#he says while pulling his notebook out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

guliexe · 22 days ago

Text

—ONE ON ONE 18+

Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader — University AU

warnings/tags: study buddies to lovers, inexperienced reader, hard dom!riki, crush!riki, porn with some plot, texting, teasing, making out, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking, marking, slapping, possessive, demanding riki, spit, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare

♡ you start studying with your quiet crush, until one day, he invites you over, and you end up sobbing, ruined in his bed.

w/c: 7.4k

It wasn’t anything serious. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You and Riki didn’t really talk. Not the way other classmates did—casual, loud, back-and-forth in lecture halls. He was… quiet. Always showing up late but somehow still getting a seat near the front. Always in dark clothes and expensive jewellery. Always watching more than speaking. He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t raise his hand. And yet somehow, you noticed him first. Well. Maybe not “noticed”, more like kept noticing. Like your brain started analyzing him every time he walked into the room: black hoodie again, earphones in, notebook half-open but never messy. You never even thought he’d noticed you at all.

Until he did.

It was a Tuesday, and you were stuck. The professor handed out a printed exercise to be solved in pairs, but your usual friend wasn’t in class. You were halfway through trying to solve the second question alone, chewing the cap of your pen in mild panic, when you heard a voice behind you. “…You’re doing it backwards.” You looked up. He was already sitting in the empty chair beside you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Riki. His voice was lower than you expected. He leaned over and tapped his pen against your sheet ,not correcting you, just quietly showing you. You blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks,” you managed. He didn’t reply. Just kept working beside you until the time ran out. And when the professor collected the papers, he stood up and left without saying anything else.That was it. Or… you thought that was it. Until a week later, when you were reviewing notes from the last lecture and couldn’t find a single readable thing in your handwriting. You remembered his — clean, sharp, borderline aesthetic. You didn’t know why, but you pulled up the class group chat, scrolled, found his number from a previous message, and tapped it. You weren’t even sure he’d remember who you were. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. But you texted him anyway.

You

hey riki!! do u still have the notes from class today? i zoned out halfway :(

♡

Riki

yeah

figured you would

♡

You

what’s that supposed to mean

♡

Riki

you always zone out around the halfway mark

kinda cute tbh

You stared at your screen, heat blooming in your cheeks.

You

i’m gonna take that as a compliment

♡

Riki

was one

He was so casual, unreadable, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. It started with a single text from him the next day:

Riki

still need help with the lecture stuff?

library’s dead today, come by if u want

Your stomach flipped a little when you read it, mostly from surprise. You hadn’t expected him to follow up. Definitely hadn’t expected him to remember your struggle with the content. So you said yes. You found him at a tucked-away table in the back corner of the campus library, hoodie pulled over his head, one earbud in, notebook already open. He looked up once when you arrived. Didn’t smile, just nodded. You sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. You opened your laptop, pulled out your notes, and tried to pretend your hands weren’t slightly shaking. For the first ten minutes, neither of you spoke. He scribbled something down. You typed a few lines. It was quiet, comfortably quiet. But there was something about being this close to him that made it so fucking hard to focus and he smelled so good. You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry. After a while, he leaned over just a little to glance at your screen. “You copied that part wrong,” he said. You blinked. “Huh, really?” He reached out, brushing your hand by accident—or maybe not—and pointed directly at the mistake. “This line. He was talking about this, not that. You flipped them.” “Oh,” you said, staring dumbly at the highlighted section. “That makes way more sense.” He hummed. Barely a sound. Then sat back again like he hadn’t just leaned close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

You tried to keep reading, but your eyes kept drifting.

To the way his fingers drummed against the edge of his notebook.

To the way he chewed on his cheek while concentrating.

To the way his sleeve slipped up just enough to show the veins in his wrist and arm.

You forced yourself to focus. Mostly.

You didn’t plan to run into him again. Not really. You were just looking for somewhere quiet, someplace your brain might actually work for once, and the upper floor had study rooms that no one ever used. It was a last resort. You walked in with your headphones already on and your brain half-fried. And then you saw him. Riki. Sitting alone in one of the back corners. Legs sprawled, earbuds in. A pen spinning between his fingers, that same black hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder. You froze in the doorway. He looked up, and for a second, he just stared. Not surprised. Not curious. Just calm. Like he’d been expecting you. Then he jerked his chin, wordless, inviting you to sit with him. Your pulse jumped. You tried not to show it as you stepped inside. “You’re here a lot,” you said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. “Yeah,” he replied, eyes dropping back to his notebook. “Quiet’s good.” It was. Too good, maybe. Every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tapped the table or flipped a page, it felt louder than it should’ve. You tried to focus on your own material, but your eyes kept wandering. To the veins on his hands. The way he leaned back and chewed on his pen cap. The curve of his lip when he was thinking. God, you needed to get a grip. You were scribbling out notes on a problem you didn’t totally understand, squinting your eyes, when his voice came low beside you.

“You’re writing the wrong formula.” You blinked. He leaned in, arm brushing yours as he took your pen without asking and struck a line through your equation. His handwriting replaced it. Clean and annoyingly perfect. “That’s how you mess the whole thing up,” he said simply, handing your pen back. You stared at the page. “Thanks,” you said. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He didn’t move away. Just sat there, watching the way your eyes lingered on the ink he’d left behind. Then finally, with a slight tilt of his head, “You always squint your eyes when you’re stuck?” You stiffened. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing that. You looked up, startled, and he was already looking at you. Calm. Casual. His gaze didn’t move. It felt like too much, suddenly.Too much eye contact. Too much attention. Too much heat. You forced a laugh, ducking your head. “Wow. You’re observant.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. And for the rest of the session, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still watching you. Not obviously, not openly, but just enough to make you not being able to focus. The study session lasted just under an hour. By the end of it, your head was clearer, and your notes were neater. You were packing up your bag when he finally spoke again. “You work better in silence,” he said simply. Not a compliment. Just an observation. You paused. “Do I?” He met your eyes. “Yeah. You get distracted too easily when it’s loud.” Something about the way he said it made you wonder what else he’d noticed.

He’d asked you after the last session — just kind of offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.“It’s quieter in my dorm,” he said, packing up his notes. “You can come by next time if you want.” That was it. No expression. No explanation. You’d nodded too fast. Now you were standing outside his door, staring at the number. You knocked twice before you lost your nerve. It took a second, but he answered. His dorm was small, neat, two desks, one unmade bed, the faint smell of detergent and whatever cologne he always wore. His roommate wasn’t home. He didn’t say that part, but it was obvious. The room felt still. You stepped inside carefully, clutching your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit. You hadn’t meant to dress like this, not for him, anyway. The kinda sheer tank top was just convenient, and the skirt? You told yourself it wasn’t that short. You’d worn it a million times. But Riki’s eyes dropped for just a second before he stepped aside to let you in. And that second? It lit your whole body on fire. He didn’t say anything about it. Of course not. He just sat at his desk, motioning to the chair beside his. “Here.” You took your seat.

For the first ten minutes, it was normal. Mostly quiet. His pencil scratched lightly against his notebook. You tried to copy a few things he wrote down, but your focus was elsewhere. You could feel the heat of him beside you. His knee brushed yours once, and it sent your heart into your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed. But then, after a long pause, he spoke. “You wore that on purpose?” His voice was low and calm. Almost lazy. Your stomach dropped. “What?” you asked, too quickly. “That skirt.” You froze, heart hammering, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or deny it or what. You weren’t even sure if he was joking. But when you glanced at him, he was still staring at your thighs, then your face, with that unreadable, maddening expression. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, breath caught. “I just… it’s hot out.” Riki’s eyes dragged over you one more time, slowly. Like he was thinking about something. Measuring it. Then he looked away. “Shame,” he muttered. It was barely audible. And he didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his page, pen in hand, like that was the end of it.

But your whole body was lit up. Nerves everywhere. Blood rushing to your face, your throat, your fingertips. And even though you tried to keep reading, keep writing, keep breathing normally, you couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his presence beside you. Still quiet. Still unbothered. You tried to keep your hands steady, not to squirm in your seat, not to think about the way his voice had dropped on that one word—Shame—like he meant more than he said. Riki hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even looked at you again. But it didn’t matter. Everything between you had changed. You stole a glance at him. He was focused again, or at least pretending to be. The sharp angle of his jaw, the loose way he held his pen, the little crease between his brows , it all looked the same, but you knew it wasn’t. He had noticed. And worse, you couldn’t stop wondering what else he’d noticed. “Need help?” he asked, suddenly. You blinked. “Huh?” He nodded at your page. “You’ve been staring at that question for five minutes.” You scrambled to look down, pretending like you were just distracted. “Oh— yeah. I don’t get it.” “Let me see.” He reached for your notebook, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush, and took it gently from your hands. Your breath caught. His thigh pressed against yours. Just slightly. He didn’t move.

He explained the answer softly, pointing as he spoke, the tip of his pen gliding over your paper. You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because all you could feel was how close he was. How warm he felt. How good he smelled. How careful and deep his voice was. You swallowed hard. He handed your notebook back, fingers grazing yours. “You okay?” he asked. You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just— tired.” He studied you. His eyes flicked down your face, slow, deliberate. “You always get like this when you’re tired?” You blinked. “Like what?” Riki didn’t answer right away. He slightly shifted in his seat and turned toward you. Then, in that same dead-calm voice: “Fidgety. Quiet. All flushed.” Your breath stopped. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely composed like he was stating facts, which somehow made it worse. “I’m not—” you tried, voice weak. He cut you off. “You are.” Then silence again. The air between you was thick. Too heavy to breathe. And then, his hand moved. Slowly. He reached out and touched the side of your thigh, not high, not too far, just above your knee. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look away from your face. He just watched. Watched like he already knew what you were thinking. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. And maybe that was all he needed. His touch dragged a little higher. Still slow and patient. Your chest rose with a sharp breath, and his eyes flicked down, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. Debating.

You stared at the notebook in front of you like it might save you, but your body was already betraying you. Heat bloomed under your skin, your hands twitched in your lap. You couldn’t look at him, but you felt him. Silent. Watching you. Then, finally, his voice, low, right beside your ear. “You’re shaking. You bit the inside of your cheek. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t tease. You turned your face slightly, just enough to catch his eyes and he was already looking at you. Expression unreadable. Completely composed. Then, after a beat, his thumb dragged slightly along the inside of your thigh. Barely anything, but it lit you up. He leaned in, voice low and even, “You get like this for anyone else?” Your heart slammed in your chest. Your mouth parted, but the only sound you made was your breath hitching. He didn’t push, he just watched, already knowing the answer. You couldn’t answer him. Not with words. Not like that. So you just stared, lips parted, heart in your throat, too warm, too aware of every place his hand touched. Then, his fingers slipped slightly higher. Slow and measured. He was feeling it too, the shift in the room, the heat between you, the way your body leaned in before you even realized. He leaned closer, not fully, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours, his thigh pressed against the side of your leg.

You swore you heard the faintest breath from him like he was steadying himself. Then his hand slipped under the edge of your skirt. Bare skin. You sucked in a breath and finally looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual in that stare anymore. His fingers moved again, a little higher, then stopped just before the heat of your core. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. “Knew you’d let me.” he said, softly. The words slammed through you like a current. Your breath hitched hard. Still, he didn’t move further. He just watched you squirm, fingers barely pressing into your thigh, letting the weight of everything unspoken hang thick between you. You weren’t sure if you were going to melt or burst. His hand moved again, slipping just a little further, fingers grazing the soft curve where your thigh met your hip. Your breath caught, shallow and quick. Riki’s breath hitched softly against your neck as he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the warmth, his steady, quiet presence like a steady flame flickering against your skin. You could feel him—so close now, that his chest brushed against your arm, his steady heartbeat like a silent drum beside you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud and urgent. He stayed there, patient, watching. Then, the quietest sound, a breath, almost a sigh, right at the hollow of your neck. Your skin tingled. And then, his lips brushed your skin. A gentle ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly, searching for more. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, holding yours with an intensity that made your heart leap. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft at first, testing. But then it got deeper, firmer, as if he’d been holding back all along. Your hands twitched at his waist, unsure and desperate. The world shrank until there was only the two of you—breath mingling, heat pooling between you. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and steady. “Finally.” His lips pulled away from yours just long enough to catch his breath. Then, without a word, Riki’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you up and pressed you back against the edge of the desk. The smooth wood was cool beneath your palms, but his body was hot and heavy, looming over you, shadowing your smaller frame. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his arms holding you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, more demanding now, hungry and fierce. His hands roamed freely, sliding up your sides, cupping your ribs, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your tummy.

You gasped when one hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over bare skin, no barrier, nothing between you and him. Your back arched instinctively. His other hand found your throat, thumb brushing lightly, fingers framing your pulse. His eyes closed as he kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to devour every inch of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate to hold on, to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with an urgent rhythm, deep, claiming. You felt every heartbeat, every breath, every touch. You were pinned but free all at once, lost in the heat of him. And even as his grip tightened just slightly at your throat, it wasn’t rough, it was possessive, controlled, making clear you belonged to him in this moment. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, pressed close, skin on skin, heat and hunger tangled in every kiss and touch. You couldn’t keep still anymore. Your legs squeezed together, your hands gripping the edge of the desk like you’d fall apart without it. His touch was everywhere—soft palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare chest, knuckles grazing places that made you gasp and twitch and whine without meaning to. You were dizzy with him. Every breath came out too fast, too shallow. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at you. Your lips were parted, swollen. Your chest rising in frantic little jolts. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dragging across your face.

You whimpered. It slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, needy, helpless—and his eyes darkened instantly. He liked that. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still, the other slid higher, over your chest again, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tipped back and a shaky moan slipped through your lips. You were panting now, thighs pressed together, aching. “Riki…” you breathed, barely a whisper. His hand came back up to your throat, firm but gentle, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look up at him. You were flushed. Eyes wide, lips wet, a total mess. And he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said lowly, like he was talking to himself more than you. You blushed, a sigh leaving your mouth, back arching into his touch. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungrily, like he needed to shut you up before you begged. His hips pressed forward, caging you completely, and you felt him, hard through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. You made a soft, desperate sound in your throat, and he swallowed it down. Your hands moved without thinking, tugging at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to do something with how badly you wanted him, but he didn’t rush. He kissed you harder, messier, until your legs felt weak and your body trembled beneath him. Until all you could do was gasp and whine and let him touch and take. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Every brush of his fingers, every scrape of teeth, every low breath against your skin. And the worst part was how badly you wanted more, how badly you needed it. How you would’ve said yes to anything he asked.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths as he pulled away just enough to look at you again, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten. His hand slipped down from your throat, trailing slowly along your collarbone, then lower, until his palm flattened over your ribs again. His eyes dragged slowly over your body—the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs pressed together like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Then he leaned in, voice brushing against your ear, low and steady, “Look at you,” he murmured. “So worked up and I haven’t even done anything yet.” Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for a second, because God, he was right. His fingers skimmed just above your waistband, dragging across your lower stomach, the touch featherlight, maddening. “You want it that bad, baby?” he asked, quietly, like he already knew the answer. You let out a whimper, soft and high, nodding before you could even think. That made him smile, just barely. Almost smug. His fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt, warm and unhurried. “Let me see how bad,” he said.

His hand moved with ease, sliding beneath your skirt, soft fingertips dragging the fabric of your panties down your thighs—slow, almost teasing. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them down, exposing you enough to make you shy. The cool air hit you, and then, his fingers. Two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your soaked folds like he was testing you. Your hips bucked. He chuckled, quiet, deep in his chest. “So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Dripping.” Your face burned, but you couldn’t look away. You were panting, lips parted, eyes wide as his fingers pressed in just a little. You whined. He exhaled slowly, enjoying every second of watching you unravel. And then, without warning, he pushed his fingers in—deep, smooth, filling you so easily your head fell back with a broken moan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tense. “You feel insane.” Your walls clenched around him, and he felt it, smirked a little when your legs twitched, when your body rocked instinctively against his hand. His other hand slid up your thigh, settling on your hip to hold you still. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, his thumb dragging over your clit in lazy, perfect circles.

You were gone. Melting. Whimpering with every curl, every press, every stroke. Your thighs trembled. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. “Riki—” you gasped, voice wrecked and whiny. “Please—” He leaned in again, his breath hot against your neck. “Please what, hm?” You whimpered, hips jerking. “Need m-more,” you managed. His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little faster, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. “You’ll cum for me like this,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear, “and then I’ll give you more.” Your body arched. The pressure built fast, tight and overwhelming, and all you could do was nod, desperate little noises spilling from your lips as your climax started to crest. You were already close, right on the edge, hips twitching, thighs shaking, the pressure unbearable. But then his hand shot up, suddenly, firmly gripping your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks, tilting your head up, forcing you to look at him. “Let go,” he whispered, fingers thrusting faster now, relentless. “Be a good girl and cum.” That was it. Your entire body shattered. You came with a cry, legs clamping around his wrist, hips jerking against his hand as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes barely stayed open, wide and glossy, locked onto his as you came undone right there on the desk, whining, pulsing hard around his fingers. He watched you, tight grip still on your face, other hand working you through it like he wanted to see you lose control. “Good girl,” he muttered, lips brushing yours. “Just like that.”

You were still trembling, thighs twitching from the aftershocks, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you flinched from the overstimulation. His hand was slick with you, dripping, and he stared at it for a beat, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath hitched. You barely had a second to react before his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth was on you. A gasp tore out of your throat as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and greedy. “Ngh—Riki!” Your hand flew to his hair, the other on the desk, fingers gripping the edge until your knuckles turned white. He moaned softly into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His hands squeezed tighter, holding your thighs apart, keeping you open for him as he lapped up every drop of your release, messy, shameless. Your head fell back. Another whine escaped your lips, high and breathless, and still—still—he kept going, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. When he finally pulled away, your skin was hot and damp, your whole body still twitching, breath caught in your throat. He stood, and then his hand wrapped around your neck again—firm, possessive—and he yanked you into a kiss. His mouth crashed into yours, lips slick with your taste, tongue sliding against yours with no warning, no hesitation. You whimpered against him, hands reaching for his shirt, for anything to ground yourself.

He kissed you like he owned you. Like he needed to devour you. His grip on your throat tightened and you moaned into his mouth, helpless and hazy, your whole body pliant against his. And when he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and his voice—fuck—his voice was low and raw when he spoke. “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but rough, meant for just you. “Got it?” Your heart stuttered. He’d barely said more than a few words to you since you met—always calm, unreadable, barely emoting—and now he was gripping your throat, kissing you like he wanted to ruin you, claiming you like you already belonged to him. You didn’t even hesitate. Your head nodded, small and shaky, your whole body still trembling under his touch. “I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless. It came out like a confession, sitting heavy in your chest for too long, just waiting for him to pull it out of you. Your eyes met his, wide and glossy, and the look on your face, sweet and desperate, giving him the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. But you looked so pretty like that—wrecked and breathless, your lips parted, your thighs still shaking, feeling like you needed him more than air.

Riki’s jaw tightened, and something dark flickered across his expression. His grip on your face stayed firm, fingers digging just a little harder into your cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice rough, barely held back. “You’ll make me fucking crazy.” But he was already leaning in again, mouth finding yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, kissing you so hard your head tipped back from the force of it. You moaned into him, needy and sweet, letting him take whatever he wanted, and he did. Then suddenly, his arms wrapped around your thighs and he lifted you. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body still trembling from the aftermath of his touch. He carried you the short distance from the desk to his bed and laid you down gently, never breaking contact. His body hovered over yours, eyes locked on your flushed, fucked-out face. Your shirt was rucked halfway up your stomach, your lips swollen from his kisses, thighs still twitching where they wrapped around his waist. He stared at you for a long, quiet second, trying to memorize you like this. Then his hands came down, one to your thigh, pushing it open wider, the other to your ribs, sliding up your bare skin under your shirt, slow and deliberate until his palm cupped your chest. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and whimpering under his touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered. You bit your lip, hips shifting instinctively, seeking friction. Anything. But he didn’t give it to you, not yet. He just leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, tongue licking a slow stripe up to your jaw before he kissed you there, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a mark. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. “Riki…” He hummed lowly, like the sound of his name falling from your lips lit something in him.

