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tonycries · 5 months

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Hope They Catch Us - G.S.

Synopsis. When you’re on-screen, it’s always a rivalry to see who’s best - you just never thought that it would be the same struggle in bed.

Pairing. Actor! Gojo Satoru x Co-Star! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rivals-to-lovers, co-stars to lovers, unprotected, oral (fem receiving) slight exhíbitionism (stuff with cameras), marking, praise, Satoru is actually down BAD, cúmplay, tabloids, lowkey fluffy at the end, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k

A/N. YA GIRL IS BACKKKK ;D Also happy belated three months to this blog hehehe.

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You hated him. Oh, how you hated him. All because of a red-hot rivalry that had sparked ever since the two of you took the industry by storm. And everyone from Hollywood’s bigshots to your adoring fans knew that no matter where Gojo Satoru goes, you were sure to never be within a ten-mile radius.

Well, usually.

“I…shit- I’m in love with you.”

Because avoiding Gojo like a plague really isn’t saying much when said plague was currently sitting right next to you. Eyes boring into yours, signature smirk plastered on his face while he rattles off a disgustingly sweet confession - all on the set of your latest movie.

Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, your co-star.

And to add insult to injury, this wasn’t just any movie - it was only set to be the biggest romance film of the summer. So not only did you hate to tolerate Gojo, you had to pretend to be in love with him.

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. If only the check wasn’t as tempting as it was, you think he would’ve successfully driven you to an aneurysm already. Especially considering that the scene tomorrow was-

“CUT!”

That snaps you out of your little reverie, bringing you back to the still very ongoing film shooting. You risk a glance at the disgruntled director, cheeks aching from the sappy fake smile you had to hold for this scene.

“Something wrong?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. You knew exactly what was wrong. And one look at Gojo - dressed to the nines and huffing sulkily at being interrupted in the middle of his monologue - told you that he did as well.

“It just doesn’t feel real.” The director shuffles his script, voice dropping to a sigh at your confused gazes. “The spark, it doesn't feel real.”

“What?” you silently thank your years of acting for keeping your voice steady. You squirm in your seat the longer the silence stretches. This cozy little café they rented out too tight, Gojo’s fingers intertwined with yours too hot. Too soft.

“C’mon. You are in the perfect romantic set-up.” the other man gestures wearily at the café, at the dim-lighting and the proximity of your seats. “So why do you two look like you want to just- strangle each other?”

“Ooo kinky~”

It’s the first time Gojo’s spoken up since the scene was ended early and honestly that was enough to have you fulfilling the director’s suspicions.

“That.” you give him a pointed stare. “That is probably why.”

And that just draws out such an infuriatingly light chuckle from Gojo, as he sprawls all over his chair with the audacity of someone that owned this entire set. “Lighten up. You’ve told us, n’ in the next take I’ll fix it. Easy peasy.”

If only it was that “easy peasy”. The director was anything but satisfied, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s not just me, even the public is worried whether your ‘feud’ will get in the way of such intimate scenes. You-” he jabs a finger your way. “-better pretend like you want to kiss him senseless and you-” whirling now to Gojo. “-better act like you’ve wanted nothing more for years- Not to mention tomorrow’s sex scene-”

Ah, right. The sex scene.

How could you forget? It might not be a walk in the park to giggle and make heart-eyes at Gojo, but to actually pretend to have sex with him? All on camera? Curse whoever wrote this damn script. You could’ve almost laughed at the universe’s absolutely awful sense of humor if it hadn’t been for your paycheck - and the next words that tumble out of Gojo’s pretty mouth.

“We’ll ace it, you just watch.”

You hurriedly snap your eyes to meet Gojo’s, sending him a look that says “behave”, in a way that very much makes him not want to. Twinkling with such dangerous mischief that makes your stomach flip as he hums, “Or- I’ll ace it.”

God, was it a battle to remain professional. The only thing stopping you from snapping back being the way he squeezes your hand mockingly reassuringly - to which you send him a death grip back, of course.

“Oh? Care to elaborate, Mr. Gojo?” the director asks, eyes flitting between the two of you. And you can’t even laugh at the rest of the staff for almost toppling out of their seats in an attempt to hear his answer - because you are, too. Mind whirling as you lean closer, wondering just what nonsense would come out of Gojo’s mouth.

“Well, you could say…” he trails off suspensefully, like the smug bastard he is. Looking right in your eyes as he flashes an unfairly pretty smile your way. “I’m irresistible like that.”

Exactly the type of nonsense that would come out of Gojo Satoru, of course. And one glance at the director told you he was thinking the same thing. He was going to be the death of you. You can’t help but breathe out shrilly, “You fucking-”

“My apologies, director, but our leads have a scheduled interview soon. Rest assured, we will be early on set for filming tomorrow.”

You were definitely giving Nanami a raise after this.

Because if looks could kill then Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on his grace already - and you let him know. A little over twenty times, actually, as the both of you are hastily escorted away from the set for an “emergency interview”.

It was a flimsy excuse, you both knew, but Nanami hadn’t exactly felt like cleaning up a crime scene today. Instead, settling for a swift escape, the director calling out after you two to “Look like you’re gonna rip the clothes off each other tomorrow.”

Rip the clothes off each other, huh?

With the way things were going, you couldn’t be surprised if you ripped him a new-

“C’mon, sweetheart~” Gojo gets out through giggles, that familiar cackle echoing in the narrow hallway leading to your trailer. “Y’know I was just having a little fun with that ol’ man.”

He saunters unhurriedly behind your brisk pace, easily blocking the way you swing the door shut in his face. Letting it shut with such infuriatingly smooth nonchalance.

“Fun?” you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger right in the middle of his sculpted chest.“Do you even realize the mess you could’ve made?”

“Easy there, m’not insured for these pecs just yet.” Gojo clasps your hands together. Some strange little part of your skin burning at the touch in- anger? Something else? But you don’t think too hard about it, because he’s plowing on, “Besides, a little teasing never hurt anyone.”

Such a shame he was so pretty with the stupidest mouth.

“A little teasing? You practically declared to everyone in that room that we’re gonna fuck this up.” you move to pull him down by the collar instead, clearly unimpressed.

But oh you shouldn’t have done that - because he’s so close now. Too close. Hot breath fanning your face, looking so smug as he murmurs unrepentantly, “Do you?” Chuckling lightly at your little head tilt, “Do you think we’ll fuck it up?”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep it all together. “...No.”

“Exactly. We’re good then.” he winks.

“No. We’re not fucking ‘good’.” you grit out. Wondering exactly how difficult it might be to bother the director into completely recasting the male lead for the movie. Looking up at that million dollar smile and- yeah, it would be very difficult. “You’re so insufferable. I don’t know why they cast you.”

“My good looks? My charisma? The way I’m the-” he trails off with a sigh at your glare. “Well, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine, sweetheart.”

“At least I can act and-.”

He whines dramatically, cutting off your rant. “Me too!”

This conversation was so ridiculous - but, hey, the great Gojo Satoru always did bring out the worst parts of you.

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh.”

“Then why are you so stiff when acting like you’re in love with me?”

Somehow, that makes Gojo shut up. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - gasping out a strangled little, “B-because- well-” And if you didn’t know any better you’d say that was a light blush dusting his ears.

Only for a split-second, though, because he’s grabbing you gently by your shoulders, more seriously than you’d ever seen him. “Fine. Listen, we both want the same thing right? To have pretend-sex and ace this film to win like five Oscars?”

And maybe at the heat of his newfound proximity, maybe at the way he was looking at you so goddamn intensely - you feel something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach. Swallowing thickly, you manage to get out, “I’ll be the one winning the Oscars...but yes.”

Gojo’s gaze roams all over you - from the quirk of your eyebrow to the dress hugging you so sinfully tight. “Then we’ll do it. Ace the scene.”

Traitorously, a shiver runs down your spine. And because the universe loves to play jokes on you, Gojo notices - of course, he does. Eyes lighting up with amusement and something you really didn’t want to decipher as you blink up questioningly, “How?”

“Method acting, silly.” he rolls his eyes, as if he wasn’t implying something that wasn’t seen in even the cheesiest of romcoms. “Think of it as running lines.”

If there was ever a moment where your life flashed behind your eyes then this just might be it.

“You-” you gulp, so hot all over. “You better shut the fuck up and pray your face is insured because-”

At this, Gojo throws his head back and laughs - loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say about keeping his voice down so as not to let anyone outside hear, but shit you were mesmerized. Damn, a weird little part of you kind of understood why directors loved him onscreen.

“Feisty,” he muses. “But how can I shut the fuck up when they’re second-guessing the two best actors in the game?”

“The best? Me, maybe.” you lean in closer, mouth as bitchy as ever - even when you’re so obviously crumbling bit by bit under his gaze. And he knew that. “But not you.”

“Well, only way to find out is with tomorrow’s scene, right, sweetheart?”

He drove you mad - everything from his heady cologne, to the way that overpriced button-up clung to him like second skin. But, don’t pull away - how could you? Not when he inches closer ever-so-slightly. Not when he lets those overpriced glasses slide down his nose, eyes locked so heavily on you.

Fighting to keep your words steady, “There’s nothing special about that scene, just fake moan in front of the camera, right? We don’t need any…‘method acting’.”

Gojo only raises a brow in amusement, lips curling into a grin that really makes you too aware of his little dimple by the corner. “Then why…” His eyes flicker down from his hands, searing on your shoulders, to yours - still grabbing his collar, just grazing the soft skin of his neck. Not pulling away. “...can’t you let go of me, sweetheart?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you, you really don’t give a fuck. The only thing running through your mind being that shit this was Gojo bane-of-your-existence Satoru, and he tasted so…sweet. Like those cheap lollipops he often snuck on-set. Strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because suddenly he’s pulling away mere millimeters. Whispering hotly, absolutely dripping with something dangerous, “Sooo, is that a ‘yes’ to running lines?”

“Ugh, shut up.” your lips ghost his. “And just fucking kiss me.”

And, well, Gojo doesn’t have to be asked twice. Because it only takes a split second for his lips to find yours again.

Yeah, definitely strawberry lollipops.

You hadn’t filmed any of the kissing scenes just yet, but damn you didn’t expect him to be so hot and messy - like he was drunk off of you. Licking at the seam of your candied lips, groaning softly like he wanted more more more-

“Sh-shit, Goj-”

“Call me ‘Satoru’ when we’re fucking.” he cuts you off. “Or, my bad. When we’re ‘running lines’.”

Shameless. Though, you guess you weren’t any better - not as you press yourself closer running your hands all over his sinfully thin shirt, feeling every bump and curve of his abs. “You talk too much, Toru.” you hiss, muffled against his lips.

Oh that cute lil’ nickname had all the blood rushing to Satoru’s cock, you were so unfair.

“You little minx.” Like a little punishment, he’s biting down on your bottom lip, tugging lightly at your surprised squeal. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Hmm, I doubt it.”

And then your back is hitting the couch before you can react, bouncing lightly at the sheer force. And you’re so swept up in him - the way he hovers over you, arms looping around your waist, his knee wedging between your legs - that it almost hurts for you to pull away.

“Patience.” you huff out a laugh at Satoru’s disappointed whine, eyeing those pretty pink lips mere inches away from you. You just wanted them on yours. So badly. But no, there was something more important you had to do right now. “Jus’ thought we should record our little rehearsal, whaddaya think?”

“Record it?”

“Record it.”

“Record it, hmmm?” he’s whispering, more to himself than you. Fumbling with the zipper of your dress. “So you’re sayin’ we tape it, let the camera see how pretty you look all fallin’ apart f’me.” Kissing down your neck, letting the flimsy fabric fall down, “N’ then we improve for the pretend sex. Shut all those snobby directors up by giving them the best fucking sex scene they’ve ever seen.”

“Y-yes?” you mutter, as he starts tweaking your hardened nipples through your bra, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Unless-”

“Fine by me.”

The fabric hits the floor before you even realize what’s happening. Head spinning too much from the idea of being fucked on camera - by Satoru of all people, it takes you a second to realize that this bastard fucking ripped your dress off.

“You probably broke-”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” muffled, as he kisses down your navel, blindly fumbling with his phone.

“It was expensive.”

With an impatient sigh, Satoru sets the camera up on the coffee table beside the couch. “Five new ones.” Angling it just right to perfectly capture you - in all your disheveled, horny glory, and Satoru, smugly seating himself between your thighs.

“Ready?” he asks, finger hovering over that damn red button.

Well, it’s just for rehearsal, right? Right?

“Do it.” you manage to get out, voice getting stuck in your throat at the faint ding! that rings throughout the heady room. “For my Oscars?”

“For my Oscars. N’the camera’s gonna know.”

And whatever retort on the tip of your tongue dies when he rocks his hip against yours, grinding his cock against your soaked panties. Rock-hard and so damp with precum already - so big that any and all rational thinking flies out the window.

Which is probably why you’re letting out such a pretty gasp, ‘S-Satoru, I want-“

“What?” And Satoru only flashes you a devilish grin, hands spreading your legs as far as they’d go on the couch. “This?”

He licks a long, long stripe up your inner thigh, all the way till he just meets the hem of your drenched panties. Teasing. So hot and depraved in the way he breathes in your scent.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.” Satoru grunts, looking down in awe at the damp fabric, so flimsy and see-through with your sweet juices. You slick beading through so sloppily, just a hint of the state you were in. “You don’t know how you drive me mad.”

Rip!

He’s so fucking starved that he’s just tearing your poor panties clean off. Throwing them behind him to God-knows-where before spreading your swollen folds with his thumb, showing off just how wet you were for him.

“You’re a tease.”

“And you’re fucking addictive. Look how fuckin’ wet you are. For who, huh?” he slurs, breath hot against your cunt. Circling your entrance just barely with his fingertip, teasing you like he was addicted to those frustrated moans coming out of your pretty lips.

“S’for you-” you whine, “All for you, Satoru.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

And that’s all that needs to be said before he’s burying himself nose-deep. Drunk off your pussy as he licks long, languid movements. And it wasn’t enough - never might be, actually, because only one taste and Satoru was like a man possessed.

Bullying his tongue between your folds, just dipping into your sloppy hole in a way that had your slick smearing all over his pretty face. Letting out such deep groans that had you clenching around his hot tongue.

Shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut up the great Gojo Satoru then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. Because for one in his life, Satoru’s too entranced with something else to run his mouth, so fucking satisfied between your thighs.

“Fuck- hah- think I like you better w-when hngh- you’re like this, Toru.” you purr, breath hitching as he bullies his tongue between your folds.

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius, because that only sets him off more.

And suddenly Satoru’s pulling your body closer onto his hot mouth, like you were weighless. Pushing himself so impossibly closer while he makes out deeper with your wet cunt.

“Ah! Hngh- Satoru-” you keen, tugging at his soft locks. As delirious as Satoru was pussydrunk. Drinking in all your cute lil’ whines of his name, angling your hips to lick all over like he couldn’t decide between fucking your sloppy hole or toying with your poor, ravaged clit.

“Mhm?” he murmurs, the vibrations making you squeal. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as lets your sweet juices slide down his throat. “Ya like this?” Stretching you out on his tongue, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Over and over- “Like when I tonguefuck your pretty pussy?”

“Ngh- love it- s’good. Ah fillin’ me up s’good.” you squeal, bucking your hips desperately into his pretty face, broken little whimpers leaving you at each rough push of Satoru’s tongue.

And oh Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind being on his knees every day if it meant he got to taste you like this. “Tell the camera too, sweetheart. Practice how you’ll come around my tongue.”

Those words send a jolt up your spine - or maybe it was the way Satoru was sucking harshly on your clit. “F-fuck off.”

“Mhmmm, n’ this is why I’m the better actor..”

Ugh, this fucker. And with that you fight to turn your head - looking right in the camera. Feeling so fucking lewd as you let out such pornographic moans.

“Yeah- feel s’good.” you whimper, “Wanted this for so long, ever since I first saw- ngh- you-”

And shit were you so fucking evil - at least warn a guy! Because that has Satoru’s heart lurching, almost jumping up from between your legs before it hits him with a pang - ah, right, you were just quoting your character’s lines. Of course.

Well, two can play that game.

“Yeah?” he mutters into your folds. Two fingers plunging knuckle-deep in your pussy, massaging your plushy walls. Roaming around for that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so deliciously. “Can’t believe I waited s’fucking long. Y’know how hard it was to hold back? With you wearing all those slutty skirts f’me?”

Your body is jerking violently, both at his - practiced - words, and the way he was devouring you like you were his favorite meal. His favorite taste.

So eager and in-character with the way he was setting such a dizzying pace on your poor cunt. Slick trailing down from his fingers, all the way to his wrist. So sloppy and- Pressing down. Hard. “Found it.”

And you can only sit there and take it, such cute little whines of Satoru’s name leaving you as he leaves no mercy. Jaw grinding deeper and deeper, maddening. Aching as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over. And you were so-

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Truthfully, he didn’t even have to ask - if the way you were trembling and squeezing so fucking tightly around him was anything to go by. “Go on darling. scream my name. Show off f’the camera like you do best.”

“Sh-shit. Toru- fuck yes-” you’ve got an iron-tight grip on his hair now, pulling and angling him as you pleased for more. Barely able to let out those strained lil’ moans, definitely not with the way he’s dragging your sloppy pussy all over his face. Fingers cramping up from how rough he was going - but still not stopping.

“Go on. Cum f’me.”

And then you are. Letting out such a teary, strangled moan of Satoru’s name as you cum all over his face.

And it’s not just for the camera either - because this orgasm is probably the best one you’ve had in a while. So hard that you don’t even realize you’re arching and rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Using him.

And he doesn’t stop you. Why would he? You were so pretty falling apart all because of him. He wishes he could see this more often…

“S-Satoru.” you mewl, overstimulated. Jolting with each flick of his tongue, trying to close your legs but you can’t - he won’t let you. Greedily lapping up all your sweet juices, everything that you give him.

“Nope.” he drawls, finally pulling away, delicate strings of your slick snapping as he does. Looking so fucking drunk off of you that it makes your cunt quiver exhaustedly. “C’mon now, sweetheart, you were s’pposed to say my character’s name. S’how the scene goes.”

Oh. Shit, you got too caught up. But one look at Satoru - eyes half-lidded, hair disheveled, your juices glistening all over the bottom half of his face so prettily - tells you he was much the same.

“Well…” you huff, voice shot. “According to the script you were supposed to stuff that-” pointedly eyeing the achingly hard cock straining his pants, “-in my mouth first before eating me out. So here we are.”

With a chuckle, he rises slowly. “Touché.” Looking you straight in the eyes - and probably into your very soul - as he pops his fingers into his mouth. One by one. Groaning at the taste of your sweet sweet juices while he sucks them clean. “But I don’t think I’d last one second with those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

And it almost makes you want to tease him for it - one of Hollywood’s biggest It Boys but you can’t handle a lil’ blowjob? But all of that gets stuck in your throat as Satoru starts peeling off his shirt ever-so-slowly.

Shit, you think. All mouthwatering curves and dips, all the way from his toned, milky shoulders down, down, down to those neat tufts of white peeking out from the hem of his underwear. Sculpted like he was handcrafted so meticulously - a fucking masterpiece, you had to admit.

One that made you wish you took a longer look at all those shirtless magazine covers instead of throwing them out. One that had your thighs squeezing in such anticipation.

And Satoru seemed to be admiring you just the same, eyes locked on your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing - so ready for him. Distinctly aware of how pathetically needy you were being in front of the blinking camera, you crane your head to glance at it. Was it really capturing-

“Now now, first rule is to never look at the camera during this scene.” Only for Satoru to squish your cheeks together, forcing you into an embarrassing little pout as he turns you back to face him. “Look at me.”

And oh you can’t not look at him.

Especially when he tugs his pants down, just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, so fucking long and pretty. Smearing glossy precum all over his abs, flushed your favorite shade of pink, rock-hard and so so angry. Shit, he was so hard it looked like it hurt.

“Satoru…” you breathe, legs wrapping around his slutty waist to pull him closer. Only needier despite that little nagging voice wondering how the fuck you’d take his sheer size.

“Sweetheart?”

“I remember he didn’t do a lot of waiting in the script.”

And God were you right - but Satoru doesn’t think he could’ve kept this act of restraint up any longer even if you weren’t. Too impatient, too starved, his sanity dancing away from him with each second his fat cock wasn’t stuffed inside your pretty cunt.

“Mhm.” he purrs, one hand reaching down to drag his fat head up and down your slit. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the way your lip wobbles in frustration. Up and down up and up and- “You’re right.”

And then it’s like something snaps.

Because it only takes a split-second for Satoru to start splitting you apart on his massive cock. Big fat tears pricking at your eyes at the feeling that he was pushing all the way into your lungs.

“Sh-shit, s’fuckin’ tight-” he lets out a low grunt at the slight resistance, taking everything in him to not just fuck into your snug pussy and use you like his little plaything. “You gotta hah- relax, pretty girl.”

You needed to relax more - to breathe maybe, just something. You weren’t even in the right state to wonder whether that little nickname was in the script - and God was Satoru thankful for that. Because all you can think of is how you never imagined what the bane of your existence would look with his cock stuffed in your dripping cunt - but now that you’ve seen it, you think you’ll imagine it for many lonely nights to come.

“Hey, now. Don’t get camera-shy just yet.” Satoru gives your ass a playful smack. “After all, this is only the best- part-”

Each word is punctuated with shallow, mindless little thrust to fit himself inside your dripping pussy. Such cute lil’ whines leaving your swollen lips that he really can’t help but tease you a bit. Leering down at your fucked-out face with a smirk, “Or- my bad. Forgot such a scene would be hard for a rookie.”

Oh, did he know how to press your buttons just right.

Because immediately, you’re blinking away the delirious haze in your eyes, voice so adorably shaky - but determined - as you grit out, “Bring it on, you B-list wonder.”

That’s all that has to be said before he’s finally bottoming out inside you, mercilessly. Inch by fucking inch. You gasp as his twitching balls smack your ass so lewdly, feeling his veins beat in such a slutty lil’ thump! thump! thump! against your heavenly walls.

“T-Toru- big- ngh- too fuckin’ big. M’gonna break mpf-” his lips claim yours. Partially because it’s been way too long since he’s kissed your pretty lips, and partially because Satoru might just cum right then and there if he let you run your mouth.

So he lets his hips do the talking instead.

Cooing into your mouth at each little ah! ah! ah! every time he stuffed you full of his dick, quick, experimental thrusts to try and find that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so prettily.

“Sounds so beautiful, sweetheart.” rocking his hips faster into yours. So hard you were sure he’d leave marks. “No camera in the world can pick up how fuckin’ perfect ya are. Can’t ngh- pick up those cockdrunk lil’ heart eyes.” Angling your chin just so that your sinful expression is caught on camera, “Shit do ya even know you’re doing those? Might just make me lose it for real tomorrow. Might just make me sneak you off to the dressing rooms n’-” Manicured fingers digging into your hips while he fucks you in jagged, purposeful strokes. Hitting that one spot. Hard. “Fuck you all over again.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he smugly hits that magical spot over and over-

And it was so sloppy - so filthy with the way Satoru still had remnants of your slick all over his lips, matching the way you were soaking his cock. Fingers moving down to draw erratic little patterns on your clit, making it even messier.

Close - too close.

So, so desperate and debauched.

“C’mon. Show the camera. Tell the camera how much you love it.”

“Ngh- f-fuck you.”

“Oh? Who’s fucking who now?” he’s laughing at your absolutely wrecked state. You can feel Satoru twitch inside you as you mumble out such delirious little praises to the camera - were they coherent sentences? You’ll never know, because the next words that fall from his lips have your mind reeling.

“God, m’addicted to you, my girl.”

“That’s not- ah- in the script, Toru.” you hiss. Close.

“I know. And neither is that.” he leaves such uncharacteristically gentle kisses down your neck. Miles away from the relentless place on your poor, abused pussy, fucking you deeper and rougher every time despite already bottoming out. “Does it have to be?”

“Th-that doesn’t ngh- make sense.” you gasp into his open mouth.

“Doesn’t have to.”

Maybe it’s the way Satoru’s panting those words against your lips. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking right in your eyes while he says them - like it would kill him to pull away. Maybe even that fleeting little kiss he leaves against your lips.

Because before you know it, you’re cumming and cumming so hard that you wonder whether you’d make it out alive. The only thing you can do is throw your head back and take it, thighs quivering, Satoru’s names spilling from your lips in such broken little whines while he thrusts so sloppy. Once. Twice.

“Ah- this is gonna have me fallin’, huh?” And then he’s letting out such a low, muffled moan of your name, filling you up with rope after rope of his cum.

What?

It’s so messy - his cum overfilling your poor pussy, spilling out and coating his twitching balls. Shit, you can’t even worry about whether it would stain that overpriced couch below you. Not when Satoru’s whispering out sweet- lines from the script?

“Fuckin’ beautiful underneath me. Always was.” Hips still fucking into you - not even thinking at this point. “Always will be. Such a vision onscreen, sweetheart.” So thick and hot, and dribbling all the way down your legs with every movement.

