locked in🫡

your professor dismissed class mere seconds ago, and everybody either has already left the lecture hall or is still packing up. “are you meeting us for lunch?” your friend says, zippering her bag and putting it on her shoulder.

you scoff, shaking your head. “can’t.” you say, ripping out the essay you wrote for this class that was due a few days ago. “professor sturniolo gave me an F on the essay.”

“again?” she questions genuinely shocked. “he’s got a bone to pick with you.”

this isn’t the first encounter like this you had with your professor. this class — your argument and persuasion class — is the only one you’re failing this semester.

not in your three years have you ever had this type of problem, and after many F’s, you’ve finally had enough.

“well, good luck.” your friend sighs, leaving the classroom with the remaining group.

now, that leaves you and him.

it would be a different story if you didn’t do the assignment right or didn’t try on the essay, but you’re one hell of a writer and you’re sure he knows it. you’ve always been good in school, ever since a young age.

normally you wouldn’t pick up fights with teachers, but your blood has been boiling for this dude for weeks.

“what’s your problem with me?” you say sternly, wiggling the paper in your hand as you step down to where he is.

he stops erasing the board and turns to you. “class is over, ms. l/n.”

yeah, no shit.

you roll your eyes. “so? i want to speak with you about my recent essay. you always give me F’s and never explain why. i would understand if it happened once before at the beginning of the year, but for every. single. one? it’s ridiculous.

he’s emotionless as he listens to your rambling, then he shrugs. “it wasn’t good enough.”

you crinkle the paper in your fist and slam it down on the desk in front of you. “wasn’t good enough my fucking ass, professor sturniolo. is it a favoritism thing? or are you fucking the other chicks in your class so they can have good grades? is that what i need to do? do i need to fuck you?”

the moment those words left your mouth, you knew that was a huge mistake.

you wouldn’t be surprised if he does, though. he’s not much older than you, and he is attractive.

he licks his lips, tilting his head toward himself. “bring it over.”

you gulp, feeling slightly intimidated. you uncrinkle the page and hand it to him, who is now sitting in the chair.

not even reading it, he stares at it and looks back up at you. “sorry. your paper didn’t meet the expectations.”

your pinch your lips together to keep you from screaming at him. “you didn’t even read it.” you shake your head. “i should’ve dropped this class when i had the chance. you’re cocky, and a waste of my time. i’m failing probably because your teaching sucks.”

as you start to storm out, he speaks up. “i’m going to have to clean that filthy mouth of yours.” he smirks. “teach you a much-deserved lesson, then afterward you can see if my teaching still sucks.”

you pause in your tracks, face turning beat red as you slowly turn back around. “w-what?”

he motions you to come over with his finger, and for some reason, you listen.

grabbing your wrist, he pulls you over his lap so you’re straddling him. again, you let it happen. you can’t help the wetness that starts to pool between your legs.

“you can admit it, you know,” he whispers, dragging his hand from your waistband to your mouth. he grazes his thumb over your bottom lip.

“a-admit what?” you stammer, shuffling in his lap which causes him to groan and hold your hips.

he chuckles. “deep down you want me to fuck you. i bet you touch yourself to the thought of me like a desperate little thing.”

you look away, face turning even redder than before if possible. “nuh-uh.”

“your face says otherwise.” his whisper shoots a chill up your spine as he starts to unbutton your shorts.

the way your fingers move quickly inside of you have your eyes shut with your mouth dangled open.

you were lucky enough to get a single dorm, so you can do whatever you want without being sneaky about it.

the way your legs are spread makes your fingers dig deeper, curling to hit the right spot. you grip onto your sheets tight, moans and other loud noises leaving your lips.

your previous orgasms make a mess below you or the back of your thighs, but you don’t stop. you’ve been at this for almost an hour because your mind is only focused on one thing.

your lecturer.

professor sturniolo.

“shit.” you pant, your orgasm building for the nth time. you let go of the sheets to massage your breast, pinching at your nipple from time to time.

you whine. “just like that.”

legs shaking, your fingers get coated with yet another orgasm, but you wish it wasn’t your fingers.

you wish it were his.

your shorts are now on the floor, along with your shirt, underwear, and bra. chris still has his clothes on except for his pants.

hovering just above his tip, your lips move in sync with each other. his tongue fights yours, and the erotic sounds of you two kissing fill your ears.

his hands rub along your back before spanking you hard, ruining the intimate moment. you pull away to gasp.