His mouth found your ear, breath hot, “Tell me you want it,” he said. “Say it.” Your whole body was burning now, flushed from head to toe, your voice coming out in a shaky, helpless whisper, “I want it. I want you.” And that was all it took. He kissed you again, before his hands moved, yanking your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then he just stared. Your bare chest rising and falling, skin flushed, nipples already hard from his teasing. His hands dragged up from your waist, until they cupped your tits, thumbs brushing over them gently, considering the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding back. “Look at you…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Fuck.” And then he was on you. Mouth hot and desperate, he ducked his head and devoured you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, tongue flicking and sucking until your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He bit,not too hard, just enough to make you squeal, and soothed it with his tongue right after, moving between your breasts like he couldn’t choose which to ruin first. You were already panting, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs rubbing together. Sloppy kisses turned into bites. He left hickies on your neck, down your collarbone, over the swell of your tits, under them, across your ribs. You could feel the bruises blooming under his mouth, red and raw, one after the other like he wanted to brand every inch of you. He kissed down, mouthing at your tummy next, dragging his teeth over the soft skin before sucking another mark right beneath your navel.

And all that while watching you. Smirk barely there, eyes half-lidded but burning, soaking in every whimper, every twist of your body, every broken moan. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.” he said against your skin. He leaned back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You barely had time to look—at the lean muscles, the toned arms, the sharp lines of his waist—before his hands were back on you again, sliding under the waistband of your skirt. “Lift your hips.” he said, and you obeyed without thinking. He dragged the skirt down your thighs, watching the way you shivered beneath him. He took his time peeling it off, letting his hands skim down your legs like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he tossed it aside and looked down at you—naked, body covered in marks, chest rising and falling fast. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. His hands found your hips, big, warm and possessive, and then they started moving. One slid up your side, across your stomach, over your breast, the other to your jaw, fingers stroking gently before slipping between your lips. “Suck,” he said, low and commanding. Your lips parted automatically, and you wrapped them around his thumb, letting him press it down on your tongue. He watched you—watched your pretty, desperate mouth take it in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.” You whimpered around his thumb, pussy pulsing, body practically buzzing from the tension. His other hand was still moving—down your ribs, over your tummy, lower, skimming just above your heat. Then he sat back a little on his knees, keeping his thumb in your mouth as he reached for his waistband.

He hooked his fingers into the edge of his sweats and slid them down just enough to reveal the outline of his cock through his boxers—thick, hard, straining against the fabric. Your breath caught, eyes flicking down before darting back up to his face. And he was already watching you. A soft smirk curved his lips as he tilted his head, thumb still resting on your tongue. “My cute girl,” he cooed. “So needy for me already… you really can’t help yourself, can you?” You hummed around his thumb, cheeks flushing even deeper, thighs pressing together as the heat pulsed harder between them. His hand drifted back to his waistband, and this time, he slipped his fingers under. You watched with wide eyes, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when he finally pulled his cock free. So big and heavy, flushed at the tip, already leaking. The sight made your stomach flip, your mouth go dry, and you could barely look before your gaze darted away, face burning. “Aww,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “what’s wrong, baby?” You shook your head quickly, eyes flickering back up to his face, trying not to stare but completely failing. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, your body so hot you could hardly stand it. He leaned in closer, one hand returning to your cheek, fingers stroking your flushed skin. “Shy all of a sudden?” he teased, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You were being so brave for me a second ago.” You whimpered, squirming under his gaze, his cock now resting heavy against his abs as he leaned. He took your hand and gently guided it to wrap around him. “Come on,” he whispered. “Touch me.” Your fingers curled around him, tentative and trembling, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good.

He swore under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and his head fell down. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand covering yours, guiding your movements slow and steady. “Just like that.” You stroked him softly, your touch shy, eyes flickering between his flushed cock and his face—so close, so focused, the sight of your hand on him was driving him insane. Your hand stayed on him, guided by his, and the longer you touched him, the more confident your fingers became. You swallowed hard, heart racing at the weight of him in your palm, pulsing in your hand. His cock twitched again, and a low groan left his lips, rough and strained. “Fuck,” he muttered and leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. His breath was warm and shaky, fingers tightening over yours. “Doing so good.” You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. There was something in the way he stared back, eyes hooded, jaw tight, he was barely holding himself back. He took your hand away from him gently, kissed your wrist, and pressed your arm back against the bed “Spread your legs for me.” You obeyed. Slowly, nervously. But the second your thighs parted, his gaze dropped and darkened. “God,” he said under his breath. He crawled between your legs, hands running up your thighs.

He leaned down, kissed you—soft, slow, deceptively gentle—before lining himself up, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock, slowly moving it up and down your folds, the other resting over your ribs grounding himself. “You ready f’me, baby?” he asked, voice quiet, low against your mouth. You nodded, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His hand slid to your throat again, “Use your words.” “I—I want you,” you whispered, and the moment the words left your mouth, his hips pushed forward slowly. The stretch made your breath catch. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it up. You could feel him, pressed just against your entrance, stretching you, but not moving yet, giving you time. His hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness for someone who’s splitting you in half. You gripped the sheets beneath you, lips parting in a gasp as the pressure built inside you. Every inch filled you more than you expected, and it was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but somehow addictive. Riki’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly over your skin, like he was trying to distract you from the way he was sinking deeper. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your skin. You whimpered, your body tensing. “Breathe for me,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so steady, it soothed you even while you felt like falling apart. You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and after another moment, he was fully inside.

Your eyes met his, teary and wide, and your lips trembled. “Riki—s’too much,” you admitted, voice almost shy. He smirked, “I know,” leaning down to kiss your jaw. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?” Your stomach flipped at the words. You nodded, more sure this time. Then he pulled back just a little, before thrusting again, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice ragged as he buried himself deeper. “So tight… fuck, y’feel so good.” His hips rolled into you slow, dragging against your walls, making you moan louder with each stroke. You clung to him, nails digging into his arms, breath coming in sharp little gasps as he set a rhythm. It was too much, too full, too good, and your body couldn’t keep up. Every time he moved, you clenched tighter around him. He pulled back slightly and grabbed your leg, lifting it high and pressing it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything—you cried out, high and helpless, your head tilting back against the mattress as he thrust deeper, harder, splitting you open with every roll of his hips. “Yeah,” he muttered, fingers digging into your thigh, mouth kissing it softly, as he started to lose control. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” You were loud. Whining, whimpering, trembling under his body, your hands gripping the sheets. “R-Riki—!” you sobbed his name, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted under the force of each thrust.

And that did something to him. His hand shot to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. You were a mess. Eyes wet, lips trembling, mouth open in breathless, broken sounds, and when the first tear slipped down your cheek, he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, dark twist of his mouth like he was proud of it. And then he slapped you. A clean, firm hit across your cheek—quick and shocking—and you gasped, more in disbelief than pain. Your head whipped slightly to the side, your moan caught somewhere between pleasure and stunned heat. His hand lingered there, fingers spread across your cheek, claiming you. “Fucking love seeing you cry for me.” Your stomach dropped, heat flooding your veins, and you started sobbing harder—overwhelmed, aroused, completely undone. Your hands reached up, grabbing the one that had just hit you, fingers curling around his wrist, holding it like it anchored you. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that your crush—the one who barely spoke, who barely looked at anyone—had slapped you, and now he was fucking you like this, praising the tears he pulled from your eyes, and you fucking liked it. You needed more.

He shifted his weight, grabbed both of your thighs, and lifted—guiding your legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth, strong movement. The change in angle made you moan loudly, the new depth dizzying, the sound leaving your lips raw and wrecked. Your hands fumbled at the sheets, knuckles white as you held on, tears spilling down your cheeks again as the pleasure pushed you past the edge of sense. “Riki—” you choked out, completely gone, “I… I can’t—” “Yes, you can,” he groaned, slamming into you harder, his hand tightening on your jaw. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch.” Your eyes rolled back, body arching, sobs turning into moans, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. His gaze locked onto yours, dark, possessive, mouth parted slightly as he caught the sight of you all spread out and shaking for him. “Open your mouth.” You gasped, but you did—lips parting, eyes wide and waiting. He leaned over you, hips never slowing down, and with a sharp breath through his nose, he spit into your mouth. “Swallow.” You did. Without thinking. Without hesitation. And that seemed to please him. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear like he was calming you, and then—Slap.

A soft one. Just enough to make your breath catch, to light another spark under your skin. You whimpered and he firmly gripped your jaw, tilting your head to make sure you looked at him. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whisper softly. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” Your pussy clenched around him, back arching from the bed. And still, you nodded, too far gone to form words, too desperate for him. You were gasping, moaning brokenly into the heat of his neck as he pounded into you, deep and rough, your legs high on his shoulders. His grip on your thighs was bruising, and you clung to the bedsheets, your vision blurred from tears and pleasure. Your body was stretched and aching, but it didn’t matter, not when he was murmuring filthy praise in your ear, not when every thrust perfectly hit your cervix. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “This pussy—” he snapped his hips hard, making you cry out, “—belongs to me.” You sobbed, nodding, walls fluttering around him. “Want you to cum with me,” he said roughly, teeth gritted as his rhythm got sloppy. “Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock.” You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as you clenched around his cock, trembling, unraveling. The moment your body gave out beneath him, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go, filling you with a whimper, low and desperate in your ear. His cum making you feel so full, so warm inside you. “Mine,” he muttered again, softly kissing your neck.

Your breathing was still shaky when he pulled out, careful and slow. You winced a little at the sensitivity, and immediately, Riki’s expression changed. The fire in his eyes dimmed and his hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and gentle. “You okay, baby?” he asked quietly. “Yeah… just sore.” you blinked up at him. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here.” You watched him move around his small dorm room, grabbing tissues. He cleaned you up gently, his touches surprisingly sweet and patient. When he was done, he tugged the sheets over your bare body, then slid in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. It was quiet for a while. Your heart was still trying to calm down, and Riki just lay there, soft hand caressing your tummy. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” You blinked, turning your head to look at him. “What?” He glanced down at you, his face unreadable, but there was something softer around the eyes. “You heard me.” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. After everything, after the rough, possessive way he’d claimed you, this was the last thing you expected. You buried your face in his chest, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Cool.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

a/n: i got a little carried away with this one yall lmao i've been so fucking obsessed with this man lately i can't stop thinking abt him please i need him so badddd :(

#enhypen #enha #enhypen smut #niki smut #enhypen niki smut #enha niki smut #nishimura riki #ni-ki smut #niki x reader #ni ki x reader #ni ki smut #riki smut #jungwon smut #sim jake smut #heeseung smut #jay smut #sunoo smut

2K notes · View notes

luveline · 7 months ago

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Sure.”

“I signed us up for that club.”

“Epigenetics?”

“Molecular medicine,” he says.

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.

“When is it?” you ask, smiling.

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.

—

“Good morning,” you say.

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”

“And that’s funny?”

“When was the last time you wore a suit?”

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.

“I’m fine, why?”

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”

“I have too much to do.”

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.”

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”

“I can show you the webs?”

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.

“Can I walk you now?” he asks.

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.

“Nothing more important than you.”

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”

“Yellowstone Boulevard?”

“That’s the one…”

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.

“I like walking,” you say.

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.

“Did you cook?” you ask.

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.

“It’s for you,” he says casually.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”

“It must’ve taken hours.”

“May helped.”

“That makes much more sense.”

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”

“I guess I’ll keep it.”

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”

“Better than Harry?”

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”

“Eat your own.”

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.

“Have something to tell you.”

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.

“Is that surprising?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.”

“She is?”

“Oxford.”

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“But?”

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.

—

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.

“Spider-Man,” you say.

“What’s that about?”

“What?”

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.

“What?” he asks.

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”

“No? Do I have to earn it?”

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.

“A secret. That’s fair.”

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?”

“It just hurts people.”

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.

“Tell me another one,” he says.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just tell me one.”

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.

“Oh, nowhere.”

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.

“Sure, for that secret.”

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”

“Why not?” he asks.

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.

“Just an hour.”

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.

“I get to choose?”

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.

“If you want to,” he says.

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”

“So tell me another one,” he says.

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”

“I’d hope so.”

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”

“You did?”

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”

“I like to walk,” you say.

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong with staying at home?”

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”

“I don’t do this every night.”

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”

“Want me to do one?”

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”

“So where are you heading today?” he asks.

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”

“Hi, Spider-Man.”

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Yeah, you could.”

He sounds sure.

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.

—

Winter

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you.

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”

You blink as fat rain lands on your face.

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”

“No.”

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.

“About?”

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”

“So you didn’t need me,” he says.

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”

“Not that much.”

“Not for me, no.”

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”

Peter… What is he doing?

You let yourself relax against him.

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?”

You can say it out loud. You could.

“Peter, you’re…”

“I’m what?” he asks.

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.

He’s Spider-Man.

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.

“I was thinking about you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.

“Thank you,” you say.

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.

“Yeah, please.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.

“I’m fine up here!”

“Are you really Spider-Man?”

“Sure am.”

“Are you single?”

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.

“Hello?” Peter asks.

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hi, are you busy?”

“Not really.”

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”

“Is Aunt May okay with that?”

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”

“I have to shower first.”

“Twenty five?”

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”

“It’s a date,” he says.

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”

“Pete, it’s fine.”

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”

“You said it wasn’t cold!”

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.

“I don’t like it,” you lie.

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Apparently, nothing is.”

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.

“May!” Peter says, startled.

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”

“Concerned friend.”

“Handsy loser.”

”Shut up,” he mumbles.

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”

“I don’t want ice cream.”

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”

“Because I’m adorable?”

“Persistent.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.

“Peter…?” you murmur.

“What?” he murmurs back.

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”

“‘Cos I missed you?”

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask.

Peter stares at you.

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.

“I’m sorry for being weird.”

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.

“I think so,” you say, quiet again.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.

“Is it something else?”

You don’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah.”

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”

“I like thinking.”

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Would you? For me?”

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.

“Door open,” she says.

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”

“Peter Parker.”

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”

“You just dropped down twenty feet!”

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”

“Who said you’re a superhero?”

“Nice. What are you doing down here?”

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”

“It’s definitely for dorks.”

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”

“I love it…”

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.

“It’s okay,” you say.

“It’s not, actually.”

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”

“Peter,” you say, squirming.

He steps back.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What?”

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.

His voice is gentle, but hoarse.

You tense.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”

“Ten minutes,” you lie.

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”

“Was that disappointing?”

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.”

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“I haven’t, either.”

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”

“You’re hard to say no to.”

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke.

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly.

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly.

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”

“I can keep you warm.”

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”

“Harry doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”

“That’s not funny.”

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”

“Peter!”

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.

“Alright,” you warn.

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”

“It’s an hour.”

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”

“Already?”

“Tonight’s the June equinox.”

“Who told you that?”

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.

“I’m trying to prepare myself.”

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’ll have to move.”

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”

“You’re decent enough, Parker.”

“Maybe now.”

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?”

“A real one,” you insist.

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.

The sun warms your back for a time.

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

6K notes · View notes

shy9-29 · 2 months ago

Note

I actually need a two faced jake where at school hes a sore loser versus when he’s alone with yn—complete menace. Biggest cocky flirt out there. At first, yn didn’t know much about jake until he bent her over and fucked the living shit outta her. I’m just down bad for Jake ok.

Two Faced, One Heart: Who is Sim Jake?

심재윤 x reader

୨ৎ Two versions of Jake Sim—one the shy, clumsy boy who spills his coffee at school, the other the filthy-mouthed menace who had you shaking in his lap just hours before class—and somehow, you’re hopelessly addicted to both. ✉️ wc. 13.1k ⋆˙⟡ ⚠️ warnings : oral (both received), begging, teasing, cream pie, minor slut shamming, bullying, pet names, making out, swearing, harsh language, haur pulling, unprotected sex

📝: thats so fucking hot omg? I need jake so bad rn it’s not even funny

mndi · req open

———

The words come out before you can stop them.

“Do you think I could get Jake to fall for me?”

Your friends stare at you like you just confessed to having a crush on the cafeteria salad bar.

“Jake Sim?” Min gapes. “The guy who thanked the printer for working?” Jisoo raises a brow. “His Instagram only has twelve followers. Twelve. One of them is his dog’s account.” You try not to laugh. “Okay, but he’s kind of… sweet?” Min scoffs. “He wears socks with sandals.” You shrug. “Maybe I like that.” You don’t tell them that two nights ago, Jake had you bent over your tiny dorm desk, fingers tangled in your hair, voice low and smug in your ear while you struggled to stay quiet. Because no one would believe you.

Not when the Jake they know fumbles over his words in group projects and blushes when people look at him too long.

But you’ve seen the other side. The one who locks his door with a click and flips like a switch. You see him again the next day in class, right on time as always. Same oversized hoodie, same messy hair. He sits two rows behind you and doesn’t say a word.

You don’t look at him. Not really. But you feel him watching you. The weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades. Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking about. Then, when you stand to leave, he brushes past you. Just a little too close. His fingers graze the small of your back—light, subtle, hidden. But it sends heat shooting down your spine. You catch up to him by the vending machines, just outside the library. He’s pretending to debate between orange juice and sparkling water.

You stop beside him. “Healthy choices.” Jake doesn’t look at you. “You wore that lip gloss again.” Your lips curve. “Maybe I like the flavor.” He reaches forward, selects a drink without thinking, and pays. His voice drops, just loud enough for you to hear. “I like it better off my tongue.” Your breath hitches. A pair of students walk past, one of them waving vaguely in Jake’s direction. He nods back with that usual shy smile, all harmless and mild-mannered.

The second they’re gone, his hand brushes against yours, fingers curling briefly around yours before letting go. You’re not sure your heart knows how to keep a steady rhythm around him anymore.

You didn’t know when it started—maybe it was the way Jake always sat in the back of class, quiet and unassuming. Or the fact that, every time you glanced at him, he never seemed to notice. He’d scribble in his notebook, the only sound in the room his pencil moving across the paper. You thought he was weird at first. Too quiet. Too in the background. The kind of person everyone else ignored. But there was something about him you couldn’t shake. The way his glasses would slide down his nose when he concentrated, or how he always wore the same hoodie, despite the weather.

The first time you spoke to him was after class. Your notes were mixed up, and you needed help with something—so you took a deep breath, made your way to him, and asked.

He looked up, startled. His cheeks went pink, and he mumbled something about being “kind of bad at explaining things,” but he agreed to help. That’s how it started. He was awkward. Shy. And he was perfect. You thought about him more than you should have, even as your friends teased you about how he was “just a soft loser” or “too quiet to ever be interesting.” But something about the way he treated you—how he never rushed you, never pushed, always listened—had you intrigued.

Then, the texts started coming. Small things at first—like a picture of a puppy he saw that reminded him of you. Or a random meme about books you both liked. They came at odd times, too. Late at night. In the middle of the day. And you found yourself looking forward to them, even though you knew he wasn’t exactly the “popular” guy at school.

One night, after a study session that stretched long into the evening, you both found yourselves alone in the library. It was just the two of you, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above, the scent of paper and coffee between you. He looked at you like he wanted to say something, but he never did. Instead, he helped you pack up your things, careful not to touch you too much, but his fingers brushed yours when he handed you your coat. You thought you imagined it, the little spark that shot through your hand, but the way his eyes flicked to yours said otherwise.

“Uh, good night,” he mumbled, voice hushed. You smiled, feeling your heartbeat in your throat. “Good night, Jake.” You didn’t know it then, but that would be the night it all started to shift.

The next few weeks were a blur of fleeting glances, stolen moments. You’d catch him looking at you in class, only for him to quickly look away. Sometimes, he’d find reasons to walk the same path as you, his steps light, as if testing the water between you. And each time, the air between you would grow heavier, electric, like something unsaid was hanging in the space between your words. It wasn’t until one rainy afternoon that things finally tipped over the edge. You were on your way to the library when you spotted him standing under the awning of a building, looking at his phone. His hoodie was pulled up over his head, and he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the rain was starting to soak through the sleeves.

“Jake!” you called out, jogging over to him. “You’re gonna get soaked.” He looked up in surprise. “Oh, uh… I was just trying to figure out when the rain’s supposed to stop.” He smiled sheepishly. “I should’ve checked the forecast before heading out.” You shook your head, already pulling your umbrella out. “Come on. You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re not standing out here getting drenched. You’re walking me to the library.”

He hesitated, then smiled, a soft, shy grin. “Okay.”

You shared the umbrella, walking side by side. The world outside was blurred by the rain, everything muted except for the sound of your shoes on the pavement and the occasional brush of his elbow against yours. It felt casual, but something about it—something about him—made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

When you reached the library, you both stood under the awning for a second, the warmth of the building just inside. You were both still close, the air between you thick with unspoken things.

And that was when it happened.

Without saying a word, Jake leaned in just enough to let his breath ghost against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “If I walked you to class every day, would you still act like I’m invisible?” he whispered.

Your heart skipped, and you didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know what to say, or what he was really offering. But you knew, in that moment, everything between you had shifted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for it.

But you wanted to be.

You’d never seen Jake without his glasses.