And then Satoru’s lips are finding yours again, tasting so unfairly sweet while he drinks in all your cute breathless gasps. “Such a vision f’me.”

Those weren’t from the script either.

Something soft. Something scary. Something that has you looping your legs tighter around his waist, letting him collapse onto you. Pulling him closer, in fact, because now that you know the weight of his body on yours, it just felt so right.

It takes a moment of silence for you two to catch your breaths, the still rolling camera being the last thing on your minds. Neither willing to speak first, because shit Satoru might’ve gone to countless red carpets and film sets but this - you are what strips him away from all the glamor and fame. Until he was just, well, embarrassingly Satoru.

The Satoru that was now shifting shyly in your arms, trying to get up. “Uh- Hell of a way to run lines, huh? Better check the camera n’ see where to impro-”

He might be one of the biggest actors in modern Hollywood, but Satoru didn’t fool you - not one bit. So without a word, you’re tugging him back to rest against you. Heart lurching just a little bit as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Like a little hideaway - from the camera, from the world, hell, maybe even from you.

“Y’know,” he flinches ever-so-slightly at your teasing tone, giving you a playful bite. “I have one area of suggestion and it might just be that you’re too good at ‘running lines’.”

“...Good enough to win those five Oscars?”

“No.”

“Then guess I better prove it to ya, huh? Is the camera still on, sweetheart?”

Just then, some weird little part of you thinks that, hell, maybe you don’t hate Gojo Satoru after all.

Not anymore, at least.

---

The Enemies-To-Lovers Trope of The Century?! Hollywood’s Biggest Rivals Sport Matching Hickeys (And Smiles) On-Set of Upcoming Film.

Oops! Gojo Satoru's Phone Wallpaper Accidentally Exposed: Surprise, Surprise It’s His Leading Lady! More on Page 6.

“No Comment. Though, I Have Moved Trailers. Twice.” Anonymous Manager Speaks on Latest Movie Rumors.

Director Is All Smiles As He Raves About Upcoming Romance Movie. “Hell, If I Didn’t Know Any Better I’d Say They Were Really-”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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heavenbarnes · 7 months

Note

Can we please get a blurb of big dick Hotch (who knows it’s big) making it fit? Reader thinks they can’t take it but Hotch just knoooows they can. Hehe thank you!

You say it’s big but you take it

Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader

Warnings/contains: reader is gender neutral with no mentions of genitals, oral sex, edging, penetrative sex, no protection, finger sucking, swearing, dirty talk, light face slapping, probably a size kink

I’m so grateful for this ask because I only explored this a little in my last Hotch fic and it deserved more

He’d had his mouth between your legs for the better part of an hour, his tongue working over your entrance as his fingers gently worked their way in.

That, that was already doing your head in. His thick fingers stretched you enough to have your toes curling, fingers threading into his hair.

You’d been on the precipice of an orgasm from the beginning too, every time you’d get close enough he’d slow you right back down to work you up again.

Pathetic. You looked truly pathetic, utterly debauched and completely fucked out- already.

Stripped naked, Hotch had pulled every last article of clothing off you before he’d pushed you back on the bed. Of course, he’d only shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt but he was still nearly entirely covered.

That was another way he commanded total power over you. Leaving you so exposed to him whilst you had to fight for a glimpse at him.

Drove you fucking crazy.

You couldn’t help the whimpering as you felt him move away from you, hands stretching out to catch him but he quieted you quickly.

“Stop it- you’re being greedy.”

Lip jutting out, pouting like a child- he was completely correct but you made no effort to stop. “I need you.”

Kneeling back, you watched his big hands start to loosen his belt, pulling down his pants and briefs just enough to free himself.

“You’ll get me, when have I ever let you down?”

He had a point, you couldn’t imagine a world where Hotch didn’t leave you satisfied. But he was right, you were greedy and your patience was wearing thin.

You watched through hooded eyes as he reached into his boxers, pulling out his cock before giving it a languid stroke. It nearly made your eyes roll back, not even his large palm dwarfing the size of it.

He placed that same palm in front of you, giving you a quick nod that you understood immediately. Tilting your head, you spat into his hand before he wrapped it back around himself.

As he slowly jerked himself off before you, his other hand came back to keep rubbing the wetness from his mouth around your entrance.

His eyes flickered to yours, knowing he was being watched. He knew you well enough to know what you’d say next.

“It’s so big.”

It wasn’t even to stroke his ego, and the way you whined when you said it painted it more as a protest. Aaron Hotchner was hung, there was no denying it.

Every time with him felt like the first.

That’s why the prep went for so long, that’s why there was very seldom a quickie, that’s why you always woke with a burn between your legs.

“I know it’s big, sweetheart,” He cooed, rubbing his hand over the tip. “But you always take it so well, yeah?”

Your mouth dropped open with a cry, bucking your hips into the touch of his fingers. This was how it went, he’d work it into you with a lot of patience and a heap of praise.

The blunt tip was nudging against you, breaching the tight grasp of you as he slowly slid himself in. Your eyes screwed up tight until you felt Hotch grasping your chin, four fingers and thumb on either side as your lips puckered.

“Watch me,” His breath was clipped as he continued to ease his hips. “Watch it go in.”

His grip tightened slightly as he tilted your head down, eyes falling on the sight before you. His thick cock, stretching you around him as another inch of him disappeared.

“Fuck- s’too big-“

His grip loosened enough to lay a quick and gentle slap to your cheek, shutting you up in an instant.

“I don’t want to hear you unless you’re telling me to fuck you harder.”

Your stomach tightened up, a surge of pleasure hitting your straight on as he spoke. The burn was beginning to ease the closer he got to being hip deep.

Once he’s fully sunk in, he stilled enough for you to get fully adjusted. The moment he heard a deep moan from the pit of your chest, he knew that was his sign to start moving.

“That’s it, so good for me,” His fingers slipped across your lip before he dipped his thumb in your mouth. “We’ll always make it fit.”

#Aaron Hotchner smut #Aaron Hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x gn!reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds smut #Hotch smut

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cowboygenesis · 16 days

Text

18+ knuckle up | astarion x reader

summary: after a drunken night and a dumb bet you're left in an emotional (and physical) chokehold by your favourite vampire companion.

pairing: astarion ancunin x afab!bard!reader tags: 18+, smut, fluff, switch dynamics, m/f, fingering, unprotected sex, resolved tension, playfighting, sex after training session. word count: 7.8k notes: this fic was SO fun to write even if im a gale girlie myself. this is my first attempt at writing ANY bg3 character, so i really hope i did okay. if not, let me know! comments help me improve my writing (and warm my heart, seriously, thanks to anyone taking the time out of their day to comment). anyways gang, no beta as ALWAYS, you know how we roll. ENJOY! masterlist.

It still made little sense to you.

You had honed your skills at the most prestigious music schools in Faerûn for years, pouring your heart into every note, every chord, only to find yourself shamelessly ridiculed for an entirely different kind of performance. And by a man you’d grown to like, no less.

"Get up, darling," Astarion’s voice drips with amusement, the self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips with infuriating smugness. His crimson eyes watch you with a predatory glint, locking onto your vulnerable form sprawled in the dirt—a definitive result of his frustratingly agile moves.

You groan lowly, propping yourself up on bruised elbows, wincing as a dull ache pulses through your body. A stray lock of hair falls in front of your face, and you blow it away in frustration.

"I’m starting to think this isn’t educational at all." You glare at him with all the venom you can muster, eyebrows furrowed as his arms cross.

Your eyes absentmindedly scan down his body, taking note of his slightly disheveled shirt and tousled hair. He looks… good. Beautiful, even. Basking in the soft moonlight seeping through the vast greenery above, he stands there like he’s in his element.

He chuckles, seemingly unbothered by your vapid tone. "Oh, but it is, my dear. Think of it as a new, humbling experience. Valuable in its own right."

You bite back a retort as he offers you a hand, his expression making your eye twitch. You never thought you’d fall for arrogance, yet ironically it’s your own conceit that might have brewed your upcoming downfall.

After a particularly boisterous night of drinking in camp—brought on by the recent victory over a pack of gnolls—you foolishly accepted Astarion’s challenge to best him in hand-to-hand combat. Your alcohol-addled brain had been more confident than your body, and now, after a series of harsh jabs and sidesteps, you were being taught the harsh reality of “real” combat.

Defeated, you eventually obliged a quick lesson from the master himself, which he had (admittedly suspiciously) made you take after losing your bet.

At the very least, the bruising would rid you of your lingering hangover once you were done taking the thrashing. Plus, you hoped it would bring you two closer. Figuratively and physically.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your hesitation. "Come now, my dear, don’t be so stubborn. You seemed so eager at first,"

"You told me you’d teach me to fight, not fall on my damn face," you lament, but begrudgingly accept his help, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

His grip is firm, and the coolness of his skin sends a small jolt of electricity down your spine. You had often imagined what holding his hand would feel like during the colder nights alone in your tent, and while the circumstances ended up being less than ideal, it was good enough for you. For now.

You rub at your sore arm with a frown and catch that Astarion, unmistakably, stands completely unscathed, his pale complexion almost glowing in the ambient light.

"I’m thinking…” he muses, glancing at the weathered lyre resting peacefully by the roots of a tree. His lips curl into a smirk, and you can feel the teasing jab sting your pride. “Perhaps you’re better suited to the more... delicate aspects of life,"

Your jaw clenches. While bards famously went underestimated— a fact you were reminded of frequently— it hurt more coming from someone you so badly wanted to fuck.

"Oh, I don’t know," you say with a saccharine tone, brushing the residual dirt from your pants; your favorite pair, yet you’d probably end up having to toss them out after your poor performance today. "I think a harp string could make a fine garrote in the right hands."

Astarion’s laughter rings out clearly, and your heart skips a beat unbeknownst to you. "Dully noted. Fortunately for the both of us, we’re stripped of any weaponry in our current pinnacle."

Your eyes roll, running a hand through your disheveled, sweat-slick hair and adjusting your posture to the one he had taught you: one foot forward, back straight.

"Again," you demand, squaring your shoulders. If he wanted to mock you, fine— but you wouldn’t go down without a proper fight.

Astarion’s eyes widen, but his smirk never falters. He sighs in faux exasperation but quickly matches your posture. "So eager to be tossed into the dirt again, darling."

Your face flashes with heat at his painfully languid remark, your mind going places it probably shouldn’t. You knew the pet names were simply an inherent part of his vocabulary and that he used them generously, with everyone, yet a part of you liked to imagine they were reserved for you, and you only.

“Try me again,” you reply curtly, lowering your gaze as you feel the tension sprawling through your aching body.

He shoots you an arrogant smirk, his gaze penetrating your soul with an intensity you didn’t think possible. He bares his fangs, licking over his bottom lip lazily. “Let’s see it, then.”

Astarion approaches, but this time, you’re ready. As he moves to close the distance, you anticipate the first jab, ducking low before he can catch you off-guard. You dart to the side, aiming a swift thrust toward his midsection. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but it seems to work.

Your fist connects with his toned stomach. He topples off-balance, but only for a fleeting second. His reflexes are too sharp, too honed through his century-long life for you to overcome with your pitiful attempt.

He catches himself with a graceful pivot, turning the stumble into a curt spin that has him facing you once more.

"Fast learner, are we?" he muses, watching you closely through his fists. "I might actually have to try now."

"Don’t flatter yourself," you shoot back, heart racing. At that moment, you recognize you can’t win. Not this time, probably not the next. But you don’t want to forfeit, even if it means enduring a day or two of terrible muscle soreness.

Every sidestep, every deflected blow, brings you closer, the air between you growing heavy with static. You aren’t sure if it’s the heat of the fight or the dangerous proximity, but you can feel it—an irresistible, undeniable pull.

"Careful now," Astarion purrs as you barely miss his face with a rugged swing. He catches your wrist, holding it tight as he leans in, breath ghosting over your ear. "You wouldn’t want to harm me, would you?"

You swallow hard, your body tensing under his tight grip. The closeness is intoxicating, but you force yourself to stay focused, pushing back against the growing heat in your chest.

"Maybe I would." You don’t.

For a moment, neither of you move. The world seems to narrow, the charged atmosphere thick with tacit suspense. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, senses sharp, attuned to every breath he takes as they intermingle with yours.

"Darling," a dramatic pout creeps onto his lips, only to be replaced by a sly grin seconds later. You feel his grip on your wrist loosening just enough for you to slip free. It’s a calculated move, once he grants you himself. "You wound me with your words."

You take a step back, breathless. This isn’t over, not by a long shot, yet your muscles fight against that thought. They scream at you with pain, worn and stretched by what feels like hours of sparring.

“Sounds like you’re the one trying to wound me,” you taunt, shooting him a lowered gaze. “Why’d you take me out here? Trying to make your next kill less obvious?”

The vampire had insisted you two train away from the bustle of camp, even if it meant missing out on tonight’s feast. While the rest of your companions enjoyed the finest ale Baldur’s Gate could offer, you were stuck trying to prove something to your crush.

Astarion's grin widens, his eyes flashing with amusement as he takes a slow, calculated step forward. “Now, now,” he purrs, voice dripping with mock innocence. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have seen it coming— no need for childish theatrics.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to let him see the slight tremble in your legs from the strain of the sparring—or maybe it’s from something else entirely, you can’t be sure. You know he’s dangerous, that this game you’ve been playing with him has always had its sharp edges. But there’s something about that edge, about the way he dances so easily between teasing and threatening, that weakens your knees and makes you breathless every damn time.

"Then why are we here?" you challenge, taking a step back to match his forward one. Your voice is steady, but your pulse is hammering in your throat. The woods feel like a world apart from camp, the sounds of chatter distant as you sit in your isolated little bubble of the world. “It’s a little… intimate, don’t you think?”

Astarion tilts his head, studying you with a curious twinkle in his crimson eyes. “That sharp tongue again,” he says quietly, “Do you truly believe I’d go through all the trouble of bringing you out here just to end you? If I wanted your death, I’d make it enjoyable for both of us.”

Your breath catches at his words. His words drip with venom, but somewhere deep down, in the depths of his blackened heart, you swear you feel an instance of temptation.

“What’s the game then?” you ask, holding his gaze despite the anxiety twisting in your chest. “Because by the Gods, I know you love those.”

Astarion’s smirk softens, but the intensity in his eyes never falters. He steps closer again, until there’s barely any space between you, his presence intoxicating. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’re capable of,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. “Maybe I wanted to see how far you’d let me push you before you push back.”

His hand hovers near yours, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, but he doesn’t make full contact.

“And maybe,” he continues, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your cheek, “I’m curious what could happen once we both stop playing.”

Your heart is racing now, and you’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from the sparring or the charged air between you that’s making your head spin a hundred miles an hour.

“You’ll never know,” you murmur, meeting his gaze with a boldness you don’t quite feel. “Because I’m not backing down from this.”

His grin widens at your rebellion, and with a swift, fluid motion, the man’s playful smirk turns into a vicious one. Before you can react, he spins you around, movements smooth and practiced, making you lose your balance.

Your back hits his chest, and within seconds he wraps one arm around your neck in a tight headlock— his grip is firm, but not painful. Your mind strays to his other arm, feeling it press against your waist to keep you securely against him.

“Such a feisty little thing,” he purrs into your ear, his breath warm against your sweat-slick skin.

You struggle against his hold, trying to twist free, but his grip is relentless. “Fuck you,” you manage to scowl, though the words are strained by the pressure on your throat.

Astarion chuckles softly, and you feel it reverberate through your body. “Oh, she bites back,” he teases, his voice a dark, seductive buzz. “Are you taunting me, darling?”

You try to shift your weight, to find a way out of the headlock, but his grip doesn’t waver. “You’re projecting,” you growl breathlessly.

“And you’re persistent,” he replies, “Suits you well.”

You feel a warmth spread through your belly, tickling your nerve endings and making your thighs squeeze. You thank the Gods he can’t see your flustered face right now.

And suddenly, he releases. Not fully, but his grip weakens enough to allow you a moment to slip out again, stumbling over your own feet as you face him.

“Here’s your second freebie,” he chuckles, getting into position again. “Careful, next one might come at a price.”

“Like I need a third one,”

You recalibrate, then in the spur of the moment, pounce. Your arms extend as they barrel toward him. His eyes widen, but he manages to catch them mid-air; his hands clasping into yours and pushing against you.

“Fair strategy,” he commends, and you sense it might at least be partially earnest. “Desperate, but fair.”

You strain against him, breath hitching when he periodically pushes back. Whenever he does, you feel his gaze boring into you with a crazed intensity.

Then, you try not to think about the fact your digits fit together really damn well— and fail. Take what you can get, right?

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he sneers, slender fingers tightening around your palm. He leans in, your chests threatening to collide. “Getting distracted?”

You grit your teeth, leaning in with your full body weight, but he barely budges. “You wish,” you shoot back breathlessly.

“I feel it,” he corrects in a whisper, leaning in just enough that his lips hover dangerously close to your ear. “It’s in your eyes. You’re not even thinking about our little lesson anymore, are you?”

Your breath hitches at his words, the undoubted truth in them cutting through the haze in your mind. He’s right. The bet, your lesson —somewhere along the lines, your sparring posture went lax. All that matters to you now is the palpable closeness, your hands in his, and his hot, idle breath on your neck. Your throat threatens to cast a strained groan, but you withhold.

“I—” you start to protest, but your voice falters. His chest is now pressed flush against yours, pushing you forward.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, his voice low, seductive. “And I’ll let you win.”

Your hands tremble in the small space they lock with his, the smoldering red of his gaze telling you he knows exactly what he’s doing—how his actions leave you a mess in body and soul.

“I won’t, I— I can’t,” you manage to stutter, but the words sound weak and unconvincing even to your own weary ears.

He chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through you like a slow current. “Liar,” he whispers, and you catch a glimpse of his pearly fangs in your hazed peripherals. “Not a good one, either. Another thing I should school you on.”

Your eyes roll, but the implication accelerates the growing tension within your guts. “Just how generous you are.”

His head tilts gradually, and you go pale as you catch his tongue running along the length of his bottom lip.

“No, darling,” he purrs, “I haven’t shown you generous just yet.”

And then, you catch his eyes darkening. There’s a certain mania to them when they widen, pupils blown out like a cat’s when he suddenly pushes firmly against you. Your feet stumble backward, staring into him as a wild grin plasters on his face.

You yelp when you lose balance, lips ajar and eyes closed shut as you feel your back crash into something soft, or at least, soft enough to leave you un-bruised.

When your eyes flutter open, he’s on top of you. You study his broad shoulders, the pale neck between them, and finally let your half-lidded gazes connect in a silent, tension-filled juncture.

The ambiance of dusk quiets down to a soft murmur, crickets chirping in the distance as his strong body hovers inches above you, hands placed firmly around your wrists to successfully lock you in place.

“Seems to me you’ve lost our little bet,” he purrs out, and your breath hitches as one of his legs slides between yours, slowly inching to put a distance between your knees.

All you can do is stare up at him hungrily, desperately, drinking in his weathered features and pray he’d let you run your fingers through his flaxen locks at some point in the night.

“No clever retort? That’s not the little bard I know and love,” he teases, and your hips almost buck into him at that one word. You know he doesn’t mean it, yet your teeth still clench when your body jolts in response to his familiar lilt.

“You’re playing dirty,” you finally breathe out, cringing at how strained your voice sounds as you lie under his weight.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” he retorts, his crimson gaze boring into you before gradually disappearing into your neck.

His lips hover over your skin, hot breath tickling the soft spot near your pulse point as you gasp quietly. You feel him hesitate, arms tensing and releasing over your own as if soaked in apprehension. You strain your muscles, eyes shutting in preparation for the inevitable, sharp bite coming onto your poor vein. Gods, was this his plan all along?

But then, you feel the grip on your wrists loosen.

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly catch the tousled white locks in your neck as the vampire looms over you.

“Here’s your chance to run,” he hitches, and somehow he sounds just as out of breath as you do.

You lie on the blanket of moss, chest heaving and gaze tracing languidly over the treeline as you feel your body go limp. He’s giving you one last opt-out before… before something happens, be it a bloody massacre or... Or?

Your mind shrieks at you: take advantage, prove yourself on top in this stupid bet— but the little voice in your heart urges you to stay under his firm body; find out if your instincts rang true after all.

You stay. Not only that, but you let your hands slip out of his, one of them snaking down his shoulder while the other runs through his waves. They’re silky, and soft, and when you catch a whiff of rosemary in the air, your grip tightens.

“Astarion,” you whisper, voice surprisingly steady as your heart beats a constant rhythm into the space between you.

His body jerks abruptly, albeit subtly, and you feel him smirking— smiling— into the soft flesh of your neck. “So I was right, after all.”

His face withdraws from you slightly, the residual condensation of his warm breath leaving you shivering. You catch his gaze, half-lidded and scanning your expression with apt concentration.

“Feisty, spirited little thing,” he continues, inching towards you again.

Your stiff body jerks, grazing against him as your shaky hand snakes to his cheek. You cradle it gently but with urgency, and there’s a beat of silence before you finally understand what to do.

You inhale softly, catch his questioning gaze, and crash your lips onto his.

He groans softly when you meet in the middle, lowering himself with his arms. Your chest thrums with the beat of your heart, shooting waves of dopamine down your worn spine.

When you feel his nimble hand on your jaw, your lips part with a sigh. He matches your buzz with his own self-satisfied murmur, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

You smile. He’s sweet and bitter, and you whine gently into the kiss when you recognize brandy on his tongue.

This is what you’ve been waiting for all these lonesome months.

The culmination dawns on you like a powerful current, making your eyes squeeze and your hands tremble in his waves.

He seems to notice your tremor, but instead of slowing down or (Gods forbid) stopping, he dives deeper. You moan into his mouth as he wriggles a hand around your waist, holding you close to his hips and suddenly, you feel a steady pressure grinding into your crotch.

The movement is slow, precise, practiced. His hips buff into yours in a controlled rhythm, making you sense his already taut erection through the thick material of his linen pants.

“Do you get it now, darling?” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to stare lazily into your glassy eyes. “Look what you do to me.”

His hand snakes to your blouse, and before you can register what’s happening, you hear three ivory buttons pop off followed by the cool, evening breeze tickling your heated skin. You don’t need to open your eyes to know your nipples are standing taut in the chilly air, yet the image makes you redden.

“How— how unceremonious,” you croak out, moaning softly when his large hand begins palming at your right breast.

His thumb and forefinger squeeze at your erect nipple, toying with it in smooth, tactile movements and relishing the way his name sounds coming out of your kiss-swollen lips.

“Mm, forgive me,” he chuckles darkly, planting a quick, ardent kiss on your lips before lowering his face to your chest. His tongue licks a slow, tender strip up your sternum before he looks up to smile at you; it’s a genuine look of satisfaction, untouched by the plague that is his faux arrogance. “I’ll make sure to be good next time.”

’Next time?’

You look at him lazily, gaze puzzled and lips ajar to ask but he doesn’t even offer you the chance. His hand dips from your tits to the band of your pants, sliding underneath it with his finger, the coolness of his skin making you gasp.

His mouth assaults your other nipple with sucks, nibbles, and gentle bites, making you mewl under him as his hand continues to travel down the soft flesh of your thigh. He rubs it gently, lovingly, starting under your hip and slowly stroking his way toward the inner region, where you’re most sensitive.

“Divine,” he mumbles against your chest, pressing a kiss to your rib. “So divine.”

His free palm moves to your exposed belly, massaging it gently. You sigh at the slow, consistent pressure, moving your trembling hand to the back of his neck.

When your one eye pops open in curiosity, you see him snug against your body, face contorted with empathic fixation as he labors down your body. It’s intimate, yes, but also… loving. His tongue is warm against your breast, and his palms caress your skin with slow, delicate strokes; the same hands you’ve seen wield blood-soaked daggers and longbows.

He runs two digits along the stretchy fabric of your bottoms, lip caught between his teeth. He catches you staring and smirks up at you.

“Enjoying yourself?” he husks out, and you’re desperate enough to nod wordlessly.

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, hand smoothing down the waistband of your panties that peers from behind your bottoms. Not even your cutest pair, but oh well. He doesn’t even seem to notice, as his digits play with the elastic.

You’re already so exposed, but nothing can prepare you for what he does next.

With a few more kisses to your breasts, he tugs at the two waistbands, pulling down your pants and panties in one go.

The material slides off your legs and you hiss out, feeling the coolness caress your slick core. Your hands instinctively reach to cover up, but you’re stopped in your tracks by a strong grasp around your wrist.

“Oh no, no,” He looks up at you with an arched eyebrow, and somehow, despite his collected mien, you catch a soft dusting of pink across his cheekbones. “Don’t you dare deny me this view. Not after I’ve waited for so long.”

Your face heats up at the brazen comment, but that only seems to draw him closer. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and he takes the hint immediately.