“sit,” he demands, mouth agape as he looks down to watch you try to sink onto his dick.

you grunt from the pleasurable pain, stopping just about midway. he’s probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. “it’s not gonna fit.” you whine.

“i’ll make it fit.��

with that, he grips onto your ass, hammering up into you without being able to adjust first.

you grab onto his shoulders for dear life. you moan uncontrollably, the feeling of him raw inside of you making you grin like a fool.

you’ve been wanting him to do this for a very long time.

“look at you.” he starts, smacking your ass to have you jolt. “having the professor you allegedly hate balls deep in you.”

“i-i do— ha-ate you.” you struggle to get out, a hand landing on your asscheek again.

“is that so?” he mocks, waiting for you to talk back but instead you moan even louder. he nods. “that’s what i thought.”

he bites his lip, looking at the way your tits bounce rapidly and at the bulge in your belly, eyes widening slightly. he’d never seen something like that before.

“i should keep you around more often after class.” he groans, seeing your face of pleasure.

eyes rolled back, mouth hung open, hair disheveled and sticking to your forehead from sweating.

“you make a pretty little cocksleeve.”

that sentence makes you clench around him, your body starting to quiver from the overwhelming feeling. “ngh— feels so go-od. y-you make me feel s-so good.” you whimper. “wanna cum!”

“not until you apologize.” he tuts, grabbing and then spanking your ass. “say you’re sorry, and i might let you cum.”

you whine, his cock now kissing your g-spot more than it did before. “i’m s-sorry.”

“for?”

“for— mm!” you squeal. “for being b-bad.”

“and?”

“and-and—” you can’t finish because of the sudden clear liquid squirting out of you, now making your pussy squelch more than it was before. your back arches even harder, your brain all dazed and dumb from the overstimulation.

you start to lose stability from being too weak, so chris has to hold you by your arms.

he groans, shaking his head at the terrible mess you are making. “come on. you can do it.”

tears spill from your eyes, sobs running past your lips. “a-and for t-talking back. fuck!”

his dick twitches inside, his thrusts getting sloppy. “i hope you’re on the pill because i’m going to fill you deep, baby.”

you can only make sounds, so a high-pitched moan echoes throughout. you’re seeing stars the closer your orgasm approaches before it finally snaps and you’re smearing the ring of white around his dick.

he doesn’t stop, causing your body to twitch in his grasp as another orgasm builds since he’s still fucking deep to your g-spot.

“close again?” he laughs fake. “scream for me. let people know how much of a slut you are; letting your teacher use you to get a better grade.”

your body slowly starts becoming limp, eyes fluttering closed as you moan.

he spanks you for the last time, not caring that his job is on the line.

“louder. they can’t hear you.”

screaming this time, you cum once again when he holds you down on his shaft. you collapse onto his chest, quiet sobs leaving your lips as you feel his cum start to fill you.

he peppers kisses on your shoulders, peeking over them to grab a pen and clicking it open. he scribbles over the previous grade on your essay to write a new one.

A+

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @r4iyaa @sturniolotriplettoplover @mattybswife @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @sturniol0s @catalina-island @mbsbaby @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopeno1

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #✎ ⤾ haleigh’s requests!

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Seven: to you, Aelin

tw: minor violence and gore, miscarriage, abortion mention, infidelity

“You see that girl right there? You stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

It’s the first thing John’s father says about Aelin Gilroy. Using one long, crooked finger, he points her out in the thick crowd of parents and students attending their Year 8 science fair. Projects and standing boards obscure her as they tower overhead on rickety folding tables, but that blinding smile and incandescent teal eyes shine through the crowd like a lighthouse leading a ship safe to shore.

Trouble. He often disagrees with his father, and this instance is no different. He does not think Aelin Gilroy is trouble. She’s never disruptive in class, and he once saw her give another student her cardigan two years ago when she couldn’t stop shivering in class. It isn’t until her father steps into view that he realizes the meaning of this warning—crisp police uniform, hat held in front of his stomach, giving a firm handshake to the science teacher. An officer. An inspector. An adversary to his father in the most wretched of ways.

Police officers always make the family business difficult.