The guy everyone knew—shy, reserved, a little awkward—was always framed by those round lenses. It was part of his quiet charm, the way they softened his features, how he hid behind them like a shield. No one really saw the guy underneath, the guy who barely made waves, who faded into the background of every class.

Until today.

You hadn’t expected this when you got the text. “Roommate’s out. You wanna come over?”

It wasn’t anything crazy. It could be a quiet hangout, maybe some late-night studying. But there was a strange feeling building in your stomach, something telling you that tonight might be different.

When you knocked on Jake’s door, you barely had time to brace yourself before it swung open.

And there he was.

Jake, standing there, no glasses. He was wearing contacts, and the difference hit you immediately. His eyes, normally hidden behind lenses, were now wide open, sharp, clear. They looked darker somehow, and for the first time, you saw something in them that wasn’t there before. Confidence. A kind of intensity that threw you off guard.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice smooth, low—nothing like the awkward, stuttering Jake you were used to.

“Hi,” you replied, unsure of what to say, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

Jake stepped aside, letting you into the room. You took a quick look around—same dorm, but the vibe was different. The room was tidier than you expected, clean, almost meticulous. No clutter, no random piles of clothes or books. It felt… like a space where Jake had control, where things were on his terms.

“You can sit wherever,” Jake said, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to it now, something about the way he stood that was different from the usual quiet guy you saw on campus.

You sat on the edge of his bed, but you didn’t know where to look. His eyes were still on you, and the way he watched you made the air between you feel thick, charged.

He took his time, like he wasn’t in any rush. “You didn’t expect this, did you?” Jake’s voice was quieter now, almost like he was daring you to admit it.

You shifted slightly, trying to act casual, but it was hard. “No. I didn’t think you’d be like this.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of shy, soft smile you were used to. It was different. “Like what?”

You hesitated, but then shrugged. “I don’t know. More… sure of yourself. Less… nervous.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, and there was a flash of something dark in his eyes. “You think I’m nervous?”

You nodded slowly, testing him. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve always been… kind of quiet.”

Jake took a step closer, his expression unreadable now, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m not shy. Just don’t feel the need to put on a show for anyone. And I don’t think you’re stupid enough to believe I’m some clueless guy.”

You stayed silent, suddenly aware of how close he was now, how his presence filled up the space between you.

He was different tonight. No hesitation. No awkward stutter. Just… Jake. But the version of him that you never saw—sharp, self-assured, and unbothered by anything or anyone around him.

“Want to see how different I am?” he asked, his voice lowering, the question hanging in the air.

You barely had time to process before his fingers brushed your arm, the simple touch making your heart race. And just like that, you realized you weren’t ready for the change that was happening between you—but you were already in too deep to turn back.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you agreed to come over, but it wasn’t this.

Jake leaned against the wall in front of you, and for the first time, you felt a shift in the way he held himself, like there was something between you that wasn’t there before. His gaze didn’t flicker away from yours, and his posture was different. He was comfortable—too comfortable, and it made the room feel smaller, hotter.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Jake beat you to it, his voice low and steady. “You don’t look at me the same way you used to.”

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

His smirk deepened. “You’re looking at me like you’re seeing me for the first time. Like I’m not just the quiet guy in the back of class.”

You tried to ignore the way his words made your pulse pick up speed. He was right, and it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. The Jake you knew was always reserved, always hiding behind his quiet act. But the Jake in front of you now? He was different. More sure of himself. More… commanding.

Before you could find the right words, Jake pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you. He didn’t touch you at first, but you could feel the heat coming off him. You took a shallow breath, the air between you thick with tension.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You shook your head, but you could feel the unease building in your stomach, creeping up your chest. It wasn’t nerves—it was something else. Something new. Something dangerous.

He seemed to sense it, that tiny shift in your energy, and it made him lean in closer. “You can admit it,” he whispered. “I won’t bite.”

Your lips parted slightly at the sound of his voice, thick and low. There was nothing innocent about him now. You could see it clearly. This wasn’t the guy who stumbled over his words or blushed at the slightest attention. This was a version of Jake you hadn’t been prepared for.

And now that you were seeing him—really seeing him—you weren’t sure you wanted to turn away.

Jake’s hand came up to touch your chin, his thumb brushing over your skin with purpose. He tilted your head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he was dying to solve. His touch was slow, deliberate, and it made every nerve in your body stand on edge.

“Do you like this?” he asked softly, his thumb tracing along your jawline. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, watching how his eyes flickered with something darker, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s smirk only grew, and before you could react, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, the kind you were used to. It wasn’t gentle or cautious. No, this was different. This was hungry. It was messy. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment, like he couldn’t wait any longer. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips parting against yours as if he was trying to steal every breath from your lungs.

You let him. You let him pull you in, let him show you what he was capable of when there was no one around to see it.

When he pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his eyes never left yours. There was something predatory in his gaze now, something that made your pulse race.

“You’ve been looking at me for a while,” Jake murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You never thought I could be like this, did you?”

You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling for something to say, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Jake smiled, that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll show you just how different I can be.”

And that was when you realized—there was no going back now.

Jake’s lips hovered just inches from yours, his breath mixing with yours, the tension in the air making every nerve in your body feel alive. His eyes were locked onto yours, and you could see the way he was waiting for you—waiting for you to decide how far you wanted to go, how far you were willing to let things shift.

You had never seen him like this. The quiet guy you knew had been replaced by someone far more confident, far more intense. His hand was still resting at the back of your neck, and the way his thumb traced small circles against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t kiss you again right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you, watching for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you weren’t ready. His thumb grazed your jaw again, this time a little firmer, almost as if he was marking his territory, making sure you knew he was in control now.

And then, without warning, he pressed his lips against yours again—but this time, the kiss was slower. It was deeper, more deliberate, as if he was savoring it. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

You tried to breathe, but it was hard. It felt like the world was closing in around you, leaving only the two of you in that small, charged space. You couldn’t focus on anything except the way his lips moved against yours, the way his hands shifted, each touch sparking a new wave of heat in your body.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his voice low, gravelly. “I told you… I’m not the guy you thought I was.”

You nodded, your throat tight, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You could barely process what was happening. Everything about this felt different, so different from anything you’d imagined. The shy, awkward Jake had been replaced by someone who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted.

His lips trailed down to your neck, and the soft press of his mouth against your skin made your breath catch in your throat. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands never straying far from you. The warmth of his touch spread through you, and you felt your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected.

“Jake,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as his lips traced along your collarbone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something primal. “Tell me what you want baby?” His voice was barely audible, but it cut through the fog in your mind.

You didn’t know how to answer, not with words. You had never been this close to him, not like this, not with the air crackling between you like it was about to catch fire. The way the pet name slipped so easily from his mouth made your pussy clench around nothing. But the look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, made something stir inside you.

Without thinking, you leaned in again, your lips pressing against his. This time, there was no hesitation. You kissed him back, a little harder this time, both groaning into the kiss as if you were trying to prove something—prove that you were ready for whatever came next.

Jake didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands slid lower, around your waist, pulling you even closer. You felt the heat of his body against yours, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were firm, confident as they explored the curve of your back, the tension in your muscles, the way your body responded to him.

Every inch of space between you seemed to vanish, and soon there was nothing but the heat, the closeness, and the feeling of his hands on your skin.

For the first time, you weren’t sure if you were in control anymore—or if you ever had been.

Jake pulled away from the kiss, his breath ragged as he looked at you with that same intense gaze. There was something in his eyes—an unspoken challenge, a promise of something you couldn’t quite yet name. You could feel the tension building, heavy in the air between you, thickening with each second that passed.

He reached up slowly, his fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, and your heart skipped a beat as he pulled it over his head, revealing the smooth skin of his chest. The movement was casual, effortless, like he’d done it a thousand times before. His muscles shifted under his skin, the soft light of the room catching the contours of his body, and it was like everything about him felt real now—far more than you ever thought.

You couldn’t help but stare, your gaze tracing over the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. There was no trace of the shy, reserved guy from before. Instead, he stood there—bare, exposed—looking at you with a calm confidence that made your pulse race.

Jake didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes as they flickered to yours, waiting for you to respond, to make the next move.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight of him, suddenly feeling a shift, a hunger building within you that mirrored his own. It was a quiet power, a tension you could feel in your very bones.

Jake’s eyes never left yours as you stood there, frozen for a moment. The air felt thick, charged, as if time had slowed down, and the weight of his gaze made everything around you fade into the background.

He stepped toward you, his chest still bare, his body moving with a kind of fluid confidence that made your pulse spike. Each step he took seemed to make the space between you shrink, until you were once again within inches of him. He didn’t rush. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, steady. The question hung in the air, but there was no hesitation in his tone—only the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, though words seemed impossible to find. The only sound in the room was the quickening rhythm of your breath, mingling with his.

Jake’s hand reached for the hem of your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin as he lifted it, gently pulling it over your head. You let him, your heart pounding in your chest, your skin heating under his touch. He didn’t rush, his hands tracing the curves of your body with careful attention, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

When your shirt finally joined his on the floor, he stepped back slightly to take you in, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin. His eyes darkened further, a look of quiet admiration in them, but there was something else there too—something predatory, possessive.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, the words low but full of meaning.

You could barely process what was happening, but the way he said it—like he was claiming you, and yet somehow honoring you at the same time—made your chest tighten. His hands were at your waist now, pulling you closer again, and his lips found the curve of your neck. He kissed you there softly, his mouth warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As he kissed you, his hands moved lower, slowly, deliberately, until he was holding you, guiding you gently toward his bed. There was no rush, no urgency—just the feel of his strong hands, the weight of his body against yours, and the soft pressure of his lips as they trailed down to your collarbone.

Jake was taking his time, savoring the moments. He wanted you—he was showing you that much, but he was also letting you see a side of him that no one else got to experience.

And as he lowered you onto the bed, his lips never leaving your skin, you felt a kind of surrender that you couldn’t explain. He was confident, sure of every move he made. But so were you.

This was new. You were new.

Jake’s lips found the delicate curve of your neck, and you inhaled sharply as a wave of warmth flooded your body. His kisses were slow, teasing, each one leaving a faint, tingling trail on your skin. You could feel his breath against you, warm and steady, as he placed soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened their grip slightly, pulling you closer to him. Every movement was deliberate, purposeful, as if he was in no rush to get anywhere, wanting to savor every moment.

“You’re such a good girl,” Jake murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. The words sent a shiver down your spine, stirring something deep inside you. His praise, soft yet commanding, made your heart race even faster, the air between you growing thick with desire.

You couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped your lips, your body reacting to the way his voice made you feel—like you were exactly where you needed to be, like you were his.

Jake smiled against your neck, the words lingering in the air. “So good for me,” he whispered, his lips brushing the spot again. You could feel the confidence in his words, the way he was claiming the moment, claiming you. The heat that had been building between you both was undeniable now, and you knew, without a doubt, that this was no longer the shy, quiet guy from school.

This was Jake. The Jake who knew exactly what he wanted—and wasn’t afraid to take it.

The room felt smaller now, even with the space around you. The air was thick with a quiet tension, a sense of something inevitable hanging between you two. Jake was no longer standing across from you, maintaining that careful distance. He was close—too close—and it was clear that neither of you wanted to back away.

You could feel the pull of him, an invisible force that seemed to draw you in, making it impossible to ignore the heat that had been simmering between you both. You’d known this feeling, this desire, had been building for weeks. But now it was no longer just something you could push aside, something you could pretend wasn’t there.

“Do you trust me?” Jake’s voice was soft, but there was a weight to it, a seriousness that sent a ripple of excitement through you. He was close now, his chest nearly brushing yours, and the way he spoke made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment, the words lost in the heat of the moment. Jake smiled—genuine, a little wicked—and his hand reached out to guide you toward the desk.

The desk that had become a symbol of something you didn’t even fully understand yet. He placed his hands on your hips, his touch firm but not rough, leading you with careful, deliberate steps. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the edge of the desk against the back of your knees.

He stopped, his lips grazing the side of your neck as he whispered, “Stay still for me baby.”

There was an undeniable force in the way he held you, a promise in his words. Your pulse raced as your hands rested against the cool surface of the desk. The room was suddenly quieter, the sounds of your breaths louder than anything else.

Jake stood behind you, his chest pressed against your back. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosted over your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a certain thrill in knowing that he was completely in control, that he was in charge.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding from your hips up your sides, lingering over the curve of your waist, tracing slow circles over your ribs. You wanted to press back against him, to feel the weight of him against you, but something kept you still, some tiny shred of self-control.

Jake's hands moved higher, fingers trailing over your collarbone, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips. His touch was firm, possessive, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You wanted to arch into him, to feel the weight of his body against yours, but you kept your hips planted against the desk, fighting the urge.

Jake's lips traced a path down your neck, and you could feel the smile on his face as he spoke, his voice low and rough. "You're doing so well for me," he murmured.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice shaky and desperate, "I need to feel you-need your cock."

You could feel him smirk against your skin, his hands tracing slow, teasing circles over your hips. "You that desperate, you slut?" he scoffed, his words like a taunt, a challenge.

Jake's words sent heat coursing through your veins, the sound of your own whimpering catching you off guard. It was a sound of desperation, of need, and it betrayed a vulnerability you hadn't meant to show.

But he heard it. Of course he did. He was so close to you, his body pressed against yours, and there were no more secrets between you.

You could feel the anticipation building, the air around you thick with tension. Jake's hands moved with purpose, tugging at your skirt, and it came down in a swift motion, pooling around your ankles. He took a step back, giving you space, and for a moment, you were left standing in just your underwear.

Jake's eyes darkened as he watched you, the desire in his gaze unmistakable. He moved closer again, crowding you against the desk, and you could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, the way it made your skin prickle with anticipation.

You looked back to see Jake stroking his already leaking cock, letting out a low groan in the process. You could feel a smirk form on his lips as he shoves your panties aside. “Jesus yn, you’re dripping.” His words brought a throbbing sensation to your pussy, a desperate whimper leaving your mouth. “Jake…please,” you begged. “I need to feel you.” The heat in your body was almost unbearable now, your words little more than a ragged breath as you plead with him, "Fuck, Jake." It was like all the thoughts had slipped away from you, replaced by a pulsing need.

Jake didn't hesitate. He was still gripping your hip with one hand, his other wrapping around your waist as he pulled you back against him. There was no more waiting, no more teasing. He was hard and ready, and you could feel it pressed against you, and you were slick and wanting, and you couldn't take it any longer.

With a low, guttural groan, Jake slammed his cock inside your soaked cunt in one motion, causing you both to let out the filthiest sound.

“fuck, look at you,” jake groaned quietly, fingers spreading your ass apart. “such a filthy little thing, huh? letting me use that pussy mouth like it’s all you’re good for.”

his hand is tangled in your hair now, not tugging—just resting there, warm and heavy, like a crown you’ve earned. you try to stay quiet, knowing that the building has thin walls, spit pooling and dripping down your chin as your rhythm falters under the weight of his words. “Jake, it feels go good—“

“quiet,” he snaps softly, and your lashes flutter as you obey.

good. obedient. ruined.

“that’s it, baby. show me how good you are at taking my cock,” he says, voice almost tender if not for the filth of it. “can’t even breathe right, but you don’t care, do you? you love it too much. love being my perfect little toy.”

you whimper around him, and it makes his hips stutter. his thighs tense.

his control cracks just a little.

“god, you’re so good for me. fuck, baby—so fucking perfect.”

he grits his teeth, hand tightening just slightly in your hair. “no one else gets to see you like this. no one else can. only me.”

your jaw aches. your throat burns. but still, you don’t stop. “this pussy is made for me,” he continued, throwing his head back. “Fucking made for me yn.”

Jake was losing control, his words coming out in sharp breaths. He'd never spoken to you like this before, never so openly, so shamelessly filthy. Your mind was reeling, the sensations overwhelming as he took what he wanted from you, his words only fueling your own desire.

“J-Jake- too much.” you whisper cry to him. He giggles a bit, only looking at you the whole time. “And you love it.” he grabs onto your waist gently.

You help fuck yourself on him a bit faster and he lets out a groan. “You’re so tight around me.. y/n..” he thinks he hasn’t stretched you out enough beforehand. “We can.. do it..” you say, already out of breath.

You spread your legs a bit more, releasing a bit of tension on him. You succeed taking on his big cock, whilst using his shoulders as handles. “You’re taking it so good..” he whispers. You go faster at his praises.

He’s been stretching you out for a while now, and it definitely got easier over time. The slight discomfort turned into satisfying pleasure for you. His swollen tip hits your g-spot every single time, making you want to cum right there. However, he’s been wanting to finish ever since you started. You feel so good wrapped around him he’s surprised he hasn’t let out any further moan yet.

His hips move faster again, getting closer to cumming again. Your puffy cunt is crying at this point, while you let out a slight moan with every thrust. You keep going for a bit before, before rolling your eyes back to cum. “I’m— gonna… I… oh m… Jake..” you struggle.

You don’t get to say anything—your body gives out before your voice can even catch up. Your thighs tremble around him, and you’re a mess in his lap, clinging to him like he’s the only thing grounding you. The sound you let out is raw, louder than before, and Jake just leans back in his chair, watching you fall apart with that smug, wrecked grin of his.

His hands tighten around your waist, keeping you moving even as your body begs for mercy. He’s not letting go—not yet.

“You’re not done,” he mutters low against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “Not until I say so.”

You try to respond, but it’s all heat and haze now. Your chest presses against his as your head drops to his shoulder, and he doesn’t stop—he guides you through every slow grind, every twitch of your body that draws another gasp from your lips. His voice is rough, breathless, right in your ear.

Then his body jerks beneath you, and the way he holds you after—tight, possessive—tells you everything you need to know. His hand slides up your back as you both sit there, the room thick with the aftermath, your bodies still tangled.

You think it’s over. You think maybe now he’ll let you breathe.

But then his grip shifts, and he pulls you right back down onto him, your body jolting at the sudden contact.

A gasp leaves you, and his laugh—low and dangerous—rumbles against your collarbone. “Still so sensitive,” he teases, brushing your hair back as he presses a kiss just below your ear. “Thought you could handle me.”

Your arms drape around his neck again, head buried against his skin, and all you can do is hold on. You kiss the sweat-slicked curve of his jaw, trying to catch your breath while he stays buried deep, unmoving, content to just keep you there—full, overwhelmed, and completely his.

And with one hand still steady on your hip, Jake casually slides his chair back toward his desk, like it’s just another night—like you’re not still trembling on top of him.

Just before he grabs his headset, he whispers, “You should hear yourself.”

By the time you got back to class Monday morning, it was like nothing had ever happened. Or at least, that’s how Jake made it seem.

There he was, slouched in his usual seat at the back of the lecture hall, hoodie half-zipped, glasses perched slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. He was typing away at his laptop like he hadn’t just had you moaning his name into the crook of his neck two nights ago, skin flushed, bodies tangled.

He glanced up as you walked in. His eyes found yours for a second too long—and then he looked away, pretending to be distracted by something on his screen. You swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he was fighting a smile.

You took your seat a few rows ahead of him, and a minute later, you felt the faintest buzzin your pocket.

“I had fun.”

You turned around. He was staring at his laptop like he hadn’t just texted you that. Like he hadn’t just ruined you on that same voice he used to answer class questions with a stutter.

Jake was still quiet in public, still awkward. He still pushed up his glasses too often and knocked over his water bottle when reaching for his pen. But now, there was a glint in his eyes every time he looked at you. A silent smugness. A private joke only the two of you knew the punchline to.

And when your professor called on him to answer a question, and he stumbled over the words “data structure,” turning slightly pink, you thought—no one else in this room had a clue. No one knew that he’d whispered “stay still for me” against your skin like a command. That the same clumsy guy blushing in front of the class had told you with a dark smirk, “such a good girl, you took me so well.”

You looked over your shoulder again. Jake met your eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. Just popped a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing slow, gaze steady. And then he winked.

You almost dropped your pen.

You tried to keep it to yourself—you really did. But your friends had spent the last ten minutes at your table giggling over Jake like he was some weird cryptid.

“I checked his Instagram again,” Yuna said, sipping her iced coffee. “He lost a follower. And he posted a blurry picture of a squirrel once.”

“Do you think he even knows how to use Instagram?” Soojin added, snorting. “He gives off ‘my mom made this account for me’ energy.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too hard.

“What?” Yuna asked, eyes narrowing at you. “Why are you smiling like that? Don’t tell me you actually think he’s hot.”

“I don’t think he’s hot,” you said slowly, stirring your drink.

They leaned in.

You sighed, leaning back in your seat, glancing over your shoulder out of habit.