You connect in a heated kiss, and this time, Astarion is the one groaning against you. You work in tandem, like a gentle, effortless dance, heavy breaths intermingling in a sweet symphony of hums and sighs when…

You feel a touch against your heat. The contact is almost impalpable, yet your eyes flutter open in shock as the man’s fingers trace over your slit.

He withdraws from your kiss, hovering inches from your lips with a soft smile.

“S’unfair,” you slur, gazing up at him with a pleasure-drunken gaze. He exhales loudly, and you gasp. His fingers dip in, rubbing slow circles around your clit. “You— Gods—”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he taunts lowly, continuing his torturously languid movements with a devious smirk plastered on his perfect face. “What’s got you so bothered, my sweet?”

He dips down, teasing your entrance with his index. You pant softly at the prolonged stimulation, trying your damn best to stay focused on furrowing your eyebrows in mock anger.

“Got me so exposed and—” you trail tensely as his finger probes your entrance. “—And you’re still in your damn clothes.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but you doubt he’s even listening to you by how he surveys your body, bottom lip caught between his fangs. “I’m about to show you ‘generous’, like I promised.”

And then, he bottoms out. You moan, feeling two of his digits sliding into you, the slickness of your opening making it an easy feat.

You squeeze around him, and he pumps into you once, then twice for good measure. The sound of his movements is unbelievably and utterly obscene, making your stomach knot in delight.

“So wet already,” he purrs through a smirk, watching you writhe under him, “Don’t tell me our little sparring session got you this bothered.”

You roll your eyes, thighs squeezed tight around his wrist as you move your hips in tandem with his rhythm.

“Come on, talk to me,” he taunts again, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and letting his fingers fuck you in a steady, purposeful rhythm. “Now’s not the time to get coy.”

He switches gears, stopping his movement so he can curl his fingers inside you. He presses against the sweet spot, his thumb reaching to simultaneously rub slow circles against your swollen clit.

You cry out at the newfound pressure, the warmth in your belly twisting into a vortex of fiery delight.

“I—” you mewl against him, wrapping your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna— c-cum—”

His movements quicken at your desperate words, digits working hard against your favorite spot.

“Cum then, my darling,” he taunts firmly, his free hand roaming under your jaw and holding it in place. “Cum for me. Let me— let me look at you, sweet thing.”

Your glassy eyes struggle to focus on his face, but once they do, he hits something white-hot inside you.

His lips crash desperately onto yours, but you struggle to kiss him back through the blinding pleasure of your climax. It thunders down your legs, up your belly, making you cry out against his mouth as everything melts away into a wonderful oblivion.

The last thing you see before your muscles go lax is red.

He rubs your clit methodically through your high, letting you ride it out peacefully as he burrows into your neck again.

When your breath steadies, you feel his fingers slowly withdraw. The emptiness that follows makes you cry out softly, helplessly watching as the man runs his palms up and down your sides.

He presses a soft, soothing kiss against your swollen lips, and you can’t help but glare when you see that he’s still fully dressed, even after your heated orgasm.

He catches your pouting and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, darling?” he purrs, pulling away to take you all in. You’re caught speechless when his hungry gaze scans down your nude body; starting at your smitten face and ending with a lingering glimpse at your spent pussy.

“Please,” you mewl out, raking your hands down his clothed abs. “Gods— Please take these off, I can’t—”

He does.

His hands momentarily withdraw from around you, and with a swift, deft move, he tosses his shirt off.

The silken cloth comes flying into the night like a phantasmal figure, and you watch it catch onto a stray branch to your right.

Your gaze skims hungrily down his sculpted body, watching his muscles tense and release with every little movement. Yes, you’ve seen him shirtless before, yet the context of your current predicament somehow makes it feel like it’s the first time all over again.

Unbeknownst to you, his hands work at his bottoms, swiftly unbuttoning the waistband and letting it sit loose against his hips. You catch a soft, white trail against the edge of his undergarments, leading down to a straining, tented mess below.

Your hand reaches out absent-mindedly, still drunk off the high of your climax and so, so desperate to finally feel him for yourself.

“Not so fast, darling,” he scolds, gently slapping your hand away and letting it wither at your side.

“Let me touch you,” you retort desperately, but he only chuckles as his fingers begin working at his waistband.

“You lost our bet,” he explains, sliding a thumb under the elastic and letting it lower. You catch the very base of his straining erection, and that taunting alone makes you gasp. “Gives me the upper hand.”

“Says who?” you hiss under your breath, failing to give him the glare he deserves as your eyes bore into his.

He gives you a once over, gaze drawing languidly over your exposed body, and only then does the extent of your nudity finally dawn on you.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

You shift under him, shimmying within the small space he allows, and he takes your brief distraction as a moment to unravel his pants completely. They drop to the ground behind you, leaving him in his undergarments, and you bite your lip at how dangerously lax they sit around his hips.

“I think I’ve left you waiting long enough,” he mutters, and your lips go ajar.

The thumb hooked into his briefs starts sliding down his waist, lower and lower until you’re finally even in terms of undress— and you’re ever so starstruck by the sight of his bulging cock hovering over your belly. It stands thick and taut within arm’s reach and you find the fact makes your mouth water.

Then, before you can think of touching him, you feel him place either hand below your knees. He looks up at you with a sly smirk, and you gasp softly when he pushes your thighs flat against your torso, feet in the air and scandalously exposed in front of him.

“You’re playing with me,” you mutter breathlessly, hissing as you feel his length stroking against your inner thigh.

His arms compress you tighter as you feel him lowering, the underside of his cock slapping against your tummy. The gasp that leaves your throat at the sudden contact widens your eyes, and he catches your gaze with his self-satisfied one.

“Do you like that I’m playing with you?” he follows up without a beat, his hips rutting forward. The movement is gentle, yet the pressure is enough to make you whine out in desperation— it’s also the only answer you manage to choke up for him before his cock slides between your wet folds.

“A-Ah— you fucking— fucking prick,” you hiss at the vampire, and so he bears his fangs at you through a wide grin. You find that it makes your breath hitch even amidst your despair.

“Now, now,” he reprimands, words syrupy, “bold words coming from someone so vulnerable.”

His nails dig into the soft flesh of your legs as he slides back and forth, taking meticulous care so that the head of his cock butts against your clit with every dip. The stimulation feels electric, and soon enough, you feel your still-sensitive body ramp up with heated energy for a second time this night.

A minute passes, yet it feels like an eternity. The air between you is thick with tension and the soft, repetitive harmony of your strained moans and his little gasps. You watch his eyes close in concentration, and despite his otherwise relaxed facade, you can tell he’s struggling to resist you by the way his eyebrows knit in the middle.

“Fuck me,” you breathe out, one of your hands extending to claw at his withholding forearm.

When your gazes meet, he looks surprisingly spent; eyes glassed-over, mouth ajar, and the slightest hint of sweat glazing his pale forehead. You realize that his domineering act seemed to come at the expense of his stamina: a resource you had slowly replenished in your comfortable position.

“Not— not yet, darling,” he hitches out, but the words appear tender and helpless to your trained ears. “I— I want to enjoy this— enjoy you—”

Your grip on his forearm tightens, making the bucking of his hips stutter. His eyebrow raises at your touch, but before he can shoot you a witty comment, you’re pushing him forward.

It happens within seconds.

Your knees straighten, feet slamming into his abdomen. He coughs at the sudden, unexpected impact, and you take the opportunity to grab tight onto his forearms. He falls backward, and just before his spine hits the soil beneath, you use the momentum to push yourself onto him.

When his eyes flutter open, you’re straddling his waist.

He blinks in brief confusion, surveying his surroundings before the crimson gaze finally turns to you.

He surveys your face, and you let him. The moment is like a silent meditation, heavy breaths intermingling as he takes your raw beauty in; the longing in your eyes, the soft dusting of pink across your nose, and ultimately, the plush of your lips he had ravaged mere moments ago.

Next, he moves to your body. His eyes scan down your taut nipples, down your tummy, and to the softness of your thighs squeezing his midriff to the ground. When he reaches the junction between your bodies, your hips buck as if on instinct.

“My, just how courageous we are,” he purrs under you, hands reaching to rub down the outside of your thighs. “I wouldn’t be so nice about your dirty tricks if I didn’t find this view thoroughly delectable.”

You shiver at his honeyed words, yet your gaze stays determined on him. Your palms go to rest atop his, marveling at the eccentric softness of his knuckles and the polarizing edge of the nails.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” you grin playfully, rocking your hips back to feel his hard length against the curve of your ass. When a soft hiss escapes his lips, you feel your ego inflate. “Sound familiar?”

His eyes roll, but the grin creeping onto his lips deceives him immediately.

His head tilts at you, fangs bearing in the soft moonlight. “You’re trouble.”

The mischief of your smile spins into a warm fondness. Your cheeks warm, and your heart swells, but you don’t quite understand why. “Oh how rich that is coming from you.”

And then you’re rising on your knees, hips hovering over his throbbing erection. Your palms connect, digits intertwining with his as you lower yourself onto him.

You test the waters first, letting his tip brush over your slit with feather-like touches. You hum gently at the teasing pleasure, and so does Astarion.

When you feel your tummy tightening with anticipation, you dive in. With a light shimmy, you line your hips with his, and with more desperation than you planned, you slide down.

You both hiss as the head of his cock penetrates you, the stretch making your palm tighten against his. You bend at the knees, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the delicious sensation of being filled to the brim after such a long, lonesome time.

Finally, you let your hips slam against his. The sudden, harsh movement makes you gasp out into the tantric air as his tip pokes against your womb. The dull pain quickly shifts into a flat, resonant pleasure, and you waste no time.

Your hips begin to buck against his, building a slow, steady rhythm until you’re confidently riding your vampire lover with a self-satisfied smirk on your lips.

Each thrust makes you mewl, moan, and cry out into the night, that pleasant angle of his cock hitting that same spot his fingers did just minutes ago.

His head rolls back into the ground, and with the remnants of his energy, he issues an occasional, quick rut into you. As it’s rare, you decide to savor it. You squeeze around him with the thrusts, and soon, you feel yourself running out of breath.

“I— I could let you do this for—hells— forever,” he hisses out, and suddenly, you feel his hands unclasp from yours and snake around your waist. “Where have you been all these centuries?”

Your upper body is dragged forward, your tits colliding with his toned chest when he pulls you into a tight, possessive embrace.

You gasp at the warmth between you, and your eyebrows soon furrow when you realize the position limits your hip movement. As you’re forced into a pause from your delirious riding, his lips crash onto yours.

Your tongues share a private, slack dance, heads tilting to adjust as you both hum and groan into the fiery kiss. You attempt to rut into him, and soon enough he gets the hint.

Keeping you immobilized against his chest, his hips pound up into you. The first few smacks are scandalously loud, and you revel in the newfound angle.

You’re lost in him, completely and utterly. When he moans, you respond with a hum— when his embrace tightens around you, you kiss him harder.

The familiar, fiery heat in your tummy bubbles up again. You feel it amp up, grow, and send jolts up your spine when suddenly, you’re being pushed up. When your eyes flutter open, you catch his still closed.

His chest stays firm against yours as he positions you upright, letting you straddle his hips as you’re both left sitting in the soft patch of grass and wildflowers.

With your body regaining its mobility, you start grinding against him again. The position allows for a deliciously intimate closeness, his cock burrowing deep into you as you resume riding him.

The pressure within you grows, emerging as a knot— threatening to unravel with every other thrust. Your clit rubs against the base of his groin, amplifying the pleasure into a sensation you’ve long forgotten about.

“A-Astarion—” you mewl out between kisses, and his hot breath tickles your face when he chuckles.

“Cum for me,” he sighs out, and the assertion comes off soft and pleading as it settles into the groves of your heart.

“O-Okay— I… I—”

He tightens his hold on your waist with one hand, as the other moves to cradle your cheek. His touch is unbelievably delicate and affectionate, and out of all the stimulation he had so graciously provided you this night, it’s that soft touch that sends you over the edge.

Your lips connect in one last kiss, and you moan throatily into his mouth. Your hips still, thighs squeezing as your pussy tightens around his cock in a moment of pure bliss. The steadily rising pressure in your belly finally tips over, sending a wave of bliss down your entire being.

Still, he keeps moving. You almost want to scream against him as his hips begin pounding into you again, the soft slaps quickening as he slowly peaks with you.

Withdrawing from the kiss to lean against your neck, he cums. Hard.

Your slowly declining climax seems to slam the gas pedal as you feel him release deep into you, the warmth spreading through your body like a genial embrace, a fact that makes him groan loudly against your mouth. Your breath stills in your throat, before finally releasing into a long, guttural moan— it echoes into the night, and your vision blurs.

White-hot bliss envelops your body, and you melt into Astarion’s for solace. You feel him grip you, caress your face, kiss away your adrenaline-fueled tears, and pant softly against your lips as your pussy spasms again.

Your orgasm envelops you in slow, pulsating waves as it withdraws, and you’re soon left huffing into the vampire’s flaxen locks. You think you hear him speak, but the ringing in your ears is too potent to know for certain.

Then, as the ringing finally retires, you hear him whisper your name. It’s a soft, patient call against the burning skin of your neck, one you commit to memory as you’re finally awarded your senses back— if only partially.

The forest feels exceptionally silent as you fall into his arms. You recognize the soft chirp of crickets in the distance, perhaps a distant hoot of owls, but it all seems to blend into an indecipherable blur as exhaustion floods your system.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, and your mind sinks into the soft, languid thumps of his heart. His hand caresses your back, and you sigh deeply.

You sit there for what feels like hours, drinking each other in. You’ve waited so long, and finally, you’re at ease— it’s a feeling you wish to cherish, and if it wasn’t for the pesky passage of time, you’d choose to stay in this damned forest for eons; with him.

You feel him shift against you. His hands withdraw from your waist, and he whispers softly against you. “Come, my love.”

You hum in disagreement, face burrowing deeper into him. Yes, rosemary and brandy— now it’s clear to you.

He exhales sharply, and you smile into his neck. He waits for a beat, before placing a soft kiss to your temple. “Wait here.”

You nod gently and finally allow him to withdraw. The separation makes you sigh, your body shivering in the newfound cold of the night, but you persevere. In the longing to hold on to the moment for a little longer, you keep your eyes closed and hope he’ll return before you open them again.

You hear him shuffle around, walking from left to right, before finally returning to face you. “Hands up,” he mutters softly, and you do as you’re told in your pleasure-drunken stupor.

You feel him drape something silken over your sweat-slick body, the soft material draping your hips before coming to a stop at your thighs. When you breathe in, you immediately realize it’s not your shirt, so you grin.

When you’re comfortably wrapped up, he leans in. Once you finally sense the familiar warmth of his chest, you lean against his shoulder and breathe in his scent.

You’re surprised he does this for you. Tenderness is not exactly something you’d connect with a man of his past, of his skill. Yet, when his hands move to rest under your knees and back, you don’t resist.

He lifts you off the ground, letting your fatigued frame rest against him. He takes it upon himself to get you back to camp, safe and sound, and only slightly perturbed.

You drink in everything you can, letting yourself be greedy for once. The steadiness of his breath, his warm chest, the crinkling of leaves under his feet— it’s an image you swear to place, no matter what difficulties might threaten to befall you in the future.

And he’s silent up until you reach the campgrounds. The chatter of dinnertime has long died down, and when you open your eyes, you spot the crackling embers of firelight flickering away among a circle of stones. The flames cast a soft, warm light onto the closed tents, and you revel in the intimacy of the moment.

“Everyone met their bedtime while we’ve been naughty sneaking out,” he murmurs with a chuckle, and you close your eyes hurriedly in hopes of feigning slumber. Still, you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face at his brazen comment.

You reach the outskirts and finally spot his tent just below an old, sturdy oak tree. You recall the talks you had out front so many times before, back when your feelings were just sparks of something much stronger and much, much warmer.

He crouches down and with an unsurprising agility climbs into the little shelter with you still in his arms. You lie slack against him, letting his arms lay you gently onto his woolen mat. You melt into the warmth almost immediately, sighing out dreamily when you feel his presence beside you.

It’s silent for a moment, and when your eyes finally flutter open, you catch him staring at you. His gaze is thoughtful but warm, lingering over your form with a certain glimmer.

“I guess it’s official, then,” you sigh out, closing your eyes again and letting a lazy smile drift over your features.

He pauses for a moment, then clears his throat. “What… what is?”

You chuckle softly at his awkward tone, shifting to the side and letting one of your eyes pop open to glance at him.

“My victory,” you state matter-of-factly before quickly shifting to your other side, facing away from him just to let a satisfied grin creep onto your face.

You don’t witness it, but his expression goes from tense, to disconcerted, to irritated in a matter of seconds. His eyes roll, and you suddenly feel a flat slap against your ass.

“Woah there, hey!” you gasp, followed by a cheeky giggle. Your head turns to face him from your comfortable position, and you catch him mirroring your grin.

“Quiet, now,” he commands softly, pivoting to lie beside you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you into his chest. “Bet’s over, darling. I’m sorry to say, but you’ve not proven yourself capable. Shame, really.”

You blow a raspberry through your smile and shimmy closer to him, your body melting perfectly into his— a fact that has you near to falling asleep.

“Shame indeed. The look on your face was priceless when you ate dirt,” you shrug nonchalantly, “At least that’s the version I’ll be telling everyone come morning.”

He scoffs, the low rumble of it vibrating against your back, but his arm only tightens around you. You feel his face in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“If you do that, I might just have to kill you,” he mutters, but despite the intensity of the words, his voice is soft and loving against your head. His hand drifts to your belly, fingers tracing lazy circles against the soft skin there.

“You would never.”

He’s silent for a beat. Your lips open to build on your clever retort before you feel his sharp exhale on your neck.

“Sleep, darling,” he reprimands, squeezing your midriff gently.

You sigh contentedly, your lips brushing against the pillow as you settle deeper into his embrace. The tent is cocooned in warmth, but you feel the cool kiss of the evening breeze filtering in through the small opening at the entrance. Outside, the campfire crackles faintly, the last embers glowing like distant stars before fading into fine ash.

As you drift closer to sleep, wrapped in the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the world around you blurs into the peaceful haze of near-dreams.

Just as the veil of slumber begins to pull you under, you feel his lips press against your hair, a soft whisper brushing against your skin.

“As long as I'll live, I never could.”

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justauthoring · 4 months

Text

yours, always.

requested -> ooh since ur writing fairy tail fics now, how abt a gray x ice dragon slayer reader where she just likes the taste of gray’s ice and always convinces him to make her some by -> anonymous

a/n -> it's been a hot minute since i wrote for fairy tail and gray is just adorable so here yall go

pairing -> gray fullbuster x f!reader

want to support me? send me a coffee!

“blegh.”

from across the bar, drying a cup in her hands, mirajane raises a curious brow. “what’s the matter, y/n?”

meeting her eyes, you pout, draped across the top of her bar rather dramatically. your hands stretch out before you, and you not so subtly shove the cup of ice away from you. “i’m hungry.”

“oh,” she frowns, concerned, eyes momentarily eyeing the cup of ice you'd shoved away. “i can make you something if you’d like? you need only ask, y/n. you know that.”

you turn to her, letting your chin rest on the table instead of your cheek and frown, not having meant to insult her. “I know, mira. thank you,” you say honestly, sending her a small smile. “it’s not food really that i’m hungry for, it’s—“

whatever you’d been about to say promptly gets cut off by the sound of the doors open. you straighten, surprising mirajane as you practically leap to your feet. instantly, your head is snapping towards the door, desperately hopeful, before your eyes practically shine at the sight of a familiar dark-haired (shirtless) mage.

“gray!” you call, bounding towards him without a second thought.

at the sound of his name, gray turns to face you, settling once he realizes just who called for him. his face brightens and a gentle smile curls on his lips as his arms widen to hug you, body obviously easing at you, his girlfriend, given how much he’d missed you while taking solo job.

it wasn't even like he'd been gone for that long — the mission had taken no more than two days. it was just rare that the two of you didn't go together, or at least with the rest of team natsu, but you hadn't been feeling well so you'd opted out.

you'd severely regretted that decision the second gray left.

except, you don’t jump into his arms like gray expects, arms shifting to prepare himself. instead, you stop right before him, hands reaching to clasp his wrist and tug it towards your chest.

“ice.”

and he blinks, stunned and confused, the whole thing happening in a blink of the eye to gray. he's dreadfully confused and a little disappointed because he'd been looking forward to that hug and then, your words register and he smirks teasingly.

“and here i thought you actually missed me.”

eyes shifting from his hand to his eyes, you pause. “oh, yes, gray of course i missed you. im glad you’re safe,” you rush out in a way that doesn’t completely seem heartfelt in the way gray had really wanted. but, he guessed, it was that thought that counted?

“now, ice. im starving.”

huffing, gray moves to oblige, not able to deny your request but still pouting about it.

“seriously,” he whines, feeling rerribly unlike himself (only you would have the ability to make him whine), holding his hand and making some ice for you to take. “it’s like you just use me to eat my ice. did you know that i missed you and you were on my thoughts the entire—“

gray halts when he feels your lips press against his cheek.

lips parting, his eyes follow you as you lean back, the ice he’d made for you held safely in your hands as you beam up at him.

“thank you,” you whisper, warm and genuine.

the sight of you smiling at him like that and the sound of your voice has gray short circuiting, cheeks turning a bright red as you move to happily munch of the ice.

“mm!” you exclaims, giddy and satisfied. “delicious. as always. no other ice can compare.”

and it’s silly and stupid. it’s just ice, but it melts gray’s heart and your words mean so much to him that all he can manage is to smile back at you, eyes flooded with love.

"you're welcome," he muses, watching you with adoring eyes. with the ice happily in your hands as you munch away, gray wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side as he leads you towards a table.

truthfully, he'll give you all the ice in the world if it makes you that happy every time.

and he'd be foolish to deny how happy it makes him that only his ice can satisfy your craving.

#fairy tail #fairy tail x reader #ft #ft x reader #gray fullbuster #gray fullbuster x reader #gray x reader

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manheimsmuse · 2 months

Note

Hello! I saw your requests were open so I was wondering if you could write a Spencer Reid x Reader fic based off “prison for life” by Olivia Rodrigo. Spencer has always been in the protector role so i believe it would fit him, please and thank you

PRISON FOR LIFE ; spencer reid

i know i can protect myself, but when you do it for me it’s hot as hell . . .

a/n: your brain is huge this song is so spencer coded

warnings: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, unsub / case entirely made up to avoid spoilers, protective!spencer, established relationship, secret relationship, mentions of guns, violence, blood, criminal minds in general

a team. the worst kind of conclusion to draw when you’re narrowing in on an unsub, or two in this case. two family annihilators that would stalk and learn the routines of their victims, the kills were usually quick and ruthless, in and out in a matter of minutes.

only this time, your team had gotten there right in time. derek dragged one unsub out the door while the other bolted down the stairs towards the basement. without thinking, you’re sprinting after him, unknowingly running straight into a trap.

you trip the moment you barrel through the door, flying head first down the flight of stairs and landing on the hard concrete with a hard thud.

dizzily, you get to your feet, clumsily reaching for your gun only to realise you dropped it on your way down. it’s dark, you’re disoriented, and most terrifyingly, you’re not alone down here.

a fact you’re abruptly reminded of when a cord is wrapped around your throat, pulling your back flush against the chest of the unsub you were hunting. the initial panic urges you to scramble, but your training kicks in and you manage the lodge your elbow right into his ribs making him drop the cable.

the same elbow connects with his jaw with a satisfying crack but he’s not going easily, using the hair at the back of your head as leverage to bash your head against a dust old desk.

the struggle goes on for what feels like hours, and you’re giving as good as you’re getting. with a successful knee to his groin you send the unsub tumbling to the ground, and right as he’s about to lunge at you a metallic click sounds from behind where you stand.

“one more step and i’ll empty my clip”

spencer reid, your favourite coworker who also happens to be your long time boyfriend, has his gun pointed at the unsub with one hand as the other reaches out to pull you behind him protectively.

in a matter of seconds tara is cuffing the dirtbag before you and hauling him up the stairs with the help of jj, leaving you and spencer in the dusty basement.

“I had it under control.”

“It was no problem, darling, honestly, no need to thank me” spencer teases, holstering his gun and taking your face in his hands to fully examine the extent of your injuries “you really think i was just gonna ignore the fact you ran after a killer and didn’t come back within sixty seconds?”

“i’m not some damsel in distress” you groan, letting him examine your face with no resistance “i can protect myself”

“i know.” spencer nods, using his thumb to swipe the blood away from your bottom lip “it’s not gonna stop me protecting you, though. sorry”

he can see through your faux annoyance. spencer knows just as much as you do that you like having him as your protector, it’s ‘his job’ as he put it.

though, his protectiveness has made hiding your relationship that bit trickier.

everyone on the team would take a bullet for each other, there was no doubt about it, but people hotch were beginning to notice that spencer often went above and beyond when it came to your safety.

like when the bau were being targeted, he never left your side, if you were sent to interview a suspect reid was right there with you. even if a joke was made at your expense, it wouldn’t be entertained by spencer.

sometimes you could pass it off as it being because you were a woman, because even though all the women on the team were more than capable, the men on the team had a fierce protective streak for them whether or not they knew.