For many years, John heeds his father’s warning—if not for his own sake, then at least for hers—until Year 11. By some terrible twist of fate, his maths teacher sat Aelin Gilroy next to him in that small, two seater desk. She smells like roses freshly woken by morning dew after a spring shower. He learns she likes to doodle in the corner of her notebook during lectures, and she can’t stop tapping her foot against the floor while taking an exam. John finds that he likes the way her pale brows knit together in concentration, scrunching her forehead, and how soft her voice is when whispering answers to the table on her left.

But he doesn’t have time to think about her. Not that he should. John Price is unfortunate enough to come from a long line of brutal patriarchs who often condition equally as cruel heirs. Once he turns sixteen, his father’s petulance only grows as he forces him to join him on escapades in the night after lectures have concluded. Bodies crumble. His fists split on begging faces pleading for the mercy that has long been snuffed out of his father’s chest. Each night his cheek grows tender with the force of his father’s hand, and his eyes droop with the weight of the secret life of a killer—of a true son born into the family business.

“Red color corrector will hide the bruise on your eye.”

It takes John several moments to realise Aelin Gilroy is talking to him, but even then he doesn’t fully believe it until he turns to see her already staring at him. She’s lazily leaning forward on the desk, hand propping her head up beneath her chin as her tongue darts out to wet her rosy lips. John’s pencil ceases its dance across his worksheet.

“Color corrector?” he repeats.

“Yeah, you know. Makeup. Green hides red marks from acne, orange hides dark circles, red for… very dark circles.” Her brows raise as she silently motions to his eye, bringing his own hand to touch the tender spot on his face. “I’ve got some in my bag, if you’d like. Though, you’ll have to find your own shade of foundation. I think you’re a bit too warm toned compared to me.”

Her bluntness and unabashed reference to the shiner on his eye leaves him chuckling, transforming her coy smile into a small smirk. “You sound like an expert.”

“I am,” she quips before grinning. After a quick glance around the room, Aelin carefully pulls the collar of her shirt to the side, exposing the side of her neck. At first, John finds nothing of any importance until she points out a line of covered hickies just above her collar bone, fingers tracing it as if lovingly. They grey beneath the concealer and foundation, blurring them to the point they’ve almost vanished. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.”

John likes her humor. Appreciates it, anyway. Maybe there’s something comforting about knowing a girl like her gets in trouble; albeit, much less violent trouble than himself. A small flicker of hope ignites in his chest at the idea that perhaps there’s something in common between him and Aelin—that he has the possibility of even resembling something that’s normal. Something not drenched in blood.

It’s a short lived fantasy. When the end of term comes around, and they no longer share classes together, they drift. Aelin keeps her smiles polished while John continues to do the only thing his father ever bothered to teach him. By the end, Aelin’s A-Levels are enough to earn her a trip to anywhere in the country. Opportunities are thrown at her feet and offered up on dainty silver platters that glisten bright enough to reflect the future ahead of her. As for him, his father dies when he’s twenty. Murdered, and in a way that’s eerily similar to the way his mother had been. Cold, calculated, ruthless—his father’s existence is snuffed out by a single bullet, leaving behind nothing but a bloodstain coating the pillow that covers his face.

The torch is passed down—the handle is still bloody.

Over the years, he grows rigid and battle-hardened thanks to the business of violence that was bequeathed to him by his late father. He builds upon a decrepit empire until it’s thriving with sharp teeth and hired guns. It’s the only thing his father taught him; how to be dangerous. How to collect teeth and grind them to dust beneath the sole of his shoes. The Price family rises to power. The name forces people to tremble. John Price has nothing to lose but his own life, and even that pathetic amount he can scarcely get himself to care about.

The only thing he holds close to him is the ghosts of his past. They always lurk in uncomfortable places, whispering into the shell of his ear, biting at the nape of his neck. It finds him at all hours of the day—it torments him. Slithers beneath his skin. Even now as he stands in line at the florist’s shop his skin itches, eyes flickering to the exit, fingers twitching for the knife stowed in his pocket.

The only emollient he can find in this place is the voice of the woman in line before him. Demulcent and fleeting, he notes the way his heart slows. How the pathetic muscle quivers in his chest as she sweetly thanks the shopkeeper. When the redolence of roses reaches him, he tells himself he’s hallucinating, but when she turns to leave—small bouquet of flowers in her hand—he realizes who it is.