“Okay,” you whispered. “This doesn’t leave this table.”

Yuna and Soojin practically vibrated with anticipation.

“I went to his dorm,” you started, voice low. “A few nights ago. His roommate was gone. And he wasn’t wearing glasses. He had contacts in. And he—” you hesitated, heartbeat picking up. “He was acting completely differnt. And we kinda.. you know.”

Yuna let out a dramatic gasp. “No way.”

Soojin cackled. “Shut up. Jake? Jake Sim and y/n fucked?”

You nodded slowly, lips twitching.

“And?” Yuna prompted. “And? What, did he trip over his desk accidentally slip his dick into you?”

You hesitated. “We, uh… no…”

Both of their jaws dropped—and then they burst into laughter.

“No, no, you’re joking,” Soojin said, leaning into Yuna for support. “Jake? Jake had you—what, bent over his gaming chair while his twelve Instagram followers cheered him on?”

“I’m serious,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “He’s not—he’s not how you think he is. Not when we’re alone.”

“Okay, now you’re just making it sound like he’s Batman,” Yuna snorted. “By day, he’s a bio major with a screen protector on his calculator. By night—”

“Hey.” A voice cut in behind you.

You froze.

Yuna’s eyes widened.

Soojin slapped a hand over her mouth.

You turned your head slowly—Jake was standing there, tray in hand, his expression unreadable. His glasses were on, hoodie loose, hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Hi,” he said, voice calm, like he hadn’t just caught you mid-confession.

You blinked up at him. “Jake.”

He looked at your friends, then back at you. “You forgot your charger last night.”

He placed it next to your drink, eyes flicking down to your hand for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quiet.

Jake gave you a lazy smile—barely there, but you knew it. You knew that look now. He turned, walked away like nothing happened, headphones already around his neck.

You turned back to your friends.

Their mouths were hanging open.

“…You’re not joking,” Yuna said flatly.

“I told you,” you whispered, trying—and failing—to hide the grin pulling at your lips.

Your friends were still frozen, processing, as Jake walked off toward the other end of the café like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb and left you to deal with the aftermath. He didn’t look back, but the slow, smug drag of his steps made it very clear—he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I…” Yuna blinked. “Was that your charger?”

You nodded, sipping your drink to hide your smirk.

Soojin finally found her voice. “Did he say last night?”

You nodded again, this time a little slower.

Both of them let out the most synchronized gasps you’d ever heard in your life.

“Girl,” Yuna whispered, leaning across the table like she was afraid someone would overhear, “what the hell is going on? That’s not even—Jake? Like, Jake Sim? He’s—he’s a meme. We literally made a Bingo card of the number of times he trips in the hallway!”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to stop the warmth in your cheeks. “And apparently, he’s also capable of blowing my back out while explaining the difference between RAM and ROM.”

Soojin shrieked. “Stop!”

You were laughing now, the kind that bubbles up and won’t stop. It was ridiculous. All of it. And yet, every time you thought about the way he kissed you—like he knew what he was doing, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to show you—you felt your knees threaten to give out.

“Okay,” Yuna said, gripping your arm. “So, wait. Is he, like… your boyfriend now? Or is this just an elite phase?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

You hadn’t even thought that far.

Jake hadn’t said anything official. No labels. No talks. Just quiet texts. A stolen charger. A wink in lecture. And the memory of him whispering in your ear, voice low and breathless, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “But I don’t think this is just a one-time thing.”

At that exact moment, your phone buzzed again.

“also, I meant every word I said to you”

Your head snapped up. Across the room, Jake was seated with his laptop open, headset slung around his neck, biting into a sandwich like the most innocent man alive.

Your stomach flipped.

This menace. This liar. This actor.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, a mix of embarrassment and fondness curling in your chest.

“you’re actually evil”

“i hate you”

“i hate that i don’t hate you”

A beat passed.

“you’re cute when you fluster. wanna come over after chem?”

Your friends didn’t even need to ask who you were texting. They saw your face and groaned in unison.

And for once, you didn’t even deny it.

Jake was a master of the double life. You didn’t know how he did it, but it was like he could flip a switch whenever he stepped foot in the hallways of the university.

In class? A complete disaster.

The shy, bumbling guy you’d always seen—his glasses slipping down his nose, tripping over his own feet as he made his way to his desk. He’d stammer when he spoke to the professor, barely making eye contact with anyone, and was always the first to look down at his phone when group discussions came up. The Jake everyone saw was awkward, quiet, and somehow endearing in his nerdy way. The one who sat by himself in the cafeteria, fiddling with his notebook, hoping no one would notice him.

And yet, you knew. You knew there was something more beneath that awkward exterior. Something darker, something confident. You’d seen it for yourself, just two nights ago. The quiet guy who barely spoke a word in class had turned into a completely different person behind closed doors.

But here, in the hallway, between classes, you wouldn’t have been able to guess that same Jake was the one who had you shivering under his touch, whispering praises into your ear like he owned you.

You were walking past his usual spot in the library when you caught him fumbling with a stack of books, his face scrunched up in concentration. He didn’t notice you at first, too focused on his task. But when he looked up, the usual blush crept up his neck, and his mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Hi,” you said casually, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You need help with those?”

He gave a nervous laugh, adjusting his glasses and dropping the books onto the table like his hands suddenly didn’t know how to hold them anymore. “Uh, yeah, no, I—um, I got it. Thanks, though.”

You could barely contain your laughter. Here he was, this guy who had literally whispered praises in your ear only days ago, looking like a total mess in front of you. He couldn’t even manage eye contact without turning an embarrassing shade of pink.

“So,” you said, leaning against the bookshelf beside him, your arms casually crossed. “You been doing any more squirrel photography lately?”

Jake froze, his face flushing deeper. “Uh, n-no,” he stammered, grabbing his books a little too quickly. “I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was like watching a completely different person. Gone was the guy who had held you close, kissed you with authority. Gone was the guy who made you forget everything when his lips were on your neck. Now, he was just a bumbling mess, avoiding your eyes, looking everywhere but at you.

“You’re so weird,” you teased lightly. “You know, I’ve been wondering… is it really the glasses, or is it the awkwardness? Which one is the real you?”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He just looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and—was that a hint of guilt? Like he had a secret he didn’t want anyone to know.

“Never mind,” you said with a smirk, walking away from him. “Keep up the good work, loser.”

You could feel him watching you, probably frozen in place, but you didn’t care. It was almost unbelievable how different he could act when it was just the two of you alone in a room. The guy who couldn’t make it through a simple conversation in public had turned into the man who made you forget your own name when he had his hands on you.

But for now, all you could do was shake your head and laugh, marveling at how Jake was pulling off his double life—completely clueless and completely in control, all at once.

The cafeteria went silent the moment you walked past your usual table and headed straight for his.

Jake was sitting alone, as usual—tray of barely-touched food in front of him, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like he was trying to disappear into himself. He was hunched over his phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the social earthquake that was about to hit.

You plopped down across from him without warning.

His head snapped up. He blinked, startled. “Wh—uh… hey?”

Conversations around you dipped, and you could feel the whispers starting. Not subtle ones either. Real, full-body turns. Eyes darting. Forks pausing mid-air. People whispering you’re joking, is that Y/N? and she’s sitting with him?

You just smiled, opening your drink like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Relax,” you said, lowering your voice and leaning forward just a little. “You’re acting like I just declared war on the entire social order.”

He pushed his glasses up and blinked a few times. “You… you don’t usually—uh, sit here.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “But today I felt like sitting with my favorite academic weapon slash secret menace.”

Jake choked on his water.

You grinned. “Also, I think I’ve figured you out.”

He swallowed hard. “F-Figured me out?”

“Yup.” You tilted your head at him, keeping your voice low and teasing. “I think your glasses are what activate your awkward personality. Like a switch. You wear them? Jake the human embodiment of a shy turtle. You take them off? Boom. Total menace.”

His ears turned pink. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to look casual but failing completely. “They’re prescription…”

“And yet they’re also your disguise,” you smirked.

Around you, the buzz of conversation slowly picked back up. Everyone was still sneaking glances, but they were getting bored now that you weren’t making out on the table or confessing your love with a boombox overhead. One by one, people returned to their own lunches.

And that’s when he looked up at you—and really looked.

The second your audience was gone, the timid act melted off his face like it had never existed. His back straightened. His expression shifted, eyes sharpening just a little, mouth tugging into that familiar slow smirk that made your stomach flip.

“You like the glasses?” he asked, voice lower now, smooth and lazy.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden switch.

He leaned forward on his elbows, gaze steady and annoyingly smug. “You think that’s what keeps me from bending you over this table right now?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“There’s the menace,” you muttered, eyes narrowing as your pulse spiked.

Jake smiled like he’d just won something. “You came to my table, remember?”

“And now I’m questioning everything.”

He laughed under his breath, picking up a fry from his tray and tossing it into his mouth like he had all the time in the world.

“Too late,” he said, chewing. “You already made your choice. Better hope no one figures out what I look like without the glasses.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you threatening me?”

He grinned. “I’m warning you.”

And just like that, he went back to sipping his water, glasses slipping again, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Back to harmless, quiet Jake.

But you knew better now.

So did he.

You were two seconds away from dragging Jake by the collar.

He sat stiffly next to you on the couch, surrounded by your friends, looking like someone who’d just been dropped into a completely foreign dimension. His hoodie was zipped all the way up to his neck, hands tucked into his sleeves, legs pressed together like he was trying to take up the least amount of space possible.

Your friends were trying. God bless them, they were.

“So, Jake,” Yuna said, passing him a slice of pizza. “What are you majoring in again?”

Jake blinked. “Um. Bio.”

Silence.

Soojin tried to jump in. “Cool! Are you doing like, pre-med or something?”

Jake stared at the pizza in his lap like it personally offended him. “No.”

You gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs. He flinched. “I, uh… I just like cells.”

More silence.

You shot him a look.

Jake gave a weak smile. “Cells are nice.”

You excused yourself to the kitchen before your soul could physically leave your body from secondhand embarrassment. Jake followed, like a lost puppy—but once the two of you were out of earshot, you whirled on him.

“Are you serious right now?”

Jake blinked innocently. “What?”

“You’re acting like a scared freshman at their first club meeting. Can you just…” You groaned, tugging him by the sleeve. “Be normal. Be you. The you that had me on my knees last weekend.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You want me to flirt with your friends?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I want you to act like you’re not a socially-anxious squirrel.”

He leaned against the counter with a little too much confidence now. “Babe, I already got what I wanted. I don’t need to charm your friends.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “If you keep acting like a brick wall, I swear to god I’m not giving you head again.”

Jake blinked.

Then he straightened.

“You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

There was a moment of silence. He stared at you like you’d just ripped the moon from the sky and thrown it in his face.

And then—he sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

You watched him walk back into the living room, a defeated slump in his shoulders. But right before he sat down again, he glanced back at you and mouthed, rude.

You just smiled sweetly.

You watched him march right back into the living room like a man on a mission. No hoodie shielding his face, no sleeves hiding his hands—Jake dropped onto the couch next to Yuna like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just been threatening to pretend he didn’t know the English language five minutes ago.

“So,” he said casually, draping one arm along the back of the couch. “Y/N tells me you guys stalked my Instagram.”

Your head snapped up.

Yuna blinked, caught. “W-What?”

Jake smirked. “Twelve followers and still managed to bag your friend. Pretty impressive, right?”

Your jaw dropped.

Soojin choked on her drink.

Yuna looked like she’d just short-circuited.

“I mean, I don’t post thirst traps or anything,” Jake continued, tone light but clearly enjoying himself. “Y/n says I should.”

You were frozen. You hadn’t even known he could talk in complete sentences around your friends, let alone roast them.

He glanced at you mid-sentence, lips twitching. “What? You said be normal.”

“This is not what I meant by normal,” you hissed under your breath.

Jake only smiled wider.

“I mean,” he said louder now, eyes gleaming, “Y/N didn’t really stand a chance. She was obsessed with me from the moment she saw me trip over a recycling bin.”

You stared at him, half-horrified, half-impressed. The duality of this man was actually insane.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, but your voice was shaking with barely contained laughter.

He leaned back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other like he’d been doing this all his life. “I prefer ‘underrated.’”

Soojin blinked at you, stunned. “Is this the same Jake?”

“Sadly,” you deadpanned.

Jake stretched his arms overhead, smirking like he’d just won something. “Told you. Glasses on—loser. Glasses off?” He looked at you over the rim of his drink. “Problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

Because he was right.

The conversation shifted, but Jake didn’t shrink back like he normally would. In fact, he leaned in. Tossed out a few sarcastic remarks, made a joke about the weird guy in your chem lecture, and even stole a fry off Yuna’s plate like he’d known her for years.

You sat there stunned, barely able to process the whiplash of it all.

At one point, Soojin gave you a look—eyebrows raised, lips parted like girl…—and you just blinked back, equally bewildered.

Jake caught the exchange, of course. He always did. He leaned over toward you, his voice dropping low, just for you to hear.

“Still mad at me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You didn’t look at him. “You’re skating on very thin ice.”

He chuckled softly. “You threatening me again?”

You smirked, finally glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t threaten, Jake. I warn.”

That seemed to only encourage him. “You know I love when you talk like that.”

You elbowed him under the table, but he didn’t even flinch—just grinned like the menace he was.

Eventually, your friends began packing up their things, saying goodbye, and heading out one by one. Jake stayed close beside you, still riding the high of finally breaking his “awkward loner” act in public.

As the room cleared, he bumped your shoulder lightly. “So… did I do good?”

You stared at him. “You did too good.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Jealous?”

“No,” you scoffed, gathering your stuff. “More like terrified of the monster I just unleashed.”

Jake slung his bag over his shoulder, his grin never fading. “Told you. You’re the one who wanted me to be social. You made this happen.”

You paused at the doorway, giving him a long look. “You’re still not getting head tonight.”

He laughed, following close behind you. “Liar.”

God help you—he was right again.

Jake walked you back to your dorm with a bounce in his step, like he hadn’t just caused a minor social earthquake in your friend group. You kept glancing over at him, trying to find even a trace of the shy, fumbling version of him your friends had always known—but nope. Gone. Completely replaced by this smug, way-too-proud-of-himself creature strutting beside you like he’d just won an Oscar.

“You seriously said ‘bagged your friend,’” you muttered, shaking your head.

Jake shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I was being honest.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirked, leaning closer so his shoulder bumped yours. “But you love me anyway.”

Your heart did a weird little skip, but you masked it with a scoff. “Mm, debatable.”

He laughed, but you could tell he noticed the way your ears flushed. Jake always noticed. Which made it all the more dangerous when he decided to push.

“You sure?” he said lowly, glancing at you sideways. “Because if I remember correctly, few nights ago you were practically begging—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “Don’t you dare say that sentence out loud.”

Jake’s laughter vibrated against your palm, and he licked it just to be annoying.

“Jake!”

“What?” he said, completely unbothered, mouth curling into that damn smile again. “I’m just saying, you seemed pretty in love with me when you were—”

“I swear to god, I won’t let you cum tonight.”

He grinned. “Still wouldn’t change what happened on my desk.”

You groaned, unlocking your door and stepping inside, not even bothering to push him out. He followed like he lived there, already dropping his bag on your floor and toeing off his shoes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you muttered, tossing your jacket on the chair, “but I kinda miss socially awkward Jake.”

Jake leaned against your desk—the very one he had completely ruined you on—crossing his arms with a smug tilt of his head.

“I’ll bring him back next time we’re around your friends,” he said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to scare anyone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

He took a slow step toward you. “And yet…”

You backed up until the backs of your knees hit your bed. Jake caged you in without touching you, just that cocky little smirk inches from your mouth.

“…you keep letting me in.”

Your breath hitched.

You hated how right he was.

He didn’t even have to touch you—just standing there, close enough to fog up your brain, was enough to make your breath catch. That same smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips like he knew. (And he did. He always did.)

You crossed your arms, trying to look unaffected. “We’re not doing anything tonight.”

Jake tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Didn’t say we were.”

“You were thinking it.”

He grinned. “Can’t a guy hang out with his girlfriend without being accused of crimes?”

You blinked. “Your what?”

Jake froze for half a second—just enough to catch it—then played it off with a shrug, looking entirely too casual. “You. My girlfriend.”

“Jake,” you said slowly, “we haven’t even been on a date yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, and?”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze, deadpan. “We’ve had sex on your desk.”

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He just kept going.

“I’ve had my tongue in you. Multiple times. You think a coffee date is gonna make it moreofficial?”

You smacked his shoulder, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”

Jake smiled, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “You’re stuck with me now. Might as well give me the title.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands found the hem of his hoodie anyway, fingers curling there.

“This better not mean I have to start posting you on my story.”

“Oh no,” he teased. “Anything but that.”

You sighed. “Fine. One date. But you’re planning it.”

Jake smirked, already way too pleased with himself. “Good. I was gonna make you fall in love with me anyway.”

It became… a problem.

First it was your friends catching you two making out in the library stacks. Then it was the quad. Then the empty art building stairwell. At one point, Yuna dramatically threatened to carry a spray bottle in her bag just to spritz you both like misbehaving cats.

You tried to tone it down. Really. But Jake had this stupid, unfair ability to get under your skin with just one look. One whisper. One brush of his hand against your lower back when no one was watching.

And then there was the incident. The one no one dared to speak about—but everyone knew.

You’d followed Jake into the men’s washroom between lectures, heart pounding, brain nowhere near your upcoming lab. One minute you were teasing him red, leaking tip with minor kitty licks, the next—A very unfortunate and traumatized TA walked in at the exact wrong time.

To this day, you’re not sure who was more horrified: you, Jake, or the TA who immediately did a full 180 and walked straight back out without a word.

Jake couldn’t stop laughing. You couldn’t show your face in that building for a week.

Now every time you pass that hallway, he leans in with a whisper and a smug, “Wanna relive the glory days?”

You elbow him. Hard. But your ears still burn.

Because the worst part? You absolutely do.

You hadn’t even had a chance to settle into the cozy atmosphere of a movie night with Jake, Sunghoon, and Sunoo before everything went to hell.

It was supposed to be a simple night. You, Jake, and his friends, chilling on the couch, watching some random movie Sunghoon picked out after a few too many awkward silences. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for this, maybe even looking forward to getting to know his friends better. You’d heard so much about them, and Sunoo had been sending you memes for weeks now, always so sweet and teasing.

But instead of a normal movie night, you ended up on Jake’s lap with your lips pressed to his, unable to hold back as he slipped his hands beneath your hoodie. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and you completely forgot about the stupid film Sunghoon had started. All that mattered was the heat building between you and Jake, the sound of his breath against your mouth, the way he was slowly getting bolder, moving his lips to your neck—

And then, the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing from across the room.

You froze, eyes widening, and pulled back from Jake just as Sunghoon and Sunoo exchanged awkward glances.

“Well,” Sunghoon said, adjusting his glasses with a little too much casualness, “This is… an interesting way to start a movie night.”

You sat up quickly, heart racing. “We—uh, we weren’t—”

Sunoo cut you off with a laugh that had a slightly knowing edge to it. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse. But wow, didn’t think I’d be walking in on this so soon.”

You could feel your face heating up, but Jake, the menace, only smirked, his arm still casually draped around you. “I was just showing her how comfortable the couch is. Isn’t it nice, babe?”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at that, glancing between you two. “Comfortable, huh? Good to know.”

Sunoo chuckled. “I guess I’m glad we finally got a front-row seat to Jake’s ‘split personality.’” His voice dropped to an exaggerated whisper, adding, “Who knew the shy, awkward guy could get so… intense.”

You looked at Jake, whose eyes were practically glowing with mischief. You knew exactly what that meant.

“I told you guys,” Jake said, sliding his fingers through your hair, his voice low and smooth. “She’s got me wrapped around her finger. Not just with the whole ‘studious boyfriend’ act.”

Sunghoon chuckled and shook his head. “I’m just here for the popcorn, but whatever you guys are doing, you’re definitely ruining the vibe of the movie.”

You swore you could feel the heat radiating from your face, but Jake was entirely too smug, his hand never leaving your waist. “Movie’s overrated anyway,” he said with a wink. “Better company right here.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but somehow, you knew this was just the beginning. Jake wasn’t about to stop teasing you in front of his friends, and now they definitely knew what he was like when he wasn’t playing the quiet, shy guy.

It had been exactly one month since you and Jake made things official, and somewhere along the way, he had somehow charmed all your friends.

Yuna, especially.

What started off as teasing glances and snarky comments turned into him greeting her with “What’s up, my other girl?” in front of literally everyone—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You’d laughed the first time. Sort of.

The second time, your smile was tight.