“you’re so annoying..” you grumble, fighting a small smile.

“mhm” spencer chuckles, pressing a quick, light kiss to your head “i love you too, darling”

“oh!”

a squeak from tara has both of you whipping your heads in her direction, frozen in the mixture of fear and embarrassment that you’d just been caught out.

“well,” tara clears her throat and makes a poor attempt at concealing a grin “we’re all done here when you two are ready.”

#manheimsmuse #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds

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moonjxsung · 3 months

Text

No Guts / No Glory

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner. Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

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shu-porang-porang · 6 months

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Kiss It Better

No one knows what a needy kitty he is but you.

Pairs: Lee Minho (Lee Know) / reader (gender not specified)

Theme: just fluff coz I'm such a sucker for fluffy Minnie

Warnings: not proofread

Word count: 0.7 k

You’re in your shared apartment, reading a book on the couch, with Soonie curling up in your lap, purring as you pet him. Except for the occasional mewing of the cats, it’s so quite you can hear your heart beat in your ears. You’re growing restless, can't stand waiting for him anymore, you even stayed a bit longer at work so you’d have to spend less time alone. You look at the clock on the wall, he’s late. As you reach for your phone to call him, the apartment door clicks open and the sound startles Soonie off your lap.

He enters and you hear him dropping his bag on the floor. He shuffles out of his sneakers into slippers and finally appears in your sight.

“Hey jagya” he offers you a tired smile and walks over to you.

“Hi love” you reply as he bends to give you a quick kiss before heading to change his clothes.

He comes back and plops down on the couch next to you. You put your book down and open your arms, inviting him into your hug. He circles his arms around you and buries his face in your chest.

“Tough day?” you ask as you play with his hair and draw circles on the small of his back with your other hand.

“mhmm” he hums hugging you tighter.

“It’s okay baby. Your tough day is over. Now you’re with me.” you keep massaging his scalp and he’s practically purring now.

“You did great today, you always do, and I’m so proud of you.” you finish your sentence with a kiss on top of his head and he looks up at you. His gorgeous sparkly eyes looking at you like a lost puppy melt you into a puddle. The little pout on his perfect lips makes it all the more impossible to resist him. So, you cup his face and kiss the pout away.

“I missed you so bad” he sighs against your lips. His lips get back on yours as if they’re finally where they belong. The kiss is slow and sweet, no hurried or sloppy movements, you both take your time pouring love into it. The moment is so pure and wholesome that overwhelms you.

“I love you so much” you break the kiss to remind him of that.

“I love you more”. It’s probably true.

Of course you fell first, he was a world-renowned idol after all, but everyone who knew him could tell that he fell harder, way harder than you’d ever thought possible. Soon enough you became his safe haven, the main source of joy in his life, the one thing he really cared about. That’s why on days like this, the only thing that could help him get through was knowing that you’d be there for him. He often questions himself how was he ever able to live this stressful life before you? But it doesn’t matter anymore, he doesn’t need to worry about his life without you, the only thing that matters is that he has you now.

Your heart is flooded with love. You lean in to gently kiss his forehead. He closes his eyes with a little satisfied smile on his lips, entirely letting himself go in your arms, basking in the warm glow radiated from your love. You plant the softest kisses on his eyes and then the ridge of his nose, it scrunches up cutely.

“Look at you, my adorable big kitty. How did I get so lucky to have you?” you chuckle lightly. His smile grows wider but he keeps his eyes closed, he wants more.

You generously offer him more kisses, on his temple, on his cheek, around the shell of his ear. You make sure to pepper kisses on every inch of his face. How could you not when he’s being so soft and needy for you?

“Are you feeling better baby?” you ask him, caressing his cheek with your thumb. He finally opens his eyes.

“I do, so much better. Thank you”

“Anything for you, love” you lean in for another kiss before he lays his head on your lap and drift off to dreamland with your fingers in his hair, soothing him even more.

915 notes · View notes

honeekyuu · 3 months

Text

mine. [suna rintarou x f!reader]

>>You catch Miya Atsumu's attention, and Suna struggles to deal with that.

Everyone always makes assumptions about your relationship with Suna Rintarou, and he has no problem proving them right.<<

______________________________

tags: chubby!reader, smut, fluff, angst, childhood best friends to lovers, penetrative sex, fingering, rough sex, tattoo shop owner suna rintarou, miya atsumu is a bit of a menace, jealousy, unprotected sex, creampie, hand job

a/n: suna rintarou x chubby!reader is my favorite flavor of cake

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

------------------

“What are you doing here?” Suna stands over the wheely chair at the receptionist’s desk, glaring down at the top of Miya Atsumu’s head. The twin only turns to look up at him, smiling brightly.

“I got bored.”

“Go be bored somewhere else.”

“Aw, come on, Suna-” Suna grabs the back of chair and drags it to the side, effectively shoving Atsumu out of his way so he can look through his appointments on the computer. He’s got a regular coming in at 3, so – he glances at the clock hanging over the window in the waiting area – he’s free for the next couple hours.

“-out here today. Just today?”

“You’re still talking?” Suna pokes around in the calendar, seeing that he’s fully booked for the weekend. Thank God his secretary had asked for today off and not tomorrow.

“Your secretary’s not even here today! I can play the part!” “If I needed someone to play the part, I wouldn’t have given her the day off.” He mumbles it under his breath, feeling Atsumu’s gaze burning into the side of his head. He knows the man won’t leave. Never once in the time they’ve known each other has he listened to anyone but himself.

He turns and leans against the desk, sighing as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“In case you hadn’t noticed-“ He waves a hand out toward the empty shop. “-there’s no one here. My entire staff is at the beach, which means that if I didn’t need them -“ He tries to reach for Atsumu so he can push the man out of that stupid chair he’s currently spinning circles in. The blond just wheels out of reach. “-then I don’t need you-Can you just go ?!”

The bell above the door jingles, interrupting Rintarou’s temptation to swing a fist into his friend’s face. He turns to find a young man nervously perusing the art on the walls. He stands to full height and combs a hand through his hair, remembering that he’s still a business owner.

“Hey, how’s it-”

“Welcome in, welcome in!” Suna’s shoved out of the way by a pair of excited hands, Atsumu decidedly his obnoxious secretary for the day. “This your first time?”

The man jumps, turning and offering an anxious smile. “Y-Yeah. I was wondering if you take walk-ins…?”

Suna nods, reaching into the desk for an intake packet. “For sure. I’m free until 3, if you don’t mind just filling out this-” He sighs in annoyance, because Atsumu’s ripping the papers from his hand and presenting them to the man with a flourish.

“If you could just fill out this quick form, kind sir-”

The man takes the packet, a bit startled, and moves toward the waiting area for a seat. He pauses briefly, peering at Atsumu’s face.

“Hey, aren’t you that famous volleyball player…?”

Atsumu beams at the man, but Suna’s pressing an irritated hand to his shoulder and gripping tight. The twin barely winces.

“Yes, he is . Which is why he’s leaving . Because he already has a job .” Every emphasis comes with a harsh squeeze of Suna’s fingers into Atsumu’s shoulder bones.

“How could I leave you without a receptionist, Suna? In your time of need? Never!” Atsumu brushes him off and takes a seat, plopping down into the chair with a satisfied smile. Suna just stares at him, wondering if it’s too much to just call the cops and pretend they don’t know each other.

Instead, he just sighs, meeting the customer’s eyes and gesturing back to one of the many curtained-off sections of the shop.

“I’m gonna go set up - you can just come find me when you’re ready.”

The man nods meekly as Suna moves to set up at his station. He’s joined a few minutes later, and within the hour, this shy man officially has his first tattoo. It’s some simple line art on his wrist, but he’s staring at it in wonder as if it were Suna’s life work.

“Dude… Thank you so much.”

Suna just chuckles.

“You’re good, man. Come back when you’re ready for a sleeve, yeah?” He flexes his own decorated arm at the man to emphasize the quip, and the guy just laughs, still peering down at his tiny tattoo.

The bell above the door jingles again, and he checks his watch with a subdued sigh. He’d been looking forward to a quiet afternoon.

“ Well, hello, Miss! Welcome in! Is this your first time? ”

Suna rolls his eyes as he starts wrapping up his customer’s wrist, because he can recognize that sleazy tone in Atsumu’s voice from a mile away. He’d had it since high school.

The last thing he needs is that idiot driving away potential customers with his gross attitude.

“ O-Oh, no, it’s not- ” Suna freezes, tape clinging to his thumb instead of to the wrapping. “ -I just came to see Rin-er-Suna. Suna. ”

God, this cannot be happening.

The silence that follows is full of curiosity on Atsumu’s end. Suna rushes to finish up, desperate to cut their interaction short.

“ Oh, you know Suna personally? Where from?”

“We grew up together!”

“What?! Since when? ”

Why is it so god-damn hard to wrap a tattoo today? He’s been doing this shit for years.

The quiet laughter that rings out in his shop is enough to make him flinch. Oh, he bets Atsumu loves that laugh.

“We were neighbors until high school! Roommates now, actually-” “Roommates?!”

“Alright, you’re good. You can see my secretary up front for the bill.” Suna stands with unnecessary force, his head poking up from behind the curtain.

When he turns to the front, he has to force himself not to sigh.

You’re standing in the waiting area, dangling a lunch box from one hand as you laugh brightly at Atsumu’s reaction.

The summer dress you’re wearing is one of his favorites – the way it hugs your curves has made his mind wander more often than he’d care to admit. And when you spot him looking at you, the twinkle that fills your eye is one he doesn’t want to share with anyone.

Especially not Miya Atsumu .

“Rin!” You thrust the lunch box out in his direction, shaking it playfully at him.

He leads his client up to the front, not bothering to respond aside from a nod of acknowledgement.

“Atsumu-” He claps him hard on the shoulder, but the blond is just staring up at him, scandalized. “-will ring you up.” He smiles down menacingly. “Won’t you?”

Atsumu just nods dumbly and meets the customer’s eyes, still processing the information he’s just received.

“Yeah, sure.”

Suna uses the break in his attention to glance at you, catching your interested gaze. He nods over his shoulder, leading you to the back room. You skip to catch up with him, your dress swaying around your hips. Suna pretends not to see it, choosing instead to shoulder the door open with a sigh.

“Don’t you work today?”

“Yeah, I’m on my break!” You smile up at him, dangling the lunch box in his face again. He takes it without a word, flopping down onto the leather couch and setting it on the coffee table. You sit beside him, kicking your sandals off and curling your knees into your chest as you lean against him. “You said you had a light day today, though.”

“I do. That was a walk-in.” He gestures out to the front in explanation, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees as he unpacks the lunch. A trio of onigiri in one container and some cutely decorated hot dog bites in the other.

He bites into an onigiri and hums.

“Spicy crab.”

You lean forward, eyes sparkly. “Does it taste okay? I tried something new today! Can you guess what it is?”

Suna just hums and takes another bite, knowing you’ll tell him anyway. You’d always had that hyperactive personality, that sweet girl persona. Growing up, he’d only ever needed to sit quietly in your presence. His friends had always been your friends, because he could never be bothered enough to make his own and you always had so many. He’d liked it better that way – he’d never needed anyone but you.

“Why didn’t you tell Miya that you work at his brother’s shop?”

“It’s spicy flakes! Can you taste them?” Only when he hums again, noncommittal to a fault, do you answer him. “Well, why haven’t you or Osamu told him yet?”

Because we know how he is.

Suna just shrugs, reaching for the second one. It’s filled with tuna.

You watch his reaction to the taste closely – the flavor isn’t anything abnormal, but you watch him as if tuna were suddenly a bold choice. You’d always liked watching him eat your cooking. It warms you to see him eat well.

Finally, you answer his question like an afterthought.

“I figured that if he didn’t already know from you two, then there was no reason to know. And he comes into the shop all the time, anyway, but he’s always ranting about volleyball so he never notices me in the kitchen.”

Suna snorts. Of course Atsumu hadn’t noticed you until it was convenient for him.

He reaches for a hot dog – it’s cut to resemble an octopus. He feels like he’s in high school, eating a bento made by a girlfriend.

He shoves that thought to the back of his head, popping the thing in his mouth and chewing with interest. It’s good, just like everything you make.

“Why didn’t you tell him you knew who he was?” He takes another. Did you cook them in something sweet? This is new. “He is famous.”

“You always complained in high school that he had a big head.” You smile when he smirks at your simple reasoning. “You like the honey soy glaze?”

So that’s what it is.

“‘s good.”

You beam at him, always excited for literally any response other than his grunt of general acknowledgement. Taking him in, you have to hide your grin behind a hand, because this 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man is eating a bento that looks like it was decorated by a teenage girl.

The moment is thoroughly interrupted when the door to the room is thrown open.

“So this is where you two wandered off to!”

Suna only realizes he’s sighed in irritation when you nudge him, a gentle reprimand. He glances back at you, finding that sweet expression you always put on around people you don’t know well.

Part of him hates that you’d bless Miya Atsumu with even your fakest smile.

Atsumu barges in, taking a seat on the stool by the counter. He smiles smoothly at you, his eyes lingering on where your exposed thighs press into Suna’s side. He can think of at least a dozen girls from high school who would have killed for that kind of proximity to Suna Rintarou.

And looking at you? He has no clue how a girl like you – so innocent-looking and cute, just his type – could end up this close with such a dry, deadpan man.

“So, Rin-” Atsumu’s eyes linger shamelessly on any amount of plush skin he can manage a glimpse of. You pretend not to notice, if only for Rintarou’s sake. He’s got his eyes locked on the bento, determined to ignore his friend, and you don’t want him to get any more upset than he already is.

“Why have you never mentioned this lovely lady to me? I’ve only known you - what, ten years ?” The blond counts the years on his fingers just to be sure, meeting your eyes flirtily when you laugh generously at his obvious attempt to be funny.

Suna’s not sure why he’s suddenly wondering how good it would feel to kick Atsumu’s fat head right off his shoulders.

“Because she’s none of your business.”

He takes another bite of hot dog, as if he hadn’t just set up an implied boundary about whose business you really are. He’s staring down at the lunch, practically stabbing it with his chopsticks, so he doesn’t see the way Atsumu’s eyebrows lift surprise, the way you just smile knowingly like this moment is familiar.

The blond glances at your face, but you’re just smiling at the back of Suna’s head fondly.

Interesting.

He asks for your name, and when you give it, Atsumu’s repeating it back slowly, appreciatively.

Suna’s self-aware enough to stifle the sigh this time. This guy’s so full of shit sometimes.

“Well, Suna and I met in high school.” He tilts his head in your direction, waiting for you to meet his eyes. It comes far later than he’d have liked, your gaze lingering on the food that Suna’s eating. You watch for the man’s reaction to the onigiri he’s biting into, and when Suna nods with a hum, you’re beaming.

And then you’re turning your attention to Atsumu’s comment.

“Oh, I know.” You settle back into the couch, throwing an arm onto the back of the cushion and leaning your head on your hand. “I’ve heard all about you , Mister Miya.”

Suna knows he’d only ever complained about Atsumu in high school, but the way you say it to the blond makes it feel like you’re flirting.

Was that an accident of your tone? Or did you do that on purpose?

He glances up through his lashes, finding that interested gleam in Atsumu’s eye as he lifts his eyebrows.

“Oh? Only good things, I hope.”

“I bet you do.”

Okay, that one was definitely on purpose. Suna has to restrain himself from glancing back at the look on your face - he’s a little afraid of what he’ll find.

“We were on the same volleyball team, you know.”

“I know that, too. I caught a couple of your games, when I could make the trip.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows lift impossibly higher, and he’s leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees.

You note that he doesn’t look as good as Rintarou when he does it.

“Oh, really? Then maybe - if you’re interested in volleyball - you might know that I went pro?”

Suna spears right through the last hot dog with one of his chopsticks. He’d heard Atsumu use that line on so many girls before you. Fuck the fact that it never fails – he’s irritated that Atsumu would even dare to use it on you in the first place.

A recycled pickup line. What does he take you for?

He waits for you to humor him, at the very least. Of course you know he went pro. You work in his brother’s onigiri shop. Osamu had gotten a TV installed for the sole purpose of airing Atsumu’s games live.

“Oh, did you? Sorry, I don’t really follow it anymore. Not since Rin stopped playing in college.”

It takes every single ounce of Suna’s strength to keep his smile down. He’s never seen such a clean shutdown in his life.

Apparently, neither has Atsumu. The man looks stunned, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Suna takes the opportunity to pack up his empty bento, laying the chopsticks flat on the lid. He falls back into the couch with a satisfied sigh, unknowingly nestling his head into the space where you’re leaning.

You drop your arm around his shoulders with a smile. He turns to look at you, not realizing how close he is until it’s too late. His eyes widen just a fraction, and he’s turning away quickly to stare down at his lap, but you can see the color filling his cheeks.

“Was lunch good?”

Suna just hums, adding a shallow nod after the fact. He clenches his jaw when he hears Atsumu scoff across the room.

“Dude, she made you a whole feast and all you do is nod ?” The blond puffs his chest out, meeting your eyes again. You smile sweetly, excited to see what he’ll try next. “You should make me lunch next time, Y/n. I’ll treasure it, I promise.”

Your grin grows, and Atsumu looks proud of himself, but you’re only laughing because he’s had your cooking. More than once, in fact. But he’d always been too caught up in himself to notice.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you always bring Suna his lunch?”

You shake your head, leaning away from Rintarou briefly to reach for something in your bag. “No, it was just a quiet day at work. I guess everyone is enjoying the weather.”

You pull out a container full of cut watermelon and a fork, passing it to Rin as Atsumu’s asking a follow-up question.

“Where do you work?”

You smile to yourself, taking the lid from Rin. “I’m in the restaurant business.”

Suna stares down into the container. You’d cut the watermelon into star shapes.

“What, did you get fucking trigger happy with a new fruit cutter or something?”

You just shake your head curiously.

“No, I did it by hand. Why?”

Suna rolls his eyes with a smile as he takes a bite. Of course you did.

Atsumu clears his throat for your attention.

“Which restaurant? Maybe I’ll stop by during your next shift to say hi.”

Suna narrows his gaze at the man.

“What exactly do you think she does?”

Atsumu meets his glare, eyes wide.

“She said she was a waitress.”

You smile brightly at his response. Suna only scowls.

“Did she?”

In the blond’s defense, he does look to you right away, realizing he’s misunderstood.

“Oh, sorry - Did I…” He trails off when you laugh and shake your head.

“It’s fine. I spend most of my time in the kitchen, though, so I probably wouldn’t have time to say hi if you stopped by.”

Atsumu lifts his brows, clearly impressed. “Oh, shit, you cook? That’s pretty cool - my brother owns an onigiri shop, actually. You guys might get along!”

Suna purses his lips to hide his grin, shaking his head and stabbing at another piece of watermelon when you giggle and mumble ‘ Oh, really? ’ in response.

And then the door jingles out front, and Suna’s glancing at Atsumu. The blond makes no move to get up.

“You know, usually my secretary is the one to greet the clients.”

Atsumu barely spares him a glance, too focused on smiling at you.

“Yeah, well, your secretary also gets paid, so…”

Suna glares – he would rather choke than leave you alone in here with him.

You recognize the look in his eye, your smile full of affection.

“I should probably get back to work, anyway. My break ends in…” You check your watch. “Oh. Ten minutes ago.” You laugh loudly, rushing to pack up and slip your sandals on. Rintarou stands, propping the door open and poking his head out to wave at his 3 o’clock.

“Hey, sorry – I was just eating lunch.” You slip past him, all but jogging to the front. Atsumu’s not far behind, offering to walk you back to work. You brush him off quickly, glancing back at Suna as you hoist your bag over your shoulder.

“Pick me up after work, Rin? I want to go grocery shopping.”

Suna just nods, leading his client back to his station and waving at you. He catches Atsumu following you out briefly, and he hears something about asking for your number, but he just sits at his stool and shakes his head with a heated sigh. His client settles into the chair and slips off his shirt, revealing their current work in progress.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Atsumu barges back into the shop a moment later, and Suna hears the blond flop down into the chair at the front desk and call back to him excitedly.

“ Dude, where have you been keeping a girl like that all these years?!”

Suna shakes his head again, trying to clear his mind so he can work. The response he mumbles to the client is bitter, even to his own ears.

“I don’t.”

–

“You’re quieter than usual.” You pick up another onion, examining it before setting it in the basket Rintarou’s holding.

“Funny.” He says nothing else, watching you glance down at the list in your hand before following you across the produce section to an area full of herbs like a dedicated boyfriend. There are two women not too far away, and when they spot the two of you – you in your pretty sundress with your bright smile, and him in all black with ink covering every inch of his arms and hands – they immediately start to whisper to each other, not even bothering to hide their glances.

You just pick up a bundle of cilantro, sniffing at it and humming in disapproval. You replace it and reach for another, the voices of the two women drifting through the otherwise empty area.

“ -had a man like that, I’d never let him out of the house-”

“Oh, my God, stop it! That’s so awful-”

“I can’t help it! Look at him, he’s perfect!”

You snort into the new bundle, barely hiding your smile as you reach for a bag to wrap it in. When you place it in the basket, you find Rintarou glaring at a display of parsley like he’s trying very hard not to listen, the tips of his ears red. You grin widely, shaking your head as you move down just a bit to reach the basil.

A bunch near the back of the display catches your eye, and you’re leaning forward to grab it. It’s just a bit too far out of reach, the tips of your fingers barely brushing on it. You’re about to ask for Rin’s help when the voices reach your ears again.

“- not sure what he’s doing with a girl like that, though…”

“Yeah… I mean, she’s pretty-”

“I don’t know, I just feel like I would take care of myself a little bit more if I wanted to keep a guy that hot.”

You blink, the heat of humiliation familiar in your cheeks. You’re used to moments like these – you and Rin had always looked out of place together, always at odds with people’s expectations. And you’re no fool – you know what Rintarou looks like. How attractive he is.

If you’d been any younger – any less secure in yourself – you might have felt like crying when you heard that. Luckily, you’re not, but… it’s still not a fun experience.

“ -do we even know if they’re together? She’s probably not even his type. ”

“ Do you think they’re not? Maybe I should go over there and try talking to him.”

Their giggles feel a lot like the ones from high school, from elementary school. Girls who’ve decided you aren’t a threat to them because you look like this .

That’s fine. It’s not like they’re wrong. You and Rintarou aren’t together, so that woman can do whatever she wants-

There’s a clatter as a basket hits the floor, and a tattooed arm is reaching past your face before you can process that it was your basket. The cold metal of Rin’s lip ring against your ear contrasts with the heated sigh he breathes into your skin, and you feel the front of his jeans pressing into the curve of your ass.

Oh.

His other hand finds your waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your dress. Your skin starts to burn where his fingertips dig into your hip.

Oh.

Were his hands always that big?

You watch with unseeing eyes as he wraps his hand with ease around the bunch of basil you’d been struggling to reach, the difference in your height suddenly painfully clear.

“ They couldn’t have me even if they begged for it .” His voice presses into the shell of your ear, the sound ricocheting around your head. You can hear the irritation in his voice, but you can’t focus on anything except the fact that he’s never been this close before.

It’s devastatingly intoxicating.

He leans away after a breath, fingers dragging on your waist as he drops his hand, and you have to force yourself to remember that you need to stand up straight. Only when you spin around, watching Rintarou reach for the discarded basket as you press cold fingers to your flushed face, do you realize that the women are gone.

You crack a weak joke when he stands to full height, desperate for anything to break the sudden silence around you. Just so Rin doesn’t end up hearing how hard your heart is beating.

“Not even if they begged for it, huh?” You laugh, looking away from that piercing stare. “Can’t imagine what a girl like me would have to do, then.”

Well, that certainly hadn’t helped anything.

He just stares, eyes wide. You panic, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away again when you find nothing but his shock. When you look down at your list, trying to remember what you’d come here for, you see that the paper is crumpled in your fist – evidence of your nerves.

“Breadcrumbs. N-Need breadcrumbs.” You mumble to yourself and turn away, heading to another aisle. The brand you like is on the top shelf, so you just point to it, because you really don’t need a repeat of the Basil Situation in the middle of your recovery.

“Well-” Rintarou breaks the silence this time, letting you take the basket while he reaches up. “-you did have a professional volleyball player thirsting after you just this afternoon, so you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.” He examines the label as if he cares at all what it says. “That is, of course-” He meets your eyes, setting the can of breadcrumbs in your hand.

“-unless that’s your thing.”

Your lips part in surprise as Rin stares down at you like he hadn’t just insinuated that you might be one to beg him for something.

“Uhm-” You don’t know why you started talking. You have nothing to say. There is nothing that could be said right now, when all you can do is look at him.