Aelin Gilroy.

Even after all these years he can still recognize her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint, bouncing curls in her flaxen hair, and her grace. How her chin is held high. How confidence exudes from every pore in her body as she floats toward the exit. Somehow, she’s even more perfect now than she was when they were children. He steps out of line, forcing the shopkeeper to stare at him with narrowed brows as he follows after her on uncertain feet.

“Aelin?”

All the air leaves his lungs when she turns to face him. She’s grown into her features now. Rosy cheeks and full lips, but her eyes are still the same. Crystalline like a low tide, filtering golden sunlight into fractals. Those eyes stare at him blankly, hands uncomfortably adjusting the bouquet as she traces him without a shred of familiarity.

“Yes?” she asks tensely.

Chuckling, he slaps his hand on the nape of his neck, rubbing out the tension there. “It’s John. John Price.”

There’s something about the light igniting in her eyes that has him feeling warmer than he has in a long while. A precious grin breaks out on her lips as she steps closer, now comfortable with his presence. “Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you! It’s been years… staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Getting in just enough to keep things interesting,” John counters.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. She’s still that star pupil. Still that girl that had every boy tripping over their own two feet. Even now he can still hear her feet tapping against the floor as her pencil fills in test answers.

“What’s the occasion?” he then asks, gesturing to her bouquet.

“Oh,” she says. Her voice trips. Fractures. “Well, it’s—erm—the anniversary of my dad’s passing.”

John blinks. He can vaguely recall the news. Rolling clips of the police station and the accident that stole his life away. Somehow he never put two and two together.

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hadn’t heard,” he quickly apologizes.

Despite the terrible awkwardness of the conversation, she still smiles. Always graceful. Always poised. “It’s alright. I’m… making my peace with it.” She pauses, throat clearing with a tense cough. “What about you?”

“Oh, just some flowers for mum.”

His response makes Aelin smile something small and bittersweet. “How lovely. I bet she’ll love them.”

“They’ll make for good decoration.”

Something settles between the two of them—something that had never been there before. Not while they were children, growing up with one another in different corners of the world. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating. It leaves John floundering, but the warmth it brings is intoxicating.

“Well, I ought to get going,” Aelin excuses politely. “Got a few more errands to run. But really, it was good seeing you again, John.”

This is the part where he should say goodbye. Wish her farewell just for her to vanish into a life of fortune where he’d never see her again. If he was a smart man, John would have done just that, but instead he finds his hand diving into his pocket where he retrieves a pen before quickly stealing one of the shop’s business cards to scribble down his number in the negative space.

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Aelin to take. “I’m certain you get this a lot, but if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there.”

To his surprise, she takes the card without hesitation, aqua eyes scanning his rushed handwriting while quietly thanking him. As she holds the card in front of her, something catches John’s attention. There’s a glint on her finger, one that reflects the light so brightly it nearly blinds him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s a large, gaudy ring. Something given in poor taste. Something that attempts to steal the spotlight of Aelin’s beauty rather than compliment it.

“Did you get married?” John asks in what he tells himself is mere curiosity.

“Oh. No, not yet. Just engaged,” she says with an odd tone. Aelin glances at the ring—at the small band and large diamond that looks heavy enough to weigh her down. As if she can’t stand to look at it any longer, she shoves the card into her pocket before smiling at him. “Thank you again, John.”

As Aelin exits the store, she tries not to think about how this interaction with a long lost classmate of hers has her feeling lighter than she has in years. That’s all she feels these days. Heavy. Weighed down by a stony gaze that used to look at her with adoration as the looming nature of her own failure hangs over her head as if each step she takes brings her closer to the gallows.

There is little reprieve to be found in the cemetery where her father lays. Knees digging into the fresh grass, trembling fingers propping the flowers against his headstone, she does not pay attention to the tears streaming down her face. She’s learned to ignore them, if not welcome them. The wind picks up, cooling her feverish face as she traces the engraving of her father’s name letter by letter with her index finger.

“I miss you so much,” she whispers. “Everything’s gone to shit since you left. I dunno what to do without you.”

Her days have been foggy. Each waking moment leaves her stumbling through the dark all while she pretends she’s still the radiant girl she’s always been. It’s difficult to keep up the facade when her bed is cold in the mornings, and her fingers itch for the card John Price gave her. Ghosts follow behind her in the bedroom, her rearview mirror—the toilet.