By the third, you didn’t even look at him. Just turned around, grabbed your bag, and left without a word. The silence that followed was deafening.

He texted. Called. Showed up at your dorm with snacks, guilty puppy-dog eyes, and one of your hoodies you’d accidentally left at his place.

You didn’t budge.

Not when he spammed you with voice memos or when he got Sunoo to send you dramatic apologies on his behalf. Not even when Yuna told you that Jake had asked herhow to fix it, which was ironic in the most painful way possible.

A week passed. You were starting to miss him—his touch, his stupid jokes, the way he looked at you like you hung stars in his sky—but you were petty, and prideful, and notabout to forgive him over something as dumb as a nickname that made your stomach twist.

But Jake knew you. And Jake never lost.

The night you finally gave in, he showed up to your dorm without a word, eyes dark, hands careful. He didn’t ask if he could stay. Just got down on his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and showed you how sorry he was.

You didn’t even realize your fingers were tangled in his hair, hips shaking as he flicked your clit around with his tongue, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

By the time he looked up, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your legs were trembling and you couldn’t remember what planet you were on.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, voice hoarse, a little smug, but mostly sincere.

You tried to speak, failed. All you could do was blink down at him.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Good. Because you’re my only girl.”

And yeah—he won. Again.

The next morning, Jake acted like nothing happened.

He was sprawled across your tiny dorm bed, hair a mess, hoodie half-off his shoulder, munching on the cereal you kept strictly for late-night study stress. Like he hadn’t just given you an out-of-body experience twelve hours ago.

You stood at the mirror brushing your hair, shooting him a look through the reflection. “You’re really just gonna sit there like you didn’t have me literally sobbing last night?”

Jake grinned around a spoonful of cereal. “I figured you forgave me when you couldn’t feel your legs after.”

You tossed a hair tie at him. He dodged, laughing.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call you a cab,” you said, turning back around.

“I am lucky,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “but not just for that.”

You paused. Met his eyes.

Jake set the bowl aside and stood up, crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder, voice soft. “I’m sorry for the Yuna thing. I thought I was being funny. I didn’t realize it hurt you.”

You didn’t respond right away. He held you tighter.

“You know I only want you, right?”

You nodded, finally. “You’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “But I’m your idiot.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned into him anyway, the tension finally melting.

Later that day, Yuna raised an eyebrow as you walked into the café together, hand-in-hand with Jake.

“Back from the dead?” she teased.

Jake smirked. “Had to perform a little resurrection.”

You buried your face in your drink. Yuna just laughed.

“Oh god,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me it was head.”

Jake shot her a look. “Mind-blowing head.”

You choked.

“Please stop speaking,” you begged.

Jake just kissed your cheek and pulled you closer.

You really were doomed.

You’d completely forgotten your parents were in town until you got the text while Jake was still whispering absolute filth into your ear in the café line.

[Mom]: Just landed. So excited to see you, sweetie! Brunch tomorrow? Bring your boyfriend!

You choked on your iced americano so violently Jake had to pat your back.

“Everything okay?” he asked, smirking like he already knew it wasn’t.

You turned your phone around to show him the message.

He blinked. “Wait. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Like—your parents tomorrow?”

“Yes, Jake. My parents. Brunch. You. Me. And them.”

He stared at you for a full three seconds, then grinned. “I’ve already got the button-up shirt in mind.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“I’m amazing with parents.”

“You’re amazing at pretending to be someone’s quiet, innocent boyfriend. That’s not the same.”

Jake leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t worry, baby. They’ll love me.”

“You’re gonna wear your glasses, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Act like you’ve never touched me.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll act like I don’t even know what a woman is.”

You snorted, already stressed. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Nah. I’m gonna charm them. Just like I charmed you.”

You turned to give him a look. “You charmed me by blowing my back out in a library storage room, Jake.”

“Exactly,” he said, way too proud.

You groaned.

Tomorrow could not come fast—or end—soon enough.

The next morning, Jake showed up ten minutes early to your dorm, looking like he’d walked straight out of a K-drama.

Crisp white button-up, hair brushed neatly off his forehead, his glasses perfectly in place—he even brought your mom’s favorite pastries, like he’d been studying your family’s group chat for weeks.

“You look…” You blinked, slowly dragging your gaze down his outfit. “So well-behaved.”

Jake smirked, tucking the pastry box under one arm and reaching for your hand. “Don’t worry. I left the demon version of me in your sheets.”

You nearly tripped on the way out the door.

Your parents were already waiting at the little brunch spot downtown, and as soon as your mom saw you, she lit up—then caught sight of Jake behind you and blinked like she was seeing a puppy dressed in a tuxedo.

“This is Jake?” she asked, already halfway through hugging him. “You’re even cuter than she said!”

Jake laughed, soft and shy, adjusting his glasses. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s really nice to meet you.”

You sat stiffly across from them, fully prepared for the absolute chaos that was surely coming, but Jake? He played the role like he’d been training for it all his life.

He complimented your mom’s earrings. Asked your dad smart, boring questions about work. Even waited until you were done speaking before cutting into his food.

It was unsettling.

“Jake’s in my organic chem lecture,” you said at one point, trying to keep the conversation neutral.

“Oh, is he any good?” your dad asked.

Jake smiled bashfully. “She usually tutors me, actually. I’m a bit hopeless when it comes to chemistry.”

You almost choked on your orange juice.

Your mom beamed. “I love that. I always told her she’d be such a good teacher.”

Jake nodded sincerely, resting his hand on your knee under the table, subtle and grounding. “She’s been teaching me a lot.”

Your stomach flipped for a very different reason.

By the end of brunch, your mom was begging him to come over for dinner “next time we visit,” and your dad gave him a shoulder pat like he’d just been accepted into the family.

As soon as you were out of earshot, walking back toward campus, you smacked his arm. “You manipulative little bitch!”

Jake grinned, holding up the box of leftover pastries like a trophy. “They love me.”

“You were lying through your teeth!”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not lying if I really do think you’re amazing at teaching me things. Like patience. Self-control.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping in close, voice low in your ear, “your mom just called me boyfriend material.”

You shoved him. “You are never seeing my parents again.”

“Sure, baby. You tell yourself that.”

And yeah, fine—he was boyfriend material. Just not the kind your parents had any idea about.

That night, you laid in bed scrolling through your messages while Jake sat cross-legged at the foot, shamelessly eating the last of the leftover pastries your mom had insisted he take.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Mom]: He’s adorable. Polite, smart, and that accent?? Keeper.

You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body.

Jake leaned over your shoulder. “What’d she say now?”

You turned the screen toward him. He read it, then bit into a croissant like he’d just won a championship.

“I am polite. And smart. And my voice is sexy, apparently.”

You deadpanned. “You’re a literal demon. With glasses.”

Jake leaned down and nuzzled against your neck with the fakest innocence he could muster. “You weren’t saying that when I was—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth. “No. My mom said ‘keeper.’ Don’t make me reevaluate.”

He laughed into your palm, biting it lightly before you yanked it back. He flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out with a satisfied sigh like he’d just wrapped up a performance of a lifetime.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Winning over your friends, seducing your parents…”

“Manipulating the entire population,” you muttered.

Jake turned his head, smirking. “But only for you.”

You tried not to melt. You really did. But then he pulled you down beside him, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the warm curve of his body.

“You know,” he whispered, voice dropping back into that cocky, devastating register, “your parents think I’m this sweet, respectful, glasses-wearing boyfriend who can’t even pass chem without your help.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “And they’ll never know what their daughter sounds like when she’s underneath me, begging.”

You slapped his chest with a muffled laugh, face buried in his shirt. “You’re the worst.”

Jake just grinned against your temple.

“I’m yours.”

The next morning, Jake was already pulling on his hoodie, his bags—stuffed with random clothes, books, and a few things that had slowly found their way into your dorm—strewn across your floor.

You sat up in bed, the lingering warmth of his body beside you still making your heart flutter. It had become a regular thing now—Jake staying over, bringing more of his things each time, settling into a routine that felt strangely comfortable. It was a mixture of affection and chaos, and you loved every minute of it.

“You should’ve just left your stuff here last night,” you teased, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Could’ve saved us the trouble.”

Jake smirked, looking up from rummaging through his backpack. “Don’t want to seem too comfortable too soon, babe. You know, I’ve still got that mysterious ‘bad boy’ act to keep up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s what you’re going for.”

He shot you a wink, tossing a hoodie at you. “Anyway, can’t let the world see the ‘good boy’ too much, can I?”

He was back to his cocky self, the guy who showed up to school acting like the confident, teasing Jake you had come to know, and honestly, you couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly he flipped between his personas.

You both left the dorm and started the walk to campus, his hand in yours, the usual mix of comfortable silence and random teasing that filled your daily routines.

Just as you were about to walk up the steps to your building, Jake, always the graceful disaster, tripped on the stairs and sent his coffee flying across the sidewalk.

“Are you serious?” you asked, blinking in disbelief.

Jake stood there for a second, coffee splattered all over his hoodie and the ground beneath him, looking utterly stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. “Every time. I swear to god, you’re like a walking disaster.”

Jake turned to you, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “I meant to do that. Just making sure everyone’s paying attention.”

“Yeah, you definitely got their attention, Jake,” you teased. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everyone saw your epic performance.”

He shot you a grin, wiping at his clothes like it would make a difference. “I’m not a loser. I’m just… trying to get a reaction.”

“And you definitely got one,” you snorted, taking his hand and leading him inside.

Even though he tried to play it off as cool, the truth was, you were starting to see a side of Jake that was a little more… normal than you first expected.

And as ridiculous as the whole thing was, there was something about it—the balance of confident teasing and hilarious clumsiness—that felt right.

At least, for you and him, it did.

You nudged him with your elbow. “You gonna be okay, or do I need to get you another one before you wither away in front of me?”

Jake groaned dramatically. “I needed that caffeine. My whole personality relies on it.”

You laughed as you pushed open the lecture hall doors. “Your personality is currently soaked into your hoodie.”

Unfortunately for Jake, your shared class had already started to fill up. A few people looked up as you both walked in—him with wet coffee splatter down his front, you trying not to laugh loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Is that Jake Sim?” someone whispered behind you.

You heard a snort. “Why does he look like someone’s intern who just got fired?”

Jake sat down beside you with a huff, dropping his bag and whispering, “This is the most humbling morning of my life.”

You rached over, wiped a little splatter off his sleeve, and leaned close. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He blinked at you, caught off guard. “Wait. You think I’m cute even like this?”

You grinned. “I think you’re cute especially like this.”

Jake slumped in his chair, defeated but amused. “I’m literally a walking split personality. Demon boyfriend at night, clumsy nerd by morning. This isn’t sustainable.”

“You say that like I’m not completely obsessed with both versions.”

He paused, looking at you with that soft, wide-eyed gaze he got when you caught him off guard.

“Yeah?” he said, quieter this time.

You nodded, bumping your knee against his. “Yeah.”

Jake smiled down at his ruined coffee cup.

“Still not over the fact I tripped in front of like thirty people though,” he muttered, and you snorted so loud the row in front of you turned around.

At least now, everyone knew—Jake Sim might’ve been a quiet loser to the rest of the campus, but to you?

He was everything.

perm taglist: @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize

2K notes · View notes

p1girlfriend · 13 days ago

Text

five ways he loves you – OP81

cw: pure fluff, established relationship, lots of cuddly boyfriend energy

✦

Oscar Piastri is not a loud lover. He doesn’t yell it to the world or post a million photos of you online (unless you’re both drunk and giggling in the back of a golf cart). But the boy loves hard. Quietly. Consistently. In ways that make you melt from the inside out.

1. Words of Affirmation. He says “I’m proud of you” so often it’s like punctuation to him. You burn toast? “Still proud of you.” You get a raise? “I knew they’d notice how amazing you are.” You get sad for no reason and cry on the couch in his hoodie? “I’m proud of you for feeling things and letting it out. That’s hard.” And sometimes, when you least expect it, he slips in a low, sleepy “I love you more than anything,” like he’s letting you in on a secret he’s kept since the first time he saw you.

2. Quality Time. Oscar’s version of quality time is not extravagant. It’s the way he sits beside you in comfortable silence, sharing a blanket, each of you doing your own thing but still touching. It’s post-race nights in hotel rooms, where you lie on his chest and watch trashy TV while he absentmindedly plays with your fingers. It’s road trips where he lets you DJ, even when you add questionable 2000s pop hits, and he just laughs, shaking his head like he’s doomed and in love.

3. Acts of Service. You don’t even notice half the things he does. Until one day you realize your car has a full tank, your favorite snacks are stocked, your charger was untangled and neatly placed on the nightstand. He’ll stay up to double-check your flight details, or fix that annoying kitchen cabinet that creaks without a word. His version of “I love you” is “already took care of it.” And it’s never about being thanked — he just wants to make life easier for you.

4. Gifts. Oscar isn’t flashy, but he’s thoughtful. A tiny koala keychain when he comes back from Melbourne. A limited-edition notebook because you mentioned needing a new one (once). A necklace with your birthstone, given so casually over breakfast that it takes you a full minute to register what just happened. He never says why he bought it. But the way he looks at you when you open it — that little proud smile and soft eyes — says everything.

5. Physical Touch. This is his weakness. Oscar is so touch-starved when it comes to you, it’s embarrassing (to him, not to you). He’ll pretend to stretch, then wrap an arm around you. He’ll pull you close during interviews when you’re just off-camera. He’ll come home, drop his bag, and immediately bury his face in your neck. He rubs circles on your thigh when you’re anxious, kisses your forehead when you’re sleepy, laces his fingers with yours under tables. He’d spend hours like that if you let him. And you do.

✦

Oscar doesn’t love in loud, chaotic ways. He loves like a steady hum — the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. But with him? It’s never going anywhere.

He’s all five love languages. And somehow, all five belong to you.

©p1girlfriend

1K notes · View notes

blasphemyandbackshots · 26 days ago

Note

Can you do mha and How they would react to you squirting, TYSM, I love your writing༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

Izuku Midoriya - He malfunctions. Like… his brain just freezes. One second he’s fingering you with focused intensity and murmuring praise. And the next, your thighs are shaking, your mouth is falling open and you soak the sheets. He pulls back in awe, hands still trembling. “Did I—did I do that? You… you squirted? Oh my god—are you okay? Did that feel good? That was—wow—should I take notes?!” Once you assured him it was amazing, he gets obsessed with recreating it. Makes it his new mission. Hero Analysis Notebook Vol. 69 is now heavily dedicated to your pleasure.

Katsuki Bakugo - You squirt? This man grins like a devil. He’s got two fingers deep in you, wrist pumping like he’s trying to make you cry and when it happens, he growls, “Oh fuck yes, baby. You fuckin’ made a mess, huh?” His face is flushed, eyes wild, voice rough with pride. He rubs your overstimulated pussy through it just to see if he can make you do it again. “Gonna get addicted to this. You better keep squirting for me, princess.”You’re not walking tomorrow and you both know it.

Shouta Aizawa - Calm and collected? Not when this happens. You’re riding his face, quiet moans slipping out and suddenly you drench his mouth. His lashes flutter and he blinks up at you like he just got blessed by a goddess. He doesn’t stop. He licks through it with reverent, lazy strokes until you’re trembling. “…That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “I want to see it again. And again.” Aftercare king. Changes the sheets, wraps you in his arms and whispers about how beautiful you are.

Denki Kaminari - Short circuits. Like literally. He stares at the wet patch on the bed like it owes him money. “Holy shiiiiiit, did I just—did you just—? Babe. That was so hot I think I actually fried something.” He’s a little stunned, a lot smug and incredibly horny. Tries to fist bump you about it after. Becomes your #1 hype man. “My girl’s a squirter. I knew she had it in her.” No peace after that. Denki wants to make it happen every single time.

Eijiro Kirishima - At first he pauses, concerned. “Was that—did I hurt you?” You assure him no, it felt amazing, and then he glows. Practically beams with pride. “You’re so amazing, babe. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Wanna make you feel like that again.” Will not shut up about how beautiful you looked while you came. Tells you it’s manly as hell to lose control with someone you trust. Next round he tries to make you do it on his abs. For science.

Hanta Sero - “Whoa, whoa, what—did you just—holy fuck, that was hot.” Hanta is a chaotic blend of turned on and impressed. He kisses you hard, groaning into your mouth as he thrusts through your overstimulated slickness. “Damn, babe. I didn’t know you could do that. You’re full of surprises.” 100% teases you about it later but in the sweetest way. “Need me to mop the floor first or you gonna flood it again?”

Hitoshi Shinsou - He plays it cool, but his eyes are blazing. Watches the way your body jerks, the wetness gushing over his fingers and murmurs, “You’ve been holding out on me.” Takes his fingers out slowly, deliberately, licking them clean like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “You liked that? Want to do it again?” Baby, you do it again. And again. He finds the rhythm that makes you gush and uses it like a secret weapon.

Keigo Takami - Smirks the second he feels you squirt. “Damn, sweet bird. You just soaked my thighs. Should I be proud or concerned?” His wings are trembling, he’s so turned on he can barely keep his composure. Immediately leans down, tongue flicking over your clit to keep it going.“Gotta say, you’ve outdone yourself. Didn’t know my girl had that in her.” Won’t shut up about it for days. Brags to himself like you just won him a trophy.

Dabi - “Holy fuck.” That’s all he says when it happens the first time, right after three fingers pump into your cunt and your body arches, a flood soaking his lap. You think he’ll mock you. But instead, he licks his lips slowly and stares at you like you’re prey. “Do it again,” he growls. “Don’t care if you scream. I wanna see that pretty pussy gush ‘til you’re crying.” Unholy obsession unlocked. You’re not leaving that room dry again.

Tomura Shigaraki - Twitches. Pauses. Looks down. “You… what the fuck was that?” You’re panting, trembling, barely able to respond and that does something to him. He stares at the mess between your legs, smirking like he’s just discovered a new level of corruption. “Gross,” he murmurs, but his hand returns, rougher now. “Do it again. I wanna ruin this mattress.” You’re ruined instead. He becomes addicted to the power of making your body fall apart.

2K notes · View notes

syrecjh · 19 days ago

Text

˚✿🍒⋆˚Autograph Trouble

Pro Hero Dynamight x reader| fluff | public softness disguised as gruffness

You were only stopping by the agency to drop off his lunch. He’d forgotten it — again — in his rush to the morning patrol briefing. Typical Katsuki.

The plan was simple: swing by, hand it off, maybe steal a kiss if no one was around, and bounce.

The reality?

You stepped out of the elevator into a full-on fan swarm.

There must’ve been a class trip, or maybe word got out Dynamight was in the building, because the lobby was a sea of tiny faces and trembling notebooks. And in the center, with his arms crossed and jaw tight, stood Bakugo — half-annoyed, half-flattered, and fully cornered.

You should’ve turned back.

You didn’t.

He caught sight of you through the chaos. His eyes softened for half a second — one second — before snapping back into sharp-tongued celebrity mode.

“Line up! I’m not signing your forehead, kid! Quit askin’!”

A voice squeaked through the crowd. “Is that your girlfriend?!”

Bakugo blinked. Froze. Like his brain glitched.

You paused mid-step, lunch bag still in hand.

Twenty kids turned in your direction. Then, in perfect unison, turned back to him like hungry piranhas waiting for the answer.

Your face burned.

His eyes flicked to you again — brief, like checking your reaction. You gave him a look. Something between amusement and warning. Up to you, Dynamight. Say what you mean.

He exhaled. Loudly. Shoulders squared.

Then — casually, confidently, like he wasn’t two seconds from combusting — he stalked over to you, grabbed your waist, and pulled you to his side.

“Damn right she is,” he growled.

The room erupted.

Screams. Cheers. A teacher dropped her clipboard.

Someone took a picture. He didn’t even try to stop them.

You stood frozen, stunned, your heart in your throat and your hand now in his. He was warm. Solid. And blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“…Katsuki,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

“What?” he muttered, eyes stubbornly on the kids. “They asked.”

One particularly bold kid gasped, “Can she sign my notebook too?!”

“No.”

He walked you out with his arm still around you, mumbling under his breath about “bratty ass gremlins” and “damn loudmouths” and “should’ve waited ‘til the damn wedding.

But his grip never loosened.

And later that night, while you were curled up on the couch watching the news, a headline popped up on the screen:

> “Pro Hero Dynamight Confirms Mystery Girlfriend in Surprise Public Moment!”

He groaned, stuffed his face into your shoulder, and muttered, “I’m never leaving the building again.”

You kissed the top of his head. “Still worth it?”

He glanced up, eyes warm.

“Every damn second.”

#bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x you #bnha bakugo katsuki #boku no hero academia #katsuki fluff #katsuki x reader #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #mha bakugo katsuki #mha fluff #mha x reader #bnha x reader #boku no hero acedamia #bnha #bakugo fluff #fluff

1K notes · View notes

iloveyoongi4321 · 2 months ago

Text

SHHH! Library Rules.

college!nerd armin who sits one row behind you in a lecture and tries to focus on the slides but your thighs are just... right there. crossed, jiggling slightly as you bounce your leg out of boredom, little skirt riding up when you shift—he’s not even hearing the professor anymore. his notes are just bullet points that say:

thighs.

thighs???

fucking thighs.

and he gets so flustered, like he adjusts his big round glasses and pretends to take notes but his face is flushed and his jeans are getting uncomfortably tight...

later that night? he’s scrolling through his phone and lands on your post—it’s a mirror pic, a seemingly innocent story—but you’re sitting on your bed with one leg up and he snaps. doesn't even make it to his bed. he’s jerking off in his desk chair, moaning like he’s being tortured, trying to keep quiet as he strokes himself to the thought of your thighs wrapped around his head, suffocating him.

armin doesn't believe his ears when you ask him to study. flash a sweet little smile. tilt your head just a little bit. he's halfway through chewing on his pen cap when you lean over his desk and say, “hey, armin. wanna go over notes together at the library?”

his brain short circuits.

he literally forgets how to speak for a full second. then manages a weak, breathy, “yeah—uh. yes. i mean. i can. i’d like that.”

you thank him like it’s nothing. walk away like you didn’t just leave a smouldering crater in his chest. but you know exactly what you’re doing. because later that evening, you show up to the library in that skirt. the tiny pink one. and the thigh highs with the little bow at the top. like a sin made of silk and smugness.

you sit across from him. cross your legs real slow.

he swallows.

don’t look. don’t look. okay, you looked. fuck.

and swallows again when you lean forward, pretending to scan your textbook, the movement making your skirt ride just a little higher.

you’re no fool. you’ve been aware of armin’s situation for a while now. the way he covers his boner with his notebook when you glance over during lectures? adorable. you’ve caught him staring at you from across the common room at least a dozen times. and those dorm parties he claims he “hates”? yeah, he only ever shows up to sit beside you and pretend he’s not practically drooling at the smell of your perfume. you think it’s sweet, in a pathetic sort of way.

you decide to tease him. just to see how long he’ll keep the good boy act up for. how long before that polite, bashful smile cracks into something desperate. how long before he snaps.

you shift in your seat, the toe of your boot nudging his ankle under the table. he freezes. you feign ignorance. flip a page. rest your hand on your thigh, drawing slow, idle circles with your finger against the exposed skin. then, you let your leg drift sideways—just barely brushing his.

armin squirms in his chair. what do people even do in situations like this? his knuckles go white where he grips his pen. his legs squeeze together.

you don’t even look up. just mumble something about not understanding the chapter. and he’s nodding too fast. offering help with a cracked voice, eyes wide, flushed down to his collarbones.

he’s shaking. he’s dying. he’s hard.

you lean in even closer—close enough to count the individual lashes framing his eyes, pupils dilated. his breath is shaky, coming in short bursts, and you can practically feel his pulse racing.

his ocean eyes flicker down to your lips before darting back to yours, a silent invitation. his breath hitches as you inch closer, every nerve in his body firing at once. he wants this, wants you, but his mind’s a whirlwind—should he pull back? should he stay still and let the moment breathe?

and then, you kiss him. soft at first, giving him time to adjust. he lets out a heavy sigh against your lips. he tastes like something fruity—like strawberry flavoured gum. the kiss is sweet, subtle and tender, like a vanilla note mixed with a slight tang, like a soft citrus. but it quickly deepens, your hands roaming over his body, teasing the warm skin of his chest through his shirt. you make quick work of his buttons, slipping your hands inside, tracing the lines of his lean chest.

your fingers tweak his nipples, pulling a gasp from him. his hands immediately fly to your waist, pulling you closer. you can feel his body trembling beneath your touch, his chest heaving as he tries to steady himself.

“oh?” you smirk, getting closer, voice dripping with playful mischief. you do it again, only this time, your nails catch the fabric, teasing that soft spot until he can’t keep it together. “sensitive?”

he nods—his face is a mess. eyes wide, like he’s been caught in the worst way possible. but then? he whimpers. you can’t help but smirk at the sound, feeling the heat rising in your own chest.

your fingers tease at the hem of his shirt, touch feather-light but deliberate. his breath hitches, lips parting with a muted gasp when your nails graze the skin just above his waistband. he’s so responsive—every little touch draws out a sound. a whine. a strangled noise that barely makes it past his throat.

he shouldn’t be this turned on from a few light touches. his thighs are tensed like he’s trying not to rut up into you—like that would make this moment disappear. like it would scare you off. but god, it’s getting harder to stay still.

he can’t fully enjoy this. not really. he feels guilt—it’s heavy in his gut. it’s wrong, right? you’re just teasing him. he doesn’t deserve someone like you. but your touch, the way your leg brushes his, the way you’re looking at him like you know what you’re doing, making him lose his mind—it’s too much.

his fingers twitch. his dick aches for release, but he can't—he can’t—let himself go any further. not like this. not when he’s been fantasizing about this moment for weeks. he can’t just be this fucking needy. can’t be this much of a mess in front of you. it’s—

“i…” his voice cracks, just as he feels his heart slam in his chest.

“’min?” you tease, just a little too sweet, fingers tracing his thighs like you have all the time in the world.

“i have to tell you something,” he breathes out, a desperate, breathy whisper. he’s panting, struggling to hold it together. he presses his hands flat on the table, palms sweating, trying to steady himself.

you look up at him with curiosity. his heart races, and the words are choking him. he bites his lip, all at once embarrassed and unbearably turned on.

“i—i—" he stops, gasping for air, hands shaking. "i can’t—i’ve been thinking about this… about you.” he’s so close, so close to breaking. his voice is strained, trembling under the weight of what he’s saying. “when i touch myself… it’s—it's you, okay?” he barely manages to get the words out, feeling like his insides are liquefying under the weight of it.

you freeze, smile faltering. “did you?” you whisper, your tone low and teasing.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, eyes wide with guilt and the flush of shame creeping up his neck. “it’s... i didn’t mean—fuck, i shouldn’t have said that.”

you don't give him a chance to retreat. “no need to apologize, armin,” you say, the words dripping with something that feels like victory. “you’re cute when you’re this honest.”

and then, it’s quiet—just long enough to hear him choke back another whimper of frustration, as if his body is already begging for more. "but don’t think i’ll let you off that easy, hmm?"

his hands are trembling where they clutch your waist, like he’s not even sure he’s allowed to touch you like this. you nip at his bottom lip, smile curling against his mouth when he gasps again. you straddle him so that your thighs are on each side of his, and armin thinks he could die like this—caged between you, drowning in your scent.

but you take it a step further. you place your knee against his sensitive bulge and he lets out the prettiest moan you’ve ever heard. his hands grip at your hips harder, as if anchoring himself to reality, but you can feel the way his muscles lock in restraint. the sounds of a conversation drift from behind a nearby bookshelf, but all he can hear now is the blood rushing in his ears.

the noise nearby only adds on to your excitement. having armin— armin who’d ditch anybody to study for a test, armin who colour-codes his notes and panics if he’s not fifteen minutes early to each lecture—underneath you like this? it fills you with a sense of pride knowing you’re the only one that can reduce him to nothing but a horny mess.

your thigh rocks against his twitching bulge, back and forth, slow and mean, like you're testing him. and armin—sweet, delicate armin—falls to pieces.

his head lolls back against the chair, lips parted in a perfect ‘O’, breath stuttering out in high-pitched gasps. his eyes are glassy with tears and so, so bright, like he’s staring up at heaven and not at the ceiling of a dusty library. there’s drool slipping from the corner of his mouth—he doesn’t even notice. he’s too far gone. he looks pretty, absolutely destroyed, like his mind’s been wiped clean except for the feeling of your mouth on his nipple and your thigh grinding him down into nothing.

“nghhh—hah, i… i c-can’t think,” he whines, voice cracking, desperate and breathless. “feels too good, i’m— i’m gonna—!”

you coo against his skin, twisting gently at his nipple with your fingertips just to hear the helpless cry he gives in return. his hips jerk again, chasing the friction like he’s forgotten how to stop. he’s babbling now, barely making sense. “please, please, i—can’t—feels s’good, i—hahh—hurts—!”

his hands shake on your hips, clutching like he’s drowning, and all he can do is rut against your thigh while you kiss and suck at his chest like he’s yours to ruin.

his body trembles beneath yours, and the pressure builds too quickly, too intensely. he stammers out apologies, but before he can even register it, he’s cumming, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. his face flushes bright red, humiliation flooding him as he whimpers, trying to recover his breath, lost in ecstasy. but its too late. someone’s footsteps are closer, and the sound of their voice drifts to your ears. he feels exposed, knowing the risk of someone walking in is too real, too immediate.

you dont stop rocking your thighs against his crotch, drawing out cries that feel much louder in the public area. armin begs you to stop with a weak, “please, I can’t take it, not—ngh—somebody’s gonna see…”

he thinks you’re going to let him cum again. god, he’s so close.

your thigh feel just right, your mouth is still on his chest, his hips are twitching up—and then you stop.

the friction disappears and your mouth leaves him with a soft pop, and armin lets out the whiniest noise, hands slapping over his mouth like didn‎’t mean to let it out.

“wha—n-no, no, please—”

“think i got enough out of today’s lesson, yeah? can’t spoil you too much, baby—you’ll get greedy.”

you run your fingers through his hair, so gentle it’s cruel.

“but don’t pout,” you coo. “i’ll give you another lesson. my dorm. if you behave.”

you get up and fix your clothes, slow and casual, like you didn’t just drive him to the edge of sanity. he twitches in your absence, like his body doesn’t know what to do without your weight on top of him.

“i’ll see you in class,” you toss over your shoulder with a wink.

and armin? armin is left there—completely ruined, dripping, thighs pressed tight together for any relief, praying nobody walks around the corner and finds him like this.

#armin arlert #armin aot #armin x reader #attack on titan #aot #aot x reader #snk #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin #nerd armin #nerdmin #sub armin arlert #subby men #soft dom reader #aot x reader smut #aot x you #venuswrites

3K notes · View notes

yzzart · 3 months ago

Text

⋆˙⟡ BOYFRIEND!DANTE ── HEADCANONS! ── PART TWO

── content warnings: F!reader, reference to the anime, jokes and puns with demons, mention of Eve and Vergil, a little bit of angst, content with some mature but light words and part one is here!

── word count: 744!

⭑.ᐟ Dante tells the worst, stupidest jokes you could ever hear in your entire life; and which, as time goes by, become the best. — He couldn't live without them, and he made sure you couldn't either. — His creativity and ability even in the face of extremely and frighteningly dangerous situations was admirable.

⤷ Since the first day of your relationship, you think that Dante has, keeps — or thinks about creating — a notebook full of puns, jokes and, sometimes, laughs alone and exults with them. — Nothing bizarre, it's just Dante. — Just like he sends messages during his “work” to tell you about them.

what’s a demon hunter’s favorite kind of tea? i don't know, sweetie ;P — what is it? EXORCISTI! ya know? it sounds like exorcist tea ;)

⭑.ᐟ Seeing you wearing some of his t-shirts, since there are very few of them, is something he will never get used to and will never be able to focus on, pay attention to anything other than you. — However, seeing his red coat with scarlet details on your body is enough for Dante to recognize his wild, animalistic side.

⤷ By heavens, that man worships, contemplates you by nature; as if he was born to adore your presence. — And every time you ask to use it, or just take it boldly and shamelessly, he melts, completely. — His eyes conveyed pleasure and so much desire.

“I’m starting to think it looks better on me.” — Of course, you couldn’t let the teasing go; running your hand along the sleeve, adjusting the reddish fabric, and deeply smelling your boyfriend’s scent on the coat. — “Don’t you think so, big boy?” — You bit your lower lip, hiding, and failing, a shy and so bold smile.

“I agree with everything that comes out of your mouth, my love.” — Dante was transfixed, acting as if he were hypnotized, he confirmed with greater pleasure that he was, in you. — “I really agree.” — That man was obsessed with you.

⭑.ᐟ This damn demon hunter — with a high chance of being the son of a demon, and without knowing anything about it — flirts with you every day, hour, minute and second. — Dante lives for comments, compliments and flirting with his beautiful girlfriend. — You don't have to admit it, he knows very well that you love him and can't resist all of them.

⤷ Oh, even while he's killing demonic creatures and beating up some idiots who try to ruin his work. — Dante doesn't waste time, he needs to let it be known that he's a committed and faithful guy.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” — He pointed one of his pistols at a demon, transformed, disguised as a lady who asked for his help; wow, a typical trap that never changed. — “I’m committed to my girlfriend, then.” — About to be attacked, he pulls the trigger. — “It’s so bad to be requested and desired by everyone.” — He let out a breath, picking up the phone and dialing a few digits, waiting patiently. — “Hey, my girl.”

⭑.ᐟ In that old, filthy and almost finished building — which, with your countless visits and almost becoming a resident, has gained a better appearance — you and Dante listen to music, chosen by the boy, until the last volume; it bothers the person who lives on the street in front, but who could care?

⤷ Your pool games, card games and days of just eating pizza are always accompanied by the jukebox. — Dante pretends to be at a concert, imitating playing the guitar next to you, soon, the two of you burst out laughing.

⭑.ᐟ Dante manages to hide the anguish, an unbearable tightness he feels when he remembers the loss of his mother and brother; the memory of his mother putting him in the closet, Vergil disappearing and the fire spreading disturbed him daily. — The heavens knew, they witnessed how much you wanted to help him with all this suffering; but Dante contradicted himself, saying that just by having you by his side, this pain disappeared.

⤷ It wasn’t a lie. — Dante would never dare do that to you. — He felt so good and grateful, thankful, just for your presence. — So, always after a long, boring, and extremely tiring night, Dante would cuddle up to you; specifically, he would bury his face in your neck and wish, even pray, to stay there forever.

what’s a demon’s favorite exercise? >:) baby, it's 3 AM… :/ but i'm curious, what is it? ;) possession presses—really strengthens the grip!

#dante #dante sparda #dmc dante #devil may cry #devil may cry netflix #dmc #dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #dante x you

2K notes · View notes

riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

Text

Hearts and Initials

summary: You hadn't meant for him to see it... characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader warnings: maybe a little bit of mean! matt word count: 2.1k

It hadn’t started with anything dramatic.

There was no grand gesture, no moment where time stood still. No accidental brush of fingers or shared detention that changed everything. If anything, it started in the background-quiet and unassuming, like the way sunlight slowly creeps across a windowsill.

At first, Mattheo Riddle was just another name. Another student in the halls. Another face you recognized but didn’t really see. You’d heard the rumors, of course-everyone had. He was intense. Sharp around the edges. The kind of boy who looked like he was born with a cigarette in one hand and a secret in the other. He didn’t talk much in class, but when he did, his voice cut through the air like a knife-low, slow, and full of a confidence that made people listen.

You weren’t immune to it. But you weren’t the type to fall for a boy just because everyone else did.

No, your crush didn’t start until much later. Until you caught him in a rare moment-one that nobody else seemed to notice.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the kind of grey that soaked through your robes and made everything feel just a little heavier. You had arrived early to Charms, slipping into your usual seat at the back of the classroom, half-hoping to be invisible for a while. You’d pulled out your notebook, trying to lose yourself in your doodles-half-formed shapes and crooked stars and your own name written over and over again in soft, looping script.

And then you saw him.

Mattheo, sitting two rows ahead, head bent low over his parchment. Not lounging like he usually did, not smirking or joking or making lazy remarks under his breath. No-he was reading. Really reading, with his fingers pressed lightly to the page like he was trying to hold the words in place.

It was the way his brow furrowed in concentration, how his lips moved just slightly as he whispered something to himself-practicing, maybe. The way his dark curls hung just a little too long over his eyes. The tiny crease in his shirt collar. The ink stain on his thumb.

You didn’t mean to stare. You were just... curious.

And then, like he could feel your gaze, he looked up.

You froze.

For a breathless second, your eyes locked-and something fluttered in your chest, soft and uncertain. You dropped your gaze instantly, cheeks warming, pretending to be absorbed in your notes. But you could feel him looking at you. Not with the smug amusement you expected, but with something softer. Quieter.

That was the first time.

The first time you noticed that he wasn’t always storm clouds and sharp words. That sometimes, he was just a boy-tired, thoughtful, alone in a room full of people.

And after that, it was like you couldn’t stop noticing.

The way he tapped his quill when he was thinking. How he stood just a little closer to his friends than necessary, like he needed to feel they were still there. How his voice lost its edge when he talked to animals-how he lingered outside the Owlery like he didn’t want to go back inside.

You never told anyone.

You didn’t know how to say it out loud. That the boy with the sharp tongue and stormy eyes had become the center of your day. That your stomach fluttered every time he passed you in the hall. That you started carrying your notebook closer to your chest, just in case he might see what was written inside.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a crush.

But it grew, slow and warm like tea steeping on a cold morning-seeping into all the quiet corners of your day.

And you didn’t mean for him to find it.

You’d been scribbling in the margins of your Transfiguration notes, zoning out during one of Professor McGonagall’s more monotonous lectures. Your quill had a mind of its own-curlicues and looping hearts appearing without a second thought, a small cluster of initials tucked between the equations and diagrams. His initials. Yours. Sometimes side by side. Once, definitely with a heart around them.

It wasn’t like you planned it.

You’d just… thought of him. The way his eyes lingered on you in class, the way his hand sometimes brushed yours when you passed parchment back and forth.

And maybe, just maybe, you were a little bit in love with him.

But then, during lunch in the Great Hall, your notebook had slipped from your arms as you reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. You hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Mattheo had already scooped it up, flipping it open casually to see what page you were on.

And then he froze.

You turned back toward him, notebook in his hands, and felt your heart stop.

“No-Mattheo-” you stammered, reaching for it, but he was already grinning.

“What’s this?” he asked innocently, holding it just out of reach as his eyes scanned the doodles.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “It’s just-I was bored-it doesn’t mean anything-”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping the corner of the page where a large heart wrapped around the letters M.R. + Y/N. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

You made a desperate grab for it, face on fire, but he stood, holding it over his head with a smirk. “Admit it,” he teased, eyes dancing. “You’ve got it bad for me.”

“I do not,” you mumbled, practically glowing red, burying your face in your hands. “Please give that back…”

Mattheo chuckled, finally handing the notebook over with both hands up like he was surrendering. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll let it go…”

You exhaled.

“…For now.”

The rest of the day was merciless.

In Potions, he sat beside you and leaned close, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You gonna draw more hearts for me, sweetheart?” right as Professor Snape walked by.

In Charms, he passed you a folded note-just your initials drawn next to his in messy ink, with a little heart and a winking face.

You nearly combusted.

And in the corridor between classes, he cornered you by the windows, one arm resting against the stone wall behind you, eyes glinting. “You never answered me,” he said softly, leaning in until you were sure your legs were about to give out. “Do I get to be your boyfriend now, or do I need to earn a few more hearts first?”

You couldn’t even speak-you just squeaked and stared at his lips, completely overwhelmed.

He laughed-soft, fond, not mocking at all-and tilted your chin up gently with two fingers. “You’re adorable,” he murmured. “Seriously.”

And just when you thought he’d kiss you-just when your breath caught and your eyes fluttered shut-

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, hands in his pockets, grinning like a menace. “Better start doodling, love. I want to see stars next to my name next time.”

And he walked off-leaving you stunned, flustered, and completely ruined for the rest of the day.

You stared after him, notebook clutched to your chest, and realized something very dangerous:

Mattheo Riddle had found your secret crush.

And he was never going to let you live it down.

The days that followed the notebook incident were torture-sweet, funny torture, but torture nonetheless. Mattheo had turned his teasing into an art form, and you, shy and utterly flustered, were his willing target.

It didn’t help that you couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d looked when he found your doodles-the way his lips curved into a mischievous grin, the teasing sparkle in his eyes, the way his voice softened just a little when he almost kissed you in the corridor. It wasn’t just the way he made fun of you that got to you; it was the way he made you feel-like you were the only person in the room.

That night, you found yourself in the library, your notebook open on the desk, fingers hovering over the page but not quite able to put pen to paper. You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible. All you could think about were the words Mattheo had whispered to you, his voice so close, his breath warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting your forehead against the cool wood of the desk. Why did you have to be so obvious?