He’s kind enough not to revel in your stunned silence, a grin peeking out as he reaches out and plucks the list from your hand. He says nothing about the fact that it’s violently crumpled and a little warm from how hard you’d squeezed it.

“What’s next-” He breathes it out, as if he can’t feel the weight of your stare on his face. He hums when he finds it. “Chicken.” He meets your eyes again, gaze searching yours. You blink rapidly and look away, mumbling the word ‘ chicken ’ under your breath as you lead the way down the aisle.

You’d always known Suna Rintarou was different. You’d known from the moment you’d met, those eyes uncaring even as a child. You’d known when he’d decided silently that you were his new friend, that no one else could be your friend the way that he was.

You’d known whenever the rare boy in junior high would try to flirt with you, because Suna Rintarou was the name they would whisper furiously to their friends after their failed attempts. Suna Rintarou was the boy in school they had to look out for, because he was always right beside you. He would never say anything, watching you politely interact while they’d flirt, but his empty stare was always enough.

It was enough that, even though he’d moved two hours away to an entirely different prefecture, his name had followed you to high school. Boys in high school were meaner – more judgmental of your appearance – so it never really mattered. But the girls would whisper about you, until your whole class knew the name of a student who didn’t even go there.

‘Claimed’. ‘Taken’. ‘His’.

Suna Rintarou’s girl.

You’d never minded. In fact, you’d secretly enjoyed it – being part of those rumors that blew up and spread until some boys wouldn’t even approach you for homework help. You’d thought it was funny. They were so scared of a person who was nowhere near them, of a relationship that didn’t exist.

It was only when you moved to Tokyo with him for college that you’d realized that maybe your classmates had been right.

Living together for the first time, you’d realized just how much of your life was taken up by him. Every morning, every break, every meal. Even if you weren’t physically together – the Nutritional Sciences Department was irritatingly far from the Art Department – those moments always involved him. A text during your quick lunch break with a friend. A call while he was heading to his next class. A walk home, because he’d waited outside your department until you were done with meetings for the day, sketching art into his skin with a ballpoint pen to keep from getting bored.

And even though the new friends you’d made knew he was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing that could stop them from saying those words again.

That you were Suna Rintarou’s girl.

And why wouldn’t they? The evidence against it wasn’t convincing in the slightest. Not when Suna was a wall to any girl who was interested in him, his attention wholly yours. Not when he hadn’t even bothered to look up from his YouTube video when you’d asked one night if he wouldn’t be interested in spending time with any of those girls. Not when his response was immediate and clear, like he’d never consider it.

‘ Why would I? I have you.’

That had been almost 5 years ago, and you hadn’t asked him something like that since. You’d just let yourself get used to the fact that it was obvious now–

The way his eyes search for you immediately in a crowded room.

The way he lets you fall asleep in his bed while he sketches out ideas for his clients on his iPad.

The way he’d stabbed the octopus-shaped hot dog bites in his bento like they’d personally offended him while Miya Atsumu was flirting with you.

You know now, probably more than even he does, that you’re his. You’ve accepted that fact with whatever it means, platonic or otherwise, because it had always been that way.

20 years, it had been that way.

So why – why the fuck – did he have to go and do something about it now , in the middle of a grocery store on a random Friday evening?

–

Suna hates that his heart skips whenever the bell above the shop door jingles. He hates that, for the last two days, he’s glanced over at the door every single time, hoping it was you.

He’d known you wouldn’t show. You usually don’t. But… something had changed between you two. Ever since the he’d handed you a can of fucking breadcrumbs and not-so-subtly hinted that you might be a girl who’s into begging.

He wants to hit himself over the head with the nearest blunt object.

He sighs, shaking his head, and pulls open the cabinets in the back room. The weekend had been hectic with appointments – it was enough to keep his thoughts occupied – but Mondays are notoriously slow, and now he’s stuck back here doing inventory and thinking about you.

The bell jingles outside again, but he’s got two artists and a piercer on shift today, so he can’t possibly be needed for anything outside of his appointments.

But then the door to the back room is slamming open, and the person he wants to see least in the world right now is barging through.

“ Why didn’t you tell me that Y/n works at Onigiri Miya?!”

Suna stares, unblinking.

“Who let you back here? They need to be fired.”

“Suna-” Atsumu tries to grab for him, but the man is quick to smack his hands away with the clipboard he’s holding. “-I need you to be honest with me.”

“What?” It comes out in a sigh, Suna counting stock on the first shelf of the cabinet he’s staring into.

“Are you hitting that?”

He loses count.

One breath, just enough to steady his growing agitation.

He starts counting again.

“Am I hitting what ?”

“ That .” Suna makes the mistake of glancing back at Atsumu – the man is gesturing in the space between them, making the shape of your ass and the curve of your breasts right in front of him. “I mean… Jesus, dude.”

Suna wonders if there are any more clipboards in the shop, because he’s thinking of smashing this one into Atsumu’s face.

“Care to be a little more respectful?”

Atsumu waves him off. Suna’s grip tightens on his clipboard. One little swing wouldn’t kill him.

“Are you fucking her or not?” When Suna’s lips part with surprise, his gaze finally showing a glimpse of emotion as he turns to tear into Atsumu, the twin cuts him short, oblivious. “Because if you’re not, can I have her?”

Suna’s free hand shoots out, fisting Atsumu’s shirt tightly and dragging the shorter man toward him.

“Miya, I swear to God- ”

“ Ah .” Atsumu smirks up at him. “You do like her. No wonder she didn’t give me her number that day.”

“What?” Suna furrows a brow. You hadn’t given him your number? “Where the hell did that come from?”

Atsumu just points down at the fist Suna has curled into his shirt, as if it were obvious.

“You like her.”

Suna shoves him away, watching with satisfaction when Atsumu’s back slams against the cabinets over on the opposite counter, the blond wincing slightly. Still, he finds himself being examined with knowing eyes.

He turns away, because he’s not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed by Miya Atsumu on a Monday afternoon.

“How do you do it, man?”

Suna just grunts in response and starts taking inventory again, waiting for Atsumu to elaborate.

“How do you wake up every day in the same house as that and not lose your fucking mind-”

“Well, I start by having a shred of human fucking decency.” Suna almost tears the paper with how hard he’s writing. “Her body’s not the only thing worth looking at.”

There’s silence, and Suna glances over his shoulder again to find Atsumu just staring at him with deadpan eyes.

“No, really. How do you do it?”

Suna rolls his eyes and turns back to the cabinet, not wanting to admit that he has no fucking clue how he does it. But he has, on more than one occasion, had to rely on the self-control and discipline of a former athlete to keep him from snapping when you leave your room in the tight tank top and baby shorts you dare to call pajamas .

You’d been too self-conscious to wear revealing clothing in college – he’d had no idea how good he’d had it back then. Four years living with the girl who’d grown into a woman in the years of high school that you’d been apart. He’d managed to survive it, only to watch your self-esteem grow after graduation, and now he lives every day in his own personal hell.

He’s happy to see that the shy elementary schooler that used to cling to him had grown into this confident, successful woman – but fuck him, you really like to knock him on his ass when he’s least expecting it.

And when you’d laughed and asked him what a girl like you would have to do to get his attention, in the middle of a grocery store on a Friday evening?

He’d almost dropped everything and dragged you home just to show you.

But he hadn’t, and you two had acted like nothing had happened when you’d gotten home. You’d put the groceries away, and he’d ordered takeout for your movie marathon, and then later – when he was sure you were asleep – he’d taken a shower, praying to whatever higher power that might exist that the running water would mask the way he’d choked out your name when he had come all over his hand to the thought of fucking you in that dress.

“You know, Suna-” Suna shakes his head to clear it, moving on to the second shelf. He organizes as he starts counting. “-you might want to actually make a move instead of just hovering over her.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you know?” He mumbles it, his jaw clenched in annoyance as he makes a few more notes on the inventory sheet. Atsumu’s response is smug.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything. But I would think that you’d want to do something about the fact that she technically isn’t yours at all.”

Suna stills, his gaze blank as he stares down at the clipboard. What is that supposed to mean?

“She’s still single, you know. But-” He hears Atsumu lift away from the counter and move toward the door. The blond opens it, sighing back at him. “-I don’t know. Maybe she won’t be for long.”

And then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him.

Suna considers banning Atsumu from his shop entirely.

–

By the time Suna’s stepping through the door of Onigiri Miya, his mood has tanked significantly. He’d spent the rest of the work day in his office, ordering supplies and fighting off a headache with a third – and then a fourth – cup of coffee. And then he’d stared out the window, watching the sky darken and open up right in front of his eyes, the downpour sudden and entirely unmentioned by the weather app on his phone.

Still, he’d walked in the direction of the restaurant after closing up shop, his clothes soaked by the time he’s ducking into the air-conditioned restaurant.

“Oh-” He looks up through his dripping bangs at the sound, finding Osamu at the swinging door to the kitchen. The twin disappears without another word, returning a moment later with a towel. He throws it carelessly over Suna’s head. “You’ll get sick.”

Suna hadn’t even realized he was shivering.

“Thanks.” He pats at his clothes and skin and then leaves the towel on his head, following Osamu over to a table. The restaurant’s basically empty, but he spots several takeout orders at the counter. At least they still have good business on a day like this.

“Want me to get Y/n to make you something?” Osamu pulls out his order notepad, clicking his pen with an obnoxious grin. Suna just breathes out a laugh, shaking his head and scrubbing the towel through his hair.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to distract her.”

“Well…”

Suna meets his eyes. Osamu’s scratching at his neck awkwardly. “She’s already half-distracted, so…”

“What?” He stands, following Osamu to the swinging door. The twin pushes it open, revealing the kitchen on the other side.

You’re standing at one of the stainless steel counters with your back to the door, rolling rice balls as you laugh at something Atsumu’s just said.

“-don’t think that’s a good idea at all-”

“You aren’t even slightly curious about the idea of dessert onigiri?!”

“Not enough to waste ingredients on it!” You shake your head fervently, setting another rice ball down on the tray next to you. Atsumu smiles flirtily, leaning forward onto the counter across from you.

“What if I buy them? Free ingredients for you to experiment with, how’s that? You can come over to my place, and we can-” His gaze cuts over your shoulder, finding Suna’s cold glare. Osamu hums sympathetically, mumbling low so only Suna can hear.

“Sorry… I tried to keep him from noticing her.”

Atsumu grins as if he can hear perfectly well what his twin is saying. Suna swallows, the words ‘ maybe she won’t be for long ’ echoing in his head.

“It’s fine. It’s none of my business.” He doesn’t see the way Osamu blinks at him in surprise, too busy keeping his gaze trained on Atsumu’s.

You only now seem to notice the silence, your attention fully on the rice balls before. You hum in question and then turn over your shoulder when you see where Atsumu’s looking.

Atsumu doesn’t miss the fact that Suna only breaks eye contact for you.

“Rin!” Your eyes sparkle when you beam at him, and then you run to wash your hands. “Let’s go home! I thought up some new ideas for dinner – I want to try them out.”

Suna raises an eyebrow. Your shift doesn’t end for another half hour.

Atsumu’s grin grows on his face.

“Oh, sorry, man. ‘Samu let her off early because of the rain, but I guess we just got caught up chatting.”

You shake your head to yourself as you dry your hands and move to store the prepped rice balls for tomorrow’s batch. You can hear Atsumu trying to get under Rintarou’s skin.

He’d come in for lunch and only then realized that you actually work here, almost 3 years after you’d been hired. He’d disappeared after eating, and the smug look in his eye when he’d returned only 20 minutes later had told you that he’d certainly stopped by Suna’s shop to mess with him.

You’d already had a feeling, but that moment had solidified the fact that Miya Atsumu is not your type.

Still, you’d humored him all afternoon, dodging his obvious attempts to get a date out of you and paying more attention to Osamu when the owner would wander into the kitchen from the front, just so Atsumu doesn’t think he has a monopoly on your time.

And when you’d seen Rintarou at the door, wet hair falling into his eyes and cheeks flushed from the rain, you’d forgotten for just a moment that the twins were even in the room with you.

You rush to the back room after storing the rice balls, hurrying to put your apron away and grab your bag. The last few nights had been a bit strange, Suna’s walls coming up in the way they do only when he’s stressed. You hadn’t expected him to pick you up from work.

Maybe tonight would be different.

You hurry out to the kitchen, practically skipping up to him with a bright smile. He meets it with his usual deadpan.

“Stay here while I go down to the convenience store for an umbrella.”

You shake your head, latching onto his arm when he starts to turn away.

“Nope! We go together.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but you’re already bidding farewell to the twins.

“See you tomorrow, ‘Samu!” You offer Atsumu nothing more than a wave, keep the interaction minimal.

When you and Suna are gone, running past the window toward the convenience store, Osamu turns to his brother with arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you doing?”

Atsumu just smiles to himself knowingly. He really had been interested in you. But it’s obvious that it won’t go anywhere — you won’t even give him the time of day, but it seems like you’d give Suna Rintarou the world if he asked for it.

“Giving Suna the push he needs, apparently.”

–

“Do you like guys like that?”

You turn to look at Rintarou, but he’s not looking at you. You’re at the stove, mixing the last of the ingredients into the pasta dish you’d wanted to try, and he’s at the counter setting out some bowls and utensils.

Still, it doesn’t slip your notice that he’d kept his back to you when he had asked.

“Guys like what?” When he doesn’t respond, you realize what he’s referring to. You watch him with a growing smile, glancing back at the stove only to turn the burner off. “Guys like Miya Atsumu?”

His clenched jaw tells you everything. All you can do is snort, hiding your smile behind your hand. He turns to you now, incredulous that you would laugh at him.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing-” You keep laughing anyway. “I’m just wondering if you’re genuinely asking if I’m into another man.”

His eyelids flutter as he turns away, processing what you’ve just given him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Rin-” You sigh. “Why are you asking?”

He says nothing for a minute, just moving out of your way so you can scoop pasta into each of the bowls. “I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He’s always been so good at pretending he doesn’t care.

“Okay.” You smile innocently, setting the pot back on the stove and preparing to try your first bite. Waiting, because you’ve never been anything but entirely open with him, and you just know it’ll drive him crazy that you’re keeping him in the dark about-

“Why didn’t you give him your number?”

You laugh louder this time, blatantly in his face. He shoots you a glare.

“ What? ”

“Rin, are you trying to set me up with your best friend from high school?”

“I’m not-” He rolls his eyes. “That’s definitely not what I’m doing.”

“Then why are you asking?” You turn toward him, setting your fork back into the bowl. “What are you trying to figure out?”

“I just want to know if you like him. That’s it.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

He meets your eyes, confused.

“What? Obviously.”

“Why? It never mattered before.”

He blinks rapidly. “What…? When?”

You sigh, staring down at the counter.

Does he really not get it? Has he really been this blind all these years?

“Why did you do… what you did? On Friday.”

He flushes immediately. “Because they were being rude.”

“You could have just told them off. Or glared at them. Or done anything but that -”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have done it?” He’s getting defensive, not used to having his actions questioned by you. Never by you.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just asking why you did it.”

“Because they were making assumptions about you, and they were definitely making assumptions about me.”

You search for his gaze, but he won’t give it to you. He just stares off to the side, down the hallway of your apartment.

“Right. Assumptions about my body, assumptions about your type.” He shakes his head, scoffing as if he’s filled with renewed irritation. “But we’ve been surrounded by assumptions our whole lives.”

Now he meets your eyes, a brow furrowed. You lean back against the corner of the counter, breathing out a laugh. “You really never noticed? Not once?”

You feel yourself grow frustrated when he just stares, eyes blank. Had it really just been you all this time? Experiencing the consequences of being claimed by a man who didn’t even realize he had done it. A man who, you now think, had lived a life without ever once feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

A man who looks like that , who can have whoever he wants, and a girl who looks like you . A girl who might have had a chance to date or find love when everyone else was, if boys hadn’t gone out of their way to avoid you just so they wouldn’t upset him .

You know, even just thinking about it now, that you wouldn’t have been interested in anyone else anyway. It just hurts to know that you’d gone about your life under the impression that you were his, when you now have no idea if he was yours this whole time, too.

Rintarou breathes your name, cautious. An unspoken question – why are you upset with him?

“Did you ever date, Rin? When we were in high school?”

Suna furrows a brow.

“No…?”

“Why not?”

Because I was yours.

He blinks and looks away. He doesn’t know if he can say that to you.

“Because I had you.” He thinks that’s close enough.

But your frown is deepening, and he realizes that it’s not nearly close enough.

“Do you know why I never dated?”

He searches your gaze, hating that it’s cold.

“You never mentioned being interested in anyone…”

“Because I wasn’t.” Your jaw clenches and you cross your arms over your chest. “Because I already belonged to someone – someone who made that fact very clear to any guy that could have possibly been interested in me.”

His lips part in surprise, and he looks like he wants to say something when he realizes what you’re saying.

But you just look away and slide your bowl toward yourself, shaking your head as you twirl pasta around your fork.

“I didn’t realize that it might be one-sided — that maybe he didn’t belong to me . But I guess that’s just my fault for not asking. My bad.” It’s impossible not to see how bitter your smile is when you lift the fork to your lips and finally take your first bite.

Suna just stares when you hum and nod. There’s sauce on the corner of your mouth, a little more on your bottom lip. “‘s pretty good. I think you’ll like it.” A simple evaluation of your own cooking, as if you hadn’t just stopped time for him with the admission of your pain.

Pain that he’s realizing could have been prevented if he weren’t so fucking avoidant.

He steps toward you after a breath, reaching out and brushing his fingers across your knuckles just as you’re moving to grab another bite. Your fork clatters into the bowl when you pull away from the touch. You cross your arms and look away, avoiding his gaze.

But he steps too close, hovering over you in that corner of the counter. Only when his hand slips past the curtain of your hair and cups the back of your neck – the other presses into the countertop beside you, trapping you there – do you meet his eyes, your own wide with surprise.

“Wha-” The rest catches in your throat, because he’s dipping his head toward yours, hooded eyes examining something on your cheek. You stare past him, unable to find your breath, and feel the exact moment when your heart leaves your chest and makes its home in the base of your throat.

Rintarou presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, not enough to be a kiss but far too close to ever be able to take it back. But when you feel the pass of his tongue over your skin, burning into that spot and making it his, you realize that he’s not planning to draw that line with you again, the one that had always been there.

He’s going to erase it entirely, with the determination of a man who hates that it ever existed in the first place.

“You’re right. It is pretty good.” He breathes the words into that spot, and you realize that he’s talking about the food.

“Can I try more?”

He gives you no time to wonder what that means – no time to wonder ever again what he’s trying to say.

His lips push against yours, full and warm and everything you’d imagined they’d feel like. You gasp and pull away in surprise, but he’s there again, leaning forward to keep you right where he wants you.

You can feel heat radiating off of his face, cheeks flushed and warm on yours when you cling to the front of his shirt, unable to do much else. He smiles against your lips and breaks the kiss, still close enough that your shallow pants mix in the space with his as you catch your breath, both of your chests heaving.

“What was it that your friends from college used to call you? That name that would make you blush.” You’re unable to look away from his lips, unable to understand that you can still feel the memory of them on yours. He smiles and leans close, mouth hovering over yours when he whispers. “‘ Suna Rintarou’s girl ’? Was that it?”

You flush, your eyes drifting shut when you feel him closing in on you again.

“So you did notice…”

“I didn’t know about high school. You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to-” You can’t look at him. It’s too much, too overwhelming. “I took it for granted. That I was yours-”

“ Good .” He’s all you can feel, all you can smell and hear and touch. He’s everywhere. “You were supposed to take it for granted, that was the point.”

His fingers close around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks and tilting your face up toward his. You know he can feel your racing pulse at the side of your throat. “Because you’re mine. You were always mine, and I made sure everyone knew.” His nose brushes against yours, breath warm on your lips. “But I guess I wasn’t clear enough… was I?”

You swallow hard, feeling the shallow laugh he breathes out when you don’t answer him.

“You’re my girl, aren’t you?” His bottom lip brushes against yours when he whispers to you. “And you were right to feel safe in that fact. Because I never looked at anyone else, not once.”

‘ Why would I? I have you.’

Those words from 5 years ago come back to you, along with memories of the way he’d ignored the existence of any girl that would approach him, for as long as you can remember.

“And those women in the grocery store? Talking about how you’re not my type?”

You’re distinctly aware of how the hand he has on your face is starting to pull you closer, his own mouth drifting away to keep the sliver of distance between you.

“They must not have properly looked at you, Y/n.” He smiles softly down at you when your eyelids flutter open briefly at his words. “How could you not be my type? My type is you.”

The push of his lips on yours comes this time with his hands on your waist, tugging you toward him. He wraps an arm around you and lifts you without warning, setting you on the counter just as you’re gasping into his mouth.

He fills the space between your thighs the moment you spread them, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping your neck. You fist the front of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself to him and keeping him close.

You never want to let him go.

“ I’m yours, Y/n. ” He mumbles the admission against your lips, finally confirming what you’d been worried about. “I’m yours, you hear me?”

His mouth drops to a spot under your ear, his voice filling your senses as his fingers play with the top button of your shirt.

“Want me to tattoo it on my skin? Just tell me where – I’ll have it done by the end of the night.”

The button comes undone, and he’s quick to move to the next one, thumb and pointer finger working efficiently down the line as his other hand slips around your waist and pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, flush to his.

Your breath comes shallow when your shirt finally falls free, because he’s pressing his hand to the spot just under the curve of your breast and pushing his lips against yours possessively – claiming you. You can’t feel your fingers when you card them through his hair and pull him close, your skin filled with a tingle that spreads over your body like a sickness. Even your head is staticky, plagued by that tingle. Rendering you defenseless to him – Suna Rintarou.

“ I love you .”

You whisper it without thinking, Rin’s mouth stilling on yours. He pulls away, staring down at you with wide eyes. Your heart drops to your stomach when you realize what you’d said, and your face burns when he just stares, dumbfounded.

“I-”

“Again.” He looks entranced, gaze glued to your lips while he waits. Because he’d felt you say the words, but he wants to watch you say them – wants to witness it with his own eyes, because he’s terrified it hadn’t actually happened.

You wet your lips nervously and repeat yourself.

“I love you, Rintarou.”

The three syllables of his name fall past your lips, stacking on top of each other just like the words right before them and stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

When he kisses you, it’s with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. Your back slams against the cabinet when he presses into you, but you don’t notice anything except the slide of his palms on your thighs as his hands disappear under the hem of your skirt.

His pointer fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, tugging impatiently until you lift your hips. They’re gone and on the floor before you’ve fully processed that you’d just let him take your panties off. That this is going somewhere, fast .

“Sorry, that probably wasn’t very hot-” Rintarou’s mouth is in the crook of your neck, his teeth brushing against your skin in a way that makes you shiver and slide your fingers through his hair. “In my head, it was slow and sensual, but-” His hands slide over your thighs again, fingers digging into the plush skin as he pries them just a little further apart. His lips twitch against your throat, a smile sneaking through as he laughs breathily.

“-I’ve never felt this desperate before.”

You whimper when he pulls your hips to his, the front of his jeans pressing up against your bare core and sending a shock flying up your spine. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he sucks harshly on your throat.

You feel it, too – that desperation to just make him yours. To make this the truth, after so many years of just saying it was.

“‘s okay,” You pant, feeling his fingers dancing along your inner thighs toward a spot that’s extremely warm right now. “You can just make it slow and sensual next time.”

He breathes a heated sigh against your skin, the words ‘ next time ’ mumbled back to you, like he can’t believe that next time even exists.

And then he lifts his head and plants his lips on yours, his thumb finally sliding along your folds and finding your clit with terrifying precision. You gasp, and he swallows the moan that falls past your lips when he circles that little bundle of nerves, the same way you would when you would think about him late at night.

He does everything the way you’d always wanted – slides his fingers through your folds, buries them inside of you, and curls them against your walls in a way that has you seeing stars. He does it perfectly, all while kissing you stupid and whispering your name like he’s trying to decide exactly where it would look best on his skin, permanent and for the world to see.

He touches you like he’s always known how, as if this isn’t the first time. As if his heart isn’t about to rip out of his chest from the way you’re gasping his name, those three syllables stacked on top of each other in your mouth.

And when you finally come undone, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you cry for him, he’s saying it back – the words that he needs you to hear.

“ I love you .” He feels your tears soak through his shirt as your walls tighten around his fingers, and your body starts to tremble in his arms as you gasp for breath. “I love you, Y/n- I’ve always loved you, from the day that we met-”

“ Rin-” Your arms curl around his shoulders, and you cling to him as you come down from your high. He holds you close and kisses you, letting you recover.

Eventually, you breath a harsh sigh and meet his eyes, your cheeks flushing when you see how he’s looking at you.

“Hi…” You mumble it in embarrassment, and then jolt in shock, because he’s wiggling his fingers playfully inside of you when he responds.

“Hi yourself.”

You smack his arm and look away, eyelids fluttering when he pulls out of you and sets his hand safely on your thigh. And then you let him kiss you, soft and slow like your eyes aren’t still blurry with tears from how hard he’d made you come.