So then, it should not come as a surprise when she returns home from her mother’s to see the lamp on in the living room. The television drones but no one is listening. A hand on a thigh. Unfamiliar lips pressed against ones she should have memorized but hasn’t felt the touch of in months. The woman looks nothing like Aelin. Inky locks cut into a short bob that her fiance weaves his fingers through as his nose kisses her cheek.

“Adam?”

Aelin’s stomach drops when they jump, heavy eyes now on her as she stands in the entryway. When Adam’s chest heaves with a sigh, she’s suddenly in the bathroom again. Hands clutching her stomach as she waddles out. Eyes full with tears as she sees him sitting on the couch, focused on the football match. It’s the same thing all over again.

She doesn’t wait around long enough to hear his excuses. The front door slams shut behind her but the sound is muffled on her ears as she slips into her car and speeds away.

Night has long since fallen by the time she reaches the park. When she was a child, her parents used to own a home in this neighborhood and she often came here with her dad. The swingset is painted blue now instead of red, but she makes no effort to approach it as she seats herself on an algid, metal bench.

During times like these, Aelin would often go to her dad for comfort. His office smelled like leather and Earl Grey, and he always kept a recliner in the corner of the room for her to curl up in to do homework, or cry about boys at school. He always knew what to say. What to do. Guiding her with a soft hand and sweet heart—she always wished she was more like him.

Now—without the luxury of paternal comfort—she does something stupid.

Fingers haphazardly digging through her bag, clutching the florist’s card, shakily punching in the numbers into her phone; Aelin knows she’s insane. Insane for thinking John Price is the person to call for something like this. Insane for thinking he’d even do anything at this time of night. Still, he answers. His voice bleeds through the speaker next to her ear like lukewarm wine. Intoxicating. Comforting.

The only greeting she can choke out is a sob.

By the time John finds Aelin, all of her tears have run dry, having been replaced with a brutal fury instead. A thick numbra clouds the park as the halogen lights hardly hold a torch bright enough to fight off the darkness. Still, he approaches her, noting how her knees bounce just like they used to all those years ago during exam season. Her bottom lip is bright red—irritated and cracked, abused by her teeth.

For as much effort as he puts into looking calm on the outside, there is nothing in the world that can settle the nerves fraying within him. Hearing her cry, hearing her beg for him to come and get her scared him more than he cares to admit. The tear stains on her cheeks make his fists curl. If only she knew the dangerous power she holds. The power to say bite and for John Price to respond where.

It doesn’t take long for him to coax out the truth. The rage swirling within Aelin nearly erupts as she spews every brutal detail. How Adam had been acting strange the last few months, how he used to show her off but has been keeping her locked away like a dirty secret, or something he’s ashamed of.

“Two fucking years, John,” Aelin seethes, teeth gritting so hard that they nearly crack. “Two years of being with him just for him to do… to do that? He moved me into his home, wanted me to quit my job because he said he wanted to take care of me, to take care of… of…”

Terrified that you’ll disintegrate before him, John reaches a careful hand out and brushes it against her shoulder. The tension melts beneath his touch, and if he wasn’t so concerned, pride would swell in his chest. “Easy, love.”

“I could’ve been great,” she continues, voice cracking as she leans into him. “I was able to go to any school in this country. I got my degree. I could’ve kept at work and been… something. And I didn’t need to. Not really. There was never anything I was trying to prove to anyone. I could’ve had a few kids with that white picket fence and stayed home to care for them, and I would’ve been completely happy living that trophy wife life if it meant I was loved. But I’m not, and it fucking hurts because I know I’m worth so much more than this.”

She crumbles like dust. The kind that’s so thin and fine you can only see it in the air when sunlight hits it. John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close, palm cradling her head as she shakes in his grasp.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” she babbles.

“You’re not stupid,” he attempts to persuade.

“Adam only proposed when we found out I was pregnant,” she says. Her voice shatters. Fractures. Each syllable catches in her throat, slices the tender flesh. “T-Then my dad died and… It was stupid to think he’d want to stay after I lost it.”

John’s blood runs cold. His vision clouds with ichor—vermillion and thick. It’s so close he can nearly taste it. A violent man to a violent end, he craves it now more than ever. Instead, he holds her closer and gathers enough bravery to kiss the top of her head.