"You know," a voice said from beside you, low and teasing. "If you stare at your notebook any longer, you’re going to wear a hole through it."

You looked up, heart jumping into your throat at the sight of Mattheo leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes glinted with that familiar mischievous spark as he glanced at the open notebook on the desk.

“I—uh, I wasn’t staring,” you said quickly, suddenly feeling like your whole face was on fire. “I was just thinking-”

“About how badly you want to write more hearts with my initials in them?” he cut in, voice so smooth it was almost dangerous.

You choked on a laugh, your hand darting to cover your face in embarrassment. “Mattheo, stop.”

But he didn’t. He came closer, until he was standing beside you, looking down at the notebook with that same teasing smile. “It’s cute, you know?” he said, tapping the page lightly with his finger. “I never thought you’d be into me.”

“I’m not,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “I mean-I’m not into you like that, I’m just... just doodling. For fun. That’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he grabbed a quill, dipped it into the ink bottle, and began writing-his handwriting neat and precise-right next to your scribbles.

Mattheo Riddle + Y/N. Forever.

You froze. “Mattheo, don’t-”

“It’s already done.” He grinned, dropping the quill back into the ink bottle with a clink. He was so close now, standing just beside you, and you could feel his warmth seeping into your side.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, biting your lip, feeling both incredibly flustered and completely weak in the knees.

“Am I?” he asked, the smirk on his lips slowly fading into something more sincere. “Or maybe you just like it when I’m impossible?”

You tried to hold his gaze but failed miserably, quickly looking away as your heart hammered in your chest. “I don’t... know what you’re talking about.”

Mattheo’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something teasing again. But instead, his voice dropped to a quieter, more serious tone. “You don’t have to hide it, you know.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Hide what?”

“Your crush,” he said, leaning down slightly, as if he were telling you a secret. “I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your face felt like it was on fire, and you could barely meet his gaze. “I don’t-I don’t look at you like that.”

“You do,” he insisted softly. “And I like it. I like how you get all shy and flustered, how you bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. How could you argue with him when he was looking at you like that-when it felt like everything in your chest was tightening and blooming all at once?

He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. “So, what do you say, sweetheart? Think we could make those hearts real?”

You stared at him, heart thudding in your chest, feeling like every word was caught in your throat. He wasn’t making fun of you anymore-no, this was different. There was something real in his eyes, something soft and warm that made you feel seen.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered, so quietly you weren’t sure he’d even heard you.

Mattheo’s lips twitched upward in a smile, and his gaze softened even further. He reached out, gently brushing your hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/N. I already know.”

And with that, he kissed you-softly, tenderly-his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer than you expected. When he pulled back, your entire world was spinning, and you could feel your heart racing like it was about to jump out of your chest.

“You’re adorable,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and affectionate. “But next time, maybe just give me a little more credit, yeah?”

You nodded, speechless, your mind still whirling from the kiss. It was so much more than you’d ever dreamed, and yet it felt so... natural.

For the first time, you realized-maybe Mattheo had known all along. Maybe he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo fluff #shy!reader

1K notes · View notes

mysticalcrowntyrant · 3 months ago

Text

Yandere Bully x Reader

You can still hear the record player hum in the back of your memory, like a fly buzzing against a windowpane. Some warped Elton John or Bowie song that never quite plays right—too slow, too sad. That’s the sound of the summer of ’76 to you. That, and the sound of his boots scuffing down the hallways of Lincoln High.

You never asked for his attention.

It started in that dull beige chemistry classroom, with the warped blinds and the humming fluorescent lights. You sat two rows ahead of him, always tapping your pencil on the edge of the desk, always doodling in the margins of your notebook. You weren’t trying to be noticed. You didn’t even notice him, not at first.

But he noticed you.

His name was Dean. You knew him before you really knew him—the way everyone at school did. He was the guy with the chipped tooth and the permanent scowl, the one who smoked behind the auto shop and had a detention slip permanently folded in the back pocket of his Levi’s. He was tall in the kind of way that made teachers a little afraid to raise their voice, with hair like he’d cut it himself with a razorblade and a voice like gravel soaked in whisky. Dean didn’t just walk—he prowled. He owned every space he stepped into, and if someone tried to challenge that, they ended up with a black eye or a rumor that made them invisible for a week.

And for some reason—God knows why—Dean decided you were his.

You didn’t realize it when he first knocked your books out of your arms in the hallway. That just felt like another Tuesday. He sneered at you and kept walking, and you told yourself he was just being a jerk. But the next day, he did it again—only this time, he stuck around to pick them up. And when your hand brushed his, he flinched like you’d burned him.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second too long.

You’d never seen Dean flinch before.

That’s when things started to get weird.

Your locker, which always stuck, started swinging open easily—like someone had oiled the hinges. You found notes inside, folded a dozen times over, the paper yellowed and smelling faintly of cigarettes. They didn’t say much. Just lines like “I like the way you walk” and “You’re prettier when you’re mad.”

You started catching him watching you.

In the cafeteria, his tray untouched. In gym class, standing just a little too long by the fence while you ran laps. Outside the record store downtown, even though you were pretty sure Dean didn’t own a record player.

One day, you found a Polaroid slipped between the pages of your biology textbook. It was grainy, out of focus—but it was you. Walking down your street, alone, with your jacket pulled tight and your head ducked against the wind.

Dean never said anything. He never had to.

By September, you weren’t sure whether you hated him or feared him or something worse. Because there was a softness to his obsession, if that makes any sense. Not like a knife—like a rope. Like something wrapping around you slowly, winding tighter with every week, every glance, every scribbled note and silent stare. He didn’t push anymore. He didn’t shove. He just watched. And followed. And waited.

He left gifts in your locker. A dried daisy pressed between notebook paper. A cassette tape with no label—just heavy breathing and a song you didn’t recognize. A switchblade with your initials scratched into the handle.

You told your friends. They laughed. “Dean? He’s just messing with you.”

You weren’t so sure.

There was the night you swear you heard something outside your bedroom window. You lived on the second floor. When you crept to the sill, heart in your throat, there was nothing there. But the next morning, there was a cigarette on your windowsill. Still warm.

He never asked you out. Never said he liked you. He didn’t need to. He spoke with his presence, his silence, the way he hovered just far enough away that you could pretend you were alone.

And sometimes—just sometimes—you found yourself looking for him. Waiting to feel those eyes on your back. Waiting for the weight of his stare, like heat, like gravity.

Because Dean didn’t just want you.

Dean needed you.

You started to get the feeling that if you ever said no, if you ever tried to pull away or tell someone or make it stop, something would snap. You imagined it in flashes—a hand on your throat, the sound of his boots on your front porch, the scent of leather and blood.

But it never happened.

Instead, he started walking you home.

Uninvited.

Unspoken.

Just…there.

The first time you asked him why, he shrugged. “Gotta make sure nobody messes with you,” he said, as if he wasn’t the one everyone was afraid of.

You don’t remember when the fear turned into something else. Something worse.

Comfort, maybe.

Dependence.

Love.

No. Not love.

You don’t love Dean.

You can’t.

But he looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that’s real. And in 1976, when everything smells like gasoline and the future feels like a ticking bomb, maybe that’s enough.

Masterlist

#oc x reader #x reader #male yandere #yandere x you #yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #yandere male

2K notes · View notes

ggukivrse · 3 months ago

Text

STUDY BREAK - JJK | 01

summary. in which you’re all distraction and no remorse, and jungkook keeps coming back for more

pairing: jungkook x f!reader

genre: college au, established relationship, smut (?)

word count: 1.4k

warnings: jk wears glasses (yes that is a warning), oc and jk are both menaces, kissing, making out, allusions to sex

note: this is result of me listening to house of cards on repeat while ovulating. if you guys like it, i might do a part two with proper smut :>

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback.

Jungkook’s apartment is dimly lit, warm in that comfortable, lived-in way you’ve come to crave more than you probably should. A soft playlist hums from the speaker in the corner, barely louder than the sound of your breathing.

His living room looks the same as always — chaotic in the most him way. Hoodies thrown over chairs, open notebooks stacked beside the couch, a half-empty bag of chips spilling onto the ground.

You’re both on the floor, backs against the couch, knees almost brushing. Your laptop’s abandoned by your side, dark screen catching the glow from the window. His is still open, cursor blinking like it’s mocking your lack of productivity.

It’s supposed to be a study night. Like the five others you’ve had in the last two weeks.

But Jungkook’s wearing that loose white t-shirt again — the one that clings to his skin just a little when he stretches — and those damn grey sweatpants that should be illegal.

His hair is messy, dark strands falling across his forehead in that careless way that looks intentional even though you know it isn’t. His glasses are slipping down his nose again, and he keeps pushing them up without looking away from the flashcards in his hand.

The sight of him — relaxed, comfortable, stupidly hot — should be background noise by now.

But it isn’t.

Your gaze drops. to his jaw, to the slope of his neck, to the curve of his thigh under those sweatpants, to the way his arm flexes when he flips a card.

And suddenly, studying the notes in front of you feels like the least important thing in the world.

You let out a dramatic sigh, dragging your fingers through your hair and flopping your head back against the couch.

“I’m so bored I might actually combust,” you mumble.

Jungkook barely glances over. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. he flips another card. “Then stop texting me to come over.”

You roll your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “You could say no.”

He finally looks at you, eyes dark and unreadable behind his glasses. “Have you met you?”

Your stomach flips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, slow and deliberate, “You say ‘wanna study?’ and I stop thinking about anything else. That’s not normal, by the way.”

You blink. He’s back to looking at his cards like he didn’t just casually say something that made your heart punch your ribs.

You watch him for another beat, then let your hand drift — casual, like it’s nothing — to the edge of his sweatpants. You toy with the drawstring, looping it around your finger. Not pulling, just... touching.

“You’re not really helping me focus, you know,” you say softly.

“Funny,” he says without looking up, “I was about to say the same thing.”

You smile. Not sweet — sharp. “You could kick me out.”

He turns his head slowly, meets your eyes again. There’s a flicker there — of something teasing yet dark. “You think I don’t want to?”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t back down. Instead, you tilt your chin slightly and close the small distance between you, your knees knocking together now. “You never do.”

Jungkook huffs out a laugh — low and breathless — and leans his head back against the couch. His eyes close for a second like he’s trying to pull himself together.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Maybe I do. Maybe I just like seeing how long you’ll last.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just turns his head to face you again. He looks at you in a way that makes your whole body feel too warm. Then, slowly, he shifts. His thigh brushes against yours, firmer this time, and his hand — the one that was holding the flashcards — drops to his lap.

“I’m not made of stone, you know,” he says, voice low.

“No,” you murmur, eyes dropping to his mouth. “You’re not.”

Neither of you move. Not really.

But the space between you shrinks anyway. Electrified. Waiting.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

You smile. “You love it.”

He brings his hand up to cradle your cheek. “I really fucking do,” he says, not even trying to hide it.

His lips meet yours before you can think of a snarky comeback.

Jungkook kisses you like a starved man — like he’s been holding back for too long and now that he’s had a taste, he’s not letting go.

It steals your breath. Literally. Your lungs forget how to work for a moment as your mouth parts for his, the soft slide of his lips over yours turning quickly into something more intense. Hungrier. You can feel the warmth of it spread instantly — through your chest, down your arms, pooling in your stomach.

You don’t think. You just move.

Shifting up onto your knees, you climb into his lap and straddle him with ease, hands coming up to cup his jaw. He makes a soft sound against your mouth as your fingers slide into his hair, nails grazing lightly at the roots. his hands find your waist immediately, fingers squeezing — grounding, claiming, maybe both.

Your hips settle against his, the stretch of fabric between you suddenly way too noticeable. You can feel the tension in his thighs, in the way his fingers flex against your waist, how his chest rises and falls just a little too fast under you.

You tug gently at his hair and he lets out a low sound, something between a gasp and a groan, muffled against your lips. It makes your stomach flip, sharp and electric, heat blooming between your legs.

He kisses you harder.

His hands roam — sliding up your sides, over your ribs, skimming the underside of your shirt. Every touch is deliberate, slow but unrestrained, like he wants to memorise every inch of you with his palms. When his thumbs brush just beneath your bra, you inhale sharply, your lips breaking from his.

You lean back, taking in his form: glasses askew on his face, tilted enough to look ridiculous, your tinted lip gloss smeared across his lips, flushed and shiny from kissing, painting the corners of his mouth like you’d marked him.

Something about the sight makes your heart thud faster.

“Here,” you murmur, breath catching, as you reach up and gently pull the glasses off his face.

He blinks, eyes slightly unfocused, lashes fluttering as he tries to reorient himself — like he forgot where he was the second your lips left his.

You set the glasses aside carefully, then glance back down at him. “Better,” you whisper.

Before he can say anything, you dive back in — mouths colliding again, your fingers back in his hair like you can’t stand to not be touching him. His hands move too, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, spreading warmth across your skin.

His hands settle at your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel him now — cock hard beneath you, obvious and impossible to ignore. You rock forward slightly, not to tease, not intentionally — just to get closer — and he groans into your mouth again, the sound deep and low.

You bite back a smile, pulling back just enough to look at him again. His cheeks are flushed, lips pink and swollen, eyes heavy-lidded and focused only on you. He looks drunk — drunk on your lips, drunk on your taste, drunk on your touch.

“You’re really bad at studying,” you whisper.

“So are you,” he shoots back, breathless, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His hands slide up under your shirt before he connects your lips again, fingertips dragging gently along your spine. You shiver, leaning into him, your nose brushing his as you kiss and kiss and kiss until the world feels far away — until the only things that exist are his hands, his mouth, the heat of his body under yours.

And fuck, if this is what procrastination always feels like?

You never want to study again.

→ read part two here

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback.

1K notes · View notes

hyckstarz · 3 months ago

Text

breaking the rival code | l.mk

pairing. rival!mark lee x afab reader

word count. 6.1k

genre. smut · enemies to lovers trope · humour

synopsis. Mark had a way of getting on your nerves, to the point you'd even considered shutting him up for good. However, your best friend eventually planted a seed in your head that fucking your rival, and breaking the unspoken code, would be enough to finally end the long-standing feud.

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, fingering, use of pet name (baby), choking, oral (fem receiving), haechan as best friend and instigator

A/N. i had this buried in my drafts for months but it had me screaming into my own pillow whenever i read it so, it couldn't stay unpublished for long.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Mark Lee," she's fuming, as per usual. Eyebrows tightly knit and throwing daggers with her hard glare while Mark just laughs, "It's due next week, and you haven't even written up a plan?!"

Mark rolls his eyes, his glasses almost slipping down his nose, doodling absentmindedly in his notebook, "Relax, that's 168 hours of time to work on it, it's nothing."

She sinks back into her chair, crossing her arms in that arrogant way — as Mark would describe it, "Actually, it's less than 84 hours if you factor in sleep, other classes you have to go to, and fucking surviving. Mark, do you take anything seriously?"

Mark rubs his face in frustration, facing her, "It's the first year; none of this counts towards our grade," he goes back to doodling small Spider-Man caricatures but, as always, he can't resist having the last word, "And you're too serious, princess. Live a little."

Small things like that always set her off. She was aware of how she came across but, when it involved Mark, she only ever saw red. She somehow manages to calm herself down, realising they're in the campus library and already earning a few curious, judgemental stares.

"Mark...," she manages to whisper somewhat loudly, leaning in close enough for him to feel her minty breath against his skin, "Can we please get most of this done today? I'd very much like to be free of your presence."

Mark chuckled under his breath, his dark eyes slowly drifting over her subtle features, raising a brow in amusement — the weight of his gaze caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. Finally, he gave in and pulled out his laptop. He began clicking through their assignment brief and taking notes down, surprising even her, who started doing the same. As English literature students, it was a given that they had to read a stack of novels and articles, even for an assignment worth 0% towards their final grade.

Yet even small victories in their relationship were rare. It was a miracle that they were somehow able to work through the tasks efficiently, though that moment was short-lived before they were at each other’s throats, with Y/N starting it again.

"Mark, we're meant to critically analyse, not describe. Do you have any working brain cells in that thick head of yours?" Her fingers twitched, as if to hold herself back from clenching her fists and knocking some ounce of sense into him.

He rolls his eyes in response, jaw hardening as he scowled at her, clearly not in the mood for their usual back and forth, "We need to have a synopsis of the texts, I don't know how else you expect me to include all of the relevant info without having a short paragraph in there."

She simply looks at him in disbelief, shaking her head as if he'd just said the most absurd thing ever, "Mark... do you really think we can afford a whole paragraph just on a summary?"

He just chuckles in response, clearly uncaring. She leaned forward, her fingers digging into the desk and turning white as she struggled to maintain her composure. Mark’s casual smile only fuelled her irritation, but she lets out a heavy sigh, judgy eyes flicking across his face.

"You're like those pretty dumb blondes; the only thing you've got going for you are your looks, sorry to say," she sneers, going back to taking notes, but she internally curses at herself for admitting she found him at least objectively attractive.

Mark pauses, head snapping to her, his eyes flicking over her features, trying to decipher what she'd just said, or if he'd even heard her correctly under the hushed whispers of the library. He spins the pencil in his hand, eyes narrowing at her as a smug expression tugs on the corners of his lips, "You think I'm good looking? I'm flattered."

Y/N gives him an exasperated glance, snorting at his sudden change in demeanour and sitting up to look at him straight on, "I know you took me for a fool, but a blind one too? Damn," she said with a sarcastic lilt.

When Mark doesn't respond, just a cocky smirk widening — his gaze intense — she feels her heart rapidly beat against her chest and, as a way to hide the effect he has on her, she rolls her eyes for the nth time that hour, clearing her throat and focusing back on her task, "If you weren't so annoying, or if you learnt how to shut your mouth and do things correctly, you'd have a lot more going for you," she sends him a glare, "But you don't, so your looks only take you so far, and that's below average in my books."

He mocks in response, "Wow, you read? How surprising."

This time, she couldn't hold herself back. Mark did have a way with getting under her skin, so well in fact, that it led to them being asked to leave the library, only furthering their frustration and anger towards one another.

It wasn't always like this, either. When Mark had first met her, he was a shy, slightly awkward teenage boy and, the first impression she had of him, was cute. He was incredibly sweet and outgoing; it was easy for him to make friends and that meant they easily got close too. The only problem was, they were so alike in all the wrong ways. He was just too competitive and stubborn, always aiming for the top, and so was she. It was only natural that friends turned to rivals, competing with one another over everything. With that being an understatement.

From whom could get to the cafeteria the fastest, to who could submit their assignment the earliest and get the highest grade? It was competition, after competition. Most would get exhausted after the first two or three, but for them, it was thrilling, though they'd never admit that to one another.

"I can't believe your loudmouth got us kicked out of the library," his jaw hardened as he met her intense gaze, "Can't you sit still and take comments with some sort of, I don't know, strength? Because clearly, you're so sensitive over such simple, meaningless words," He slings his bag over his shoulder, already walking off.

Only further proving his point, she chases after him, tugging at his arm so that he wouldn't get away.

"You're the one who can't let things go either, always needing to have the last word, what are you, a child?" she crosses her arms and nods her head with a questioning brow, as if to say, 'go on'.

Mark just scoffs, about to walk off before turning around, his hands moving in frustration as he glares down at her, "You- you're such a pain in the ass, you know that? You really know how to drive me crazy."

He's panting, frustration evident. But it was the way he was looking at her that threw her completely off balance. His narrowed eyes flicked to her lips, brows furrowed as though he were etching her features into his long-term memory. She felt her heart drumming in her chest.

Before she could respond, a familiar yet equally as annoying mutual friend of theirs appears, snickering at the pair and their usual quarrelling, "Jeez, can't you two just fuck already?"

"Shut the fuck up, Haechan" they both say in unison, tearing their gaze away from one another with a scowl.

Haechan only snorts, glancing between the pair with an amused brow, "Clearly there's some sexual tension that I'm interrupting here, it would explain why you look at each other like that," He leans in-between them, as if to reveal the biggest secret in history, "I bet you two dream about each other too — in, you know, that kinda way."

Mark just stands there, mouth agape and in disbelief at the absurdity Haechan was spewing, looking between the two. Y/N just scoffed, grabbing the man by his bag and pulling him away without so much of a word. Haechan waved a chaste goodbye to Mark as he was being dragged off to God knows where.

Someone was going to die today, and it was definitely Haechan.

It was quiet. Way too quiet. The coffee shop was empty, hence for the low whispers of the baristas in the far corner, and a cheeky Haechan sitting before her, happily drinking his iced tea after telling his two closest friends that they should fuck each other. She groans, letting her head fall into the palm of her hands.