Suna pulls away, eyes roaming your face. Your skin is flushed red, just like his own, and you’re wiping unshed tears from your eyes, your expression laced with embarrassment when you realize he’s just watching you.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling your shirt closed self-consciously – you feel strange, letting him see all of your rolls and stretch marks. His eyes are lingering on those spots, and you feel like he’s seeing too much. Seeing the things you were worried about showing him, because you thought in the back of your mind that maybe he would decide then that he didn’t want you, after all.

Rintarou lets you cover yourself, lets you drape your shirt over your chest and hide your tummy with your arms. He watches with a blank expression, gaze flicking between your movements and your eyes like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. But when you try to cover your thighs – try to move his hands so you can pull your skirt down – he sighs softly, knowingly, and stops you.

His hands catch your wrists, and he presses them together in your lap, locking them tight with one hand while he uses the other to undo all your work, those uncaring eyes unbearable warm on your skin.

Tugs your shirt open with a pointer finger.

Pushes the hem of your skirt back up your thighs.

Leans down to press his lips to the tops of your breasts, an open-mouthed kiss over your racing heart.

He mumbles all the while, his mouth tracing a path up past your collarbones and toward your neck.

“There you go again-” A nip to the column of your throat, a pass of his tongue over the spot to soothe the pain. “-listening to the wrong people.”

He leans away, watching how his hands look on you, tattooed fingers kneading into unmarked skin – like he’s tainting you. Ruining you for anyone else.

The thought makes him grin, worsened when you look up at him with those wide, innocent eyes.

“My sweet girl.” He smiles grows at your blush, and he’s reaching to push your shirt off your shoulders. You let him, even though you look nervous at how much he’s going to see. He drags the fabric down your arms, but he stops when it pools around your elbows. A gasp falls past your lips when he yanks the material taut suddenly, your forearms pulled together and the swell of your breasts forced out toward him.

He eyes them hungrily, his smirk dark when you whisper his name nervously, your arms tangled up in your shirt.

“Why do you let other people get in your head?” He drags his gaze down your chest to your tummy and thighs, his tongue poking out briefly to wet his lips. “Have you seen yourself? You’re so soft – you know how many times I’ve thought about putting my hands on you?”

You breathe harshly, your chest heaving and snapping his attention back to it. Without taking his eyes off of your breasts, he reaches for you shoulders, sliding your bra straps off slowly, one at a time. And then he hooks a finger into one of the cups, meeting your eyes.

“Are you ready to start listening to me instead?”

You swallow, nodding shallowly. He keeps you entranced, keeps your gaze locked on his, even as he’s tugging both cups down past your chest, officially leaving you completely exposed to him.

And then he drops his gaze, and you watch his eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as he takes you in. He barely notices when you move, your tied hands inching forward in front of you until you’re close enough to touch the tips of your fingers to the front of his jeans.

He flinches immediately, his eyes flying down and then back to yours when he realizes what you’re doing. You watch his eyelashes flutter when you become bold enough to press the flat of your hand against him, and you finally feel just how hard he is.

The pit of your stomach twists with arousal as you palm him gently, and your heart is thumping harshly in your chest when his hips jut forward of their own accord, chasing the feeling of your hand on him.

You feel time slow to nothing when you reach to undo his jeans, because he’s dropping his gaze to watch what you do. The sound of the zipper makes him tense, and you watch him swallow harshly when you slip your hand down the front of his jeans, cupping him through his boxers.

Your own breath comes shallow, skin tingling where he digs his fingers into your thighs, anchoring himself to you. With a steadying breath, you reach into his boxers, wrapping your hand around him.

And then you get distracted, because Rintarou is breathing out a moan and dropping his head back, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting with pleasure as he goes. You watch him closely, heartbeat rushing in your ears, as you slide your palm against him slowly.

“ Fuck- ” He breathes it out, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows harshly. You keep your eyes on him, stroking him slowly and watching his every reaction.

Suna drops his gaze to your hand, and he moans again, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Because watching you do this to him just like he’d always imagined – your hand wrapped around him like that, so much smaller than his own, with your thighs spread for him and your breasts spilling out of your bra, your tongue poking out past your lips as you concentrate – it might just be a little too much for him after all.

You work him closer and closer to the edge, entranced by the way his chest heaves, the way he mouths your name silently as he unconsciously pushes his hips to meet the base of your fist every time you slide against him.

And then his hand is snapping down over your wrist, stilling your movements. You jump, staring up at him as he hovers over you, breathing harshly. He leans his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Too close…”

You pout, wanting to watch him come undone the way you had. Wanting to make him yours.

“But… I want you to…”

His response is a breathless laugh, eyes still shut tight.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

‘-you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.’

Your heart pounds in your head when the memory comes to you, just a few days ago.

Oh, how you’d never imagined that you’d be here now.

You tilt your head up toward him, lips brushing against his. He leans into it, eyes fluttering open to stare down at your mouth.

‘-unless that’s your thing.’

“…Please?”

Suna’s breath catches in his throat, and his gaze is locking on yours, eyes wide. His grip on you loosens in surprise, and you’re guiding his cock toward you, past the hem of your skirt, never taking your eyes off of him. He swallows hard, eyes flitting between yours nervously.

He breathes out shakily when the head of his cock slides against your entrance, his eyelids fluttering as he dips his head down and swears against your mouth.

“ Shit… You’re killing me…”

You whine against him, feeling the tip bump gently against your clit when he shifts toward you. “ Please , Rin. Please. I need you-”

He snaps when you properly beg for him, a low growl trapped in his throat when he pushes his lips to yours roughly. Reaching up, he fists your hair in his hands and angles your head so he can mold himself to you. He surges forward, and your back slams into the cabinet again, his mouth firmly on yours.

And then he reaches down with his free hand, pushing your hands away so he can guide himself back to your entrance.

“ I want you to say it . That I’m yours .” He murmurs against your mouth, and you mewl in response, because he’s pushing into you slowly. He stops and pulls his lips away when you don’t seem to hear him, and you almost cry out in frustration. “Y/n.”

You glare up at him, your gaze cloudy, because he’s buried halfway inside of you and still has the audacity to think that you’re able to focus on anything else.

“ What ?”

He stares down at you, seemingly patient, but you can see the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He’s trying hard to focus, too.

“Say I’m yours. Tell me, so I know you understand.”

Your heart drops to your stomach at his words, and you clench unconsciously around him. His eyelids flutter, and then his grip in your hair tightens.

“ Tell me , or I won’t move.”

You can’t help but laugh, even though it’s laced with a moan when he twitches inside of you.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

He just tilts his head and smiles gently at you, like he’s not struggling immensely right now.

“So that you know that this isn’t just me claiming you.”

You breathe heavily as you stare up at him, your chest soaring with affection. And then you reach out to cup his face, stacking the syllables of his name once more, filled with love and the silent promise that you’ll continue to say it like that, for the rest of your life.

“Rintarou-” He sighs when you pull his mouth to yours. “ You’re mine .” You push your lips against his, soft. “You belong to me now, okay? You’re not allowed to go anywhere. I won’t let you.”

He tilts his head, kissing you slowly, murmuring against you. “Promise?” When you breathe a confirmation, nodding, he takes a breath. Gives you just a breath.

And then he pushes forward in the next, until his hips are flush against yours.

You moan into each other’s mouths, your body tingling at the stretch. He draws his hips back, moaning your name breathlessly, and then snaps them forward, his patience gone.

You can only cling to him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, as he thrusts into you relentlessly. Your back slams into the cabinet with every snap of his hips against yours, filling the room with the sounds of your cries and the rhythmic promise of several noise complaints.

Rintarou barely notices, too lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him, tighter and tighter with every thrust. He pants into your ear, your name the only thing he has left in his head.

“I think you were made for me- ” He pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours so he can look at you. Your eyes are filling with tears again, and your voice cracks when you stutter over his name on the next thrust. “You fit so perfectly around me. Look-” He tangles his hand into your hair again, gripping tight and forcing you to look down with him.

You choke on a sob when you watch how he slams into you, and he’s quick to lift your head so he push his mouth against yours, claiming each and every sound that falls past your lips. “You were made for me-” It’s barely audible over the noises you’re making, increasingly louder the closer he pushes you to the edge. Your foot swings and catches on something behind Rin, something that falls to the floor and shatters on the other side of the counter. He doesn’t even hear it. “ Just for me .”

The coil in the pit of your stomach twists angrily, but it stands no chance of surviving when he reaches down and presses his thumb to your clit, just like he had the first time. The coil snaps instantly and without warning, and you’re throwing your head back against the cabinet as your vision goes white.

“ Rintarou- ” You think you might have screamed it, but your ears are ringing, because he hasn’t slowed down in the slightest. He just fucks you through it, his hips only stuttering when you clench tight around him. Only then does he slam his hands down on the counter on either side of you, his head buried in your neck.

He chokes on your name, and then you’re warm. Warm with the breath he heaves onto your skin, warm with the feeling of owning and belonging to him all at once. Warm as he spills into you, filling you up and making you his as he moans into your ear.

Finally, he stills. Slumps against you, chest heaving against yours as you comb your fingers through his hair with a trembling hand. He whispers against your skin, the ‘ I love you ’ just as warm as everything else, while he curls his arms around your waist. Eventually he lifts his head, bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat and his skin as flushed and hot as yours.

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing this side of him.

He presses his lips against yours gently as he pulls out of you, and then he mumbles that he’s going to get a wet rag for you. You’re strangely proud to see that your 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man actually loses his balance and stumbles slightly as he’s turning toward the hallway.

He glances back at you, embarrassed, and then breathes out a laugh when he finds you smiling lovingly up at him. He shakes his head, disappearing down the hall with a mumbled ‘ shut up ’.

He reappears a moment later, cleaning both of you up gently and kissing you every few seconds, just because he can. You lean lazily against the cabinet, your mind hazy and full of Suna Rintarou.

But then you glance down at the counter, and you’re tilting your head in confusion.

“Where’d the other bowl go?”

He hums curiously, realizing that there’s only one bowl of pasta there. You lean forward and peer over the edge of the counter, realizing what had shattered earlier.

“Oh.” His dinner is splattered all over the floor, the bowl in a million pieces.

Rin stares down at it, too, and then he turns to your bowl, lifting it toward you with a shrug.

“We can split this one.” He twirls some pasta around your fork and takes a bite. You watch him wince as he chews. He scowls slightly, setting the bowl back down. “‘s cold.”

You let out a laugh, pulling him toward you and giggling when he swallows the food with a grimace.

“We can just order takeout.”

He looks down at you, taking you in. You’re still undressed, skin still flushed, eyes still hazy in your afterglow. And then he shakes his head.

“Yeah, I don’t think anything’s gonna be open.”

You frown, glancing at the clock on the stove. “It’s only 7.”

“Yeah. For now .” And then he lifts you, ignoring your protests as he walks the two of you down the hall to his bedroom. He throws you down on his bed carelessly and reaches to pull his shirt over his head.

You watch with wide eyes and a fresh sense of arousal when he drops to his knees in front of you and wraps his arms around your thighs, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls you toward him impatiently.

“I’m not done yet."

#haikyuu #haikyuu smut #suna rintarou #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou smut

439 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 11 months

Note

I have an idea! Imagine reader and james are bestfriend, reader ask james to help her find a lingerie (bcs she want to impress a boy she like) so there he is sitting infront of the changing room and having to watch the reader change into multiple lingerie w a hard on.

Maybe then he realize that he doesn’t want anyone to see his bestf like this?

I love a possessive jamie!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: sexual implications, nothing explicit though

bestfriend!James x fem!reader ♡ 472 words

“It was fucking awful,” James laments, nursing a cup of tea and shoving biscuit after biscuit into his mouth. He’s at Remus and Sirius’ flat, after inventing some plans with his friends as an excuse to get away from you. “I had to think of my gran wearing that stuff just to be able to stand up when she was ready to leave.”

“I still don’t understand why you agreed to go in the first place,” Remus says while Sirius tries to get his giggling under control. “Why would you help the woman you’re in love with pick out lingerie for another guy?”

“I’m not in love with her!” James throws up his hands, sick of having this same argument every time you come up. “I mean, I do love her—she’s my best friend. But I mean, you could put me in front of any attractive girl when she’s wearing something like that, and I’m bound to have some thoughts. It didn’t matter that it was her, specifically. It was…it was boobs. It’s boobs’ fault.”

Sirius cackles, and James lobs a biscuit at him.

“I’d like to see you try to keep yourself under control in that situation, Pads. It’s biology, I couldn’t help it!”

“Oh, I know the feeling.” Sirius grins, reclining back against Remus’ chest. “Seems like exactly how I felt when I found out Moony here had made out with half of Gryffindor.”

Remus rolls his eyes, as sick of this joke as James is of the ones about you. Still, he wraps a hand around Sirius’ thigh in solidarity.

“It’s different,” James grumbles. “That was…well, that was you two.”

“He makes a good point,” Remus says, and Sirius tilts his head back to beam up at his boyfriend proudly. “We both know what it feels like to think you love someone as a friend when it’s really something more.”

James glowers. “She was in a black. Lacy. Set. I am not made of stone!”

Remus only hums, sipping at his tea. “If it was your gran, you wouldn’t think the same.”

James shudders. “Why would you remind me of that?”

“So what’s next?” Sirius asks, raising a brow. “Do you want us to go sabotage her date with this bloke? Or better yet, lock her in her house so she can’t meet up with him at all?”

“I’m glad you’re on board,” James says, recovering from his disgust and beginning to look rather satisfied as he munches on another biscuit. “I’m thinking we hex him to be horrifically ugly. She won’t think of showing him her little outfit if he shows up and he’s got a face made entirely of warts.”

Remus and Sirius exchange a look. With a sigh, Remus begins stroking his hand up and down his boyfriend’s thigh consolingly.

“He’ll get it eventually,” he says.

1K notes · View notes

florawrites-blog · 24 days

Text

Awkward nuh uh - enhypen

-when you get too comfortable around each other

sunoo's part is so painful to read so goodluck

Lee heeseung - 이희승

The morning sun filtered through the bathroom window, casting a soft, warm light over the tiled floor. Heeseung stood in front of the mirror, carefully shaving his face, his focus entirely on the task at hand. The gentle scrape of the razor against his skin and the faint hum of the bathroom fan were the only sounds in the room.

Just as he was finishing up, he heard the hurried patter of your feet approaching. You burst into the bathroom, a look of mild panic on your face as you tugged at the hem of your midi skirt.

"Hee! I need your help—can you please shave my legs? I totally forgot, and I’m running late!" you blurted out, your words coming out in a rush.

Heeseung blinked, momentarily surprised by your sudden request. He looked down at your bare legs, which were peeking out from under your skirt, then back up at your slightly flustered face. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"You want me to shave your legs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

"Yes, please!" you pleaded, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes. "I’m already behind schedule, and I don’t have time to do it myself. You’re way better at this than I am anyway."

Heeseung chuckled softly, setting his razor down on the edge of the sink. "Alright, alright. Come here, then."

Relief washed over you as you quickly positioned yourself in front of him, lifting your skirt slightly to give him access to your legs. Heeseung knelt down, grabbing the shaving cream from the counter and applying a generous amount to your calves.

The cool sensation of the shaving cream made you shiver slightly, but Heeseung’s touch was gentle and reassuring. He carefully picked up his razor and began to glide it smoothly over your skin, making sure to be as precise as possible.

"Hold still, okay? I don’t want to nick you," he said, his voice soft and concentrated.

You nodded, watching him as he worked. There was something oddly intimate about the moment, the way he was so focused on taking care of you. You couldn’t help but smile at how sweet he was being, even in such a mundane situation.

Heeseung continued to shave your legs with careful precision, occasionally rinsing the razor in the sink to clear off the excess shaving cream. His movements were deliberate and gentle, almost as if he were handling something delicate.

"There we go," he said after a few minutes, wiping away the remaining shaving cream with a towel. He ran his hand over your now smooth leg, a satisfied smile on his face. "All done. How does that feel?"

You reached down to feel your leg, smiling widely at the smoothness. "Perfect! Thank you so much, Hee. You really saved me."

Heeseung stood up, wiping his hands on the towel before wrapping his arms around you in a quick hug. "Anytime. You know I’ve got your back."

You hugged him back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "I know. I’m really lucky to have you."

Heeseung pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked down at you with a teasing grin. "Just remember this the next time you need something last minute. I’m adding it to my list of ‘boyfriend duties.’"

You laughed, giving him a playful nudge. "I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I really have to go!"

With a quick peck on his cheek, you dashed out of the bathroom, feeling much more confident now that your legs were perfectly smooth. As you rushed to grab your things and head out the door, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, grateful for Heeseung’s quick thinking and willingness to help you out of a tight spot.

Park jongseong - 박종성

The clock on your phone glowed a soft 2:56 AM as your stomach growled for what felt like the hundredth time that night. You sighed, realizing sleep would be impossible until you satisfied your hunger. Rolling over in bed, you noticed Jay was still awake, scrolling through his phone beside you.

"I'm starving," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

Jay looked up, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Want to hit up the 24/7 convenience store down the street? I could use a snack too."

It didn’t take much convincing. The thought of instant noodles and maybe some quick snacks had your stomach rumbling in agreement. Within minutes, the two of you were out the door, walking the quiet streets under the dim glow of streetlights.

The convenience store was a beacon of light in the otherwise sleepy neighborhood. Once inside, you immediately made a beeline for the instant noodles, grabbing a couple of packs while Jay wandered off in search of his own late-night cravings. As you filled the cup with hot water, your eyes landed on a pack of fried chicken resting innocently in the fridge section.

“Microwaveable chicken? Don’t mind if I do,” you murmured to yourself, grabbing the pack and popping it into the microwave. The scent of fried chicken filled the small store, and your mouth watered in anticipation.

Jay returned with an armful of snacks, just in time to see you pull the steaming chicken out of the microwave. “That looks good,” he commented, eyeing the food with interest.

You grinned, practically drooling at the sight of the crispy chicken. Without thinking, you picked up a piece and, ignoring the steam rising from it, shoved the entire thing into your mouth.

Big mistake.

The scalding heat hit you instantly, and your eyes widened in shock. The burning sensation was intense, almost unbearable, and you felt your jaw drop as your brain scrambled to figure out what to do. You started to wave your hands frantically, trying to cool your mouth down, but it was no use.

Jay noticed your distress immediately and, without a second thought, he reached out and placed his hand under your chin. “Spit it out,” he urged, his voice calm but firm.

With no time to hesitate, you spat the burning piece of chicken into Jay’s hand, relief flooding through you as the intense heat left your mouth. You expected Jay to toss it into the trash, but instead, he surprised you by popping the piece into his own mouth, chewing casually as if nothing had happened.

You stared at him, wide-eyed and worried. “Jay! It’s still burning hot! Are you crazy?”

Jay grinned at you as he chewed, his face remarkably calm. “It’s not that bad,” he said, once he’d swallowed. “I just didn’t want to waste good chicken.”

You couldn’t help but gape at him, both impressed and concerned. “You’re seriously insane,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief.

He chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin. “Or maybe I’m just really dedicated to not wasting food. Either way princess, you’re safe now, right?”

You couldn’t argue with that. The burning in your mouth had subsided, leaving only a slight tingle. You were definitely more cautious when you picked up the next piece of chicken, blowing on it several times before taking a much smaller, more careful bite.

Jay watched you with a satisfied smirk, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Next time, maybe let it cool down a bit, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for saving me from my own impatience.”

“Anytime,” Jay replied, popping a snack into his mouth and grinning at you. “But I draw the line at doing that twice in one night.”

You laughed, the earlier panic fading into a comfortable warmth. Despite the late hour and the unexpected drama, you couldn’t think of anyone else you’d rather be sharing this midnight snack with.

Sim jaeyun - 심재윤

It was one of those moments where time seemed to stretch out indefinitely. You had finished your business a while ago, but somehow, you were still sitting on the bathroom seat, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. The quiet of the early morning hours had a way of making everything feel a bit more sluggish, and it was all too easy to lose track of time.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Jake walked in, a towel slung over his shoulder. You didn’t bother looking up; you knew it was him from the familiar sound of his footsteps. He didn’t say anything, just nodded in your direction as he made his way to the shower.

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he shed his clothes, followed by the click of the shower knob. The water hissed to life, filling the room with the comforting sound of rushing water. The steam began to rise, curling lazily into the air, filling the small bathroom with warmth.

Jake stepped into the shower, letting out a small sigh as the hot water hit his skin. A moment passed before he called out to you, his voice slightly muffled by the water. “baby, can you please play a song from your Spotify? anything you want.”

Without missing a beat, you unlocked your phone and opened Spotify. Scrolling through your playlist, you picked out a song that you knew he liked—a mellow, relaxing tune that always seemed to put both of you at ease. You hit play, and the soft melody began to fill the bathroom, blending with the sound of the water.

Jake hummed in approval, his voice barely audible over the music. “Perfect. Thanks.”

You leaned back against the cool tiles, closing your eyes for a moment as the music washed over you. The warm steam, the gentle rhythm of the song, and the familiar comfort of Jake’s presence made everything feel serene, like this quiet, shared moment was just what you both needed.

As you sat there, listening to the song and the water, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. There was something special about these small, everyday moments—the kind that didn’t seem significant at first but ended up being the memories you cherished the most.

“Any requests for the next song?” you called out after a while, your voice playful.

Jake paused for a moment before responding, “Surprise me.”

You grinned, scrolling through your playlist again, and picked another song that you both loved. You knew that no matter what you chose, it would be perfect, simply because you were sharing it with him.

As the next song began to play, you finally stood up from the bathroom seat, stretching your legs with a small sigh of relief. But instead of leaving, you leaned against the sink, still scrolling through your phone, waiting for Jake to finish his shower. You figured you’d stick around for just a little longer, enjoying the music and the comfort of his company, even if it was just on the other side of the shower curtain.

Park sunghoon - 박성훈

The soft, familiar scent of Sunghoon's cologne lingered in the air as you lay comfortably on his bed, enveloped in the warmth of his oversized hoodie. It was one of those lazy afternoons where nothing was pressing, and the world outside seemed distant. You felt utterly content, snuggled up in his bed, scrolling through your phone, and enjoying the cozy quiet of the moment.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Sunghoon walked in, a mischievous grin on his face and a pair of tweezers in his hand. Without a word, he dropped himself on top of you, making you let out a small “oof” from the sudden weight. He smirked down at you, his eyes twinkling with playful intent.

"Be my guest—glamour my eyebrows," he said, his voice low and teasing. "And be grateful, ‘cause no one else gets to do this but you."

You groaned, half-amused, half-dismayed, knowing full well that there was no getting out of it. You shifted your position, sitting up on the bed and letting him slide off your body so you could get a better angle. He repositioned himself to sit facing you, his long legs casually crossed, and tilted his head back slightly, offering his brow to you with a smirk.

With a roll of your eyes, you took the tweezers from him and leaned in closer. His eyebrows were already naturally stunning—thick, perfectly shaped, the kind people would pay a lot of money to emulate. You couldn’t help but admire them, even if you wouldn’t tell him that out loud. Instead, you focused on carefully plucking a few stray hairs, making sure not to mess up his near-perfect brows.

Sunghoon stayed still, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole time, watching you with that same amused expression. Every so often, he’d make a teasing comment about how you were so lucky to have this honor, making you lightly swat at him in mock annoyance.

Once you were satisfied with the result, you leaned back, surveying your work. “Done. Not that you really needed much help in the first place,” you said, handing the tweezers back to him.

He raised an eyebrow—now even more perfectly groomed—and grinned. “I knew you’d do a great job. No one else could handle my brows like you do.”

You snorted at his cocky tone, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Then, an idea popped into your head, and you tilted your chin up, giving him a challenging look.

“Alright, your turn,” you said, pointing to your own eyebrows. “Let’s see if you can do mine.”

Sunghoon blinked, slightly taken aback. “Wait, seriously? You trust me with that?”

“Why not? It’s only fair,” you replied, your smile widening. “You’re always so confident about everything—let’s see if you can back it up.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking at the tweezers in his hand and then back at you. Finally, with a playful glint in his eye, he nodded. “Alright, let’s do this. But don’t blame me if I mess up and you end up with uneven brows.”

You rolled your eyes again but leaned in closer, giving him access to your eyebrows. Sunghoon carefully took hold of your chin, his touch gentle yet firm, and started plucking a few stray hairs with surprising precision.

“Not bad,” you commented as he worked, genuinely impressed by his careful technique.

“Of course not,” he responded with a smirk. “I’m good at everything I do, remember?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a sense of warmth and affection for him in that moment. Despite all his teasing, there was something undeniably sweet about the way he was focused on making sure he did a good job for you.

When he finally finished, you checked your reflection in the small mirror by the bed. Your eyebrows looked perfect—neat, symmetrical, and just the way you liked them.