“None of that was your fault, love,” he assures. “You’re brilliant. Downright brilliant, and he’s a sorry sod for not seeing it.”

It takes a little convincing to get her to agree to stay at his place for the night. Really, there’s something comforting about being somewhere else. Away from her mother and that house that’s still haunted with her father’s ghost. John gives her an old t-shirt and a pair of joggers he’s been meaning to throw out for some time before ensuring she’s comfortable enough in his guest bedroom.

When he’s certain Aelin’s asleep, John sits in his office, hand over his mouth, teeth grinding as he stares at his phone. It takes only five minutes of deliberation before he’s dialing up the only man he knows he can trust.

“Yeah?” Simon Riley. His blunt greeting cuts over the line over the sound of thrumming club music and a cacophony of chatter.

“Riley, I need a favor. I’m sending you an address and I need you there as soon as possible,” John says, voice rumbling low and dark as he taps his desk with the tips of his fingers.

“What for?”

“A friend,” John excuses. “I need any items that seem like they belong to a girl. Clothes, toiletries, things of that sort.”

There’s a pause, and John can already see the expression on Riley’s face. A raised brow, tight lips, and a small huff. “Somethin’ ya can’t get yourself?”

“If I go myself, I’m breaking the jaw of the bastard who lives there,” he growls.

Inhale. Exhale. “This have somthin’ to do with the girl earlier? The one cryin’ on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

A hum. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Much to John’s surprise, Aelin doesn’t ask too many questions when morning comes. She doesn’t push when he gives a vague answer about how he got her items, and she doesn’t question where her engagement ring vanished to, or why Adam hasn’t bothered to call or text her since she stormed out of the house. He tells her to stay as long as she likes—as long as she needs.

But she doesn’t leave.

Aelin Gilroy lingers in his home—not as a ghost, but as a dream. Something drifting between his fingers, just out of reach, that he wants so desperately to hold. He finds residuals of her in the shower with her golden hair stuck to the wall and the silage of rose toying with his nose. She’s there in the kitchen when he comes home, cooking up a late dinner, asking him to join her for a movie.

There is no effort on her end in leaving, just as there is no effort from him in getting her to leave. He would keep her forever if he could. Hold her in his arms like he did that night in the park, cradling her head against his chest. All she would have to do is ask him.

But as the weeks meander on, John finds himself sitting next to her on the couch. There’s too much wine in their bodies, ichor red and brimming full in his stomach, diffusing the light of the television as it illuminates her skin, her smile, everything. He decides that he likes this. Her. Enjoys the warmth of another human in this too-large house, always a void greeting him when he gets home, a black hole waiting to crush him. He doesn’t know how his father could have ever treated his mother so cold when the touch of a woman seems to make this home flourish.

She feels his gaze. Heavy lidded and murky with alcohol. She stares back, aqua hue bleeding into something darker, like the depths of the ocean instead of the mere tide lapping at the shore—unknowingly profound. He has yet to scratch the surface of Aelin Gilroy.

Yet he gets close to it when she places her glass on the coffee table and swings her leg over his lap. Bum resting on his knees, her hands steady her swaying body as she grips his shoulders, curls cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. John stares up at her with awe blurring his vision. She smiles like she knows the mess she’s making of him.

“Kiss me.” She does not ask. She demands it. Requires it.

He leans back until his skull hits the cushion, then shakes his head. “You don’t want me to do that.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not?”

“I’m not a good man.”

“I know.”

Those words are a baton to his diaphragm, forcefully expelling a chuckle from his throat before he can stop it. She tilts her head and he nearly grabs the nape of her neck to devour her whole. “How do you know?”

“I’ve always known,” Aelin insists. “I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Besides, if you were a good man, you’d be dead by now. The good ones are always quick to go in your line of work, aren’t they?”

John wants to pretend that he’s surprised she knows, but of course she knows. Aelin Gilroy, daughter of Sean Gilroy, Chief Inspector, top of her class, the looks to kill and a brain to go with it. It does not take a genius to sniff out the blood that stains his hands. Dirty hands. Soiled hands. Ones he can’t help but place on her waist.

“If you know that much, then you know that you don’t want me to kiss you,” he insists.

“Why?” Her turn with the questions.