Usually, this coffee shop was a place where she could find peace and solitude. It was bright, with large windows that let light in all throughout the day, creating a florescent streak of amber and pink through the thin stickers attached to the panels. The colour schemes could easily brighten one's day as whites and pinks peppered along the walls.

The foliage brought life to what would otherwise seem like a cold, simple design, and the bakery added a subtle hint of beige, creating a natural environment. But the best thing about any coffee shop, was the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, and the sounds of the machine working, or even the quiet conversations. Though, sounds were non-existent today, except for her constant groaning, which started to bother her best friend.

"If you make one more frustrated sound, I'm leaving," he takes another sip of his cool drink, "Is it because of what I said earlier? Just know, I wasn't lying, that would definitely help you two."

She pulls her hands away, pursing her lips as she started twirling her straw, watching the milk mix with the coffee and caramel, "No, it's because I'm... I don't know, frustrated?"

Haechan glared incredulously, "Clearly."

"Not like that, I meant... I miss how Mark and I used to be, how we would laugh at silly jokes, or talk for hours without it having to turn into a competition, but now everything he says or does has a way of getting under my skin," She takes a sip of her drink, eyes twinkling at the taste, "He could just be sitting there, doing absolutely nothing, and I'd I just want to-"

"Want to what?" Haechan asks, ears perking up, waiting for a gotcha moment.

"Well, what I usually do." She shrugs, going back to her drink.

Haechan takes everything she says in, nodding his head slowly, "Anyway, it's sort of funny as Mark said the same kinda thing to me the other day...," Haechan takes a sip of his drink, whining when he finds it empty, "He said he missed the old you, or when you guys used to be friends."

She pauses, meeting her waiting friend’s gaze. Her brows furrow. Mark... missed how they used to be? But she doesn't say anything to Haechan, keeping her thoughts to herself.

The usual smug expression returns as he leans back in his chair, leg bouncing under the table out of habit as he crossed his arms behind his head, "Anyway, as I said, you need to get your frustrations out in other ways. You clearly have a thing for each other. The way you express it is a little... unconventional, but you're both immature, so I'm not surprised."

She simply looks at her friend in disbelief, lips parted as she gapes at him, to which Haechan only grins annoyingly at her. He also had a way with words, just like Mark, except he seemed to understand boundaries a lot better, and was chill enough to not want to fight back.

"What? Please tell me you two at least have moments of either flirting with each other or checking the other person out-"

"No." She scowls, shivering at the thought. Though, she couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked at her earlier, brushing off the thought, "It's hard enough to even look at him without wanting to strangle him."

"Okay, so you're into choking, got it." Haechan chuckles, nodding as if to make a mental note of it.

"No, I'm not into that! Whatever, look, I don't have a thing for him, so just drop it." She looks at him with a serious, intense gaze, as if to emphasise the fact she really didn't want to talk about this anymore.

Her friend only nods, putting his hands up in mock surrender, "Okay, just know Mark would definitely jump you if he had the chance — I mean, which guy would put up with your shit? No offence."

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her drink in hopes it would be refreshing enough to block out her growing irritation, "Anyway, the sooner I get this assignment done, the sooner I can move on from this Mark topic."

She quickly pulls out her phone before Haechan could drop in another one of his grand ideas, finding Mark's contact and immediately sending him a text. She almost spat out her drink at how fast he had responded.

You: Let's just get this assignment done with. I don't feel like getting kicked out of yet another establishment, so just come over to mine tomorrow or something.

You: *sends her address*

Mark: Fun.

Mark: I'll be there around 4 if that works

You: 👍

She bit her nails anxiously, eyes glancing between the door and the clock on the wall - each tick of the hands signalled it was only getting closer to 4, which was when Mark said he would arrive.

That wasn't why she was anxiously boring holes into the clock, however. She could curse the heavens, the earth and the 12 Olympians, but instead, she chose to curse the lust demon himself, aka Haechan. She buried her head in her hands, tugging at the roots of her hair in frustration. She can't believe she dreamt of Mark last night for the first time and, it wasn't just any dream — which was the worst part. Why did her mind have to be so vivid and make Mark so incredibly sexy? She had no idea.

When a knock came from the door, she stood up a little too quickly, rushing to it and praying that Mark looked far from presentable than he had been in her dream. But he wasn't, of course. She'd never seen him in jeans before and the green hoodie was the cherry on top. She swallowed hard, peering up at him as he adjusted his glasses.

"Are you going to let me in?" He raised a brow, his dark eyes glancing over her features in suspicion, taking a quick, subtle glimpse at her plaid sweatpants and pink t-shirt that didn't do much to hide the outline of her bra. He swallowed hard, tonguing the inside of his cheek in annoyance yet, the only thing that swirled in his mind were thoughts of how fucking attractive she was without even trying.

His annoyed expression grounded her temporarily, falling back into her usual demeanour as she rolled her eyes and held the door open wider for him, "If I catch you slacking once, I'll kick your ass out of here."

Mark gives her a side eye, frowning before kicking his shoes off, "Are you trying to motivate me not to do the work?"

She laughs sarcastically, leading him to her room as she props herself on her bed, noticing Mark looking over her interior.

"I expected your place to be put together, but not drenched in pink," his gaze trailed over her shelf, taking note of the various photo frames and mini ornaments.

She chuckles under her breath, pulling out her laptop and notes, "What, too girly for me?"

He turns his gaze to her, a quiet silence envelops them for a moment, and she takes that time to admire him. She knew he was attractive — objectively — but never had she looked at him in that way. The kind of way that made her heart and mind race.

Mark finally straightens up with a shrug, sitting down on the edge of the bed and getting his things out as well.

It felt strange having Mark in her home. If it weren't for getting kicked out of the library, her apartment would have been the last place he would be at. Though, now seeing him sat almost politely at a respectable distance from her, typing away on his keyboard quietly, made it start to feel right somehow.

She opened their shared document, reading the notes he was typing up. Even though he tended to be a lazy ass — or a procrastinator, as he would call it — there was no doubt he had a way with words. When he really put his mind to something, he would always deliver quality work. At times, she'd look back on why they had turned rivals, or enemies, and then she'd see what a complete genius he was. Maybe it was always her. Maybe she was just jealous that, no matter how hard she worked, Mark would always be ten steps ahead.

"I wrote up all the notes," Mark's voice cut through her thoughts, "How far did you get?"

She turned back to her laptop, pursing her lips at the blank screen. When she took her time responding, Mark scrolled down the document to where her cursor was and sent her a deadpanned expression, "What did you say about slacking off...?"

She doesn't know whether to laugh or smack him, so she picks the secret third option and scowls, "I did more work than you yesterday."

"That's old news," he sighed, looking through their to-do list, "I thought you wanted to get this assignment done and dusted because... what was the reason again? Oh yeah, you wanted nothing to do with me."

She scoffs, sitting up as she points an accusatory finger at him, "Don't act like you don't feel the same way."

Mark clears out the already completed tasks on the list, colour coding the other bullet points to distribute the work evenly between them, "Oh I do, and I wonder why." He doesn't even spare her a glance.

"Go on."

"Maybe it's because you continuously bitch over every little thing, it's no wonder Haechan is the only friend you have and, it's probably because he's waiting for some kind of green light," Mark's bitter words reeked of jealousy as he spoke through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes.

"Excuse me?" She shrieks before she leans over the bed and grasps at his hoodie, his hand immediately grabbing her wrist, "That's too far, Mark, even for you."

He raised an unamused brow at her, fingers tightening on her wrists, yet she doesn't waver, "Maybe, but I'm sick of it. All you ever do is complain and treat me like some sort of idiot and, when I give you the same energy, I'm the problem."

His voice is tight, jaw hard as he doesn't break the eye-contact. She pulls him in closer, anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach, "What a joke, you're just as much of a problem as I am and, you know what? Maybe Haechan was right, maybe we need to fuck for us to finally pull our shit together."

The moment those words leave her lips, she regrets them. From up close, he was even more attractive that those words naturally came out. Mark's eyes widened comically and she could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

His brows furrowed, "Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually suggesting that?" his voice carried a disbelieving tone despite his cheeks growing redder by the minute.

If it weren't for the dream she had last night, or that stupid green hoodie he was wearing right now, she would have laughed it off as a joke or even knocked him out in hopes he'd forget what nonsense she'd just spewed. However, all she could think about in that moment were his hands gripping at her plush thighs, spreading them apart as he lodged himself between her legs, his soft lips parting against hers desperately. She swallowed hard.

"Yes, I am suggesting that," she doubles down, the words more confident now. She knew she wanted him, even if he drove her bat-shit crazy. Even if he'd think she's bat-shit crazy.

It was almost laughable how wide Mark's eyes had gotten, his lips parted in shock, "you're fucking serious, Y/N?" This was too cruel of a joke from someone like Y/N. He knew she would rather curse him out than make absurd suggestions such as sleeping with each other. And the more he thought about it, on top of the intense gaze she carried, the more he believed she was being serious.

She leaned in, her warm breath fanning against his skin. She could smell his musky cologne — it was a scent she felt she could easily get addicted to, "I am serious, Mark," her big, doe eyes peered up at him through her lashes, "Hell, I even dreamt of you last night thanks to that blabby-mouthed Haechan."

Mark suddenly grows flustered, averting his gaze. She dreamt of him? His words practically came out like a croak from the nerves, "H-hey, that's a little..."

She raised a brow, waiting for him to continue his sentence yet he'd only grown quiet, his jaw clenched as he processed the situation. He felt his throat go dry and, the way she was staring at him made him feel breathless - a little too out in the open under her gaze. It was taking everything in him to hold back, but their shared history and his growing annoyance towards her kept him stuck in place.

"What? Mark, don't be a pussy," she scoffed. Despite her harsh words, they had rolled off of her tongue like honey, "Do you want this or not?"

Mark's head whips to her, his brows furrowed, "I am not...," the words faltered on his tongue as his hands came to rest behind her on the bed, his nose brushing against hers. He was way bigger than her, his arms caging her in, looming over her, "I'm not as much of a loser as you think I am, Y/N," the words were bitter; however, he felt like he was falling too deep.

Being this close to her, with her wide, surprised eyes staring back at him, her flowery perfume more prominent at the proximity, and her warm breath... He couldn't find it in him to deny it anymore, "Fuck, I do want this," he muttered, the whispered confession slipping past his lips before he himself could process the words.

At that, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, pressing his nose fully against hers, "I want this too." Her soft words drew him in like a moth to a flame and it felt like the string that held onto his sanity had snapped.

Mark pressed his lips to her glossy, pink ones that tasted like cherry, breathing in her flowery scent, to which she parted her lips against his in response. His hands gripped at the soft flesh of her waist, pulling her in impossibly close. He tasted minty, mixing with his musky cologne and it was like she couldn't think straight anymore, losing her grip on reality and, instead, losing herself in him. In Mark. Her supposed enemy and rival.

It didn't take long for her to pull him on top of her, her back falling against the mattress whilst her leg rode up his side, hooking over his hips. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, nipping at her skin and down the valley of her clothed breasts. She was going insane, and it was his fault, "Mark, take off my damn shirt already," she groaned in frustration, sitting up.

He didn't waste any time. Stripping off her shirt, he subtly admired her plush breasts which sat pretty in her lilac laced bra, barely leaving anything up to his imagination. As much as she got on his nerves, he couldn't deny the effect she had on him by being effortlessly gorgeous even as her brows were tightly knit. He pushed her back down onto the bed, planting his hands on either side of her head, "Are you always this demanding?"

"Only with you," she mutters, tugging at his hoodie impatiently, to which he chuckles, taking it off. She couldn’t help but gawk at him, sending him a glare for being more attractive than her dreams could ever do justice.

He kisses her again, his hand trailing down the side of her breasts, not giving her time to run her mouth. Then, his hand pulls the bra down, letting her breasts slip out as he cupped and kneaded the soft mounds, groaning into her mouth at how they fit perfectly in his hand. He rolled the nub between his fingers, grazing his thumb over them.

Mark kisses down her body, taking a nipple into his mouth — biting and tugging at it as his hand continued to twist the other between his thumb and index. He relished in the soft sounds that escaped her lips and the way she tugged at the locks of his hair.

He continued to move down her body, his finger hooking under the waistband of her sweatpants as he met her gaze, "I know you beat my ass over this, but you sure this is what you want?"

She deadpanned at him, "You just made out with my breasts, Mark. If I didn't want this, I would have stopped you there."

Mark just rolls his eyes in response, slipping her sweatpants down, "Could have just said yes."

She's about to retort when she feels his hand cup her, finger tracing the clothed slit of her pussy and she has to bite her lip to stop her from making a sound. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction so soon. Didn't want him to know just how badly she wanted him — more than she'd like to admit.

However, Mark was as stubborn and competitive as she was, and he wouldn't hold back until she gave in. He pushes her underwear to the side, leaning in so that his warm breath fanned against her sensitive folds, causing her to whimper.

'Fuck,' she thought.

Mark, without warning, slowly licks a stripe up her slit, his flat tongue drawing out a shudder from her — back naturally arching. Each time, he'd go in for more, slowly bringing up the pace. Her thighs clamped around his head, holding him hostage until he groaned and grabbed onto her plush thighs, pinning them to the bed; fingers leaving marks along her soft skin. Her own fingers grabbed at anything they could, from the sheets beneath her, to the healthy lock of hair on his head, letting them knot around her digits and tug with every wave of pleasure he had given her.

She could feel his cocky smirk as he sucked on her clit, enjoying every moment of her falling apart on his mouth. Falling apart for him. When he pulls away from her, she let's out a frustrated whine to which Mark only laughs at, "Open your mouth."

She sends him a skeptical look, "Fuck no."

Mark's patience wears thin, "Don't be a stubborn brat now."

Surprisingly, she obliged and he pushes his fingers past her plush, kiss-swollen lips. Her mouth suckles on the digits, tongue swirling around them, and he retracts his fingers with a pop.

"Fuck, your mouth really does have uses other than spewing insults and demands," he teases, voice low, tracing her entrance which had her letting out shallow breaths.

"At least it has more use than your fingers-" her words cut short when he pushes his finger in, palm pressed to her clit as he looks up at her with a 'you sure about that?' look.

It doesn't take long for Mark to add a second finger, curling them in search for the spot that would make her see stars. And then, he finds it, and she let's out a sharp gasp which only grows louder when his lips wrap around her clit, continuing his earlier ministrations of lapping at her folds like a man starved.

Just as her dreams failed in visualising just how attractive her nemesis was, it had also failed in expressing how utterly, impossibly, and irritatingly good he was with his hands, lips, tongue-

"Mark, fuck-!" She starts to tense under him, eyes pierced shut as she chases that feeling of ecstasy.

"I believe I'm getting there...," Mark chuckles, the vibration of his voice fluttering against her.

And, just as she starts to see the twinkling behind her eyelids, the light at the end of the dark tunnel, and a glimpse of the heavens, Mark pulls away, leaving her empty, wanting, and embarrassingly needy.

Forget Haechan, Mark was the number one man on her hit list.

In a second, he's over her again, cupping the back of her neck and lifting her slightly up to kiss her. She can taste herself on his tongue, feel the way his lips apply just the right amount of pressure to say he's here, and it's so soft, so gentle, so wanting — it was the perfect contrast, the perfect contradiction to the image she'd created in her mind of him. His thumb brushes against her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair, before he pulls away, forehead resting on hers as he breaths against her.

His eyes flicker open to gaze down at her; warm and oh so inviting. It felt like the Mark she once knew. The genuine, loving and calming person. Though his next words threw her completely off balance, and she was quick to retract her claims.

"I'm going to fuck that sexy, infuriating attitude out of you, baby," he lets the pet name draw out. In every other context, with any other person, she would have cringed at that word, but it felt so undeniably attractive coming out of his lips, that she wanted to hear him say it more than once.

Mark got up off of the bed, pulling out his wallet to fish for a condom that had been in there for God knows how long, chucking it on the bed next to her and kicking off his jeans and boxers in record speed. She barely had a millisecond to admire the sheer length of him before he was on her again.

His deep brown eyes kept their hold on hers and she could see a subtle hint of affection; the space between his brows crinkling in focus as he slowly pushed into her. His calloused fingers pressed along her waist, leaving white marks along her curves, while she could feel every ridge, vein and pulse of his cock.

When he bottomed out, she immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in impossibly close. Needing him closer to her. She could feel the rough planes of his body pressed to her soft ones as he started to rock against her. He gripped her thigh, pushing it further up so he could angle himself better, remembering the spot that had her seeing stars earlier.

Each time he'd hit that spot, she'd clench naturally, rocking her hips to meet his that had him softly groaning by her ear. He smelt so good, felt so good, was so good. She felt her mind start to fog up, jaw slack from the loud, erotic sounds that forced its way out from her throat. It was too much in the best possible way.

That wasn't as far as Mark would go though, he wouldn't stop at just good. He wanted best. His hand snakes up her body, gently wrapping around her neck — thumb pressed to her jaw — as he applied enough pressure to her pulse point. She knew then that maybe she did actually enjoy being choked or, at least, enjoyed anything Mark did.

She throws her legs around his waist, pulling him down, desperate to feel more of him, to reach her release she craved, pride long forgotten, "Mark... Mark, fuck- please..."

Mark pressed a sweet, uncharacteristic kiss to her cheek, "Please what, baby?" he brushed the strands away from her forehead, never halting his movements.

"Need more of you...," She could barely get the words out, but Mark knew exactly what she meant. Without time for her to process, he flipped her onto her stomach, pressing her face against the pillows, fingers tangled in her silky hair as he snapped his hips into her with more strength.

She could have sworn she started hallucinating seeing stars in the room from how deep he was reaching in this new angle, hitting her spot with added ease. Her glossy lips stayed parted against the pillows, drool staining the cotton case as she let out soft grunts.

Mark's head rolled back at the filthy sounds of her and how fucked out she looked. It made him want to carve this scene into the deepest part of his memory, "You're doing so good for me... So pretty like this."

His soft voice did not match the roughness of his fucking, but it made her clench around him, "C-close..."

Mark hummed, grabbing locks of her hair and tugging it back so that she arches against him, "Be a good girl and come all over my cock, then."

She nods eagerly, reaching behind him to grab at his hips, urging him to go faster, harder. She chased that release as if seeking closure from her pent up frustrations at Mark and hers usual bickering and challenges. She sits up to lean against him, knees pressed to the mattress and head rested on his collarbone — his own arms wrapping around her body. Finally, she came, body shuddering in his hold and, at the feel of her convulsing around his length, Mark bit her neck, muffling his sweet sounds as he followed suit.

They stayed like that for a while, panting, hair sticking to their foreheads. She wouldn't be close to exaggerating by saying this was the best sex she'd ever had, but she would also blame that on the sheer tension they carried for years around one another.

When Mark slips out of her, she fully expects him to make some usual smart comment, but he only pulls her with him as he lay in her bed, keeping his arms around her, "Who knew we'd be so compatible?"

She snorts, "I can name at least one person," she thinks of her best friend, the whole reason this night even happened and speeding up the process between them.

Mark smiles, snuggling into her and letting out a soft sigh, feeling sleep catching up to him, "I hope this isn't just a one time thing, though," he says suddenly with a soft voice, "you don't know how long I wanted this for. Wanted you. It drove me insane trying to be... I guess, respectful and casual about it all."

She sat up, turning to look down at him with a playful look of disbelief, "I call bullshit, you weren't respectful about nothing. Not that I'm complaining, it's attractive seeing you annoyed."

Mark rolls his eyes, smirking at her, his cockiness returning, "I knew you found me more than just objectively attractive, you're down bad."

She easily admits it, "Yeah, I am. But you're in way deeper for asking Haechan for advice of all people."

Mark immediately sits up, his face pale from the shock despite his cheeks being flushed, "Dude- Wait, what?"

"We're on dude terms now after you fucked an outline of my body into this mattress?" she scoffs, her crude words making Mark increasingly more flustered than he already was, "The choking kinda gave it away. I just know Haechan threw that in conversation with you."

Mark laughed sheepishly, pulling her into his chest as he pressed a kiss to her temple, "Guilty as charged. Though, I'm proposing we get back at his arrogant ass by not telling him a thing. We'll slowly drop hints to mess with him a little — see how long it takes for him to catch on."

"I'm in," She giggles, feeling sleep overtake her as she nestled into Mark's chest.

Before today, neither of them would have imagined that fucking each others rival would be the secret to finally ending the long-standing feud and breaking the rival code.

#mark lee smut #mark x reader #mark imagine #mark lee #nct mark smut #nct smut #nct x reader #nct #idol au #kpop au #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #haechan #mark smut #꒰ hyckstarz ꒱

1K notes · View notes