“Okay, I have to admit—you did great,” you said, turning back to him with a grin.

He flashed you that signature Sunghoon smile, the one that made your heart skip a beat. “Told you. Now, remember, you’re the only one who gets this kind of treatment from me.”

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, feeling the warmth of his smile against your own. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Kim sunoo - 김순우

The soft glow of the vanity lights filled the room as Sunoo meticulously went through his skincare routine, his brows furrowed in concentration. You were lounging nearby, scrolling through your phone, only half-listening as he vented about a particularly stubborn pimple that had decided to make an unwelcome appearance on his otherwise flawless skin.

“Ugh, why is it always right before something important?” Sunoo complained, dabbing a spot treatment on the pimple with a frustrated pout. “This one is so annoying! It’s like it’s out to get me!”

You looked up from your phone, a smirk playing on your lips. “Awww, is someone’s skin being a little meanie weenie?” you teased, your voice dipping into a mockingly sweet tone.

Sunoo shot you a glare, but you could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Stop baby talking to me,” he huffed, though the playfulness in his tone betrayed him.

You snickered, fully embracing the baby talk now. “But, Sunoo, you’re just so cute when you’re all grumpy wumpy about your pimples!”

To your surprise, Sunoo rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you. Instead, he continued with his routine, muttering under his breath about how unfair it was that his skin decided to act up at the worst possible time. You were about to make another teasing comment when you remembered something—the irritating pimple on your back that had been bothering you all day. It was in a spot you couldn’t reach, and you’d been meaning to ask Sunoo to help you with it.

Without a second thought, you slipped off your shirt and turned your back to him, pointing to the general area where the pimple was. “Sunoo, can you pop this for me? It’s been driving me crazy,” you asked, your voice still carrying that playful, babyish tone.

Sunoo turned to you, momentarily taken aback by your sudden request, but then he broke into a small smile. “Of course, my baby waby,” he said, his own voice dipping into a teasing baby talk, mimicking yours. “Let me see that pesky pimple!”

You couldn’t help but laugh as he walked over and knelt behind you, inspecting your back with the same level of concentration he gave to his own skin. “It’s right here,” you said, pointing again, “and it really hurts, so be gentle, okay?”

Sunoo chuckled softly, finding the pimple and positioning his fingers carefully. “Don’t worry, I’ll be super-duper gentle,” he cooed, his voice light and playful. He started to pop the pimple, and you winced slightly at the sharp pain.

“Am I hurting my poor baby?” he asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated concern as he continued to work on your back.

You gritted your teeth, the pain sharp but bearable. “Just a little, but I can handle it,” you replied, still half-laughing at how ridiculous you both sounded.

Sunoo paused for a moment, his fingers still on your back. “Awww, you’re such a strong wittle baby,” he said in the same cutesy tone, gently patting your back. “Almost done, okay?”

You couldn’t help but smile at how absurdly sweet he was being, even in this silly situation. “Okay,” you replied, feeling both comforted and amused by his baby talk.

A few seconds later, he finished and gave the area a gentle wipe with a tissue. “There, all done! My baby’s back is all better now,” Sunoo declared, sounding genuinely pleased with himself.

You turned to face him, grinning widely. “Thanks, Sunoo! You’re the best,” you said, this time without the baby talk, though your tone was still light and affectionate.

Sunoo stood up, looking at you with that bright, cheerful smile you loved so much. “Anytime! Now, let’s take care of the rest of my skincare, and maybe we can do a face mask together?”

You nodded eagerly, reaching for a mask from the drawer. “Sounds like a plan,” you agreed, feeling a wave of warmth and affection for him.

As you settled in to finish his skincare routine, you couldn’t help but think that, despite how silly it started, this whole baby talk habit had only brought you closer you first started doing it to mock couples who used it daily and now you guys are lost down that road.

Yang jungwon - 양중원

You were sprawled out on the couch, finally catching a moment to relax after a long day. The soft hum of the TV in the background was almost lulling you to sleep when you suddenly felt the cushions dip beside you. You glanced up to see Jungwon standing there, a slightly anxious expression on his face.

Before you could ask what was wrong, Jungwon gently sat you up and took your hands, placing them on his head. “Please, please check my hair for lice,” he said, his voice a mix of urgency and embarrassment.

“What?” you exclaimed, completely caught off guard. “Why on earth would you think you have lice?”

He squirmed a little, scratching his scalp again. “I don’t know! My head’s been so itchy all day, and I just… I need to make sure,” he said, sounding genuinely worried.

You blinked at him, still processing the absurdity of the request, but you could see how much it was bothering him. So, with a sigh, you began to carefully part through his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands as you checked for any sign of lice.

As you worked, Jungwon stayed still, though you could feel the tension in his body as he waited for your verdict. “I’m telling you, if there’s lice in here, I’m going to freak out,” he muttered under his breath.

You chuckled softly, trying to reassure him. “Don’t worry, I’m not seeing anything. You’re probably just stressed, and it’s making your scalp sensitive.”

He let out a small, relieved sigh but stayed quiet as you continued your thorough inspection. After a few more minutes, you finally pulled back and smiled at him. “All clear, no lice,” you announced, giving his hair a playful ruffle.

Jungwon visibly relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. “Thank goodness,” he murmured, his eyes closing as he let out a long breath. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Seriously, where did you even get the idea that you had lice?”

“I don’t know!” he said, laughing a little himself now. “I just panicked.”

Before you could respond, Jungwon tilted his head back slightly, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Then, without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips against yours in a quick, soft kiss.

You were taken aback for a moment, but you quickly melted into the kiss, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. When he pulled back, a cheeky grin spread across his face, his previous worry completely forgotten.

“Thank you for saving me from my imaginary lice infestation,” he said with a wink, clearly pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes playfully, but you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Jungwon just laughed, pulling you closer to him on the couch. “Maybe, but you love me anyway.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Instead, you rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his arm around you as the two of you settled back into the couch together. It was moments like this that made all the silliness worthwhile—just being with him, sharing a laugh, and knowing that, lice or no lice, you’d always be there for each other.

Ni- ki -남편

After a long workout session, Ni-ki stood in front of the mirror, flexing his abs with a satisfied grin. He admired his reflection, the results of his hard work clearly visible. You leaned casually against the door frame, watching him with a playful smirk.

“Niki, stop checking yourself out. You might as well fall in love with it,” you teased, crossing your arms as you took in the scene.

Without missing a beat, Ni-ki turned to you with a mischievous grin. “Too late, I’m already in love,” he shot back, clearly enjoying himself.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. His confidence was contagious, and before you knew it, you felt a sudden urge to join in. Pushing off from the door frame, you walked over to stand beside him, raising your shirt to expose your own stomach.

“Let’s see how I measure up,” you said, half-jokingly, as you checked yourself out in the mirror. Both of you stood there, side by side, admiring your reflections with the same level of intensity and playful vanity.

Ni-ki glanced over at you, his grin widening. “You know what? Let’s stomach kiss.”

You raised an eyebrow at his suggestion, but in true Ni-ki fashion, he didn’t even wait for you to respond. He knew you well enough to know you wouldn’t need convincing. With a small chuckle, you stepped closer, aligning your body with his.

Without a word, you both leaned in, pressing your bare stomachs together in what could only be described as the most absurdly wholesome “stomach kiss.” The warmth of his skin against yours made you both giggle, and for a moment, you just stood there, caught up in the silliness of it all.

“This is so weird,” you said, laughing as the absurdity of the situation hit you.

“But it’s our kind of weird,” Ni-ki replied, laughing along with you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close as your stomachs stayed pressed together.

You couldn’t help but agree. It was the kind of random, goofy moment that only you and Ni-ki would come up with, and it was one of the many reasons you cherished your time with him. The two of you stood there for a few more seconds, just enjoying the moment, before finally pulling away.

As you both pulled your shirts back down, Ni-ki turned to you with that same mischievous grin. “We’ve officially reached peak weird,” he declared, clearly pleased with the whole situation.

“Maybe,” you said, still smiling, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With that, you both burst into laughter, the kind that comes from sharing a moment so uniquely yours. And as you walked away from the mirror, side by side, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. After all, in a world where you could share a stomach kiss with someone, there wasn’t much else you needed.

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prythianpages · 7 months

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When I Kissed the Teacher | Cassian

summary: After shameless flirting and one drunken confession, you decide to finally own up to your feelings for Cassian.

warnings: fluff, some suggestiveness/reader thirsting for Cas bc who wouldn't??

a/n: @daycourtofficial suggested this song and idea so big shoutout to her! Though I did a poll and Az won (you can find his version here), I decided to also write a version for Cas as a huge thank you for following me! I just reached 1k ♥ For the sake of this fic, Nesta and Cas are just good friends.

This is part of my ABBA x ACOTAR series (masterlist) where I dedicate a song to a character (:

Cassian strolls along the hallway, a carefree whistle coming from his lips. A towel is draped casually over his shoulder, barely doing anything to cover his well-defined upper half. A satisfying workout has left his muscles pleasantly fatigued and a content smile on his face. He usually trains in the morning but unfortunately, he had to rearrange his schedule to accompany Azriel on trip to Windhaven.

A creaking sound halts his steps and he turns his head to find you, his favorite trainee, struggling to open the door that leads to the infamous ten-thousand steps. Cassian watches you struggle for a moment longer, suppressing a laugh at the way you huff out in exasperation, allowing your forehead to fall against the door in defeat.

“What are you doing?”

Your head whips around in response, a dizzying blur causing a momentary loss of balance. As your entire weight leans against the door, it finally yields with a creak. Both the house and Cassian spring to action. A sudden gust of wind sweeps through, slamming the door shut and sending you stumbling forward instead.

Cassian catches you in his arms, one hand securing the small of your back while the other cradles the back of your head. Seemingly unfazed by the dangerous fate you almost, quite literally, threw yourself into, you appear nonchalant as you pull back slightly.

"I'm going out.”

As you speak, Cassian catches the subtle scent of ripe red berries coming from your breath. He recognizes it as Mor’s favorite wine. His hazel eyes graze over your body, taking in your thin cami top and shorts with heart patterns that match the hearts on the fluffy slippers you wear.

“Are you drunk?” He asks, his voice warm with amusement.

You don’t answer him, seemingly distracted by his bare chest. A thin line of sweat makes the black ink of his tattoos glisten, enticing you to lean in and have a taste. If you had drank a bit more, perhaps, you would’ve. But for now, you're content to place your hands on his chest instead, heart fluttering at the sensation of the hard muscle beneath.

“Mmm, you’re absolutely delicious. Has anyone told you, you should be shirtless more often?”

Cassian chuckles. He’s caught you staring at him during training, often flexing his muscles on purpose for you to give you a better show. And it’s no secret that he finds you attractive too, especially after you coaxed it out of him one morning.

“Get off that pretty ass of yours and give me fifty.”

Your mouth falls open but it’s not the fifty push ups you’re gasping over. “You think I’m pretty?”

His gaze lowers, trailing down your body appreciatively before lifting back up to meet your eyes again. His lips twitch upwards and there’s a sparkle in his hazel depths. “I think you’re many things, sweetheart. Doesn’t keep you from giving me fifty. On the floor. Now.”

Flirting is common between you two but even then, there’s no way you’d say those words sober to him. “Yup, you’re drunk,” Cassian says. He makes a mental note to chide Mor the next morning for letting you out of her sight.

“And you’re Cassian. My favorite teacher.” You grin lazily at him, a finger grazing a path over to where his heart beats. Your touch creates a ripple of warmth, prompting his heart to lurch forward, craving for more of it.

Get it together, he thinks as he reminds himself that you’re drunk.

“Mr. Cassian. My Mr. Cassian. My Cassian.”

A flush of warmth paints his cheeks at your slur of words and he doesn’t care if you don’t mean those words the way he’d like you to. You probably won’t even remember tonight and it’s this thought that gives him the courage to reciprocate. His fingers grip your chin lightly, thumb sweeping over your cheek in a tender caress.

“Your Cassian,” he affirms gently, a soft smile playing on his lips. If only you knew how much he adored you...

Hearts take shape in your eyes, softening your gaze. You throw your arms around his neck, pulling him closer into your drunken embrace. Cassian responds, his hands securing beneath your knees, effortlessly lifting you. A playful giggle escapes you, only to be hushed when you notice him carrying you away from the door.

“No, Cas,” you shake your head at him. Attempting to squirm away, you insistently gesture back towards the door. Yet, his arms around you tighten, holding you in place. “We’re going the wrong way! Rita’s is that way!”

“We’re going to bed.”

Your squirming stops and you draw back, looking up at him with a flirtatious flutter of your eyelashes. “We are?”

“You–you’re going to bed. Your own bed, where you will sleep…alone,” Cassian finds himself stammering as he avoids your gaze.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you reply and he can hear the frown in your voice. “I want to be with you.”

“Cauldron boil me,” Cassian curses, quickening his steps. The faster he can get you to your room, the better.

When Cassian finally reaches your room, he thanks the house for opening the door for him. Your silence prompts him to assume you’ve fallen asleep. As he carries you to your bed, his eyes wander around your room, taking in the small details. His heart swells with warmth when he catches a glimpse of the book he had given you over training methods–his favorite book–sitting on your nightstand.

Cassian pulls the covers off your bed and feels you stir in his hold, arms and legs tightening around him as if you could sense his impending departure. He literally has to pry your grip off of him so he can lay you down on your bed. He tucks you in with such tenderness that it sobers you up for just a moment, eyes blinking open. “Can’t you stay?”

The pout you give him is endearing and tugs at his heartstrings. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“But–”

He brushes your hair back with a soft expression on his face that would’ve had you melting, if you weren’t upset by his rejection.

"Not when you’re like this.”

“But…,” you begin again. A pleading look fills your eyes and there’s a subtle wobble of your lips. “What if I tell you I love you?”

Cassian pauses. His eyes study your face in contemplation. He would love nothing more than to slip under the covers with you but he remains firm in his resolve. So with a soft pat to your head, he says, “tell me when you’re sober, sweetheart.”

“Tell me when you’re sober, sweetheart,” you mock Cassian’s voice with a scowl the next morning. Contrary to Cassian’s belief, you remembered everything. “Ugh! He might��ve well just told me he hates me!”

“Or maybe, I don’t know, hear me out,” Nesta begins, raising her hands before you could interrupt. She sits across from you on your bed, already dressed in her training leathers. “He wants you to confess to him when you’re sober.”

Emerie, who leans against your desk, giggles at the look on your face. “Don’t be rational, Nesta,” she says in a teasing tone. “He totally hates her.”

The door to your room creaks open and Gywn steps in with a slight frown. “Hurry up! We’re going to be late for our morning session,” she then looks at you, her frown deepening when she takes note of your disheveled state. “Y/n, what are you still doing in your pajamas?”

“I’m not going today. Tell them I’m hungover,” you tell her with a grimace, pretending to be sick. Nesta rolls her eyes at your dramatics. “I think I’m going to throw up. You should go before I do.”

Gwyn glances toward Emerie, who had also been drinking with you and Mor last night. She then turns back to you with narrowed eyes. “Emerie seems just fine to me.”

Emerie shrinks back with a small blush. The two of you exchange a look. Yes, you had been drinking with Mor and Emerie last night. But you had done most of the drinking while your friend snuck off with the pretty blonde.

“Leave her be,” Emerie says as she stands up straight, covering for you the same way you had for her. “I’m sure Cas will understand, given the state he found her in last night.”

“What? Don’t tell me you confessed your feelings while drunk,” Gwyn says with an amused giggle. As the silence stretches, her eyes widen, head turning to you. You're quick to avoid her gaze, prompting her to remark, "No wonder he's blushing like a fool today."

That makes your head perk up almost immediately, eyes finding hers only to see the playful glint in her eyes. Nesta and Emerie laugh while you fling one of your pillows at Gwyn. She catches it with ease and throws it back at you. Surrendering to the inevitable teasing, you let the pillow hit you, collapsing onto the comforting expanse of your bed, hoping the blankets might swallow you whole.

“Can you all just leave me be?” You groan. “I’d like to wallow in my own embarrassment alone.”

"Fine," Nesta sighs, patting your leg as she hops off your bed. "But don't think about skipping tomorrow's training!”

The next morning dawns, and you find yourself unable to face training, still grappling with the aftermath of your drunken confession to Cassian. Out of all the fish in the sea of Velaris, your heart chose to hyperfixate on him. Your teacher.

As night falls, you're contemplating skipping training again. It's only another day, and with Friday approaching, the weekend promises a much-needed break. This extra time might be just what you need to gather the courage to face him once more.

Turning in for the night, you cast a glance towards your nightstand. There, beside the book Cassian lent you, sits an untouched hangover tonic. It appeared the morning after your first skipped training session. When you thanked your friends, they had only looked back at you in confusion. You didn’t have to guess who left it there for you after that.

With a sigh, you close your eyes. One of these days, you'll tell him you dream of him every night. Until then, you savor the bittersweet anticipation and allow sleep to pull you into its embrace.

In the sweet haven of your dream, you and Cassian stroll through the center of Velaris as the city shimmers around you. Cassian laughs, the sound echoing like a sweet melody. The two of you then find yourselves in a meadow bathed in moonlight. A sea of luminescent flowers surround you and as the wind blows around you softly, Cassian sneezes. It’s your turn to laugh then.

Cassian rolls his eyes at you and then reaches for your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. He pulls you into a dance with a smile that fills your heart with warmth and–

Your body stirs at the sudden loss of warmth and the soft smile that was on your lips morphs into a frown. Something seizes your ankles, yanking you down the bed. With a sudden jolt, your eyes fly open, and a scream escapes your throat. It takes a moment to recgonize the hazel eyes glaring down at you.

“I hope that dream of yours was beautiful because you’re about to have a nightmare of a training session,” Cassian huffs but there’s a teasing to his tone. “Come on, get up.”

Staring up at him in surprise, your heart flutters, still entangled in the remnants of the dream. Unsatisfied with your lack of response, Cassian leans forward and effortlessly picks you up, hoisting you over his shoulder. The trance shatters, and you protest, kicking and punching.

"Hey! Let me go!" you exclaim, your resistance met with Cassian's apparent indifference as he heads towards the door.

"At least let me freshen up and change!" you plea in exasperation. "You can't expect me to train in my pajamas!"

Cassian rolls his eyes because if you had woken up early like usual, you would’ve had more than enough time to change into something more comfortable for training. He doesn’t care. He just needs you to be there. On time.

“I’ll catch a cold or freeze to death on the rooftop!”

He pauses, his wings shuddering at the thought. While he doesn’t care about what you wear, he does care about you. Setting you down, Cassian regards you with a stern expression, though his stomach flutters. He hadn’t seen you since that night.

“You have 5 minutes.”

Cassian watches as you spring into action, your hurried footsteps echoing through the room as you run toward your bathroom. He bites back the urge to laugh. He’d never seen you run so fast.

Cassian was not exaggerating when he said you were in for a nightmare of a training session. Much to your dismay, your friends were all under Azriel’s instruction for the morning, allowing Cassian’s attention to solely focus on you. Something you normally would’ve swooned over but given your current tension…

“You’re doing it wrong.”

You let out a huff and lower your sword, dragging the pointy edge along the gravel. A scowl taints your features. “I need a break.”

Cassian shakes his head at you. “Not until you get this move right.”

He moves to stand behind you, placing his hands at your waist. Suddenly, you're thankful for the vigorous activity Cassian pushed you into. It allows you to put full blame for your heavy breathing on the demanding training and not on the way Cassian’s warm breath tickles your ears as he instructs you on how to properly position yourself.

“Like this,” he tells you, using a knee to prod your legs further apart.

Your knees wobble and once again, you blame it on your exhausted muscles. Cassian chuckles, the hands on your waist helping hold you steady. “Are you drunk, y/n?” He teases.

You turn your head to glare at him. “I’m sober.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow at you. “Oh?”

You toss your sword aside, freeing yourself from his hold, and spin around to face him. "And you want to know something else?"

Crossing his arms against his chest, Cassian's lips twitch upwards. He’s fully aware of the way your gaze momentarily dips down, catching the flex of his biceps. "What?" he prompts, the hint of a teasing smile playing on his face.

Suddenly, the words die at your throat as you meet his gaze again. The intensity in his eyes rattles your nerves and you feel the courage slowly slipping away. Desperate to not let this moment slip through your fingers, you curl your fingers into his leathers and yank him down to your height. Choosing to show him instead, you lean forward and press your lips to his.

You pour out all your feelings into the kiss, heart quickening when he begins to reciprocate. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’d dreamt of this moment just as much as you did and now that he had a taste, he didn’t want to stop.

Unfortunately, for him, the screams tearing through the training grounds have you pulling away. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Emerie and Gwyn, going wild and playfully tugging at Nesta’s arms while she laughs. Even Azriel indulges in a chuckle.

Blush creeps into your cheeks. You hold your breath as the world seems to stand still. However, instead of an awkward response, Cassian simply smiles, the flush of his cheeks matching yours and you feel like you can breathe again.

“I like you,” you finally confess, exhaling as your gaze dips downward. “Like might not even be sufficient enough at this point…"

Cassian's fingers gently grip your chin, coaxing your gaze back up to his. His thumb sweeps over your cheek in a tender caress—the same way it did on the night of your drunken confession. But this time, he doesn't hold back. He allows his thumb to trace the soft plush of your lips next.

And if the gleam in his hazel eyes was not enough to send you to the seventh heaven, his next words did.

“I’m falling for you too.” Cassian says with a fond smile.

Your lips lift into a smile of your own as you look back at him. But it's short lived. There's a flash of red and then Cassian is forcing your sword back into your hands.

"I thought we were done for today," you groan, knowing that you in fact were not done. You just hoped your confession would've distracted him enough.

The soft smile on Cassian's face is replaced with a smug smirk. "Not until you get this move right, sweetheart. In position. Go."

a/n: hope you all enjoyed this one! ❤️ idk how siphon powers work 100% but let's just roll with Cas's siphons being able to pick up a sword.

tagging: @hellodarling1357 , @kennedy-brooke, @scooobies

#cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #cassian imagine #cassian fluff #acotar fanfiction #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #acotar fluff #abba x acotar

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sixosix · 1 year

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i. summary it was not your intention to seduce lyney, really, he was just already so very weak for you.

lyney being a sucker for you: the drabble

ii. warnings wc 700, this drabble has been in my drafts since i finished sleight of hand LOL. A Little Steamy, but nothing happens, I LOVE FLUSTERED LYNEY!!

“And that’s a wrap! Thank you, everyone; it all went smoothly as planned. Pat yourselves on the back.”

A chorus of exhausted yet elated cheers rings backstage, not enough to rival the crowd outside, yet it is still much more satisfying to hear. Some of the crew went up to Lyney to pat his shoulder, congratulating him for once again another successful show. Lyney takes it all with a dazzling grin and unwavering confidence. Why, of course. We’ve been working day and night for this.

You ceremoniously step forward and give his side a gentle nudge. Lyney responds with a grin as he reciprocates the gesture. “That was a new one. Did you and Lynette practice that secretly to surprise us?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Lyney says, ironically knowing that he’d have to teach his crew about this as you mustn’t repeat the same trick twice.

Lyney spots his sister resting against a wall a few feet later. “You still want to buy that dessert, Lynette?”

Lynette’s eyes flicker to Lyney, then to you. “I’ll just meet you two there,” she tells Lyney, then walks off without waiting for goodbye.

“Huh, well.” People continue to filter out of the backstage, leaving you and Lyney alone in a dimly lit room, with props scattered all around and taking up enough space to have you and Lyney pressed against each other to not stumble over any of them. “Mon amour, how’d you enjoy the show?”

“It was splendid, of course. I especially liked the part where Lynette stole the spotlight—my favorite part of every show.”

“I understand, but be more nice to the star of the show, will you?” He’s deflated like a popped balloon. “I know you know how much work I put in to perfect everything.”

You laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. “You think I pay attention to you that much?”

Lyney huffs. “You don’t have to be so coy. It’s my job to steal your attention, isn’t it? You’re also my assistant; surely you’ve learned a thing or two about magic tricks?”

“Of course I have,” you cede. “I’ve been watching it all, Lyney, don’t be teased so easily.”

“Well, it just seems to me you haven’t really been paying attention at all,” he feigns a pout.

“Really? Is this a test?” Lyney casts you a sly glance, and you return it with a scoff. “I’ve seen how you deceive them with your actions, distract them with your hands.” You nudge his chest with two fingers, and in the silence, you can hear how Lyney swallows air at the proximity. “You’ve got quite the skill with them.”

“You’ve been watching them pretty closely,” Lyney says quietly.

“Isn’t that the point? It just proves how talented of a magician you are.”

His face is a comical shade of red. He’s weak like that.

“What I learned while being part of your troupe, however, is that I could be saying anything, and my audience wouldn’t really care.” You trail your fingers up, and up, slowly, and Lyney’s breath all but hitches once you reach his neck. “Because I’m making you watch my hands—bring all your attention to what I do and not what I say.”