“Becuase I’m not dragging you into a life like this. I’m not letting you get hurt because of me.” His admission comes with plaguing visions that are so noisome they sting his eyes. Rose pink brains soaking into a mattress. Fingers plucked free of the palms they used to call home. His mother, dead and left to rot like a warning. “You don’t want this.”

“No. I just want you,” she hums. Aelin’s hands begin to wander, fingertips brushing against his hairline as she tilts her head, curiously inspecting him, spinning eyes hardly able to focus on one part of him before moving to the next. “You’re not your father, John. You share his name but not his mistakes. You are not a bad man.” Palm to cheek, warmth swelling together against his feverish skin—she presses her thumb to his lips. Drags down over them until they’re parted. “You might not be a good man, but you’re too kind to be a bad man.”

It isn’t until her lips meet his that John Price realizes that he’s been caught in Aelin’s trap for quite some time—she’s just now decided to rein him in. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Even as her teeth sink into his flesh, even as her nails rake across his back, even as she drowns him—nothing but a corse floating among stilly water—he knows he cannot starve himself of this one desire.

After so many years, he finally has something to live for besides the circle of life and death. Besides being a slave to his family name simply because paternal law decrees it. Now, he has something to build. Someone to love. A future that holds more than decrepit bones. A ring covers the old scar on Aelin’s finger. His bed is always warm in the night when he returns home and in the morning when he can’t bring himself to wake with the rest of the world.

The room she slept in during her first night with him now holds a crib.

It’s made of wood and engraved with pumpkins and rabbits, a project Aelin took upon herself and has been whittling away at with a small carving tool. Hunched over, stomach swelling quietly but still enough to be noticeable in her sundress. The image has been burned into his mind all night while he’s been away at work, hunched over his desk, listening to pathetic excuse after excuse.

He leaves early tonight, hands buzzing too much to quiet, fingers screaming for his wife. To hold her face and smooth over her stomach. She’s gotten more emotional these days; crying at any kind gesture, or any time she looks at the crib for too long. John hates to see the tears that stream down her cheeks but doesn’t mind the excuse to hold her close, to chuckle into her ear, to toy with the ends of her hair.

When John steps inside, there’s nothing but blood to greet him.

Watery. Bright red. It stains the couch in the very spot Aelin curls up in at the end of the day with a warm cup of tea and something quiet to put on the television. John stares at it. It spreads, ichor floating through the veins of the couch similar to the way it spreads on a mattress, soaking deep—too deep to get out. Deep enough to scar.

He panics. Her name rings through the house as he trips down the hallway, following the sparse trickle of blood like breadcrumbs. There is no answer, but he hears her quiet, muffled sobs. Hand clasped over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could ever stop the tears; she’s on the toilet. He doesn’t even knock before entering, but she doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it as she sits curled over herself, sundress bunched around her waist, arms cradling herself as if she can hold the remaining bits of her child within her shattering womb.

“Love,” John breathes. Within an instant he’s on his knees before her, but she won’t look at him. He reaches forward, cups her face in his palms, wipes his thumb at the never-ending flood of tears. She’s feverish to the touch.

“I-I’m sorry,” Aelin sobs. Her arms press further into her stomach as she leans forward, head attempting to bow, but John keeps her head above water—keeps her from drowning. “I really thought it would be different this time, I just… ah… John, it hurts so bad.”

Her sobs come unheeded now, and each rattling reverberation that cuts through her shatters his newly mended heart. John holds her with trembling hands. His own eyes squeeze shut, faint tears wetting his eyelashes as he rests his chin on her head. Even against his neck he can feel how warm her forehead is—how it nearly blisters his skin.

After fifteen minutes of his world ending, he takes her to the hospital. Ultrasound visits turn sour now that there is no baby to look at. The bleeding stops. Their child is gone. When they arrive home, all they do is lay in bed with nothing but the sound of their hearts shattering to break the silence.

It is the first time, but it is not the last.

It happens again.

And again.

Eventually, after the years, they give up. Their hope flickers and wanes, but the desire still lurks in their eyes every time they pass a stroller during date night or they look at that empty nursery-converted-to-guest-room. John puts that love into the men who work for him instead, and Aelin gives it to her adopted sister. But at the end of the night, no matter how long they were out laughing or chuckling, they come home to a warm bed, desperately searching for the grubby hands of what could have been.