“Yeah,” Lyney agrees absentmindedly, like a hypnotized man—the irony.

And it’s then you realize that he isn’t looking at your hand at all. His eyes are gazing intensely right below your nose—entranced by how your lips move to mouth your words. You suppose that it still counts as a distraction.

Your fingers reach out to cup his chin, leveling him with a look of disbelief. “Lyney?”

His entire face is a tomato, and half-words are caught in the back of his throat. He gapes at you and looks as if he’s at war with himself.

You hold back a laugh. “I’m surprised you weren’t so critical to a newbie. Did I do that well?”

“That wasn’t fair, and you know it,” he replied weakly after a moment of finding his voice. He then hides his face behind his fingers. “Don’t go around doing that. You can’t try to captivate an audience already so enamored with you.”

“Ah…” Now you feel flustered. “Let’s—Let’s just go meet up with Lynette.” You can’t handle staying in this room for another minute.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #lyney x reader #lyney x you #lyney x y/n #genshin x you #x reader

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hp-hcs · 5 months

Text

• smut • aurora boy-realis (stop talking) — soft! tom riddle x gn! artist! reader

warnings: SMUT MDNI, no assigned sex-specific identifiers or anatomical terms, short and not really detailed smut but wtv, hella ooc tom for my delulu readers, like i cannot stress this enough he is ooc, i took canon and just chucked it into the garbage okay

i have had this sitting in my drafts, finished and ready to publish, for the last week now bc the imposter syndrome lowkey convinced me that i’m a terrible writer so anywhore enjoy this train wreck

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Don’t move.”

Tom froze.

Your charcoal stick moved in broad strokes against the page, your eyes darting between Tom and your sketchbook.

“…Can I move yet?”

“No. Stop talking.”

You were probably the only person who could actually get away with telling Tom Riddle to shut up.

(He’d never admit it, but that boy knew damn well that he was whipped.)

~~~

Your charcoal-stained hands left dusty black marks on Tom’s skin.

His chest heaved under you. “Damn tease.”

“Stop talking.” Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, a spare pencil held between your teeth as you used his torso as a makeshift table for your sketchbook.

He wiggled impatiently as his fingers tightened on your hips. “Baby, please–”

You grunted, taking in a shaky breath as you tried to collect yourself from his sudden movement.

He grinned slyly at your reaction, jerking his hips up experimentally. His cock pressed in deeper.

You bit your bottom lip hard enough to bleed as you desperately tried to stifle your moans and keep yourself steady. “You’re an ass.”

“Maybe.” Tom gently pulled your sketchbook and pencil from your fingers, leaning over to carefully set them on the nightstand. “But you don’t really mind, do you, love?”

You grumble at the loss of your art supplies, pouting down at him. “Sometimes.”

He cupped the back of your head, gently rolling the pair of you over so that he was on top. “I’ll make it up to you.”

~~~

“Tom!”

“That’s it, there you go, honey. So good for me,” the boy in question murmured against the skin of your neck as his fingers slipped down to help you out.

His thrusts were slow and deep, driving you absolutely crazy. You couldn’t help but cup his face in your hands, stroking his cheekbones with your thumbs in utter devotion.

“Oh, Tom—”

“I’m here, darling. Let go.”

You came with another cry of his name.

~~~

Your paintbrush ran over the thin, raised pink lines that traveled across Tom’s back and shoulders—caused by your own fingernails just last night—and covered them with a thick coat of purple.

You were in your element here, circling around your boyfriend and chewing on your bottom lip as you worked on your masterpiece. You paused in front of him to survey your chef-d’oeuvre, smudging the lines of green and white that ran along his ribs and up between his pecs with your thumb a bit more until you were satisfied.

Tom stood shirtless in front of you, his entire torso—from the top of his neck all the way down to the waistband of his trousers—covered in a beautiful artistic rendition of the Aurora Borealis flickering across a starry sky.

You picked up your enchanted camera, lining up the shot before snapping a magical moving photograph of your boyfriend patiently allowing himself to be used as a canvas.

You set the camera back down, screwing on the lids of your paint jars and humming cheerily.

“Right. Well, you can go wash up now. Thank you, love.” You kissed his cheek, unperturbed.

Tom was baffled. Wash off this masterpiece? Destroy it like it was nothing?

“At least join me?” he asked with that damn pout of his that could make you melt on the spot.

Tom could always do that. He was your sun, your moon, and your stars; you’d gladly move the heavens just to see him smile.

(Plus, showers with Tom always ended in sex. Win-win.)

~~~

Blues and purples swirled in the water that pooled at your feet.

Pinks and greens stained your hips, your thighs, your throat.

Tom’s lips were pressed firmly against yours, moving slowly as the steady flow of water pouring down on the pair of you slowly grew cold. Tom pulled back solely so that he could look at you, taking you in.

Tom looked at you as if you were his sun, the very thing his entire world revolved around.

Like a deity, deserving of the entire galaxy’s devotion.

So, without another thought, Tom did what any sane mortal man would. He dropped down to his knees and began to pray.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

comments are always appreciated!!

#harry potter #hp #fuck jkr #x reader #hp x gn reader #hp x male reader #x male reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys smut #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x male reader #tom riddle smut

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obsessed-with-stardew · 5 months

Text

After His Show

After seeing the band play a gig in the city, you ride back to town on Seb’s motorcycle. But, you get a little distracted along the way…

Sebastian xF!Reader, Sebastian xAFAB!Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Tw: nsfw, mdni, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, mentions of cigarettes, pet names, semi-public sex, oral male receiving

AN: This fic can be read as a follow up to Under His Desk or as a stand alone. I have been on the motorcycle thirst trap side of the internet lately and I thought that perfectly aligned with a fic idea. I have never ridden a motorcycle so if my descriptions are inaccurate, I’m sorry :)

Wc: 4400

It was another fall day and you had just finished a harvest which meant one thing - it was time to pop into Pierre’s for some more seeds. You head down the road that leads into town trying to decide if you want to focus on artichokes or if you have enough time left in the season to plant some fairy roses. You’re so lost doing the mental calculations that you would’ve run into Sam if he hadn’t grabbed you by the arms.

“Look where you’re going, farmer! You could’ve made a dent in me,” he jokes, squeezing your biceps. “No, but for real you’re strong right?”

“Uh yeah, I guess I am?” you shrug.

“Well, we could use an extra roadie for the Goblin Destroyer show tomorrow night if you’re free,” he says. “I know Seb would be really happy if you were there.” Sam winks at you.

You flush, forgetting that Sam knows you and Seb have been fooling around since he almost walked in on the two of you. If you’d only grabbed your bra before hiding under Seb’s desk this embarrassment could’ve been avoided.

“Yeah, sure I don’t have any plans for tomorrow,” you say. “It would be cool to see y’all at a real gig and not just rehearsals.”

“Sweet! Okay, we’re meeting at the bus stop at 4, see you there,” Sam calls as he heads for home.

The next day you finish your chores around the farm as quickly as you can. You may be a roadie tonight, but you’re a groupie at heart and you want to look the part. When you’re satisfied that you look somewhere between halfway decent and slightly hot, you head for the bus stop.

As you approach, you see Seb leaving. You try to catch his eye but it’s clear his head is elsewhere. When you get to the bus stop, Abigail whistles at you.

“Damn girl, you clean up nice,” she exclaims. You hadn’t really had a chance to dress up for a night out since you moved to Pelican Town a few months ago.

“Thanks,” you laugh. “You look great too, very punk rock.”

“Dude I wear this outfit literally all the time, but thanks,” she laughs.

You help load the rest of the equipment, looking around every now and then hoping to see Seb. By the time all of the gear is loaded, Sebastian still hasn’t appeared. You see Sam lingering by the doors to the bus.

“Hey Sam, is Seb… I mean I saw him heading to town when I got here and we’re about to leave,” you trail off.

“Oh yeah, he had to help his mom with something, he said he’ll meet us there,” Sam replies.

Disappointed, you board the bus behind Sam.

The ride to the venue goes by faster than you expected, and you spend the whole time laughing and joking with Sam and Abigail. Upon arrival you jump into your role as a roadie, unloading gear off the bus with the same focus you use to plant or harvest crops. When everything is set up, you head outside for a smoke break. You’ve always smoked off and on, but since hanging around Seb the habit has admittedly gotten a bit worse.

Searching your pockets for a lighter, you come up empty. You wish Seb was there, he always has one on him. As if in answer to your prayers you hear a motorcycle nearing. Looking up, you see Seb riding towards you. You had to focus to keep your mouth from falling open. Sure you’d seen him working on the bike and that was objectively hot, but seeing him ride up on it was another thing entirely. You weren’t sure if it was the confidence he rode with, but even with his face obscured by the helmet he looked sexy.

Seb pulled the bike up right next to you. He was surprised he parked straight because he had been looking only at you since he entered the lot. Seb knew you were going to be there tonight, but damn he didn’t know you were going to look this good all dressed up in black. He knows that it’s the traditional color crew wears, but he hopes you considered his reaction as you picked out your outfit - the thought makes him blush. Those tight black jeans seem to hug every curve and your top is cut just low enough to get his heart racing.

Sebastian pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his dark hair.

“Need a light?” he asks, nodding toward the unlit cig in between your fingers.

“Yeah, your timing is perfect,” you say, as Seb dismounts the motorcycle and pulls a lighter from his pocket.

You lean forward, breathing in as he lights the tip of your cigarette.

“Sounds like you were missing me,” he teases, plucking the cig from your fingers to take a drag.

“Missing you or just your lighter, who’s to say,” you retort.

Seb offers the cig back to you, instead of taking it, you lean forward making eye contact as you take a drag while it’s still between his fingers, lips brushing his digits. Seb’s cock twitches at your brazen flirtation and he huffs out a laugh. Damn, you really know how to get him going.

Seb grabs your hand and pulls it up to his mouth. He kisses the inside of your wrist, causing you to draw in a ragged breath.

“Well I missed you, y/n…” he whispers against your wrist.

You can’t think beyond his admission and his breath dancing across your sensitive skin. It makes your heart race and you’re certain he can feel your pulse quicken under his soft touch.

“Are you sure you haven’t missed me too?” he teases, pulling your body flush with his. Seb’s other hand captures your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his - the cherry of your cig reflected in his blown-out pupils.

“You can tell me, baby,” he coos. “I know how to keep a secret.”

The back door to the venue opens with a bang.

“Yo Seb, you out here?” Sam’s voice calls. “It’s time for the final soundcheck!”

“Yeah man, I’ll be there in a minute,” Seb shouts back, not taking his eyes from yours.

Without warning, he pushes you back against the wall of the building, lips locking with yours, cigarette dropped forgotten on the pavement.

His hand travels to your waistband, fingers skillfully popping the button of your jeans.

“Seb what are you doing??” you hiss. “Someone will see us!”

“Not if I’m quick,” he promises with a wink.

Undoing your zipper, his long fingers find their way to your underwear. A moan escapes your lips as he brushes over the wet cloth barely covering your pussy. Seb is quick to capture the sound with his mouth.

When you quiet he whispers in your ear, “Can’t believe how wet you are for me already sweetheart.”

Gently he runs a finger through your folds under the fabric. You gasp, struggling to remain silent. Seb plunges the finger deep into your hole, covering your mouth with his other hand to keep you from crying out.

He pumps his finger into you a few times, just enough to make you ready to beg for more when he removes his digit from you, bringing it to his lips. Watching Seb suck your juice from his finger causes your walls to clench around nothing - you can’t get over how hot and bothered this man makes you.

“Don’t worry baby, I just wanted a taste. Let’s call it a good luck charm,” Seb chuckles. “C’mon, they’ll be wondering where we are.”

As Sebastian heads onstage for sound check you grab a drink from the bar and join the waiting crowd. You’re not in the first row but you don’t mind. Positioning yourself in front of the keyboard, you look around, shocked by the number of unfamiliar faces at the show. The second the lights go down and the band takes the stage, there’s a palpable shift in the energy. Sure you’d been to rehearsals and a couple of local shows, but seeing the guys and Abby on a stage in the city, they look like they belong up there.

Seb had played it cool in front of you, but as he walks onto the stage he can feel his hands begin to shake. Shit, this is the biggest crowd they’ve ever had. He can NOT fuck it up now. Positioning himself behind his keyboards, Seb blinks through the spotlights to the sea of faces. Well maybe not a sea, but it’s a decent-sized lake. As soon as his eyes adjust, he sees you. He’d recognize your smile and bright eyes anywhere. He’s always nervous for shows, but locking eyes with you, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. You mouth “you got this” and blow him a kiss. God you’re so cute, he thinks, shaking his head to himself as his heart swells.

Abby starts the count-off with her drumsticks and muscle memory kicks in. Seb loses himself in the music as he always does. Forgetting he’s on a stage in front of a crowd of strangers, his fingers know just where to go. As the first set ends Seb slowly comes out of his daze, guided by Sam’s voice distantly addressing the crowd.

“We are Goblin Destroyers, thanks for coming out tonight!” Sam shouts as the crowd cheers. He introduces the band, and as you hear him say “...and on the keys we have Sebastian!” a huge cheer erupts from the audience. It’s a little too big of a cheer for your liking, and you can see Seb trying to hide his flushed face behind his dark fringe. You feel a sudden surge of jealousy and mentally kick yourself for not having marked Seb’s neck with your lips and teeth before the show. You’ll have to remember that next time.

The music starts back up and you surrender yourself to the sound. The bass thrums in your chest and your eyes are glued to Sebastian. You love watching him play. It’s as if all his worries melt away leaving just Seb and the music. It’s so hot to see him this way, totally raw - the mask he usually keeps up between himself and the world is replaced by a look of utter calm.

The only other time you’ve seen him like that is when he’s inside of you. Watching his fingers expertly fly across the keys sends a shiver down your spine as you remember where they were just an hour before. You try to keep your lust at bay and enjoy the show, but the only music you want to hear now are the sweet groans from Seb’s lips as he fucks you.

After a few more songs, the show is over and people begin filtering out of the venue. You head backstage to help pack up when a hand grabs your arm and pulls you into a dark corner. Just as you open your mouth to shout, Seb slots his lips between yours for a devastating kiss, full of tongue and teeth and the adrenaline high he still has from the gig. You pull back for breath and punch him in the arm.

“Ow, what was that for?” he asks rubbing where you struck him.

“For making me think I was getting kidnapped,” you laugh, putting your hands around his neck. Leaning up, you whisper into his ear, “You looked really hot up there,” and you take his lobe between your teeth. Seb lets out a soft groan and cups your ass in his hands.

“Ahem,” Abigail clears her throat.

The two of you freeze, debating whether it’s too late to pretend you were doing something, anything more innocent than what she’s seen.

“Oh my god, chill out you two,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I know you’re fucking, Sam called me as soon as he left your little sex pad.”

You burst out laughing and Seb says, “Ew, Abs don’t call my room a ‘sex pad’.”

“Whatever, will y’all just help pack up the gear?”

You turn to leave, but Seb pulls you in for another quick kiss.

“If everyone knows, I might as well show you off,” he says with a wink before walking away.

Packing up is quick work and before you know it everyone is piling into the bus.

“You want the same spot?” Abigail asks.

“Oh um actually Seb said he’d give me a ride back….” you say.

“Ah, I get it. You two drive safe and use protection,” She says, closing the last door on the equipment storage.

You flush and stammer, “wha- we won’t uh-”

“Oh my god wear a helmet, dumbass,” Abigail laughs, punching you lightly in the arm as she heads for the bus.

You make a final sweep of the venue to make sure nothing is left behind. Emerging into the parking lot you see Sebastian, leaning against his bike. The lone streetlight above like another spotlight, and he’s putting on a show just for you. Seb’s lips curve into a soft smile as takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curls up around him, obscuring all of his features except his gleaming eyes that track you as you approach. All his.

Finally alone, the desire that has built up over the course of the night threatens to overtake you right here in the parking lot. You reach for him as Seb puts an arm around your waist pulling you close. He leans down, kissing up your neck to your ear.

“Did you get all dressed up in black just for me?” he whispers, nipping at the sensitive shell of your ear. You let out a shaky breath.

“All for you Sebby,” you sigh.

His cock hardens from both the nickname and your admission. He pulls your body flush with his. You gasp as you feel his hard length pressing against you.

“Let's get you home sweetheart, there’s so much I want to do to you,” Sebastian growls into your ear.

Taking one last drag from his cig, he drops it to the pavement putting it out with a twist of his foot. Seb reaches behind his back and produces two helmets. He hands you the smaller one.

“I thought you only had the one helmet,” you tease.

“Gotta keep my girl safe,” he says with a wink.

The two of you put on the helmets, and you watch as Seb straddles the bike. Ugh, he looks so hot, something about the helmet covering his features, only his neck exposed, really gets you turned on. He starts the bike and revs the engine. Seb reaches out a hand to you and you take it, straddling the bike behind him, you wrap your arms around his stomach. He reaches back, running his hand down your thigh, giving you a quick squeeze. And then you’re off.

God, you feel so good nestled behind him. Your arms hold him in a tight hug as your thighs squeeze him. Fuck he loves your legs and with your tits pressing into his back, he’s in heaven. Seb has always loved taking his bike out, he feels so free flying down the quiet highway under the stars.

His heart swells at the trust you place in him, to keep you safe as the two of you speed through the empty streets. He hopes you’re having a good time too when he feels you lean back and let out a whoop into the night air. Seb laughs and does the same. When he’s with you, it’s like gravity’s endless weight is lifted and he can dream again. You must sense this because you squeeze him tighter for a moment.

Something no one ever told you about riding a motorcycle is that it’s basically one giant vibrating seat. And with your arms around the man you’re planning to fuck the second this ride is over, the sensation is making you extremely horny. You can feel the wetness pooling between your legs and you try to adjust your position to get the vibration right where you want it. Seb must think you’re uncomfortable because the moment you shift his hand reaches back to squeeze your thigh again.

His worry for you makes you determined to let him know just how good you feel. You start to move one hand, running it down his stomach. Seb returns his hand to the handlebar, thinking your touch is to reassure him, but you aren’t done. Your fingers drift downward, searching and finding. His cock stiffens and his hands clench the handles. You give him a rough squeeze through his jeans and he lets out a groan barely audible through the sound of the wind. You tug on his length as you rock your hips on the seat.

Closing your eyes you begin a slow pace of jacking him off over his jeans and grinding your pussy into the vibrations. You’re so lost in seeking your pleasure that you don’t notice Seb has turned off the highway until the motor cuts off. You whine at the lack of vibration, not fully comprehending what’s happening until Seb pulls you off the bike. His helmet is still on but his visor is open. You can see the desire flashing in his eyes.

“My needy girl, couldn’t wait to finish the ride before needing my cock,” he growls.

“I- I didn’t mean to…” you whimper as Seb pulls off his helmet, and runs his hand through his hair.

“What am I gonna do with you,” he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

Setting down the helmet, Seb circles the bike. You take off your helmet, shaking out your hair. He drinks in the sight of you, the moonlight shining off your hair, the desperate look in your eyes, the way your black clothes cling to you and how he wants to peel them off. He pauses in front of you, hand palming his now aching erection. Your gaze is glued to that hand, taunting you.

Seb undoes his belt buckle, pops the button on his jeans and slowly pulls down the zipper. Watching you squirm with every small movement, he could do this for hours, basking in your hungry gaze knowing that you want him just as much as he wants you. But he won’t keep you waiting. He eases his cock out, hissing as the cool night air trails over his hot length.

“On your knees baby.”

You oblige instantly, he chuckles at your obedience.

“That’s a good girl,” he growls.

He shudders as you grab him, pressing a light kiss to his tip before you flick your tongue along the slit dripping with precum. And when your warm, wet mouth wraps around his length he has to stop himself from thrusting into the back of your throat. You take your time, sucking with your mouth and pumping with your hand until he can’t take it anymore.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and rocks his hips forward. Forcing his cock to hit the back of your throat. The feeling of your tongue on the underside and the light scrape of your teeth on top force out a groan from deep within his chest. His eyes lock on yours, so full of tears just waiting to spill out. He thrusts a few more times, relishing in the feeling of his balls hitting your chin. When your throat squeezes him as you choke on his cock, he swears if he died right now at least he’d die happy.

And as much as he craves to chase his own pleasure and pump his seed into your waiting mouth, he has to make sure you’re okay. Pulling his dripping length from your lips, Seb crouches down to cup your face in his hands. You cough and take in a few ragged breaths before meeting his gaze. He strokes your cheek, “such a good girl for me” he sighs pulling you in for a searing kiss.

“Up you go,” he says, pushing you up to standing. You lean back against the parked bike, not trusting your legs to hold you. Now it’s your turn to look down at Seb, even though you know you have tear streaks on your face and drool on your chin, his eyes are full of adoration. It’s so cute you don’t know if you want to laugh or to cry.

He rubs his hands soothingly up and down your thighs. Then his fingers catch the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough for him to press a soft kiss to your stomach. He grabs the waist of your jeans, eagerly undoing the button and zipper he pulls them down to reveal your black panties. This pair has a little bow just below the waistband like you’re a present that’s his to unwrap. He stands slowly, moving his hands from your waist to cup your breasts.

He kisses you softly then whispers in your, “Turn around for me baby.”

You do, bracing yourself against the bike. He softly touches your ass. It’s fully on display, framed by the lacy black straps of your thong. He growls, slapping your soft flesh. You let out a moan as the cool night breeze instantly soothes the sting. Seb cups your pussy and chuckles when he feels the hot wet crotch of your panties.

“If I knew you’d like the bike so much, I would’ve put you on it ages ago,” he teases, pulling the fabric to the side.

He teases your slit with a long finger, dragging it through your folds to lightly flick your clit. You gasp and arch your back. Fuck he loves how responsive you are, every touch eliciting a reaction. He plunges two fingers into you, pumping his cock at the same pace. He gets lost in watching his digits disappear into your warm, wet hole.

“M-more Seb, please,” you whine, pulling him from his trance. Before you register the loss of his fingers, the tip of his cock is already teasing your folds. You moan, pushing your hips back.

Seb chuckles. “Is my sweet girl ready for my cock?” he asks under his breath.

He knows the answer is yes, he knows you’ve been ready since before the show, but he likes making you wait. Teasing you until his cock is the only thing that could make you feel better. He notches his length at your entrance and slowly pushes into you. You groan, finally getting what you’ve been craving for days. Your toys at home can’t compare to this feeling. Being filled and fucked by your man.

He slowly enters you until his entire length is sheathed inside your perfect pussy. Your walls clench around him causing his breathing to turn ragged. His grip on your hips tightens, as he eases out of you until just his tip is inside of you. Then without warning, he shoves all the way back in. You cry out, arching your back and Seb knows he’s hit the spot inside you that makes you see stars. He thrusts into you again and again, fingers leaving bruises on your flesh as he steers you closer and closer to orgasm. Your walls squeeze him tighter and he knows you’re close.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts, “Cum for me, you can do it.”

And you do, expletives and his name string together in a chant that he’s sure could raise him from the dead as you cum around his cock. He follows you over that cliff, pushing as deep as he’s able, sealing his body with yours as tightly as he can. If two souls could join, it must feel like this, he thinks as he empties himself into you.

The two of you stay in this position, you draped over the motorcycle like Seb’s wet dream and Seb still inside you, head hung low, trying to keep his legs from giving out as he decides if he ever wants to move again. And then your pussy flutters around his length and he’s sure if he doesn’t pull out now he’ll die from the overstimulation. Easing his cock from you he watches entranced as his seed drips out of you.

He’s never wanted kids but his mind is suddenly filled with images of your belly swollen as his child grows inside of you. He flushes and his cock twitches painfully at the thought. He pushes that desire down, your relationship (if you can even call it that) is so new, he’ll do anything to keep from scaring you away.

Carefully, he covers your dripping pussy with the thin strap of fabric that is your thong. You groan and wiggle your hips as he rubs you through the fabric. Seb slaps your bare ass, huffing out a laugh at your little yelp. After tucking his cock away and pulling on his jeans, Seb helps you up and turns you around. Leaning against his bike, he pulls you into his arms kissing the top of your head and breathing in the smell of your hair. You rest your head on his shoulder, kissing his neck.

His heart is so full he fears it might burst. You pull back to see his face, the look in his eyes is so tender, so loving you have to hold back tears. You slide your hands behind his neck and pull him in for a kiss. The kiss is long, full of hope and passion and all the things you are too nervous to say.

Pulling away from the kiss, Seb squeezes your still-exposed ass. “Let’s put this away before you tempt me to go again,” he says pulling up your jeans. You giggle, buttoning your pants. When you look up Seb is back on the bike, his arm extended toward you with helmet in hand.

“What do you say, baby, let’s keep this adventure going?” he asks, hoping you understand the weight of his words. You know that after tonight, your heart is his whether he knows it yet or not. You take the helmet and climb onto the bike behind him. You whisper into his ear, “Lead the way Sebby,” and set the helmet on your head. He starts up to engine and with a whoop, the two of you speed off into the night.

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