But it comes back. It barrels like a bullet into their lives, embedding into deep tissue, nestling too far to rip it out without doing more damage. It arrives as a phone call. A sob. A begging to be free of this torture. John finds it in the bathroom with Aelin, curled forward, ripped boxes strewn across the floor, along with three positive pregnancy tests.

She looks up at him as he enters the bathroom, eyes red and irritated, her usually neat hair now frizzy. “John, I can’t do this again,” she chokes.

Wordlessly, he joins her on the floor with an arm snaking around her back. Aelin collapses into his chest, legs slung over his lap, head resting against his collarbone as he cradles her. For a long time, he is silent. Neither of them speak as the weight of the situation begins to crush them under impending pressure. It squishes the blood clean from their bodies, suffocating their brains of all helpful thought.

The world is ending all over again.

“I’ll support whatever you want to do, love,” John murmurs against the crown of her head.

Brows furrowing, she stiffens. “What do you mean?”

His words get caught in his throat for a long, aching moment before he’s able to choke them out. “If you… want to terminate, then we can do that. Or if you want to keep it then we’ll do that, too.”

Aelin is quiet for a long time. There is nothing but soft sniffles and the occasional pule that slips from her lips, but John doesn’t rush her. Instead, he holds her until her muscles relax, and she’s nothing but a limp mess against him.

“One more time,” she decides, malice slipping into her tone as she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “One more time, and if it doesn’t work, I’m getting a hysterectomy. I can’t keep doing this b-but… I just… want to pretend to hope for a little while.”

Nodding, John places one more kiss on her head. “Okay, love.”

For the first few weeks, Aelin is near unconsolable. Nesting on the couch, blankets obscuring her body, hugging a pillow to her chest as her glassy eyes watch flashing images on the television. She attempts to distract herself with the company of her adopted sister, but the connection feels severed. Smiling and pretending to be happy when she’s harboring a secret that will surely demand blood before she has the chance to sing its praise.

But that secret keeps growing. And growing.

Each passing day that Aelin wakes and there’s no blood to follow her throughout the day, a glimmer of hope roots in her chest. It burrows and whispers. It promises love and fulfillment. It promises something she’s never been fortunate enough to achieve previously. It’s enough to make her skin glow, rosy and golden like the sun kissing the horizon before bed. It’s enough to make her cheeks swell as shiny, opalesque teeth peek between glistening lips. It’s enough for now, and then—

“Oh my god.” Hands on her stomach, smiling through the tears, bottom lip trembling. “John, it’s twenty-four weeks. It’s viability week.”

—and then it’s everything.

Time rolls backwards as the guest room is once more turned into a nursery. Bunnies and pumpkins, soft oranges and fluffy whites, and a perfect hint of peach. A changing table with ribbons along the side. A rocking chair for the long nights when none of them will get rest, and it will be worth it to have a sleepless night due to love rather than turmoil.

But joy is a meal that tastes better when it’s shared.

So, Aelin stands in the kitchen. Film refracts the light above her through the sonogram in her hand, thumb holding the picture so firmly as if she’s afraid it will slip through her fingers. Heavy feet rattle the floor behind her before she feels warm palms smooth over her stomach and a chin on top of her head.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Smiling in agreement, Aelin scans every little feature. The curve of the baby’s nose, how her lips part as if already babbling, hands squished up to her face like she’s trying to chew on her fingers. “Just over halfway there.”

Just as she lowers the sonogram, the baby kicks against John’s palms. His chuckle hits her, warm and dripping with adoration. He squeezes back, pulling Aelin against him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he questions.

“Yeah, I think it would be better this way,” Aelin nods. “I feel… a little bad. Having been sort of ignoring her these last few weeks. I know Simon is taking good care of her but… well, it’ll be nice to have dinner with just the two of us.”

She turns her attention to the card before her. The outside is plain. A simple white background with frilly lettering asking Guess what? On the inside, there’s that same lettering with the triumphant announcement of It’s a girl! followed by enough space to put a sonogram. Then, there’s a mini calendar of August, with a circled due date. She shoves everything inside of a light peach envelope before sealing it shut with the tip of her tongue, but as she stares at it, she feels it doesn’t quite look right.

Inspiration strikes her, and she quickly retrieves a pen from the junk drawer before scrawling Auntie Chip on the envelope. Smiling, she sticks it in her purse.

And with that, she is ready for dinner.

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